Here's an excerpt from the third book in the Bailey Crane Mystery Series. Hope you enjoy it.


                                                  





                                                                                        CHAPTER ONE


Just when you think you've got all systems going in harmonious sync, that's the time old Chicken Little's doomsday utterance settles a might too snugly into the conscience: The sky is falling!

Well, my sky was falling, literally, inexorably, and with undue haste! Not to mix metaphors, but the falling sky was becoming a raging hell!

The very large warehouse roof was collapsing bit by fiery bit, and the bad guys were winning.

The bad guys were also getting away.

“What a way to go,“ said to myself and to anyone around to listen. “Dumb! Stupid! XO#*!!!”

And I had not even done my Christmas shopping.

It was Thursday, December 24, mid-afternoon. The temperature outside the Old Guthrie Warehouse was seventy degrees. It was a cloudless, real charming Chamber of Commerce day in Phoenix, Arizona. Inside the warehouse, in my little corner, the temperature was rising and the smoke was a dark, dense, viscid blanket which seriously threatened my breathing.

Having some vague recall from my firefighting boot camp training, courtesy of the United States Navy, my body was flat on the floor where the air was less heavy and thick. My vision was impaired by the smoke but could see orange diffusion all around me, could hear frantic cracking sounds of bursting embers and swirling fire fury, and could feel the heat, stinging, becoming a palpable furnace against my face and hands.

The large pneumatic door by which I had entered this ill-fated building was not far away. Could reach it except for one minor, make it, major, problem. A huge piece of timber frame had me wedged face down between some old metal file cabinets and a huge, heavy wooden desk. It was a corner office in the aged warehouse, and, at my arrival some twenty minutes ago, it had seemed so incongruous in its setting. It didn't matter a whole lot now. The fire would equalize all parts of the structure soon enough into a smoldering pile of ashes.

My boss, my buddy, Ross Milburn, had said it would be a simple matter, this visit to the Old Guthrie Warehouse. Just wanted to ask some questions, get some answers, about some nefarious shipments in the dark of night, and about some sort of big crime event about to happen. No big deal, he had said. One day, I would need to talk to Ross about his rather trivial disregard for my bones and his utter failure as a soothsayer.

Not so simple, it had turned out. A big deal, it had turned out. Someone, some evil SOB, someone or some ones, had set us up big time. Certainly, being the most seriously and immediately aggrieved, about to be consumed by uncaring flames, it appeared that some amount of complaining and whimpering was in order.

'Oh, just stop with the whining and figure a way to get us out of this mess.'

My alter ego tried persistently to keep my thinking straight. And, of course, he was always spot on. Didn't really matter at this point that we had been set up. Just, figure a way out. The only thing was, my strength was not sufficient to move the timber frame or my wedged body. My efforts were hopeless.

Earlier, when we arrived in our unmarked vehicle, the warehouse had a dark and abandoned look. Ross had gone to one end of the huge building to check a hazy light and what he thought were voices. I had gone straight to the warehouse office where, upon entering, had gotten blindsided by a two by four. At least, it felt like a two by four. On my hands and knees, head hanging loosely and all systems swaying surrealistically, heard loud, cursing, anxious voices retreating from the room.

Shortly after the bad people left the office, my befogged mind registered some gunshots and it appeared that Ross was calling to me from far away. Then, there came a thunderous, reverberating roar, slamming me roughly into the corner where that piece of timber frame nailed me helplessly to the floor. Soon, there was the sound of crackling fire, smoke, heat --- and old Chicken Little.

The permutations of my Cherokee mind astounded me. Here in this conflagrant environment, I started thinking about Christmas presents and Jingle Bells. 'Hey, beam up, Bailey Boy! You're about to fry. Like, get some kind of desperate.'

Don't get me wrong, knew that I was in trouble, but my brain was no doubt altered by the two by four whammy. All it wanted to do in those split seconds was vacillate wildly, acknowledging my impending death and wandering off into the past to revisit old memories, old loves, old dreams. The gray matter meandered those old trails until the intense heat got it back to the present and to thoughts of Janice and Bobby.

That's when I felt the first really urgent pinpricks of fear and desperation. My first subliminal thought had been that this fire business was likely a temporary inconvenience, that Ross and his Arizona Rangers would be bursting in to get me out any minute. The harsh reality of that not happening was now becoming much more evident. The mind could spin crazily fast and illogically in moments of impending peril.

Strained all muscles in my body to the max and could not budge for any appreciable leverage. The panic that should have been there much sooner now came fully empowered with Satan's rage.

This was it! The moment most people only obliquely confronted when the twilight years were upon them. The moment that fascinated the philosophers and the poets. The moment of no more options or delusive dithering. The moment of utter, stark, finality.

Death! Its black unctuous veil, heavy, gagging, suffocating, consuming and final, its heat a furious rhapsodic resonance. Death! My own death was now here, coming on the neuronal tap dancing tremors that was now my body.

So much for soliloquies. Here was heap big trouble for this southern white man with the Cherokee blood, heap big trouble right here, right now.

Struggled mightily, gagged, coughed, frantically reached maniacally within myself for air. Thoughts were trying to convey themselves to me, thoughts of sorrow, deeds undone, loves unfulfilled, all the roads untraveled; the body, the mind, a frenzied duo fighting out of sync in blind attempts to right themselves, both so near some great effulgence of truth, the ultimate enigma, the greatest mystery of a lifetime. … death. Would I know? After it was over, would I know? On some level, would I know? Would I know what death was about? Would I know and be alone in the knowledge? Would it matter? Would I go to a Hell? To a Heaven? Life's lore had followed me to the great gate of the hereafter.

“I long for death, death longs for me. But it is dark to die, and, oh! I fear that I still wish to be!"

The lines came to me unbidden from a book by an old friend: Hell's Music. The book was about two soldiers in a foxhole during the Korean War, seeking some ultimate clarity of their lives..

No more soliloquies for the moment.

Among gritty, dirty perspiration and the awesome heat, I could distinguish my own tears flowing down my cheeks. Then a smile, mildly sardonic and wistful, came to my face. “It's okay to cry, Bailey Boy,” whispered to myself. The urgency to live, to struggle with the Grim Reaper, was leaving me. The incredible flush and quake to my body was like a wild, pulsing, out of control roller coaster about to plummet from its highest arc. My breathing was short, hot, gasps of sucking, bringing enormous thermal pressure to my lungs. My heart seemed to inflate within me, and I felt like a bloated Salvadore Dali figure on some primordial pastel plain.

Death had come for me. Could it truly be?

On some unclear periphery of consciousness came soft sounds of a great ripping and tearing, of things falling; feet, hands, moving to a kind of melodic, slow motion, far away squeal. My name was being spoken over and over in low guttural, foghorn slowness, like the languid flow of dream sequences portrayed in old forgotten movies. Hands reached for the timber frame beam amid grunts and groans; feet scraped on a raspy floor. All motion was torpid; faces in punctuated and sustained grimaces and worry. Sweeping, lazy sprays of water fell all about me. The black smoke began to dissipate. Patches of blue sky came sporadically through the thinning mist. Air became breathable.

There on the edge I saw Ross Milburn's black shiny face, contorted with an etched fear, almost purplish in its sheen from the light play and the scattering smoke. Such a beautiful face! The face of my friend. Ross was sitting on some green and yellow contraption with two thick metal prongs sticking out of it. There were chunks of charred wood and wallboard hanging from the prongs. In my fevered brain it came to me that Ross had driven that alien metal monster into the outer wall of the warehouse office. He looked comical and out of place, his white shirt smudged with black soot and his tie loosened and thrown over his shoulder. He was beautiful. I thought about laughing but gagging and coughing stopped me.

The people lifting the wooden beam from my body were now recognizable. The men of the blue cloth, my comrades at the Phoenix Police Department, 'The Arizona Rangers,' had come to the rescue after all. A siren announced the arrival of fire engine and crew.

As the weight of the beam was hoisted above and away from my body, my breathing became more relaxed. It was indeed a most marvelous thing, this breathing. The now languid body no longer trembled with hysteria, but there was incipient soreness that beckoned for attention. My upper thighs and my kidneys were aching, but it was a subdued aching. Tentatively, I wriggled my toes within my shoes, then my feet and legs. My miraculous body seemed battered, bruised, otherwise nastily mistreated, but unbroken.

Managed a silly smile and a thumb's up for the beautiful and glistening face of Ross Milburn. He smiled inanely back until he seemed to become aware of some fundamental Keystone Kop element in the quaint montage. Then he lifted himself from the seat of the strange machine and jumped to the ground. Ross stood with one foot inside the warehouse office and one foot on the asphalt outside the crumbled wall.

While trying to stand, a pain akin to electric shock shot through my pelvic area. Awkwardly, I fell back to the floor among all the broken wood, glass and plaster.

“Stay where you are, Bailey!” yelled Ross, noticing my efforts to rise and my subsequent discomfort. “You might have something broken or torn inside.” He came toward me, dodging the debris.

“Think I'm okay, Ross-man, just tried to get up a little too fast. Probably a misplaced hillbilly gene or hormone getting realigned.”

Hey, it was a small and weak attempt at humor. I was alive. A few minutes ago, I was … Okay, enough already on that death business. Later, maybe, all of this could be revisited.

“Here,” I said to Ross when he was standing over me, “give me your hands and pull me up gently.”

“Bailey, we should wait until ...”

“C'mon, pull. Gently, as you go.”

Ross shook his head in feigned disgust and gave me his big handsome hams. With utmost care, his eyes watching mine, he lifted me to my feet. Shifting weight from foot to foot, tentatively, I put my hands on my love handles and turned my upper body slowly to one side, then to the other. My first step brought no elaborate pain so I took another. Then, another. Ross stayed by my side, his hands and arms out like he was ready to start shaping some clay statue.

“Hey, everything works, Ross-man. I'm okay. You okay? I heard gun shots. Right?”

“Yeah, you heard right. We winged two of them. We got 'em in a cruiser, bleeding all over the seats, waiting for the EMT to take 'em to St. Joe's, then on to lock-up. The other two got away in an old blue Lincoln Town Car. Trent put out an APB on 'em. They won't get too far.” Trent Casals was another buddy, one of my partners at the PPD. “You sure you're okay?”

“Yeah, I'm sure. A little sore but nothing's broken. That was something else, Ross. It's never been quite that way before. Thought maybe this could be the time for my big trip beyond. The mind behaves strangely when … Hey, you've been there. You don't need to hear it from me. Let's get out of this rubble.”

We walked some distance from the smoldering heap, away from the people and the noise. I sat in the PPD unmarked Chevy as Ross talked to Trent outside the cruiser holding the two bad guys. Trent broke away just long enough to come over and check me out.

Trent, a tall, lanky, double-jointed ex-basketball player, ugly and beautiful all in one, looked like a 'Jack Palance' or like an imagined 'Ichabod Crane.' He cared but he did not make a show of caring. He stayed for a few minutes, muttered some inanities, patted, gripped my shoulder, and walked back to the cruiser.

Sitting there, windows up in the car, watching the near noiseless activity around the warehouse rubble, a strange soporific calm engulfed me. Quiet, sensory messages of great meaning were being transmitted from somewhere deep in my soul, just out of my cranial grasp, the import of which was not as important as the knowledge of knowing they were being sent. The nonsensical aberration brought a smile to my face and I dropped my chin, closed my eyes, and shook my head gently in silent acknowledgment to the miracle of life and God's inscrutable stage-fare.

The car door opened and slammed closed. Ross got behind the steering wheel and stared at my stupid face, the inane smile still in place.

“What, BC? What? The look? What transpires inside that looney bin scalp?”

“Just being me, Ross-man. You don't want to know. Believe me, it's better kept very far from you, very far from anyone. It's a mind trip.” I stared back at Ross and saw the helpless expression come to his face, saw his eyes get all squint-like. “Hey, I'm okay,” I said quickly. “What's with our two criminolos? They talking or what?”

Ross finally broke his stare. He put the key in the ignition and started the engine. “Yeah, they're talking, but they're talking pig Latin or some other derivative language I don't know. You know them, I think. Art DeFilo and Eddie Briscoe?”

Nodded in the affirmative. Yes, the worthless goons were known to me.

Ross put the gear in reverse, carefully backed circuitously around three police cruisers with red lights and blue lights still flashing. “Art DeFilo, the short, squat one?” He glanced over at me for an up and down head shake. “He said one thing that baffles me. I mean, I got his words. I just don't know what they necessarily mean ...”

Ross drove forward, dodging people and debris, crossed the Southern Pacific Railroad tracks and headed toward Van Buren Avenue.

“Well, what did DeFilo say, big guy? Don't keep me in the dark.”

The western sun felt hot against my nape, but not hot like the just recently known hot. This was enjoyable hot.

“He was a little sappy. Guess the bullet that passed through his shoulder had him swooning. He was mumbling a lot. But he said something peculiar, then got all red and sweaty after he said it, like he couldn't believe he had said it ...” Ross turned east onto Van Buren.

“Said WHAT? Crimminy, Rosser, you're infuriating. What did the short, squat, Artie DeFilo say?”

He glanced quickly in my direction, then back at the road. With a serious and stern expression, and a lot of pseudo drama, Ross spoke: “He said an odd thing, especially weird for a small time hood. You know we've been expecting something big from Fistucci and his group. Well, what this creep said might just be tied in with that big event, whatever the hay it is.” He paused, glanced my way with a wrinkled brow expression.

“What, dip-hole? Tell me what he said or I'll choke you right here on Van Buren.”

He chuckled for a moment, then put his serious face back on. “Okay, okay. What he said was, he said, and this is really way out, man, I kid you not ...” He saw me about to erupt. “He said, 'Beware the Brutus Gate.'”

Didn't know whether to hit him or jump out of the car.

'Beware the Brutus Gate.'

Cute. Very cute.


END OF EXCERPT - Please visit these links for information on ordering and/or synopses of other books in the Bailey Crane Mystery Series. Also check out the author's other books: "Mama's Madness" - "Butterflies And Jellybeans - A Love Story" - "The Cracked Mirror - Reflections Of An Appalachian Son" - "What Happens Next? - A Life's True Tale"

Here are the links:

http://www.billyraychitwood.weebly.com and http://www.goo.gl/fuxUA and http://www.about.me/brchitwood  and
amazon.com (US - UK - Europe)

“Satan’s Song – A Bailey Crane Mystery” (Book 2) – AN EXCERPT
Posted on December 17, 2012 by  billyraychitwood1      
    
“Satan’s Song – A Bailey Crane Mystery” (Book 2) is part of the five-book 'Bailey Crane Mystery Series’. The book was inspired by a horrific murder in Phoenix, Arizona some years ago. The details in the newspapers of the day stunned me, and my imagination came up with all sorts of scenarios for the gruesome homicide. So far as I know, the murder was never solved… Here is the ‘Prologue’ to the book.


                                                     

                                                        PROLOGUE

'Sunday Morning Coming Down!’

The line from the song stayed with her long after the radio was turned
off. The words conveyed the mood that held her captive.

'Sunday Morning Coming Down!’

All of her Sunday was ‘coming down.’ She had talked long distance to her
mom in Ohio, had feigned good cheer, and had felt even more desperate when they
disconnected. She had read the comics section of the paper, usually an uplifting
experience. Not today. She had exercised on the carpet, doing push-ups and deep
knee bends. She was energized for only a few minutes, and it hit again.

A heavy depression consumed her Sunday in large chunks, a visceral
displacement, much like that long ago summer camp experience … No! She must not
dwell on that bittersweet summer camp.

She was lonely, sad, locked within a body and mind that would not push
away the black oppression. The blue sky and sun that came to her through the big
window in the living room added little relief.

So the day had gone. Sunday had gone.

It had been a mistake to stay in Phoenix. The city was too big, too 
unfriendly. She missed her family and friends in Steubenville, the familiar and
the rote activities she had once seen as shackles.

The irony of the thought brought an obscure smile, and the wonderful
memories flashed before her: barbecues in the expansive back yard, leaves on the
big trees rustling in the wind; Saturday movie matinees, sitting, giggling, in
the middle rows, throwing popcorn kernels at unsuspecting boys; the overnight
stay-overs, pajama parties, pillow fights; long gossipy talks about boys long
into the early morning; cheer leading at the basketball and football games,
flirting with players on the sideline benches; homemade ice cream, cold
watermelons, sweet and juicy, on summer Sundays …

On and on the memories flashed, and her black mood deepened, lingered like
a soggy wet blanket that clung, would not be loosened and discarded. She was
here in Phoenix, in a desert city swirling with an ugly gray smog, indifference,
crime. She was in an urban sprawl of people from every conceivable cultural,
ethnic, and racial mix. She was in a city that frightened her, a city that
spawned a subliminal despair at her core of being. She did not like what she was
becoming. This darkness of mood did not fit her personality. She was never one
to mope around, to engage in self-pity. She tried always to avoid people like
that. She was beginning to turn inward, to dislike herself.

Perhaps Phoenix was only the symptom and not the cause of this recent
gloom. Perhaps there were other more subtle stirrings which she could not
identify.

Strange, now, in remembering how the city had first excited her. Phoenix
had been so different from anything she had known in Steubenville, like visiting
one of those desert oases she had read about in school. She had found the
southwest lore intriguing Sand entertaining. It had been like living out all the
old fantasies from western movies she had seen with her family and
friends.

There had been a visit to the Superstition Mountains where she had wanted
to search for the legendary Lost Dutchman’s gold.

There had been the trip to Picacho Peak and to old Tucson where so many of
the cowboy movies were made.

There had been old Mexico where she had been shocked by the poverty and
the primitive conditions, but had somehow been drawn to its quaint and sleepy
culture.

She had seen the spectacular Grand Canyon, stood above the majestic
shadows and golden hues of its vertical walls, looked in awe across the vast
space as the gentle winds touched her face.

She had decided to stay in Phoenix. There was so much to see, so much to
do, in this lovely state. Her commitment to stay was nonetheless not quite one
hundred per cent.

She had gotten a job and moved into her boyfriend’s apartment at Canyon
Way. The Canyon Way Apartment complex was near the lovely Encanto Park, where
she quickly made it a daily ritual to bike ride through its lush and placid
grounds. Biking had become a therapy for her. It made her muscles relax and made
her mind more malleable to positive thinking.

Her new life had been good for a few months. Then the city began to gnaw
at her nerves. The transition had been a delicate and imprecise thing to
analyze. There were murders, rapes, and robberies reported everyday on the
television news. Crime seemed to be evenly distributed among Phoenix’s
multicultural mix. There seemed to be anger everywhere, shown through simple
senseless acts of vandalism, random mayhem, and overt discourtesies.

For a small Ohio town girl, the big city had created an inner turmoil.
Where there had been a quiet pastoral peace, there was now a ‘salad bowl’
madness. It was getting to her, and she was getting to her boyfriend.

Vince had tried to lift the torpid mood he had seen developing over the
past weeks but he had not been successful. Now he was getting impatient and
cross with her. They had argued earlier in the morning and had settled into a
silent separate space for sulking and guilt trips.

Around 7:00 on Sunday evening Della pulled her yellow Diamond Back
mountain bike from its place on the small second floor apartment balcony,
announced that she was going for a ride. It was a twenty-six inch man’s bike,
but Della was a tall girl and preferred it to a woman’s bike.

Bad moods were rare for Della, but a bike ride through Encanto Park would
help diminish her funk. The hard pumping on the pedals had a therapeutic effect
on her. With the sweat of a strenuous bike ride would come a soothing calm. She
needed something to break this ugly lethargy.

Della walked her bike down the metal and stone stairwell and out onto
19th Avenue. She turned south on 19th after leaving the apartment complex, still walking her
bike. After a few blocks she left the sidewalk and entered Encanto Park. From a
running start she got on her bike, pedaled vigorously southward and eastward,
followed the outer edge of the Encanto Municipal Golf Course. She could hear
water sounds from the lake and she felt the cool November wind on her face. She
heard the insect noises of the night and thought again about her family and
friends in Steubenville.

The night sky was unusually murky, and she wished the city would do
something about the poor lighting along the bike path. There had been some talk
from city officials that improvements were going to be made around the park but
no action had been taken. Della had ridden her bike at night and she felt no
sense of fear. The depth of darkness she encountered this night was simply an
extension of her mood. She would ride it off.

She stood and pumped the pedals expending great effort, moving swiftly
down the meandering path toward the main entrance to the park. When she reached
the southernmost perimeter she turned and sped back north along the same path.
The sweet smell of damp grass filled her nostrils, reminding her again of
Steubenville and home.

She felt the sweat on her face and in the cleavage of her breasts. There
was a rather pleasant chilling sensation throughout her body, and she was aware
of a mood shift. Her mind was now clearing, and she thought of the wasteful
negative stupor of the day. She was young and impatient. She must give her new
life a chance. She had a whole world ahead of her. She must not get depressed
and take it out on Vince. He really wanted her to be happy. She was eager to get
back to the apartment and apologize.

It appeared she had the bike path all to herself. She relaxed. She sat and
pedaled easily. Occasionally she just coasted. She was almost back to
19th Avenue. There was approximately one quarter mile left. She had covered
nearly four miles in very fast time, and she was coming to the final turn before she
hit a straightaway to 19th Avenue. She was just coming parallel on her right with a
long row of eucalyptus trees. She heard again the sounds of the lake off to her left
and the steady shriek of crickets.

She saw a black blur of movement about fifty yards ahead. Someone was
standing next to a tall palm tree, or leaning against it. It appeared to be
someone in bulky clothes, maybe someone wearing a large overcoat. That someone
was stepping out onto the path in front of her …

There was a quick motion of arm and hand, and glittering particles, like
fireflies, appeared in the darkness in front of her. There were flashing
movements as the arms made arcing turns of bright, diamond-like specks of
light.

Della instinctively steered the bike to the left side of the wide path, a
nervous tingle spreading just below her skin. Serious adrenaline now raced
through her and a fast rising fear gripped her. The fear lodged in her throat.
The flashing movement was coming at her, and she could not turn the bike fast
enough to avoid it. Like a video tape moving fast forward, it all happened so
quickly. Her warm thoughts of making up with Vince had preoccupied her and
slowed her reflexes. The fear and adrenaline gave way to frenzy, her mind
splintering with delirious patterns. The panic coursed through her body like a
hundred simultaneous bee stings, and the inner surge seized her in a near
paralytic grip.

The first sweeping blow caught Della on the neck, lifting and holding her
in midair suspension, presenting an odd spectral silhouette against the backdrop
of night. Her bike rolled clumsily on and crashed a few feet ahead on the gravel
border lining the path.

Incredibly, Della did not appear to die from the initial slash. With a sad
reflexive tremble of body, she seemed to be fighting her attacker, like a weak,
cumbersome puppet on a string. Her arms reached out to grab, to scratch, to hit,
but it was only a slow grotesque enactment, born of an atavistic will to live.
It was a primal instinct to survive, a mind-muscle-soul reaction to death.

The attacker was now above her, hovering like a dark cumulus cloud, a gray
indefinite shape, spitting angry lightning bolts.

For Della Erlitz, death was most gruesome, but mercifully instantaneous. 

The savagery on Della Erlitz body was not finished. Unmindful, uncaring,
that death had already come, the killer continued to slash and to mutter
incoherent obscenities. The maniacal perversion continued until the young
woman’s head was totally severed. The killer then wrapped the head in a thin
sheet of plastic and placed it in a tote bag. The body was further defiled by a
monstrous craving the sane and civilized world could not hope to fathom.

Finally, the satanic craving was sated. The killer moved the body some
seventy feet from the bike path in the direction of the eucalyptus trees.
Della’s blood soaked clothes were cut away and piled next to the curled, stiff
fingers of her left hand. The killer placed the tote bag over the handlebars of
Della’s yellow bike and rode away.

The killer started north on the bike path, stopped to consider a thought,
hesitated, then turned around and headed back south.

Passing near the headless body, the killer began to whistle a soft and
strangely rhapsodic melody.

END OF EXCERPT.

Should you wish to read more of “Satan’s Song – A Bailey Crane Mystery” (Book 2), please visit my website/blog ‘Home Page’ and scroll down through my books. You will find ordering information after the book.

http://www.billyraychitwood.weebly.com (My main website – There is also a blog with all my posts, some book reviews, and bio
info.)

Other links that might be of interest:

http://www.about.me/brchitwood (A brief bio sketch and further links.)

http://www.thefinalcurtain1.wordpress.com (A blog site where you can follow all my posts)

Http://www.goo.gl/fuxUA (My site at ‘Independent Author Network’ which previews my books and gives links.)

You can follow me on twitter.com

Remembering that a picture is worth a thousand words, I offer this excerpt from Book 1 of 'The Bailey Crane Series'. There are five books in the series:

Book 1: "An Arizona Tragedy - A Bailey Crane Mystery" (Book 1)

Book 2: "Satan's Song - A Bailey Crane Mystery" (Book 2)

Book 3: "The Brutus Gate - A Bailey Crane Mystery" (Book 3)

Book 4: "Murder In Pueblo Del Mar ' A Bailey Crane Mystery" (Book 4)

Book 5: "A Soul Defiled - A Bailey Crane Mystery" (Book 5)

"An Arizona Tragedy - A Bailey Crane Mystery" (Book 1) is rather close to my heart as it was inspired by the brutal death of a personal friend. The book is fictional but some of the crime data was taken from newspaper accounts of the day... the two principal murders (one in Phoenix, AZ and the other in Washington, DC) actually happened. The story, my words and plot lines
are from my imagination, are not intended to cast aspersions on anyone as to guilt, are simply my way of paying homage to a young mother and actress who was taken so horribly from her family and friends.

Here is the excerpt from "An Arizona Tragedy - A Bailey Crane Mystery" (Book 1):


                                                           Six

                                            Monday, September 4


Roy Martin's private office on the twentieth floor of Arizona Bank Building
afforded a panoramic northern view of Phoenix, west to east. The great sweep of
space beckoned the eye to see forever, awakening the senses.

Remembering the green lush mountains of my native Tennessee and its own
special beauty, my mind made its comparative notes: the incredible mountain
trails of the Great Smokies, the great gorges and verdant valleys of that hill
country with this spacious land of sun and desolate desert. There had been in
Tennessee those chronic cloudy days to dampen a mood and marvelous sunny days
that brought a multitude of fun activities. Here in the desert, there was a
consistent pattern of sunny days and that spatial quality that overwhelmed my
senses … made me wonder what psychological messages might be hidden in my
obsessive love affair with the desert.

It was time to put the comparative thoughts away, to concentrate on the work
at hand.

Spread across Roy's small conference table were several documents, some
bills, a check book, and a cup of coffee. Roy wanted me to familiarize myself
with the Cooper estate, pay the bills as they came in, and catch any seeming
inconsistencies that might appear. The court had approved my executor role in
the estate, and I was a bit nonplussed in the sense that, here I sat, with the
ability to manage a deceased man's assets, to have legal authority to write
checks, even, made out to myself. It was all rather new for me, and, in some
respects, a bit daunting.

At the moment I was scanning a limited partnership printout, a real estate
transaction that involved some land west of Phoenix. My eyes stopped abruptly
when they encountered the name of Steve Langford. He was listed on the document
as a general partner. There was that annoying, tantalizing thought again. Just a
coincidence perhaps, but one that sent a mild shock wave through me. All the
thought given to Cathy's murder and Steve Langford, and there in front of me is
his name on the Cooper document. It had to be no big deal. No fateful nonsense.
It was just a stupid coincidence.

The discovery had most definitely gotten my attention, and, because I knew
nothing about the technical aspects of a real estate limited partnership, I made
a note to ask Roy for an explanation. At the moment he was in Lenny's private
office. This could wait.

There were some bills which needed to be paid, so I wrote out the checks,
signed them, and put them in the proper envelopes along with the billing. There
were some sizable funds also to be deposited to the estate. The deposit slips
were prepared. Then, I turned my attention to other papers relative to the
estate. There was nothing unusual, nothing that appeared inconsistent to me. In
fact, I was impressed with the wise scope of the Cooper portfolio, even envied
the magnitude of the estate and the sound management that had been given.

This whole business made me do some wishful thinking. Maybe one day my own
estate would be of such size and worth. There were now only a few bucks in
savings, a little raw land, and an annuity. My spending was too spontaneous and
reckless, too much devoted to living the good life. This Cooper guy knew what he
was doing. He was big time wealthy. My financial situation was okay and would
get better, but Mr. Cooper did impress me with his business acumen.

Hey, I thought, that's why they make 'thirty-one flavors.' Some people were
successful as bankers, financiers, entrepreneurs, and workaholics. Some were
like me: didn't overdo the 'work thing;' left some time, lots of time, for fun
and frivolity; worked just enough to make those ends meet. People like me did a
considerable amount of procrastination, and we did a lot of daydreaming. Perhaps
it was a phase people like me went through. One day, there would likely be some
second guessing: why, oh, why didn't I do this or that? Hopefully, not. Some of
us have to smell those flowers.

There was always a price paid for what one did ... someone very important
must have said that. The corporate CEO works sixteen hours a day for twenty
years to be on top of the heap, then discovers his kids are grown and he has an
all of a sudden urge to do things that would have been better done twenty years
ago. Perspective must not uniquely mean a mental view that fits all sizes.
Perspective must be relative to a person's time and place, the DNA, environment …
oh, Bailey-boy, my alter ego speaks, please, stop with the philosophical
digression, already!

The Cooper estate business had me thinking too much. Knowing myself, twenty
years from now, I'll still be full of my bible belt guilt, second guessing my
choices, and still making a goodly share of goofs. Just what flavor is that?
Vanilla? Strawberry? Pistachio? It is what it is!

The office door opened and closed. Roy sat next to me at the conference table
and asked how I was doing.

"Doing fine. This is all just a little new to me … makes me think too much.
Did have a little shock a moment ago when I saw Steve Langford's name on one of
these real estate limited partnership documents. Been doing so much thinking
about Cathy and Steve, it was just a strange coincidence."

"Well, that's his business," Roy responded. "He does land deals and other
kinds of syndication. He's really a wheeler dealer, an operator."

Roy may not have intended it, but his last comment came across as
disparaging. So, I asked: "Operator? As in scam, or, just a good honest hustling
entrepreneur?"

Roy chuckled. "More, the latter. So far as I know, Steve's all legal. But any
guy who hustles as aggressively as Steve will sometimes be on the fringe of
legality. It's funny but I remember Cooper raising some questions about a
particular land deal. He had heard something, just general, not specific, that
led him to believe there could be some impropriety. I gave him my honest
appraisal, told him these deals were being done in Arizona all the time and most
were in step with current statutes. Of course, I told him that things like
physical description of land, legal definitions as to numbers of partners and so
on had to be within the purview of those statutes. There was some changes made
to Cooper's satisfaction and the deal went through." Roy retrieved an ashtray
from the desk and lit a cigarette.

"Well, I know precious little about these things It just gave me pause to see
his name there. My problem, Roy, is that I don't somehow trust that guy. He
seems nice enough when I run into him during the business day, but when he's had
several drinks he changes. Hell, for that matter, I guess we all change when
we're drinking. It's just that Pam remembers some bad occasions when she and
Cathy lived together, and it got me to thinking and analyzing too much." The
coffee had gotten cold, and I declined a refill.

Roy said, "Cathy probably got very unlucky and was at the wrong place at the
wrong time. There was probably some drug-crazed hippie-type hanging out around
the school. Or, maybe someone from the apartment complex had been keeping an eye
on her. Did you see Willis this morning?"

"No, heading there after leaving you." It occurred to me that no one called
Willis by his first name, Herman ... on reflection, guess I would prefer Willis
to Herman, as well.

"By now," Roy went on, "Willis ought to have a thick file on Cathy's murder.
Maybe he's got something solid by now. Seems to me Steve has too much smarts to
kill someone, but who the hell knows, with the way things are these days? Hey,
I've an appointment coming in. You pretty much through with Cooper's stuff for
now?"

"All done. I'm out of here. See you later."

The way things are these days!

Going down in the elevator, I thought about that phrase. How were things these days?
Much different than ten or twenty years ago? Much different than ten or
twenty years from now? Did our lives really change all that much? Or, did we
just get bigger and more visible? More visible because of technology? We can get
from one end of the country to the other end so fast these days. People are
moving more frequently, mixing up the 'salad bowl' ingredients with anxieties
and frustrations. Mass media blasts are assaulting us. 'Right' and 'wrong' was
still 'right' and 'wrong' in any time, in any generation. The genes and
chromosomes are still there. The mix! Was that the difference? If there was a
difference.

Ugly and brutal murders happened in other areas. Richard Speck! Jack, the
Ripper! Bluebeard! The mad Chicago doctor who had his own special torture
chamber for his grisly meetings with young women!

"Whoa! Stop the thought machine," yelling at myself as I drove out of the
underground garage on my way to see Herman Willis. He was a fellow police
officer and a friend for whom I had a great deal of respect. My tendency was to
over think things … really! Moi?


END OF EXCERPT...   Go to http://www.billyraychitwood.weebly.com and scroll down the 'Home' page and preview my books. The buying spots are listed after a short preview of each book. Click on the blog section on the 'Home' page if you would like to read my recent posts.

Further links: http://www.about.me/brchitwood

http://www.thefinalcurtain1.wordpress.com

http://www.twitter.com/brchitwood

http://www.goodreads.com

For an author interview by author John Dolan, visit GALERICULATE at http://ow.ly/fVZIF

“What Happens Next? A Life’s True Tale” (An excerpt)
Posted on December 10, 2012 by  billyraychitwood1      
      
Like a picture that is worth a thousand words, it’s my thinking that an excerpt from an author’s book can reveal enough pro and/or con for a reader to determine whether or not he/she wants to read further. So, here’s an excerpt from my newest book, “What Happens Next? A Life’s True Tale,” a non-fiction sketch of my life. It is a relatively short book which covers my Southern Baptist roots, the state of my faith, and some not so savory confessions of how I have lived my life. The book might very well be deserving of any label one wishes to put on it, but it is disgustingly honest and true.

Here is an excerpt from the Early Adult section of the book… 

The couple resides in a second floor apartment on a lovely tree-lined
street in Williamsport. It is Sunday afternoon, and Steven Ray is sleeping in
his crib just off the living room. The wife is ironing. The husband is listening
to classical music and day dreaming, idly chatting time to time with his wife.
It is a soft afternoon somewhere between bliss and boredom.

Somehow, the conversation turns to the first month of their marriage when
the wife left Washington, D. C. for Williamsport to await her husband’s Navy
discharge. The wife is telling him about an affair she had with an old high
school boyfriend during that month she was away. It is an attempt to purge
herself of the guilt of that not so long ago tryst. The wife is wrought with the
pain of the revelation but she must be done with her guilt.

The man’s world suddenly caves in on him and he is lost in the frenzied
twittering quake of his neuronal wiring. The man is immobilized by the wife’s
confession, hardly able to move and speak. He is mindful that the time frame of
his wife’s unfaithfulness happens to coincide with the birth date of Steven Ray
and this fact adds to the anxious frenzy within his mind.

Hardly able to breathe, the distressed man leaves the apartment and his
sobbing wife. He wanders to houses of in-laws and leaves abruptly, leaving them
to ponder his dazed, pained expressions. He moves mechanically as though willed
to robotic, mindless action. He drives aimlessly and finally sits on a bench in a park,
trying to get his brain to work, trying to figure out what he must do.

The thoughts tumble down to him: ‘Is he my son? Should there be a blood
test? Do I leave? Do I stay? Where do I go? What do I do?’ He finds himself
opening his memory pages to the feelings he has when his father beats his
mother. It is that same kind of feeling of helplessness and hopelessness.

The man feels lost like that little boy of yesterday.

He returns to the second floor apartment. His wife’s eyes are red and
swollen from her crying and she is so very sorry. For whatever reason, baby in
the crib, the honesty of her confession, her sobbing wish for forgiveness, or
the simple expediency of the moment, the man forgives his wife and stays. He
simply finds it easier to capitulate, to be done with it, than to continue with
the aberrations of his mind. It seems he is an emotional cripple, unable to
handle the traumatic matters that enter his space. It is his wont to place the
blame for his inability to handle stress on his mobile and uncertain past. Is it
time for the shrink’s sofa? No, he will not give in to that.

Strangely, life is fairly good for the couple until a Sunday afternoon
gathering at Lycoming Creek’s edge in Montoursville. It is a peaceful spot where
families gather, pull their cars to the water’s edge for washing, allow their
children to wade in the shallow waters, have their picnic lunches. It is a wide
creek, and the mother-in-law’s cabin sets among the trees some hundred yards
across from where the families, cars, and kids are gathered.

A beautiful day is about to get very ugly…

That dreadful ill fated Sunday afternoon begins with all the family
oriented activities the man would want. He drinks beer with his men in-laws. The
men are gathering, lounging outside on soft comfortable chairs, looking across
the creek at the families on the other side of the river. He listens to the men
tell of their different job experiences and participates with his occasional
anecdote laced with humor.

The sun shines in a near cloudless sky, and the women bring their plates
of goodies out and spread them on the picnic table for the men to prepare and
eat at their leisure. It is the sort of day the man has always factored into his
vision of family purpose and unity. He sits with baby Steven on his lap,
alternating his adult talk with baby talk.

The man’s wife sees across the creek a family she knows, takes baby
Steven from his lap, and walks through the shallow water to the other side. The
man watches as the wife sweetly engages a young couple in conversation there at
water’s edge. A peculiar sensation hits him and at once he somehow knows that
his wife is talking to the man who could be the father of his son.

The man sits, his mind filling with accusatory, hateful thoughts. He is
lost to all conversations around him. He is riveted to the moment and the
building storm within him.

The wife and Steven shortly return, and there is a confrontation. He
cannot deny his own disturbing thoughts and must know if he is correct in his
presumptions. His wife tells him the truth. It is the old boyfriend with whom
she had the previous January affair. She does not feel that her husband has a
right to question her innocent move to say hello and show off her son. She does
not give any priority to the husband’s own perception of yet another betrayal.
She feels she has done nothing wrong in saying hello to an old boyfriend and his
wife.

The words are cross, sharp, designed to hurt. There is no stifling
anxiety now for the man, just red-hot anger. The husband abruptly and with
little fanfare leaves the hillside retreat. He motors away from the family
gathering. He is not sure where he is going but he knows he must be away. The
harsh words between the couple and the quick revving engine of his car driving
away are not lost on the in-law family gathering. Except for baby Steven crying,
all is quiet on the hillside.

Clad in a white t-shirt, dungarees, and sock-less brown penny loafers, he
goes to a military club recently joined. It is a private drinking and eating
club for veterans situated in South Williamsport. There the sourly disposed man
drinks away the afternoon, gets rowdy, surly, becomes obnoxious with some
patrons, and is asked to leave. It is dusk. He is drunk. He is unsteady and
sorely without the faculties he needs to drive his car.

After he crosses the bridge into Williamsport and turns onto the street
where he lives, he drives into some parked cars along the curb, damaging three.
He is less than a block from home. He is still inebriated but stunned back to
some semblance of awareness.

He sits at the curb as police come and a crowd gathers. He fights with a
policeman when the latter tries to put him in a cruiser and take him to jail. He
is clubbed by the cop just above the right eye. Now, his t-shirt and pants are
covered with the dirt and blood of the scuffle.

He finds himself for the first time in his life in a jail cell, and as 
his sobriety slowly returns to him it might just as well be hell. His mind
begins with the scenarios. Some are woefully unclear in the focusing. He sits on
the hard cot in the small enclosure, his head throbbing with pain and
uncertainty. With his head bowed, he relives the hours of the Sunday afternoon,
the act by his wife he perceives as betrayal, the military club drinking as
plain stupid, and the ramming of the parked cars, the cop fight, as priceless in
‘Keystone Comic’ hilarity. He is not laughing, however. He is in a particular
black abyss of his own making.

The man mentally shovels on his guilt, plays the pity games, and
self-decrees that his life is over. He stands at the bars of his cell and weakly
yells at the jailer on night duty, pleads to be let out of his claustrophobic
nightmare. The jailer is kind to the man, tells him that morning will come soon,
that everything will eventually work out…

This ends the excerpt from “What Happens Next? A Life’s True Tale.” Should
you care to read the entire book, please visit amazon.com (US and UK) and/or my
website/blog and scroll down the ‘Home’ page to my books. There you will find
the links for purchasing the book — paperback, kindle and/or other e-book
formats. Here is the link to my Website/Blog: http://billyraychitwood.weebly.com

I've been nominated by John Dolan for the coveted (maybe) 'LIEBSTER Award'. You can find out about this trivial pursuit (but, GREAT!) at http://goo.gl/xk16q , a wonderful blog site by John Dolan called 'Galericulate' (a word meaning, 'covered, as with a hat or cap'). If you are not familiar with this British 'chap' of wisdom and wit, you have just got to become familiar. SO, please visit his site, read his posts, some book reviews, some outrageous author interviews, and I'm betting you will thank me. In fact, I've reviewed his book, "Everyone Burns," on this site and will do likewise when the much expected sequel is out. I have also interviewed him on this site --- view in the archives.

Now, back to the business at hand. Here are the rules for acceptance of the 'LIEBSTER Award.' These are important because? At the end of my little mission here, I will be nominating eleven blogs for this coveted award.  Okay, the rules: 1) When you receive the award you must post eleven random facts about yourself; 2) you must answer eleven questions posed by the person who nominated you; 3) you pass the award on to the blogger friends you are nominating, making sure that you have notified them of their nominations; 4) you write up eleven new questions for the bloggers you are nominating (and you cannot nominate the blogger who nominated you); 5) finally, you paste the award picture into your blog.


Eleven Random Facts About Billy Ray Chitwood:

1) Kerosene lamps were the 'in thing' during my rural youth.

2) You would never know I taught 'Advanced Writing' when you read my books.

3) Skipped school occasionally to play 'nine ball' at the pool hall.

4) Spent many Saturdays sitting on the front row of the movie house watching Hopalong Cassidy, an early cowboy hero of mine --- how would you know him?

5) Worked up the nerve in high school to ask a majorette beauty for a movie date --- then, stood her up because of my shyness (go figure!)

6) Spent a tour of duty in the US Navy at an outpost in the Aleution Islands called Adak (A-yuck!).

7) The English 'Romantic Poets' were my beacon lights in college --- also gave me a big assist on dates! (My etchings, so to speak.)

8) I've chased 'windmills' all my life --- and still chasing!

9) Love is not only a great golfer but an emotion that ends up being my number one priority in life.

10) Along with the waste accumulated in my life there has been a lot of joy.

11) I've been a 'President' --- of a Homeowners Association.


Eleven Questions From John Dolan for me to answer:

1) What is the worst present you ever received?
I'm tempted but won't go there! The worst present was Christmas undershorts two sizes too large from my loving Mom --- she gave them every year until she passed on. (I just never had the heart to tell her.)

2) If you were going to throw someone our of an aeroplane who would
it be?
An 'aeroplane?' Really, John, get on board! I'm too lovable to even consider such an awful act...

3) What is the most embarrassing thing you've ever worn?
A yellow polka dot bikini! (Please, John, try harder with the questions.)

4) If you could have been the writer of any song, which song would it be?
Toss-up between "My Way" and "God Bless America."

5) If you weren't doing what you are doing, what would you be doing?
Writing a song...

6) How long can you hold your breath for?
John, John! Ending with a preposition? Really? One hour, thirty-three seconds!

7) If you had to have a tattoo what would it be and where would it be on your body?
'Liebster' Award, lower right cheek!

8) Apple or Microsoft?
Finally a short question! Apple has a certain acid that bothers my stomach. Microsoft when I'm not hungry.

9) If you could remove one country from the planet which one would it be?
Right this minute or later on when I'm more rational! Besides, I don't wish to offend North Korea...

10) Which extinct animal would you like to see not-extinct?
A dinosaur because I'm lonely!

11) Which movie is most likely to make you blub?
 'Blub' as in blubber? Out on a limb here but I go with "Somewhere In Time."


Here are my eleven easy questions for my nominees:

1) Your favorite Actor and Actress?

2) Your least liked chore?

3) Your favorite book genre?

4) Your favorite type of music?

5) Your favorite movie?

6) Your least favorite movie?

7) Mayonnaise or Salad Dressing?

8) Favorite beverage?

9) Favorite meat?

10) Favorite vegetable?

11) Your favorite author of all time?


We're all serious about the business of writing and the events that shape our world. Some levity and fun is allowed. Who knows! While doubtful, this 'Liebster' Award could go viral! It took me some time to do mine, but all of you are younger and more digitally savvy...should knock the chore off in thirty minutes. My very best to all, and, don't hate me, please! Just get even. You can hate John Dolan!

Here are my nominees for the 'Liebster' Award:

Rich Weatherly - (@richweatherly43) - http://richweatherly.wordpress.com

Christine Warner - (@ChristinesWords) - http://christine-warner.com

Jhobell Kristyl - (@JhobellKristyl) - http://bookmavenpicks.wordpress.com 

Chris Martin - (@TheChris_Martin) - http://chrismartinwrites.com  

Jack Durish - (@jackdrsm) - http://www.jackdurish.com

Caleb Pirtle - (@CalebPirtle) - http://venturegalleries.com

Babette James - (@BabetteJames) - http://www.babettejames.com  

Dianne Gray - (@Zigotide) - http://diannegray.au.com - http://diannegray.wordpress.com

Ella Medler - (@EllaMedler) - http://www.ellamedler.com  - http://ellamedler.wordpress.com

Rick Mallery - (@RickMallery) - http://rickmallery.wordpress.com

Judith Victoria Douglas - http://booksbyjudithvictoriadouglas.wordpress.com

Where Did Christmas Go?
Posted on December 1, 2012  by  billyraychitwood1      
     
Okay, Christmas has not gone anywhere. It is still the birthday of Jesus, a great man, and, for many, a Savior. Jesus gave birth to the philosophy of Christianity and he gave us many golden rules by which to live our lives. He was a simple man with a richness of heart, mind, and soul who sought to provide all of us, the poor, the rich, the disabled, with a vision beyond ourselves and beyond our problems. From the teachings of Jesus came many branches of religion to satisfy the soul-needs of many.

For some among us, Jesus has little or no meaning beyond His mere existence. For some there is no religion that has meaning. For some there is only this life that we shall live. For some, death brings down the final curtain…an eternal darkness. These people among us have this right to their secular non-belief in God, in Christianity, in all that is Holy. The Christian and the secular can walk side by side, be friends and neighbors, be tolerant of each other’s views.

For me, I say Happy Birthday, Jesus! I say, Merry Christmas to all and a Happy New Year. I say, enjoy the lighting of your Christmas Tree and the presents you place beneath it. It is the Yuletide season. It is a holiday season. Christmas is a federal holiday. Our Constitution was formed by those of Judeo-Christian values. We allow for a separation of Church and State in our federal and state business. Why is this not enough.

From the polls we get the information that ninety per cent of us Americans still want a Christmas holiday, a Christmas tree, presents under the tree. We ninety per cent see this time of year as a time to spread love, peace, and good will. Is that really so bad? Why is it that some want to make such a big deal about calling a Christmas Tree a Holiday Tree? Why is it that a Nativity Scene is no longer allowed in certain venues? Why is it that the majority does not seem to govern our affairs because of the ‘suffering’ minority?

When does this madness end? When do the encroaching seculars finally take over our country? When does the politically correct get to rule every aspect of our lives? Where did Christmas go? Have we not given in enough to the these minority groups? Can we still keep in place some vestige of our heritage as a nation? I know changes must come as we outgrow some primitive laws on the books. Some of our language must change when it is so obviously insulting to some. Some things just need changing. The difference between conservative and liberal does not escape me, not does ‘far right’ and ’far left,’ nor does ‘moderate,’ ‘progressive,’ ‘extreme.’ Neither of these groups will ever win all the political and social battles, but could we just call ‘Time Out’ for this beautiful season that is now here. Most of us will, but could the zealots call ‘Time Out’ as well. And, yes, I know the liberals want to blame the conservatives, the ‘talk show’ fringe, certain news channels, and it likely doesn’t really matter to most of us. It just seems to come up each year, this issue of ‘Christmas Tree’ versus ‘Holiday Tree,’ the issue of ‘Nativity Scene Displays,’ the issue of ‘Merry Christmas’ and ‘Happy Holidays.’ Guess we can say both, ‘Merry Christmas’ and ‘Happy Holidays.’ It just bothers me when some retailers warn their workers only to say ‘Happy Holidays’ because ’Merry Christmas’ might offend someone. So many of us have become hesitant in uttering something so naturally spoken over the years.

Christmas will never be for me the way it was so many years ago. I’ve aged and the season in upon me and past me before I know it. I overheard an argument about all this ‘Christmas Tree’ and ‘Political Correctness’ stuff and it just bothered me. Guess it’s kind of natural for an anachronism like me to be bothered.

Guess it’s kind of natural for an ‘old dog’ like me to wonder, ‘Where Did Christmas Go?’

This is a 'Don't Miss' combo for you: an interview with a quality author and a partial review of his 5-Star book, "Everyone Burns." If you have not had the pleasure of reading John Dolan you've
missed a great experience from a writer extraordinaire. JD is truly a wordsmith for his times. He is also the man who introduced me and countless others to the word, 'Galericulate' --- that's the name of his website/blog. (See end of interview/review.) He's the man hidden under the hat and he's roaming around some continent or another. At last report, he was in Amsterdam. Meet John Dolan. 

'Burning' John Dolan, writer extraordinaire - An Interview (Sort of!)

(Billy Ray = BR) (John Dolan=JD)
 
BR: Okay, Filbert, take off the blindfold!
 
JD: Hey, not so rough! You just don't take 'no' for an answer, do you?
 
BR: Why should I? You can leave us now, Filbert, and take Salome with you.

JD: You kidding me? 'Salome!' 'Filbert!' They're 'junkies...'
 
BR: Had no money...they grabbed you for the 'grass.'
 
JD: Are you mocking me? Are you stealing my interview ideas?
 
BR: Show me a legal document!
 
JD: At least my chair is comfortable, and my straps are pure leather, not this cord crap!
 
BR: You left me no choice, JD, you broke your promise to take my books viral and...
 
JD: Correction! I said your books were vile and pretentious...
 
BR: Okay, okay, I understand you're a bit angry...just some tit for tat, that's all. I really like your book, "Everyone Burns," and I'm thinking 'movie,' 'TV series,' something really big. Can we just relax and talk about the book?
 
JD: Can you at least put a cushion on this orange crate? You're not helping my hemmies.
 
BR: How's that? Better? Good...Now tell me about "Everyone Burns" and how you came to write it.
 
JD: Guess I got no choice, but you gotta promise me you're not going to make a habit of this kind of interview. This is my idea, not yours. Do we have a deal?
 
BR: Yes, we have a deal...Hell, I thought you would be pleased!
 
JD: Well, I am, sort of, but this is intellectual property, not something you mess with, BR. Plus I only get one original idea per decade.
 
BR: Okay, no more kidnaps for interviews! Got it! Can we proceed?
 
JD: The events in "Everyone Burns" take place over seventeen days while Thailand is still numb from the giant tsunami of December, 2004. Like everyone of sane mind this great catastrophe made my emotions run wild, made me think of life like I had never really thought about it. "Everyone Burns" gave me some escape from the reality all around me.
 
BR: Really?
 
JD: No, not really. I wrote it for the money and the groupies.
 
BR: And how's that working out?
 
JD: Probably about as well as it's working out for you, I'd guess. Well ... looking at you, probably slightly better with the groupies.
 
BR: Here's a quote from 'Everyone Burns, just after a bar fracas: "To summarise, my life is one of split personality. I am in two minds about it myself. Nevertheless, down these narrow streets a man must walk, even if it is in flip-flops. But I am no Philip Marlowe, and Koh Samui is not film-noir USA. There is nothing of Hollywood's black and white morality on this most colourful
of Thailand's Islands. And long overcoats just make you sweat in the sun. Here The Postman Never Rings Twice, simply because he never rings at all. He has better things to do. Lamai's and Chaweng's adventurers generally pack a condom, not a gun."

You open the book with a broken cue stick inflicting injury to your protagonist and it's like the excitement and action just never stops after that. I picked this quote because it's one of my favorites but also because it gives the reader a sample of your splendid writing...Do you have any disagreement with my assessment here, JD?
 
JD: Take these cords off and I'll kiss you. The passage is also a favorite of mine. Aside from the style thing in my writing, it is just basically who I am. But I'm NOT David Braddock, by the way. I want to make that clear in case my wife Fiona is reading this! A book of this genre for me has to move at a rapid pace, the action mostly non-stop. A lot of what I write about in "Everyone Burns" has some factual similarities, the people, the places, the time certainly. And, of course, you know my English is rather precise, proper, as it was intended to be! WHY are you smiling and shaking your head?
 
BR: Never mind, just me being me! It's a great book, JD. Wish we had more time because I'd like to mention "People With Real Lives Don't Need Landscapes," a book of poetry you wrote in 2003. You certainly have a way with words, JD, and
I happen to love poetry. As Amazon puts it, "This big bouncy collection of contemporary poetry draws on both popular and high culture. The poems have energy, imagination, humor, and lively speech rhythms. They are light, weighty, topical, intellectual, gory, sad, wild, and tender all at once."
 
JD: I didn't write that.
 
BR: What?
 
JD: I didn't write that collection of poetry. That was a different John Dolan.
 
BR: Are you sure?
 
JD: What do you mean, "Am I sure"? I'm not likely to forget a thing like that, am I? Sheesh! It's scary how your brain can live in such a small space.

BR: I'm fragile, JD... Well,regardless, I loved your book "Everyone Burns" and can't wait for the sequel. People should really take a long look at you, my friend...
 
JD: 'My friend!' My butt is sore here, BR!

BR: Filbert and Salome are napping right now. I'll untie  you, but, please, no fracas here. Tit for tat, remember? Be gentle. 


NOTE: Please follow John Dolan on twitter - @JohnDolanAuthor

Visit his website/blog ('Galericulate') at: http://johndolanwriter.blogspot.com/search/label/Home (You don't want to miss his posts.)

Also visit his amazon site: http://goo.gl/nElP1 (amazon)


 

A Closet Dark With
Fear
Posted on November 15, 2012
  by  billyraychitwood1

Thought I might try to titillate you with the first two pages of a ‘Prologue.’ Call me shameless because the ‘Prologue’ is from my novel, Mama’s Madness.

This book was taken from some true life events and it was tough to write. It startled me to think that mothers of such quantifiable evil existed and doled it out at regular intervals. There are no ‘spoilers’ here and perhaps you will want to read more. The good news is that these mothers from hell are hopefully outside the reach of those reading this small portion.

From Mama’s Madness by Billy Ray Chitwood:


PROLOGUE

-1985-

“Help me! Please help me!”

It is a piteous whimper, lost in the black void of the narrow closet. The weak and eerie sound of her own voice chills her more fiercely than the cold. The thought brings an aberrant amusement. Her own small voice frightens her!

A sound! A creaking sound. Far off. A footfall! Is it? No. It is not a footfall. It’s just one of the strange noises that comes in the night.

Is it night?

Time is lost. Time is gone from her world like a chunk of youth. The black hole draws her toward an uncertain vortex. She must close her eyes. But, not so tightly. She sees less with her eyes lightly closed. There is better control of her quivering body. With eyes open, the blackness comes alive with trickery.

Some crawling thing moves along her upper arm. That is her perception. She shifts and finds a wooden wall protrusion. A vertical beam. She moves her arm and body in back and forth rushes to accommodate the itch.

Her wrists are painfully numb and raw. The handcuffs seem now natural esxtensions of her hands.

Her shoulders ache in their sockets. They are taut from the pull of arms bound behind her back.

How long? God! It seems an eternity! A small lifetime she has lived in this palpable darkness. Maybe, it has been two days. The air has no texture or stir. It hangs there, stale and dank.

 Her face is flushed with fever. It feels stiff and crusty from the tears running over her abrasive wounds. She squints and contorts. She opens and closes her mouth. There are sharp responses of pain. Her entire body feels leaden and bloated. When she moves there is a burning chaff between her thighs. A complacent soreness pervades. It no longer matters. Nor does the stench from her body’s waste matter.

It is her mind which throttles her. Whisks her off in searing flashes, abates, lingers amid the blackness. A fragile sentry. Both enemy and friend.

It is all happening again! She is next to die. Just like Celia. Was it a year ago? Two? Time, again, is elusive, lost. What does it matter? A year ago or an hour ago! Sarilee knows she is next. Just like Celia…

Mama had beaten Celia, too. Had gotten so mad she shot her. But the bullet didn’t kill Celia. The fire killed Celia. The bullet lodged in Celia’s back and stayed there for two years. Celia healed with the bullet there in her back. Then, Celia had wanted to leave home.

Was that one year ago?

For some unknown fathoming, Sarilee wants to be precise in her remembering. Somehow, it is important to remember this point.

Yes, it was a year ago. They were living in an apartment near the old trailer court where Mama used to live…


 
Okay, that’s just the first two pages of Mama’s Madness. It’s my hope that you’re interested enough to read more. It is a dark tale but there are some moments of recompense and justice.

It’s on amazon.com (Kindle and paperback). It’s on Nook at Barnes and Noble. It’s on amazonUK. It is also on other E-formats.

Guess I write quite a bit about my feelings, about my life and times. Thought I would allow a small portion from one of my books to do the 'talking' in this post... The following is a section from 'The Way Station' (a euphemism for a Care Facility) in my book, "The Cracked Mirror - Reflections From An Appalachian Son." Prentice Paul Hiller is recovering from a complicated hip surgery, meets and bonds with a former Clinical Psychologist, Greta Fogel. Over the weeks of teasing and mental jousting, Greta has encouraged Prentice to write about his life and times, suggesting that it might be not only good therapy for him but that the end product should be a great read...


EXCERPT - from "The Cracked Mirror - Reflections Of An Appalachian Son" by Billy Ray Chitwood:


Having just settled in with my laptop, Greta came into the sun room. Without too much preamble, I moved the laptop to her lap, with the cursor set to start on the last two sections. "See what you think of these two sections," I said with a doubtful expression, "I'm ambivalent. Don't know if I went too overboard."

It took some time for her to read the sections. She paused time and again in very thoughtful poses.

When she was finished, she asked: "You want to talk now or later? Want me to leave you so you can write?"

"No, let's talk! First, Dorie seems really nice," I said.

"She's a really good lady. I'm very impressed. You're going to like her." She sat on the wicker chair near the window. Greta was wearing a lovely lavender sweater and beige pants outfit plus a new hairdo. Her eyes glowed with the combination.

"I already do. We had a chance to visit when she got here. She's a version of you, really!"

"Don't know about that, but I like her and I'm glad you do..." She paused for a second. "Shall we talk about these last two sections?"

"Really! You want to talk about the last two sections? Why do you think I shoved the laptop on your lap? Of course, sweet lady, let's talk about these sections...you read it and acted like you wanted to leave. You don't like the sections, do you?"

"Of course, I like the sections! You know I like your writing. You raised my eyebrows a bit, that's all. You surprised me!" She said with a slight nod and a wry smile.

"Bet I know why!" with a nod and smile of my own. "The 'Vickie' sex snapshot?"

"Well, certainly, that raised my eyebrows! And we won't dwell too long on that bit of memorabilia! However, it might surprise you to know that that kind of experience is not so uncommon, particularly when you consider the environment in which you lived, notwithstanding the criminal implications of Vickie's complicity in the seduction. No, it is not a pretty snapshot, and  it does surprise me somewhat that you would make it part of your 'reflections,' although your penchant for honesty and ridiculing yourself would preclude your leaving it out." She was about to say more when I interrupted.

"It was such a vivid recall, Greta, like the earlier sex encounter with my pre-puberty aunt. It was somehow important for me to put it in, even knowing that is was highlighting depraved behavior..."

"I understand, Prentice. You need not justify it to me. You want the writing to portray the ultimate true picture of who you were then. It couldn't be any other way for you." She paused again, then went on.

"The 'Vickie snapshot' is not necessarily what I meant by 'raising' my eyebrows."

"Of what then do you speak, dear lady?" using my chivalrous tongue.

"I speak of your 'isms' section, EST and 'Tao Te Ching,' and your political views' section to the larger extent. What raised my brows and surprised me a bit was the length to which you've gone to find yourself, your belief system as it relates to your political morality. In other words, you're a man who strives so hard to find integrity in yourself and in others. You fight in your mind the battles of our times, wanting desperately to find a Utopia which you know does not exist. In some ways, you are an incurable romantic, a Don Quixote chasing 'windmills' you think are giants to be slain. You know your sins, Prentice! You know your faults, your errant ways! Your missed opportunities! And you're trying to make up for it all with the pages of your book." She paused, eyed me carefully with a fondness she would not hide. "And, you're doing a damned good job!"

"Whoa, wait a minute! There's something else you want to say. 'A damned good job' doesn't quite say it all, Greta. Come on, I can take it. It might hurt, a lot, but I can take it. I might never speak to you again, but take it, I shall!" She could see the last bit as mock and tease.

"Yes, a damned good job! I say what I mean, Mr. Hiller. And, yes, Mr. Hiller, there is something else to say..." Again, she paused, looked out the window at the lovely blue sky day. "What you put down is well written. You would be aware that some of your reading audience might not share your views. That, I know you know! Incidentally, I'm not one of those 'really smart people' to whom you refer, but I am non-partisan. What you want, I believe most people want. You write about it passionately and sincerely. How could I fault you? The chivalrous battles you fight with your writing are noble, patriotic, and good..." She
paused yet again, then wistfully continued.

"Why, I'm not completely sure, but I'm thinking of those two great volumes of Spanish literature." She waited, pursed her lips in that cute little habitual way she had, and went on. "His neighbors thought him mad for all his dedicated reading of chivalry, but Alonso Quixano gave himself a new name, 'Don Quixote,' put on a suit of old armor and went off on his chivalrous quests with wild imaginings. He was at times beaten, ridiculed, and ultimately unintentionally betrayed by his dull-witted squire and neighbor, Sancho Panza. His quests, his imaginings, ended in a great melancholy. Alonso would put away his armor. The melancholy worsened with his age, and Sancho in the end tried to restore his faith. But Alonso Quixano died a broken man, and, with him, his alter ego, 'Don Quixote.'

"What does 'Don Quixote' have to do with what you're writing? The chivalry part, mostly. Though, at times, you do seem daft and wildly imaginative!" A pause for chuckles. "You write about many differnet things in yur life. You bemoan at times the sad states of your existence, your life style, your 'images' of the good life, your moods, your legacy. And, to repeat myself, you do a damned good job of it. If I have any concern, it comes from my fondness for you. I don't wish you to become 'melancholy and broken,' Prentice.

"Don't try so hard to make up for your life! This writing business, the process, is good for you. Use it for all the right reasons: the legacy thing, the self-ablution, as it were, the process itself. You are who you are. You will try too hard. You will continue to beat yourself. It's too late for the couch, not that you really ever needed it, but, if I could push but one button for you, it would be the button that makes you believe in yourself and makes you have more faith in the God who made you and accept whatever it is He intends for you. You are really a dear, dear man, and I don't wish to see you hurt so much." 

She stopped talking and looked again out the big window, her face creased with a sadness beyond the mere interpretations she had rendered on the sections of my book. That sadness held me for a moment. Then, I decided to revert to my easy tactic of light patter.

"Well, Greta, you've totally blind-sided me! What the hell am I supposed to do with Don Quixote, Sancho Panza, and you?" smiling, with raised eyebrows. "Okay, methinks I get it. You're a sweetheart!" I closed the laptop and got up. "Come on, let's break out of this joint and find a Big Mac, fries, and coke."

Actually, 'Don Quixote' and I likely had a lot more in common than I might be willing to admit. Then, again, there might be more Sancho Panza in me than I might be willing to admit.

"Writing And Me"

Posted November 1, 2012 by Billy Ray Chitwood
 
Most people who write and those who wish to write likely know that the libraries of the world are comfortably stacked with the 'how to' of creative writing. Guess the thing for me is, I've got to do my own struggling, got to find my own way of saying things with these fingers that dance along the laptop keys. The question for me is not so much, how successful can I be financially with my writing? (Don't get me wrong, I would not mind at all cashing a lot of royalty checks!) More important for me at this juncture in my life is finding out about where I've been, all the bad things, all the good things, and getting a better idea of who I really am. My books have plots, such as they are, and they have characters. These plots and these characters serve me and give me a chance to 'muse and fuse,' to maybe discover some things about me I never knew.

Sure, I want my books interesting enough to be read, enjoyed, and to have people talking about them. The most important thing, though, for me, is being true to me, plumbing my depths, finding the music of my soul, and hoping I discover more of me. Ego? Maybe so. But it has got to be me finding out whether or not I'm any good at this business of writing. You know, I'm beginning to think maybe I am. It's not that I'm not willing to learn --- it's just, it better be there within me now, this style thing, this appeal to readers, because I'm not necessarily going to find it in the library.

I'm thinking we do it by 'doing it,' over and over again... if we're any good, we need to trust that little voice inside that says we are.

Everyone has to do her and his own thing. I'm old enough to think I'm just as right as some folks who write about writing and maybe too dumb and inflexible to realize I'm singing a song here with a guitar out of tune.

That's what I'm thinking!