A LITTLE ABOUT G. MITCHELL BAKER
I love to spending time with my children, who make me proud with their efforts to keep up, while achieving great things for their age, in this day-and-age. In the balance, I love the process of writing involved stories with purpose. Writing has become a productive obsession, however, when it comes to time to remove myself from writing, I also enjoy interacting with other writers in writing groups. Or, if I need to explore, find new geography, there is always the Subaru with the Thule car topper and bike rack loaded and ready to head into the Rockies, or to find that special place where The River Runs Through It.
TELL US YOUR LATEST NEWS?
‘LETHAL BELIEVERS: THE INNOCENTS’ I am pleased to share with your readers that my latest novel in paranormal, “Lethal Believers: The Innocents” is on the verge of eBook release by Master Koda Select Publishing. This is intense paranormal effort with elements of mythic horror and the supernatural of the currandera in the contemporary setting. Find this intense paranormal read about mythic horror merging with a purpose for protecting The Innocents then buy it, comment, tell your friends and suggest to your paranormal groups there is a great eBook for your paranormal pleasures. I have included an excerpt below and thank you for your interest.
Master Koda Select Publishing, http://masterkodaselectpublishing.com/
‘THE INVOLVEMENT OF EMERSON’ I am also pleased to announce the release of this book in paperback. This novel is the first in an edgy series of novels about family, relationships, and fatherhood. Available in print on Amazon.com beginning March 8, 2013; Amazon UK and Europe March 8, 2013 this book will also be available in expanded distribution channels to include circulation to academic and retail book buyers. Find this wonderful read about family and friend relationships then buy it, comment, tell your friends and suggest to your local bookstore that there is a great paperback for their contemporary fiction shelves. I have included an excerpt below and thank you for your interest.
‘SOCCER TOMMIES BASEBALL MOMMIES’ Then, and as of this week, I am again pleased to announce terms are agreed with Master Koda Select Publishing to publish this family buddy sport comedy about saving a small town and its community from ruin. This YA novel is scheduled to be forthcoming Fall 2013.
‘SOCCER TOMMIES BASEBALL MOMMIES’ Also of this week, I am so pleased to announce terms were reached with international film producer, who has agreed to option with terms of purchase in the mid to high five figures with share and minimums negotiated and agreed to as well.
WHEN AND WHY DID YOU BEGIN WRITING?
In late 1997 I took sabbatical from the practice of law, set up shop in a small apartment in Seattle and spend 8-16 hours a day writing my first novel. While wearing the letters off the keys to my laptop the first novels in contemporary fiction was followed by the second, a Novellum written in Science Fiction.
I then moved down I-5 to San Diego and learned to write screenplays. I have not stopped writing and after fifteen years of writing, I then considered relationships with those in the entertainment industry who indicated an interest in my work.
WHEN DID YOU FIRST CONSIDER YOURSELF A WRITER?
The first time I considered myself a ‘writer’, was when I first found myself experiencing my work emotionally, the first time my writing delivered to me the emotion leading to tears. The next time I considered myself a ‘writer’ was when the editing staff and I had ‘finished’ with a project, and then I spend the next week with the publisher ‘tightening’ the work and making it special. To experience the emotion, to have someone expend the effort to make your work special is the stuff every writer should strive for and hope to attain.
HOW DID YOU COME UP WITH THE TITLE FOR LETHAL BELIEVERS: THE INNOCENTS?
When I started writing “Lethal Believers: The Innocents” you could not find the term on the Internet. The term Lethal Believers is a relatively new term in popular, Western culture. I first came across the term when researching another project, and came across a Central Intelligence Agency report actually trying to define the concept within the context of Middle East tensions.
What occurred to me at that time was the term did not necessarily apply only to religious zealots within the context of intermittent acts of terrorism. I thought the premise would make for a great story in broader contexts. Now I notice the term “Lethal Believers’ is becoming a term of use, perhaps better known.
The actual title “Lethal Believers: The Innocents” evolved during the editing of the book. The title was changed, when I was about to be interviewed in London. The interviewer indicated she was not going to work with the original title. It turns out the title then, meant one thing in North America, and meant something quite heinous in the United Kingdom. Thankfully, the interviewer offered a lot of feedback and even suggested the book would not sell in the UK unless the book title was changed. Within twenty-four hours of this rather amazing, and timely revelation, the title “Lethal Believers: The Innocents” was created, pitched to the publisher and agreed to in the course of a rather tense series of events leading to publication. “The Lethal Believers: The Innocents” is and remains an enthusiastic choice for publication
IS THERE A MESSAGE IN YOUR NOVEL(S) THAT YOU WANT READERS TO GRASP?
There are many ‘messages’, but a primary missive in LETHAL BELIEVERS: THE INNOCENTS is there are always people serving, sacrificing, doing a lot of work on behalf of the well-being, or for the betterment of the public, and society as a whole. In this story, Malachi Danta-Mercadel is dedicated to protecting ‘The Innocents’. In the LETHAL BELIEVERS series, The Innocents are first the innocent children, then good-natured people and defenseless animals, and then, in the final installment, Danta sets out to protect the addicts, and others who simply cannot defend themselves, perhaps out of fear and phobia.
Whether it is THE INVOLVEMENT OF EMERSON series or THE LETHAL BELIEVERS series, a core theme is protection and healing when faced with the ruin of most incredible of circumstances. Whether it is Emerson, or Danta, or Lamia, or Dana, we are talking about men and women who sacrifice to protect what is meaningful. Perhaps they may be models for modern day warriors.
I also hope a message is there should and must be appreciation for these modern day warriors who are willing to take on, and face-up to issues involving family, relationships, fatherhood and the most difficult of societal ills . I believe we in society need to understand there should always be those preparing to fill in behind the fathers and those warriors who give a damn, and we must acknowledge there are those protectors out there who willing to act on behalf of The Innocents. If the reader is interested in stories about warriors dealing with the successfully sinister elements in modern times, then my work may be of interest, THE INVOLVEMENT OF EMERSON and LETHAL BELIEVERS: THE INNOCENTS are for those who would care, read, and share stories about protection and healing after ruin given the most incredible of circumstances.
HOW MUCH OF THE BOOK IS REALISTIC?
On one level, they are pure contemporary/paranormal fiction. On another, I research my material and I hope there are ‘realistic’ portrayals of fictional characters and supernatural circumstances in the balance when writing to create plausible creative tension between the realm(s) of the ‘realistic’ and the mythic, the supernatural, the paranormal and certainly the preternatural.
ARE EXPERIENCES BASED ON WHO YOU KNOW OR EVENTS IN YOUR OWN LIFE? ALTERNATIVELY, ARE THEY A FIGMENT OF YOUR IMAGINATION?
Oh, I am quite content to suggest that all my work is quite the ‘figment of my imagination.” *grins* “What was the question?” *wink, wink, and a nod*
WHAT BOOK(S) ARE YOU READING NOW?
I just finished reading El Sicario, an autobiography about an assassin working in and for the narco-culture of South America (Molloy, Molly and, Charles Bowden, editors 2011). Before that, I read a book entitled The King of Gypsies by Peter Maas (1975). I found it interesting that the author of Serpico and The Valachi Papers would write a novel about the Gypsy/Rom culture in North America. Other material I may pick-up now and again include, Cassell Dictionary of Superstitions (David Pickering, 1995) or something like 1,000 Places to See Before You Die (Patricia Shultz 2003)
WHAT ARE YOUR CURRENT PROJECTS?
With LETHAL BELIEVERS: THE INNOCENTS now final and scheduled for release from the Master Koda Select Publishing list, I am turning my attention to the young adult novel and screenplay adaptation for SOCCER TOMMIES BASEBALL MOMMIES (with Master Koda). My efforts will be to make these works the best possible, and, in anticipation of further need for editing for continuity and delivery given the interest of both publisher and producers.
With THE INVOLVEMENT OF EMERSON released in paperback in the U.S., UK, and Euro zone, I will turn certain of my intention to THE CONSISTENCY OF EMERSON, the second novel in this series.
IF YOU COULD PICK ANY CELEBRITY TO STAR IN THE MOVIE VERSION OF YOUR BOOK, WHO WOULD IT BE?
The main character in LETHAL BELIEVERS: THE INNOCENTS, Malachi Danta-Mercadel, is a gentle man forced to come out of retirement from INTERPOL and the Secret Service, again, to battle the successfully sinister. I believe would be a stellar privilege for Russell Crowe to bring this character to life.
CAN YOU SHARE A LITTLE OF YOUR CURRENT WORK WITH US? (A SHORT EXCERPT WOULD BE GREAT)
This is from ‘Chapter 1 Hurricane Ruined’ from LETHAL BELIEVERS: THE INNOCENTS, forthcoming from Master Koda Select Publishing, March 2013.
November 2000 is hot as the intense, blinding beam of an oncoming vehicle reveals Lamia, a darkened, illusive figure in smoky silhouette. Lamia looks down at a neatly folded, red poncho, resting on the passenger seat of the speeding sedan still accelerating onto an exit ramp. The brakes light up late, toward the end of the ramp as the car slows, executing a right turn into a cluster of houses under construction. The development is Lamia’s destination as the car slowly approaches, and then stops at a new house. Climbing out, Lamia stands tall to stretch, casually donning the bright poncho, appearing to belong in the neighborhood.
Lamia is confident, striding up the walkway, deliberately drifting onto the fresh sod-grass. Knocking down the “Quality Home by Sapphire Builders” sign, the lawn sprinklers rise to spit and chatter. Lamia, illusive, disappears into the black Arizona night.
It is not long before morning nautical time allows for recognition of once darkened figures like Lamia in the evolving light of day. A pick-up, with the “Sapphire Builders, LLC” door signs pulls to the curb. Climbing down, Collin Sapphire, a southern beach survivor from southern California sweeps the yard with the robust flashlight beam. The muscular man of otherwise average appeal pauses to re-stake the downed lawn sign before walking to the front door. Finding the door locked, he complains, “The key? Where’s the damn key?”
Walking to the back of the house, Sapphire’s sandals slap against the concrete sidewalk and echo in the early morning silence. Sapphire’s figure gets darker the farther away he walks from the street lamps. Relying more on his flashlight, Sapphire looks on as the narrow beam passes Lamia, standing just outside the flashlight’s shifting span.
Sapphire does not see Lamia as he opens the unlocked door. Pausing, Sapphire checks the lock to find nothing wrong. Shrugging at the inconsistencies of both locked and unlocked doors, with no key accounted for Sapphire reaches in to flip the kitchen light. Learning of no power, no lighting, he flicks the switch up and down in frustration. Shining the flashlight across the kitchen area, he enters the tiled rear entryway. Pausing to sniff the pungent air with disdain, Sapphire growls, “What the hell is that smell?”
Straining for eyes to adjust in the confusing, altering light, Sapphire looks close and sees a mop and bucket in a far corner, smoking and smoldering.
“And what the hell is that?”
Stepping onto the tiled kitchen floor, Sapphire looks down to see dark stain on the tile, but it is too late. His right sandal contacts the unstable surface, triggering an intense, searing burst of flame under his planted foot. The flashlight flips from his grasp, crashing to the floor, causing its own burst of green then yellow flame. The beam is now small, intense, and useless as its only direction is tight up against the wall.
Reeling in pain, Sapphire dances, stepping impulsively to re-gain his balance, but the effort leads to more brilliant, violet-green flashes of successive, snapping explosions. White smoke dances, swirling through the room as Sapphire struggles to escape. Falling forward, then backward and onto his side, he cannot escape the intensifying series of blasts and flash-bang, sensory deprivations.
Falling face first, trying to find clean air Sapphire tries to break the fall with his hands, but there is only more of the searing ignition, followed by brilliant flashes blowing from beneath his now burning bare hands. The scream is of agony as Sapphire jumps to his feet, but there is again the brilliant flash and pains manifest everywhere as he again contacts the floor. With the intense, blinding detonations now taking away his oxygen, Sapphire’s sanity in the moment is lost. He scrambles, flailing in an attempt to survive, to reach the kitchen door he recalls, must still be open.
Sapphire jumps up, then lowers his head to bull rush into the yard, a place he can only guess means safety. He makes it to the back doorway, believing his escape is clean, falling out of the house, gasping for clean air, panicking, running, rolling into the cool sodden grasses of the yard. Collapsing, Sapphire tears at his feet, trying to remove the remaining sandal for relief, but cannot grip the footwear without suffering agonizing pain in his feet, his burning hands, and forearms.
More lawn sprinklers rise to spit and chatter, soaking Sapphire with the comfort of cooling water on newly burned skin. Distracting movements close in through the lessening darkness of the emerging daybreak, under cover of the incessant sprinklers.
With a look toward the movement, only his eyes moving, Sapphire listens enough, inventorying the sounds he recognizes through the sprinkler chatter, to determine there are footsteps along the same sidewalk he had walked only moments before.
Lamia strides toward Sapphire, confident, purposefully.
“What did you do?” snarls the pained Sapphire, not yet willing to move, but willing to confront.
Emerging, wielding roughhewn truncheon in each hand held at arm’s length, Lamia approaches most deliberately, at the ready for the deliverance of more battery upon the motionless Sapphire.
“Ever hear of an eye for an eye?” rasps Lamia, there being no sentiment from the oblique silhouette. Lamia raises both truncheons high overhead and into the broken waters falling upon them.
“What?” fears Sapphire, raising his arms as a defensive measure, “What are those things?”
Swinging down hard, the first blow knocks Sapphire’s face to his right, flat into the dewy morning grass.
Sapphire screams, “No!” The intense blow causes a grand mal shake and the uncontrolled quiver of suffering further indicating the beginning of a certain process of death.
“No!” Sapphire whispers, repeating his succinct plea for life as the synthetic rains fall upon him and then not, and then finding him again in regular intervals.
Sapphire rolls slightly, pleading “Please!” Desperately, begging for his remaining life, Sapphire sobs, “I need to live!”
Swinging down hard, the second blow knocks the man’s face left and flat into the cool, wet grass.
“Please…” Sapphire mumbles, rolling onto his face, assuming the only defensive position possible, given the weakness delivered with the original, stunning blows.
Lamia cross-examines, “And when The Innocents begged the same from you, what did you tell them?”
There is only silence, interrupted by the remote moan from Sapphire.
Kneeling, Lamia rolls Sapphire to his back, enough for Sapphire again, to stare into the stars and the falling, fragmented waters. Lamia steps over Sapphire, straddling the stricken, demanding, taunting, “Oh come now. Tell me. When they begged the same from you, what did you tell The Innocents?”
A third blow, this time quicker and more efficient, strikes without waiting for any answer.
“When they pleaded with you through their screams,” Lamia insists, “what did you do tell them?”
“Please,” Sapphire begs, “I just…”
Both Sapphire and Lamia now dripping with the cold waters, unable to squelch Lamias heated, rising passion. “They pleaded for the remainder of their lives.” Lamia does not let up as a fourth blow brings Sapphire’s death nearer. “Their need to live was announced for the entire world to hear, but every scream you suppressed with first your threats, then by exploiting their hope, promising them if only they would not cause trouble.”
Sapphire cries the cry of a predator, now the fallen prey.
“What did you do?” Lamia demands. “What did you say?”
Without an answer from Sapphire, the pace of the striking, and now stomping, accelerates into a flurry of raging energy. There is now the unrelenting, blurring, stamping, and the shearing blows erupting from the roiling, churning arms of Lamia and the extensions that produce the results of a mule flailing, its fore legs in panic, flicking and stamping the air to defend, to cause harm.
Now with the intent to kill undeniable, Lamia strikes, the hooves at the eyes, the teeth, and the hands of Sapphire, destroying the perpetrator, who would not answer to Lamia’s challenge on behalf of The Innocents. Kneeling over the now motionless Sapphire, Lamia rises up and then down to reposition beside the punished, lost soul staring up at the Arizona stars. With eyes staring empty, filling with blood, the synthetic rains fall to begin the washing of gore from Sapphire’s eyes. Breathing hard, Lamia rises to stand over the battered and now silenced target. “That is right,” Lamia lowers the mule forelegs with damp, bloodied hooves to each side. “You did not answer, as I have not been responsive to you.”
This is ‘Chapter 12 Hurricane Ruined’ from THE INVOLVEMENT OF EMERSON, published in Paperback, March 2013.
The rain is light, just enough to render things wet, light enough to endure for a day or two, as long as the wind stays down. Turning back to business, Chilly looks hard at Jon, asking, “Was sup?”
“Not sure,” answers Jon, appearing unsure.
“Hmmm,” Chilly nods, concluding, “For a guy like you, ‘not sure’ means you got fired or something.”
“Frankly,” Jon stares hard at Chilly. “I was ruined.”
“Ah,” says Chilly, grinning, rubbing his hands, “Here comes more of his story.” Chilly shifts, like settling into his chair to watch a football game long anticipated. “Now tell me, what you mean by ‘ruined’?”
“Rendered extinct from the all American dream,” Jon sighs, “Run off from a wonderful family.”
“Whoa,” Chilly hollers, raising his hands. “Let’s hear a halleluiah and call for the big time out!” Chilly waves his arms high and everywhere, “Hold on right there, because I just want to hear one ‘American dream gone bad’ and ‘it’s not your fault story’ at a time.”
“Okay,” Jon plays along, rather enjoying Chilly’s antics in the balance, “How about how I quit working for one of the richest men in the world?”
“You ‘quit’,” Chilly teases, “Why you ‘quit’?” he asks, obviously anxious to hear more.
“Well,” Jon’s face reveals the pain of drawing into the mock torture given his forced recollection, “One Wednesday morning I picked-up the Seattle Union Tribune off my porch, and my wife, a rather destructive thing of a particularly hostile vintage, locks the door behind me.
“And you got no key stuff in your underwear,” Chilly laughs.
“And she calls the police,” Jon continues, “Next thing I know there was a response to a domestic altercation at my own home, an altercation that never happened.”
“Had you taken a piss yet,” Chilly asks, appearing genuinely curious, grinning.
Jon answers, “No.”
“Then there was no,” Chilly pauses, “What you call it — ‘domestic altercation’ or something cause you would have pissed before you went outside and–”
“Right,” Jon agrees, nodding stupid.
“She was playing the old, but effective, lock ‘em and cop ‘em routine,” Chilly quips, his interest growing. “The civilian version–”
“’civilian version’,” Jon repeats, asking curious.
“We used to call it, ‘Family Frag’ on base,” says Chilly, “Always saw that shit on base … calling the MPs an all. Is her daddy military?”
“Family Frag,” Jon repeats, nodding in agreement, “Yes he was, and no I never heard of it before.”
“You never lived on base much did you?”
“Well no,” answers Jon. “Anyway, enough was enough.”
“The wise woman builds her house,” Chilly recites from the thin and rarified air of a self-proclaimed pastor in vicarage, “But the foolish woman pulls it down with her hands.”
“Where you get that from,” Jon asks with all sincerity.
“I learned it from the ‘Book of Proverbs, Chapter 14, and Verse 1.’”
“But I never see you with a bible,” Jon’s query is out of a genuine curiosity, but Chilly ignores the question.
“So here you are,” Chilly yawns, “’ruined’ huh?”
“What?” the filthy asphalt at Jon’s feet has his full attention, “You don’t believe me?”
Waiting until Jon looks up again, Chilly locks on Jon with a hard gaze, a hard, penetrating stare. “Believe what exactly?” Chilly stalls the conversation.
“You ever think what happens to people who work for the wealthiest, the most powerful people and end up with nothing?” Jon asks.
“Oh yeah man,” Chilly snorts. “I am meditating about the rich and beautiful set all the time.”
“What do you think happens when you screw-up in a world like that?” Jon pushes, hardened by his own recollection of the experience, “Or, get screwed in a world like that?”
“I don’t know,” says Chilly, balking, “Maybe if I knew who is asking, I could–”
“It is like this,” Jon interrupts, with a series of nervous coughs, unexpectedly seizing him in mid-sentence. “Consider that the Universe I speak of is generally indifferent to the destruction of trees, property, people, even planets.”
“Sounds impressive,” comments Chilly, rolling his eyes, sarcastic, “freaking impressive.”
“Now wait a minute,” Jon begins to argue, as Chilly pauses, unsure, thinking his own thoughts.
“You mean like a hurricane not giving hooey about anything it runs through,” Chilly asks.
“Okay,” Jon smiles, enjoying both the interruption and the metaphor, “That’s right.”
“My daddy used to say all the time: “Here comes a good old ‘who gives-a-shit hurricane’,” Chilly seems proud of the recollection at first, and then goes awkwardly silent.
“What is wrong Chilly,” Jon asks, not sure, what just happened.
“Son-of-Bitch never moved a muscle for one of them hurricanes running up to him,” Chilly laments.
“How is he doing anyway?”
“Andrew got him,” Chilly recounts, “I survive two combat tours, the leading edge on Force Recon and the old man gets wacked facing off with a stinking Category 4.”
“What got him,” Jon asks politely, appropriately reserving his full curiosity for the complete story.
“A frigging baseball,” Chilly looks skyward, most serious.
“A baseball,” Jon parrots, “Which team he play for anyway?”
“Nope,” Chilly gives me his best ‘dumb shit’ look, “He didn’t play for anyone. It was the hurricane played him.”
“’hurricane’,” Jon repeats, “A baseball got him in a hurricane?”
“The fastball to the head was actually his autographed ball from Hammer’n Hank Aaron.”
“And, you know it was that baseball because–?” Jon pauses, still not believing much of the tale.
“Listen man,” Chilly turns to Jon, impatient, “When a hurricane hurls a fastball at your head it is not like any old Baker Bean Ball,” Chilly pauses, preparing to explain more. “That sucker had to be moving a hundred-twenty plus. The stitching and the ‘Ha–’ from the ‘Hammerin’ Hank Aaron’ autograph were tattooed into his left temple.”
“Whoa,” Jon backs off real quick, more the believer. “Sorry man, I–”
“Never mind,” Chilly does not skip a beat, “They called that tattooing thin ‘Stitch Burn’. The threads hit on him so hard it left those ‘V’ marks on branded into him.
“’Stitch Burn’”, Jon repeat, incredulous, “Left those chevron patterns on his head?”
“He was a righty and took it in the left temple,” Chilly pauses, “Makes sense I guess. I always wondered whether the ‘Ha–’ was for the “Hammer’n’” or the ‘Hank’ part of the autograph. Buried the ball with him,” Chilly mumbles, drifting off–
“I do not want any heavy discussion about any of this,” Chilly sets the boundary, firm.
“Listening carefully, Jon thinks it wise to respect Chilly’s signal, “I am all okay with that–” Jon cuts off his comment in mid-thought, leaving everything on the table left to ride.
“So what does it mean?” asks Chilly, immediately, inconsistently disregarding his own boundaries.
“I guess it is people being able to care,” offers Jon, “Maybe not to care about what happens in their universe.”
“What?” Chilly answers with a question, perturbed.
“What do you mean, ‘What’?” Jon’s voice is thin, impatient.
“Is this about learning what one thinks is his own ‘universe’,” Chilly argues.
“And how you either think I’m part of your universe or you do not,” Jon suggests, hesitating.
“Not really, “Chilly replies, confusing Jon. “Listen, I allowed a lot of people to get close to me in my universe and they screwed with it,” Chilly’s answer is slow, most deliberate.
“Sounds familiar,” Jon’s affirmation becomes kind of a common ground between the men conversing.
“Do not think I am some kind of universe for others,” Chilly smiles, until his expression gets a little awkward, given the abstraction just described.
“Sure,” Jon’s answer is lost in the blast of a blaring boat horn. “Besides, Jon has no idea what Chilly means by ‘universe for others’.”
“Horn took you out,” Chilly snorts, “Happens all the time.”
“Do you have any idea how strong the universe is I live in,” Chilly asks, then shrugs confident, nonchalant.
“I know what billions can do,” Jon offers, believing the reply to be a strong one.
“No,” Chilly has his own thought to convey. “I know people sometimes get beat-up in hurricanes, but I’m talking when people, not money are worth stuff to others.”
“Of course,” Jon’s answer is only to keep Chilly talking, thinking.
“What good are billions,” Chilly implores, “if the final decision is to leave one’s home?”
It is Jon’s turn to shrug, nonchalant.
“He did not want to leave his things,” Chilly explains, “His autographed baseball stayed with him.”
Jon is thinking of an answer, when Chilly fills in the conversation ahead of him.
“But hey,” Chilly says, matter of fact, “Sometimes when billions aren’t worth nothing they rebuild after the ruin anyway.”
Jon’s proffer is pessimistic, “Even when no one can afford to rebuild?”
“Some can. Some can’t, some will and some won’t,” Chilly philosophizes, “Who cares right?”
Bug Dog snorts at what sounded like the old AMWAY sales slogan. Shaking his huge head, Bug Dog curls away into a half-turn.
“Yeah,” Chilly looks down at Bug Dog, “Like you would do something better for this world.”
Bug Dog looks up at Chilly, glaring, defiant, then sleepy again.
Drifting into his own thoughts, not really hearing Chilly say much of anything more, Jon eventually hears himself, “She filed for divorce within a week of my leaving–”
“And that my friend is your hurricane,” Chilly preaches confident.
“Only difference is you moved your ass out of the way of that hurricane to survive the storm.”
Jon is not reassured, nor emboldened by the fact he ran from the impending storm. Sensing Jon’s dilemma, Chilly offers, “It will pass,” Chilly’s voice rises, “And you will gain control of your life again.”
Jon has nothing to say.
“Listen,” Chilly continues his outreach, “There is nothing noble or righteous in what my father did,” Chilly wants to straighten Jon out, “Truthfully–” Chilly continues to admit, while Jon sees as much is hard for Chilly, “The guy was just plain lazy is all.”
Jon sits quiet, listening carefully.
“Son-of-a-bitch could have just put the damn ball in his pocket, could have got the hell out of the way, instead, he just sat in his chair.”
Jon says nothing, having nothing at all to add, given the wisdom from hindsight already spoken.
“So you going to rebuild,” Chilly asks, “Start over or what?”
Jon still has nothing to add, thinking hard about the chevron, baseball stitching with the letters “’Ha–’ tattooed to Chillys dad’s deadening, numbing skull.
“Okay,” Chilly says, concentrating hard despite the drunk, foolish look on his face, “So your destroyer wife won’t let you get on with your life?” Chilly at once appears to demand the right answers, struggling to say anything to provide an appearance of competency. “I don’t believe you because every hurricane moves on and gets tired.”
“No,” Jon’s response is terse. “You were right that is what hurricane’s do, but the Mary’s of this world turn families into savage excuses for fragging on one another over and over without end.”
“Then what is the use of getting out of the way of the storm?” demands Chilly, pleading as Jon contemplates Chilly’s apparent role as the reckless pastor in vicarage.
Silent, mostly embarrassed at the implication he was letting others control his life, Chilly reads Jon’s frustration from his face. “Man, you are more hurricane-ruined than anybody I know,” Chilly summarizes. “Hell, at least my old man was standing for something when he took that hurricane fastball. It may have been stupid to some, but at least he was standing in the batter’s box waiting for that pitch.”
“Won’t matter how hard I work,” Jon’s sigh is that of resignation. “I won’t get back what I had.”
“More like you have not decided to put your life back together after the hurricane,” Chilly concludes.
The conversation has not been what Jon expected this evening. Too troubled to attempt sleep, Jon eventually claims a couple of hours of wracked slumber. Recalling nothing after his eyes fix on a street light burning consistently bright at the end of the alley, Jon soon dreams about being blown from his office desk, newspaper in hand, trying desperately to stay in front of a baseball chasing him around his office. Like some broom chase scene out of a witch movie, it all was so fast, so mind numbing that relief eventually comes only in Jon hearing a Dinosaur in the distance, and then there is the heavy breathing first of Bug Dog, then that of Chilly Belly.
“What the hell am I doing here,” Jon ponders in his private panic, closing his eyes tight, crying for the first time, since walking onto the unknowing murk of the Seattle streets. “You are learning,” an unexpected voice drifts through the fog created in Jon’s mind. “Buddy,” says Chilly, offering in the most compassionate tones. “You are learning life and more.”
All Jon musters is a saddened mumbling.
“Jon,” Chilly offers again, knowing Jon needs some talking through the tears. “If you are indeed crying, you need to know you are far from hurricane ruined if that’s what you decide.”
Jon looks up, his expression conveying the message of doubt.
“It is time to get things moving in a positive direction again,” Chilly urges through his waking slumber. Jon notes, and appreciates the forward thinking, positive life philosophy Chilly is disclosing, wondering how a person who thinks like he does, ends up on the Seattle streets. Exercising his Miranda privilege to remain silent, not really wanting to put out his own statement, his own life philosophy for the matter, Jon wonders how others are going to draw down on their own conclusions about how really ruined is, ‘Hurricane Ruined’.
WHO DESIGNED THE COVER(S)?
I worked closely with Rebbekah White, of Master Koda Select Publishing to create the cover for LETHAL BELIEVERS: THE INNOCENTS. I would like to thank Rebbekah for creating not only a great looking cover, but a cover chock full of hints, foretelling and confirmation for the reader who is interested in that sort of thing. For many readers, they may read the book, and along the way refer and re-refer to the cover and find themselves enjoying the cover, and the story more than first believed — the stuff of paranormal mystery.
DO YOU HAVE ANY ADVICE FOR OTHER WRITERS?
I participate in writer’s groups, for the specific purpose of sharing from my experience, but I always learn from others in the balance as well. My advice here, and to other writers is to not forget to leave the writer’s cave (or in my case the tired barn) once and a while and work on and enjoy relationships in the writing/entertainment communities If bent on publishing or having your work considered for production, understand the story one writes is only the starting point. The remainder of the experience is working, collaborating with others to accomplish great things. There is indeed the solitude of writing, but that solitude must give way (at least a little), when you decide your work is worthy of consideration in the ‘public’ domain.
DO YOU HAVE ANYTHING SPECIFIC THAT YOU WANT TO SAY TO YOUR READERS?
I think it is so important for readers of my material to know and understand how much effort others, like Master Koda Select Publishing bring to a project like LETHAL BELIEVERS: THE INNOCENTS. I think it is important for readers to have confidence not only in the story, but to understand how important it is for an author to have confidence in those he works with long after the writing of the story. I am fortunate to be in great working relationships and want my readers to know there are many people delivering wonderful efforts long before they lay eyes on any given work produced for their enjoyment.
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G. Mitchell Baker@G_MitchellBaker
‘Lethal Believers: The Innocents’
‘The Involvement of Emerson’
‘Lethal Believers: The Innocents’
Forthcoming from http://masterkodaselectpublishing.com/
‘The Involvement of Emerson’