This past week has been a productive week. The second dreamers World’s book is done, just needs editing. While digging around I found that I had actually written two more Dreamer’s Worlds books. I found them while going through the Composition Notebooks I used to write my books in. I was getting The Fold, the next Earth’s Survivors Settlement Earth book ready, finding the notebooks of the original story, and I found a yellow 10 x 14 legal envelope, sealed, with Dreamer’s Worlds written across it. As soon as I opened it and began to read it I remembered writing it, the fight for the City of The Dead.
I had been convinced last year that those other two books existed but I could not find them. Well, now I have. And I found The Fold, and I would have started on that too, except I began a book about my life instead. And the Sci Fi Fans say, boring. Yes, I know, but it has been something I have been pounding away on for a long time and I really only took the time to bring the pieces together and do a rough outline and began to fill that outline in. I did write about 30k of new material that relates to different time periods that helped to clarify or pull together some of the other work. About 150 k written, now I can easily work on it in between projects. Translate that as, Yes, I will start The Fold this week coming.
The Links for the New SE books were listed in yesterdays post, or the one before. Remember, these are fan books. Fan requested books. The volumes put together to save money on the price of separate versions. I also added in depth character biographies, artwork, little factoids of information about the characters you can’t get elsewhere. This project was started last year, and I apologize it took so long, but they are done and available through Amazon.
LMN: This is a movie network that my mother loves. I come out into the living room at 8:00 PM every night while on my way for my night shift work (Translate that as more writing) and she will have that movie network on. I don’t know if you have ever watched this network but all the movies are the same, and I swear all of the actors and actresses are the same too sometimes. It’s like they say, “Okay, we’ll give you three hundred bucks and lunch money for a twelve movie deal.”
The Actor: “Um, what do I have to do?”
Producer: ”Well, you are a guy, so basically you’ll be a scumbag/serial killer/crazy bastard who kills/cripples/murders/harasses his ex wife/grandmother/dog/hamster/parakeet.”
The Actor: “Oh… well I was hoping for a better part than that.”
Producer: “Well, if you were a woman I could offer you the female part. She gets killed/crippled/murdered/harassed…”
The Actor: “Yeah, got that part… Nothing else?”
Producer: “I got a bit part for a pizza delivery guy that drives by when the crime is happening and does nothing to help. But that part is only in four films. The part I’m offering you is a twelve film deal.” …
You get the idea. Every night, same thing. In fact, I often keep track of the movie as I come back and forth over the weeks so I will know what part they are at. The other night I stopped and watched for a few seconds…
“Oh,” I said to mom. “That’s the part where the Sheriff/Best friend/Daughter/Aunt from Texas figures it out and calls the FBI/CIA/Murder She Wrote woman in.”
“Nope,” Mom said.
I stopped. I was shocked. “Huh?”
“Nope… See… There is this ex husband of hers who has a girlfriend that moved to West Virginia that goes to college there, under an assumed name, on account of she doesn’t want him to find her because he tried to kill her by drowning her in the bathtub once…”
“That bastard,” I said.
“Um hmm,” Mom agreed. “So she figures it out.”
“Ahh,” I said. “Who does she call?”
“Well, that’s the problem, see. She can’t find her cell phone. She doesn’t know that the guy at the gas station who is friends with hr ex-husband stole it while she was getting her shock-absorbers replaced.”
“Son-of-a-bitch,” I muttered.
“Yep. But, she found this walkie talkie radio that this girl scout dropped on the way home from the cookie drive, so I think she’s gonna call someone on that.”
“Huh,” I said as I eased myself down into my chair. “Who will she call, I wonder?”
“Oh, for sure the FBI…” Mom looked at me… “The FBI monitor them radios on account of them Girls Scouts was running a drug ring at the local high school. Baking that Wacky Tobacco right into them cookies.”
“Wow.” I didn’t know what else to say. “Wacky?”
“Tobacco… That’s pot, reefer, cannabis. You ain’t too bright sometimes,” Mom told me.
I nodded, sunk lower in my chair and watched the movie…
I don’t really have any pet peeves this week, except if anyone has god’s phone number I would like to talk to him about this snow that never seems to stop. I will leave you with a free short story and wish you a great week upcoming!
Created by Wendell Sweet
Wendell Sweet and independAntwriters Publishing
Copyright © 2010 – 2013 by Wendell Sweet & independAntwriters Publishing All rights reserved
Series Writer: Wendell Sweet
Art work © Wendell Sweet 2012 – 2014
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your bookseller and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places or incidents depicted are products of the authors imagination. Any resemblance to actual living persons places, situations or events is purely coincidental.
This novel is Copyright © 2010 – 2013 Wendell Sweet & independAntwriters Publishing. No part of this book may be reproduced by any means, electronic, print, scanner or any other means and, or distributed without the authors permission.
This blog preview is for your own personal use. If you would like to share this entry with others please point them to this blog link.
Permission is granted to use short sections of text in reviews or critiques in standard or electronic print…
Foreword (From 2012 the first book):
It is deep winter as I write this and ready this book for publication. When I began the first book in this series I lost my Uncle to Cancer, a man who meant a great deal to me. As I completed the Fourth book a year later and sent it off for editing, I lost my Aunt to Cancer as well. Then I lost a friend, and another, and I began to wonder if life would just continue to take for awhile. It didn’t, it stopped, but it made me know it was there waiting. And not just for me.
I think it’s good that life gives us those little wake ups on occasion. Those little reminders that we better get our asses in gear because the time really is passing, and all of those things we said we wanted to do are not done yet. So I got my priorities straighter still.
For the last month it has been all about writing for me, because writing is what I have wanted to do for as long as I could remember. And, I had all of this material just laying around and it wasn’t going anywhere. So, I finished Billy Jingo, a novel that I really like. I finished another OutRunner book and I have begun work on the second Dreamer’s Worlds book, another book I really like. More is planned. It put me back in my comfort zone, writing, instead of outside of that place where I have been for many months while taking care of things in the world that required my attention.
Sometimes you have to do that, and I did, but you also have to recognize when that time is gone, finished, and pick yourself up and get back to the stuff that keeps you sane. This is it for me.
SE 1 is the first two Earth’s Survivors books combined. It is also a character bibliography, pictures of the characters, trivia and a few other bonus items. It is also cheaper to purchase this book that it is to buy the two books separately.
A fan asked for this and that is why I did it early last year. The trouble was editing. I had a different editor at that time and so the SE version wound up being different than the other two. Not dramatically, but enough so that it bugged me. So it sat for awhile. I picked it up shortly after the fourth Earth’s Survivors book was released and decided that since I am doing it I may as well do an SE 2 book that consists of books Three and Four at the same time. It only made sense.
So, here you go. It is early winter now, and you should have this by late winter. Enjoy. And, whatever it is that keeps you sane, gives you a reason to get up every day and not kick the dog, or cat, or leave your wife, husband, home. Feed it. I do it by writing, maybe you do it by reading, and maybe this can take you away for a little while…
~ March 1st~
The traffic leaving the parking lot had slowed to a trickle, the lot nearly empty. The live shows were over, the bands packed up and gone, the dancers gone before or at the same time. The club was empty except Jimmy, the club boss, Don, the main door security, and me.
“Why are you still here, Candy,” Jimmy asked as he came up to the bar. He was on his way back from the parking lot. It was a short trip across the parking lot to the bank night deposit on the lot next door.
“I had an idea that Harry would be by tonight. He wanted to talk to me,” I shrugged. Harry was a Bookie, at least on the surface. Off the surface, or maybe it would be truer to say under the surface, Harry controlled most of the organized crime north of Syracuse. Jimmy… Jimmy managed the club, among other things, but the best description for Jimmy was to say Jimmy solved problems for Harry.
“Wants to talk you into staying here. That’s about all,” Jimmy said.
I turned away and pretended to check my face in the mirrored wall behind the bar. I wanted to Dance. I had suggested to Harry, through Jimmy, that maybe it was time for me to move on if there wasn’t any hope of me dancing. “Anyway, I ended up tending bar. So…”
“So it’s not dancing.” He dug one hand into his pocket and pulled out a thick wad of bills. He peeled two hundreds from the roll and pushed them into my hand, folding his hand over my own and closing it when I started to protest.
“But,” I started.
“But nothing. We did a lot in bar sales. You and I both know it was because of you.” He smiled, let go of my hand and stepped back. “It was me, not Harry,” he said.
I fixed my eyes on him. I knew what he might be about to say, but I wanted to be sure.
He sighed. “It was me that put the stop to your dancing. You’re too goddamn good for dancing, Candy. And once you start?” He barked a short, derisive laugh. “The law thing? Right out the window. What’s a cop make anyway in this town? Maybe thirty or forty a year?” He settled onto one of the stools that lined the bar, tossed his hat onto the bar top and patted the stool next to him. He continued talking.
“So, thirty, maybe forty, and what’s a dancer make? I can tell you there are dancers here who make better than one fifty a year. And that’s what I pay them. That’s not the side stuff or tips.” He moved one large hand, fished around behind the bar and came up with a bottle of chilled Vodka from the rack that held it just below eye level. He squinted at the label. “Cherry Surprise,” he questioned in a voice low enough to maybe be just for himself. “This shit any good, Candy?”
“It’s not bad,” I told him. I leaned over the bar and snagged two clean glasses when he asked me, setting them on the bar top. He poured us both about three shots worth. “Jesus, Jimmy.”
He laughed. “Which is why I don’t make drinks. It’d break me.” He sipped at his glass, made a face, but sipped again. I took a small sip of my own drink and settled back onto the bar stool.
“So, I said to myself, smart, beautiful, talented, and you have that something about you that makes men look the second time. You know?” He took another small sip. “Man sees a woman walking down the street or across a crowded dance floor, beautiful or not he looks. That look might be short or it might be long. Depends on the woman. Then he looks away. Does he look back? Not usually. But with you he does. There are women men look at that second time for whatever reason, and you’re one of them. I looked a second time, and then I really looked, for a third time. And I’ve seen a lot. That tattoo makes men and women look again.” His eyes fell on the tattoo that started on the back of my left hand, ran up my arm, across my breasts and then snaked back down over my belly and beyond. I knew it was provocative. That was the rebellious part of me. I had no better explanation for why I had sat, lain, through five months of weekly ink work to get it done.
Jimmy rubbed one huge open palm across the stubble of his cheeks. “Jesus do I need a shave.” He took a large drink from his glass. “It wasn’t the tattoo. It caught my eye, but that wasn’t what made me look that third time.”
“Candy, I took a third look because I saw a young woman that doesn’t need to have anything to do with this world. You’re too goddamn smart, talented, for this. So I said no. I let you dance a few times, but I didn’t want you to fall into it. I made the decision that you should tend bar instead of dance.” He tossed off the glass.
“I see that,” I told him. Although I didn’t completely see it. He was reading a lot about what he thought, what he saw, into who I really was.
“Yeah? I don’t think so, Candy. And that’s a reason right there. Candy… like a treat. When did it become okay for anyone to call you that? Because I remember a few months back when you started hanging around. It was Candace, and pity the dumb bastard who didn’t understand that. Now it’s Candy to any Tom, Dick or Harry that comes along.” He saw the hurt look in my eyes, reached below the bar, snagged the bottle and topped off his glass. I shook my head, covered the top of my glass with my hand and smiled. He put the bottle back and continued.
“I’m not trying to hurt you, only keep you on track. I’m giving you the keys. You drive. All I’m saying is set your ground rules. Make them rigid. Don’t let anyone – me, Harry, these boys that work here, customers – Don’t let anyone cross those lines. You see, Candy?”
“Yeah? Then why not call me on calling you Candy? I’ve done it since we sat down. Why not start there?”
“Well… I mean, you’re the boss, Jimmy.”
“Which is why you start there. I don’t allow anyone to talk anyway to anyone that doesn’t want that. Let me explain that. You got girls that work the streets. You don’t see it so much here. It’s a small city, but it happens. I spent a few years on the streets in Rochester, bigger place, as a kid. Happens all the time there.” He sipped at his drink. I took a sip of my own drink and raised my brows at what he had said.
“Yeah? Don’t believe it? It’s true. I fought my way up. I have respect because I earned it.” He waved one hand. “Don’t let me get off track.” He smiled and took another sip from his glass. “So, I’ve seen girls on the streets… Whores… It is what it is. Would you hear me say that to them? Maybe you would, maybe you wouldn’t. If a woman sees herself as a whore, if that’s all it is, what it is, then who am I to say different? Do you see? It’s a living, or it’s a life… There is a difference. Now back to you. You want to dance. Some of these girls,” he waved one meaty hand at the empty stage area, “work the other side. Some of them do that for me, some do it on their own. Some don’t,” he sighed. “Either way you would not see me treat them any other way than what they want to be treated. I mean that. If you believe you are a whore and that is what you see, then that is what you show the world, and that is how the world sees you… treats you,” he settled his eyes on me.
I nodded. I didn’t trust my voice. I had been down this road on my own. What did it say about me? That it only mattered that I made it? That money mattered more than anything else? Would I be swayed by the money? Was I even being honest with myself about my motivations? I really didn’t know. I knew what I told myself on a daily basis… that I wanted to follow my Father into law enforcement, but was it whimsical like so many other things in my life that I never followed through on?
“You are not just a dancer. There is a part of you that is, a part of you that likes the way a man looks at you, likes the money. But there is another part that is the private you, the real you. You need to keep those distinctions.” He rubbed at his eyes, tossed off the rest of his drink and rose from the bar stool. “Let me drop you home, Candy,” he asked.
I stood, leaving my mostly full drink sitting on the bar top. “I have my car,” I told him.
“It’s late. Creeps around maybe.”
“Jimmy, every creep in my neighborhood knows I work here… for you. Guys stopped talking to me, let alone the creeps.” I laughed, but it wasn’t really all that funny. It had scared me when I realized who Jimmy was, who Jimmy worked for. In effect, who I worked for. Another questionable thing? Probably.
Jimmy nodded. “Smart creeps. The southern Tier’s a big place. Easy to lose yourself, with or without a little help.” He looked at his watch and then fixed his eyes on me once more. “So you keep your perspective, set your limits, draw your lines,” he spoke as he shrugged into his coat, retrieved his hat from the bar top and planted it on his head, “Don’t let nobody cross those lines. You start next week, let’s say the eleventh?”
“Take the balance of the time off. By the time the eleventh comes around you should be ready for a whole new world. A whole new life.” He stood looking down at me for a second. “The big talk I guess. For what it’s worth, I don’t say those things often, Candy.”
I nodded. “I believe that. And, Jimmy?”
He looked down at me. He knew what was coming. He expected it, and that was the only reason I was going to say it. I knew better than to correct Jimmy V. There were a lot of woods up here. They did go on forever and they probably did hold a lot of lost people. I may be slow but I’m far from stupid.
“Please don’t call me Candy,” I told him.
He smiled. “Don’t be so goddamn nice about it. Don’t call me Candy,” he rasped, a dangerous edge to his voice. “Look ’em right in the eye. Don’t call me Candy. Put a little attitude in your look. A little I can fuckin’ snap at any minute attitude. Let me see that.”
I Put my best street face on. The one I had used growing up on the streets in Syracuse. I knew that I can snap at any minute look. I’d used it many times. “Don’t call me Candy,” I told him in a voice that was not my own. My street voice, “Just don’t do it.”
“Goddamn right, Doll,” Jimmy told me. “Goddamn right. Scared me a little there. That’s that street wise part of you.” He took my head in both massive hands, bent and kissed the top of my head. “I will see you on the eleventh,” he told me.
I nodded. I let the Doll remark go.
I followed Jimmy out the back door past Don who nodded at me and winked. Don was an asshole. Always hitting on us when Jimmy wasn’t around. But Jimmy was his uncle. I was employing my best selective perception when I smiled at him. I wondered if I would ever get used to him. Probably not, I decided, but maybe that would be a good thing. Of course, it didn’t matter. I never saw Don again. Or Jimmy. Or anyone else from that life.
I said goodbye to Jimmy V., crossed the parking lot for the last
time and drove myself home. I parked my rusted out Toyota behind my Grandparents house, and twenty four hours later my world, everybody’s world, was completely changed.
Candace ~ March 2nd
This is not a diary. I have never kept a diary. They say never say never, but I doubt I will. I have never been this scared. The whole world is messed up. Is it ending? I don’t know, but it seems like it’s ending here. Earthquakes, explosions. I’ve seen no Police, Fire or emergency people all day. It’s nearly night. I think that’s a bad sign. I have the Nine Millimeter that used to be my Father’s. I’ve got extra ammo too. I’m staying inside.
Candace ~ March 3rd
I lost this yesterday; my little notebook. I left it by the window so I could see to write, but I swear it wasn’t there when I went to get it; then I found it again later on by the window right where I left it. Maybe I’m losing it.
There are no Police, no Firemen, phones, electric. The real world is falling apart. Two days and nothing that I thought I knew is still here. Do you see? The whole world has changed.
I got my guitar out and played it today. I played for almost three hours. I played my stuff. I played some blues. Usually blues will bring me out of blues, but it didn’t work. It sounded so loud, so out of place, so… I don’t know. I just stopped and put it away.
Candace ~ March 4th
I’m going out. I have to see. If I don’t come back. Well… What good is writing this?
Candace ~ March 5th
The whole city has fallen apart. I spent most of yesterday trying to see how bad this is. I finally realized it’s bad beyond my being able to fix it. It’s bad as in there is no authority. It’s bad as in there is no Jimmy V. I hear gunshots at night, all night. And screams. There are still tremors. If I had to guess, I would say it’s the end of the civilized world. Unless things are better somewhere else. I have to believe that. Power, structure, it’s all gone. I mean it’s really all gone. This city is torn up. There are huge areas that are ruined. Gulleys, ravines, missing streets, damaged bridges. The damage costs have to be in the billions… And that’s just here. There’s me and my little notebook I’m writing in, and my nine millimeter. I’ve got nothing else for company right now.
I’ve got water, some peanuts and crackers. How long can this go on? What then?
Candace ~ March 6th
I’ve decided to leave. I can’t stay here. There was a tremor last night, and not one of the really bad ones, but even so I was sure the house would come down on me. It didn’t. Maybe though, that is a sign, I told myself. And scared or not, I have to go. I have to. I can’t stay here. Maybe tomorrow.
Candace ~ March 7th
The streets are a mess. I’ve spent too much of the last week hiding inside my apartment. Most of my friends, and that’s a joke, I didn’t have anyone I could actually call a friend; So I guess I would say most of my acquaintances believed my grandparents were alive and that I lived here with them. They weren’t. I didn’t. I kind of let that belief grow, fostered it, I guess.
I planted the seed by saying it was my Nana Pans’ apartment. You can see the Asian in me, so it made sense to them that she was my Nana. But I look more like I’m a Native American than African American and Japanese. It’s just the way the blood mixed, as my father used to say. But Native American or Asian, they could see it in my face. And this neighborhood is predominantly Asian. Mostly older people. There were two older Asian women that lived in the building. They probably believed one of those women was my Nana, and I didn’t correct them.
I can’t tell you why I did that. I guess I wanted that separation. I didn’t want them, anyone, to get to know me well. My plan had been to dance, earn enough money for school – Criminal Justice – and go back to Syracuse. Pretend none of this part of my life had ever happened. Some plan. It seemed workable. I wondered over what Jimmy V. had said to me. Did he see something in me that I didn’t, or was he just generalizing? It doesn’t matter now I suppose.
My Grandmother passed away two years ago. The apartment she had lived in was just a part of the building that she owned. Nana Pan, my mother’s mother, had rented the rest of the building out. The man who had lived with her was not my Grandfather – he had died before I was born – but her brother who had come ten years before from Japan. They spoke little English. People outside of the neighborhood often thought they were man and wife. She didn’t bother correcting them, my mother had told me. Nana Pan thought that most Americans were superficial and really didn’t care, so what was the use in explaining anything to them? Maybe that’s where I got my deceptiveness from.
I had left the house as it was. Collected rents through an agency. For all anyone knew, I was just another tenant. Of course Jimmy V. had known. He had mentioned it to me. But Jimmy knew everything there was to know about everyone. That was part of his business. It probably kept him alive.
So I stayed and waited. I believed someone would show up and tell me what to do. But no one did. I saw a few people wander by yesterday, probably looking for other people, but I stayed inside. I don’t know why, what all my reasons were. A lot of fear, I think.
There have been earthquakes. The house is damaged. I went outside today and really looked at it. It is off the foundation and leaning. I should have gotten out of it the other night when I knew it was bad. It’s just dumb luck it hasn’t fallen in on me and killed me.
It doesn’t matter now though. I met a few others today, and I’m leaving with them. I don’t know if I’ll stay with them. I really don’t know what to expect from life anymore.
I’m taking this and my gun with me. Writing this made me feel alive. I don’t know how better to say it.
I’ll write more here I think. I just don’t know when, or where I’ll be.
He came awake in the darkness, but awake wasn’t precisely the term. Alive was precisely the term. He knew alive was precisely the term, because he could remember dying. He remembered that his heart had stopped in his chest. He had remembered wishing that it would start again. That bright moment or two of panic, and then he remembered beginning not to care. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. And he had drifted away.
Now he had drifted back. But drifted was not exactly right. He had slammed back into himself where he lay on the cold subbasement floor where he had been murdered by a roving gang of thieves. And he knew those things were true because he remembered them. And he knew they were true because he was dead. He was still dead. His heart was not beating in his chest. His blood was cold and jelled in his veins. He could feel it. Some kind of new perception.
He lay and watched the shadows deepen in the corners of the basement ceiling for a short time longer, and then he tried to move.
His body did not want to move at first. It felt as though it weighed a ton, two tons, but with a little more effort it came away. He sat and then crawled to his knees.
In the corner a huge rat stopped on his way to somewhere to sniff at him, decided he was probably food and came to eat him. He had actually sat for a second while the rat first sniffed and then began to gnaw at one fingernail. Then he had quickly snatched the rat up with his other hand, snapped it’s back in his fist and then shoved him warm and squirming into his mouth. A few minutes later he stood on shaky legs and walked off into the gloom of the basement, looking for the stairs and the way up to the streets.
Cast of characters.
Mike: Michael Collins.
Self employed; Web site designer. Age 23.
Candy: Candace Loi.
Dancer. Age 19.
Tom: Thomas Evans.
Truck driver, mechanic. Age 39.
Bob: Robert Dove.
Mechanic. Age 52.
Jan: Janet Dove.
Data Processing. Age 48.
Lydia: Lydia Marcia George.
Student. Age 17. (Deceased)
Patty: Patricia Johnson.
Housewife, age 19.
Lilly: Lillith Stevens.
Student, age 18.
Sandy: Sandra Clark.
Nurse, age 26.
Nell: Nelly Entos.
Housewife, age 24.
Tim: Timothy Johnson.
Student, age 16.
Ronnie: Ronald Vincent.
Carpenter, age 18.
Annie: Anne Rivers.
Student, age 15.
Molly: Molly Lopez.
College student, age 22.
Susan: Susan Smith.
Legal secretary, age 24.
Jeff: Jeffrey Simmons.
Stockbroker. Age 42.
Shar: Sharon Simmons.
Veterinary assistant, age 40.
David: David Reid.
College student, age 19.
Arlene: Arlene Best.
Factory worker, age 28.
Jessica: Jessica Singleton.
Retired, age 71. (Deceased)
Janelle: age six.
Brian: age eight
Ben: age seven
Mark: age five
Rain: age five
The bad guys.
Death: leader, age 21
Murder: Death’s Number one man, age 19
Shitty: Death’s Number two man, age 19
Johnny Red: Death’s Number three man, age 17
Nickel: Death’s Number four man, aged 17
Chop: Flunky, age 18
The bad girls.
Chloe: Deaths woman, age 17
Cassie: Murders woman, age 18
Psycho: (Now Cindy) Shitty’s woman, age 17
Tammy: Everybody’s woman, age 24
Get the books at Earth’s Survivors Website: https://www.earthssurvivorsbook.com
Have a great week and I’ll be back next weekend…