A look at the town of Glennville. Bobby, Moon and Lois are the central points of this book, but they will also introduce you to their parents, the Sheriff Kyle Stevens and some of the other town locals that make Glennville, Glennville. They are trying to spend the summer enjoying the beauty of the upstate New York town, camping, adventures, all the things three eleven year old kids could do for a summer in 1969. However, Glennville is no ordinary town and there is always something else going on… #Summer #Glennville #Adventure #1969 #DellSweet #Readers #KU
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LEGAL
This is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places or incidents depicted are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual living person’s places, situations or events is purely coincidental.
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He hailed a cab, giving the driver the address of a nondescript motel on the edge of the city, a place far from the tourist traps and the glittering entertainment districts. The ride was a blur of flashing lights and unfamiliar streets, each turn a new landscape, each intersection a potential encounter. The cab driver, a jovial man with a thick Southern drawl, chattered about the Titans, the Predators, and the latest country music sensation, oblivious to the tension radiating from his passenger. Larkin offered monosyllabic responses, his eyes scanning the passing scenery, his mind racing.
The motel was exactly as advertised: a low-slung building with peeling paint, a faded neon sign buzzing erratically, and a parking lot filled with a mix of aging sedans and work trucks. It was the epitome of anonymous accommodation, a place where transient lives intersected and then dispersed, leaving little trace. He paid cash for a room, the anonymity of the transaction a small comfort. The room itself was spartan, clean enough, but with a pervasive scent of stale cigarette smoke and cheap disinfectant. It would suffice.
He locked the door behind him, the deadbolt sliding home with a reassuring click. He sank onto the edge of the lumpy mattress, the silence of the room a stark contrast to the city’s ceaseless hum. He was safe, for now. But safety was a fleeting commodity in his world. He needed to understand the landscape, to identify the potential threats and the possible allies. Lowe would be hunting him, and Lowe was a relentless force, a man who didn’t understand the meaning of surrender.
Larkin pulled out a small, worn notebook from his pocket, its pages filled with cryptic scribbles and hastily drawn maps. His network was sparse, but it was loyal, or at least, it was transactional enough to be relied upon. He needed to reach out, to gauge the temperature of the city, to find out what kind of ripple his recent escape had caused. He knew he couldn’t stay in one place for too long. Nashville, with its vibrant pulse and its myriad distractions, offered a temporary shield, but it was a fragile illusion. The city was a labyrinth, and within its depths, he had to find a way to become invisible, to move through the shadows unseen, while simultaneously seeking the resources he needed to survive and, eventually, to fight back.
He remembered a name whispered in hushed tones among those who operated in the underbelly of the music scene, a fixer known only as “Whisper.” Whisper was rumored to have connections to everything and everyone, a ghost in the machine who could procure anything, from hard-to-get concert tickets to untraceable burner phones. Finding Whisper would be a challenge, but a necessary one. He was the key to unlocking the information he desperately needed.
He made his way back out into the neon glow of Nashville, the city’s intoxicating energy a double-edged sword. The streets were alive with people, a river of humanity flowing through the heart of the city. Music spilled from honky-tonks and upscale clubs alike, a constant reminder of Nashville’s identity. He avoided the main thoroughfares, sticking to the quieter side streets, his senses on high alert. He needed to acquire a burner phone, a way to communicate without leaving a digital footprint. The anonymity of a cash purchase was paramount.
He found a small convenience store, its aisles stocked with an eclectic mix of snacks, cheap souvenirs, and a surprisingly comprehensive selection of pre-paid mobile phones. He purchased the cheapest, most basic model available, handing over a wad of crumpled bills without a word. Back in the relative seclusion of a dimly lit alleyway, he powered up the device, its screen a stark white against the encroaching darkness. He had a few numbers stored, coded and disguised. The first one he dialed belonged to a street artist he’d helped out of a jam a few years back, a young woman named Chloe who had a knack for knowing things.
The phone rang twice before a hurried, breathy voice answered. “Yeah?”
“Chloe, it’s Larkin,” he said, keeping his voice low, almost a whisper.
A pause, then a sigh of relief. “Larkin! Where in God’s name have you been? I thought you were… well, never mind. You okay?”
“I’m getting there. Listen, I need some information. And I need a contact. Someone who knows the city, who can get things done without asking too many questions.”
Chloe’s voice dropped conspiratorially. “You’re in Nashville? That’s… bold. Who are you running from, Larkin?”
“Someone who doesn’t like being outsmarted,” he replied, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. “And I need to stay ahead of them. I need to find Whisper.”
Chloe let out a low whistle. “Whisper? That’s asking for the moon, Larkin. He’s not exactly advertised. But… I think I might know someone who knows someone. Give me a few hours. Don’t do anything stupid. And for heaven’s sake, lay low.”
The conversation ended, leaving Larkin with a sliver of hope and a renewed sense of urgency. He knew Chloe wouldn’t let him down. In the meantime, he needed to find a place to eat, to refuel his body and his mind. The aroma of barbecue wafted from a nearby establishment, a small, unassuming place with a line stretching out the door. It was a good sign. Good food, good company, and a chance to observe.
He joined the queue, the chatter of the patrons a welcome distraction. He listened, absorbing snippets of conversation, trying to discern any mention of unusual activity, any whispers of law enforcement presence. The talk was mostly about music, sports, and the mundane dramas of everyday life. It was a stark reminder that the world kept turning, oblivious to the high-stakes game of cat and mouse he was playing.
As he finally sat down with a plate of slow-cooked pulled pork and a side of mac and cheese, the weight of his situation settled back in. He was in enemy territory, a stranger in a vast and bustling city. But he was also a survivor. He had a knack for finding the cracks in the system, for exploiting the blind spots. Nashville was a city of music, of dreams, and of secrets. And somewhere within its vibrant, pulsating heart, he would find the sanctuary he needed to regroup, to plan, and to prepare for whatever Lowe had in store. The neon lights of the city, once a symbol of welcome anonymity, now felt like a spotlight, a constant reminder that even in the brightest of cities, shadows could still conceal danger. But within those shadows, Larkin knew, lay the path to his survival. He would become a phantom in the concrete jungle, a whisper in the wind, until he was ready to face the storm. The city’s pulse was intoxicating, but beneath its rhythm lay a hidden current, and he needed to learn to navigate it, to become one with its ebb and flow, before he could truly disappear.
The burner phone felt alien in Larkin’s hand, a cold, impersonal slab of plastic and circuits. It was a tool of invisibility, a digital ghost to complement his physical one. He’d memorized the number, a sequence of digits that felt both familiar and charged with potential danger. It belonged to Maria Reyes, a name that conjured images of late nights fueled by bad coffee and even worse crime scenes. They’d been partners once, a lifetime ago, back when Larkin was still navigating the labyrinthine corridors of the ATF, and Maria was the sharpest tech analyst they’d ever had. She’d had a gift for sifting through mountains of data, for finding the one digital needle in a haystack of code. Now, she was out, plying her trade in the private sector, a ghost in her own right, with access to networks that would make a federal agency blush.
He found a quiet corner in a dimly lit bar, the kind of place where the jazz was smooth and the patrons seemed to exist in their own private bubbles. The Torino, now resting in Silas’s capable hands, was a ghost of its former self, waiting for its identity to be scrubbed clean. But the phantom fear of its presence still clung to Larkin, a tangible weight. This car, this particular Torino, was the thread that had led him into this tangled mess, and he needed to understand why it was so important, why it was worth a tactical team’s undivided, and lethal, attention.
He punched in Maria’s number. It rang once, twice, and then a click. A voice, cool and precise, answered. “Reyes.”
“Maria, it’s Larkin.” He kept his voice low, pitched to carry only to her ears. “Hope I’m not disturbing your beauty sleep.”
A beat of silence, then a low chuckle, laced with surprise. “Larkin? Well, I’ll be damned. To what do I owe the pleasure? Last I heard, you were chasing down bank robbers in Nevada, not breathing Nashville air.”
“Circumstances, Maria. They tend to get… complicated.” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “I need your help. Something I’m working on has gotten a little out of hand, and I need your unique set of skills.”
“My ‘unique set of skills’ usually involves a substantial retainer and a very clear understanding of the legal boundaries,” Maria said, her tone shifting from amusement to professional caution. “What kind of out-of-hand are we talking about?”
“The kind where discretion is paramount,” Larkin replied. “And where the clock is ticking. I need you to run a trace on a vehicle. A 1972 Ford Torino. VIN number is… give me a second.” He pulled out his worn notebook, flipping to a page filled with hastily scribbled details. “GTX7B417992.”
He heard the faint clicking of keys in the background. Maria was already working, even as they spoke. “Seventy-two Torino. Not exactly a common vehicle these days. What’s the angle, Larkin? You planning on reliving your youth with a joyride?”
“It’s not a joyride, Maria. This car is… central to a situation. I need to know its history. Who owned it, when, where it’s been registered. Any significant modifications, any known associates who might have had access to it.” He hesitated, then added, “And why someone might go to extreme lengths to retrieve it.”
“Extreme lengths, huh?” Her voice was thoughtful now. “This sounds like more than a missing vehicle report. You’re talking about something that’s put you in the crosshairs, aren’t you?”
“Something like that,” Larkin admitted. “Let’s just say it’s attracted some very determined attention.”
“Okay, Larkin. I owe you one. You pulled my bacon out of the fire a couple of times back in the day. And I’m always up for a good digital puzzle, especially when it involves a classic muscle car.” The clicking of keys intensified. “Give me some time. This isn’t a quick search. There are layers to this kind of data. If it’s been scrubbed, it’ll be harder. But if it’s got a paper trail, even a faded one, I’ll find it.”
“I appreciate it, Maria. Really. I’m in Nashville. I’ve got a burner phone, but you can reach me at this number if anything… urgent… comes up.” He recited the number he’d just acquired. “And if there’s anything you need from my end, anything at all, you know the drill.”
“I’ll be in touch,” Maria said, her voice carrying a new edge of intrigue. “And Larkin? Try not to get yourself killed before I deliver the goods. I don’t do resurrection gigs.”
He ended the call, a knot of anticipation tightening in his gut. Maria was his best shot. She operated in the digital shadows, a master of information retrieval and obfuscation. If anyone could uncover the secrets buried within the history of the Torino, it was her. He nursed his drink, the amber liquid doing little to soothe the persistent hum of anxiety. He was a man out of his element, a hunter forced to become the hunted, relying on favors and outdated connections to stay one step ahead.
Nashville, with its vibrant pulse and its endless stream of music and revelry, was a gilded cage. He could disappear into the crowds, become another face in the sea of tourists and locals, but the knowledge that Lowe and his team were likely scouring the region, their search parameters expanding with every passing hour, was a constant, chilling presence. He needed more than just a temporary reprieve; he needed leverage, an understanding of the game he was being forced to play.
The Torino. It was more than just a car. It was a key, a catalyst. Its history was intertwined with his current predicament, a fact that gnawed at him. Silas had promised to make it look unremarkable, to erase the visible scars of its recent ordeal. But the true damage, the invisible wounds of its past, were what he needed to uncover. Maria was his best hope for peeling back those layers of history, for understanding what made this particular piece of automotive history so valuable, so contested.
He spent the next few hours navigating the bustling streets, a ghost in the machine of the city. He observed, he listened, and he waited. The burner phone remained silent, a stark contrast to the constant flow of information he was accustomed to receiving through official channels. This was a different kind of operation, one that relied on whispers and intuition, on the murky depths of the underworld rather than the clear light of law enforcement.
As the night wore on, the city transformed. The neon lights seemed to burn brighter, the music grew louder, and the crowds swelled. He found himself drawn to the edges of the entertainment districts, observing the flow of people, the subtle cues of wealth and desperation, of ambition and despair. Nashville was a city of dreams, and like all dreams, some were destined to be realized, while others would curdle into nightmares. He was caught in the throes of a nightmare, and he needed to find a way to wake up.
He found a quiet park, a patch of relative stillness amidst the urban chaos. He sat on a bench, the cool night air a welcome caress against his skin. The city skyline glittered in the distance, a testament to human ambition. He thought about Maria, her sharp intellect and her unwavering loyalty. She was one of the few constants in his life, a beacon of competence in a world that often felt increasingly chaotic. Her ability to navigate the digital realm was a skill he desperately needed, a lifeline in his current predicament.
He pictured her in her element, surrounded by screens, her fingers flying across keyboards, unraveling encrypted messages and tracing digital breadcrumbs. She had always been fascinated by the intricate dance of data, the hidden narratives that lay buried within lines of code. This Torino, with its unknown past, would be a challenge, a tantalizing puzzle that she wouldn’t be able to resist. He trusted her implicitly, a rare commodity in his line of work. Her discretion was absolute, her ability to operate outside the usual channels invaluable.
He wondered about the kind of digital footprint a car like that would leave. Ownership records, insurance policies, maintenance logs, even casual online listings or forum discussions from enthusiasts. It was a tangled web, and Maria was the spider best equipped to navigate it. He hoped she could find something concrete, something that would explain the overwhelming force that had been deployed against him. Was it a simple matter of the car being stolen? Or was there something more, something hidden within its metal shell, something that others were willing to kill for?
The thought sent a shiver down his spine. He had always operated on a need-to-know basis, but this time, the lack of information was a dangerous liability. He was flying blind, relying on instinct and the hope that his old connections could provide him with the intel he needed to regain control. Maria was the first piece of that puzzle, the one who could illuminate the car’s past, and hopefully, shed light on his present danger.
He checked the burner phone again. Still silent. The waiting was the hardest part. It amplified the uncertainty, the feeling of being adrift. He imagined Lowe, somewhere out there, a relentless force of nature, adapting his strategy, closing in. Larkin couldn’t afford to be passive, but he also couldn’t afford to make a rash move. He needed information, solid intel, before he could even begin to formulate a plan for survival, let alone retaliation.
He considered the implications of Maria’s involvement. If she found something significant, something that put her at risk, he would be responsible. He had always tried to keep his personal life and his professional entanglements separate, but in his current situation, those lines were blurred to the point of non-existence. He was asking her to step into his world, a world that was inherently dangerous. He hoped the favor she owed him was enough to outweigh the inherent risk.
As the first hints of dawn began to soften the edges of the Nashville skyline, his phone buzzed. A single text message.
A surge of adrenaline coursed through him. Messy. That was Maria’s understated way of saying it was complicated, dangerous, and likely illegal. But it was a lead, a tangible piece of progress. He texted back a confirmation, his fingers trembling slightly. The usual place. A discreet diner on the outskirts of town, a neutral territory they had used in the past. He had a few hours to kill, a few hours to brace himself for whatever revelations Maria had unearthed. The Torino’s past was about to come to light, and Larkin had a sinking feeling it was going to be a dark and stormy revelation. He stood up, stretching his stiff muscles, and began the walk towards the dawn, a man on a mission, fueled by caffeine, adrenaline, and the unwavering belief that information was the ultimate weapon. The neon pulse of Nashville was still thrumming, but now, for Larkin, it was a pulse of anticipation, the prelude to a storm he had to weather.
The hum of Nashville’s nocturnal symphony had begun to fade, replaced by the tentative chirps of an awakening city. Larkin, still replaying the cryptic message from Maria, found himself drawn to the edges of the downtown sprawl. The burner phone felt heavy, a tangible link to the invisible world he now inhabited. He’d spent the remaining hours before dawn poring over maps, searching for a sanctuary, a place where a phantom like him could momentarily shed his spectral cloak and seek expert, discreet assistance. It was Earl, a contact from his ATF days with a surprisingly vast network of informants and… specialists, who had provided the name: Gus’s Garage. Tucked away in an industrial pocket of East Nashville, far from the glittering tourist traps, it was a place that whispered of grease-stained hands, of resurrected engines, and, more importantly, of discretion.
The address led him down a series of increasingly desolate streets. Warehouses loomed, their corrugated metal facades reflecting the muted glow of streetlights. Finally, he spotted it – a low-slung building with a faded sign that read “Gus’s Garage – Vintage American Iron.” The air here was thick with the unmistakable aroma of old oil, gasoline, and something vaguely metallic. It was a scent that spoke of dedication, of a life lived amongst the mechanical beasts of a bygone era. As he pulled the dark, nondescript sedan he’d acquired into the gravel lot, the pre-dawn light cast long, skeletal shadows, making the place feel both forgotten and strangely alive.
A figure emerged from the shadows of the garage bay, silhouetted against a single, harsh work light. He was a man built like a weathered oak, his frame solid and unyielding. His face was a roadmap of a life spent under the sun and amidst the grime of engines, etched with a thousand tiny lines that spoke of hard work and perhaps a few too many close calls. He wore oil-stained overalls, a faded baseball cap pulled low over his brow, and his hands, even from a distance, looked like they were carved from granite. This had to be Gus.
Larkin killed the engine, the sudden silence amplifying the distant drone of the city. He got out, the gravel crunching under his worn boots. The man stood his ground, his gaze steady, unreadable.
“You the one Earl sent?” the man grunted, his voice a low rumble, like an engine struggling to turn over.
“Larkin,” he replied, offering a curt nod. “Earl said you’re the best with the old iron.”
Gus’s lips quirked into a faint, almost imperceptible smile. “Earl’s got a good eye. And a good mouth for recommendations. What’s the trouble?” He gestured with a thumb towards the dark sedan. “Car trouble?”
“Not exactly,” Larkin said, approaching the man. “More like… car preservation. And a few… undocumented enhancements that need a closer look. I’ve got a Torino. Seventy-two. It’s been through a bit of a… rough patch. Needs some expert attention. Discreet attention.”
Gus’s eyes, sharp and intelligent, flickered over Larkin’s face. He’d seen men like Larkin before – men with secrets etched onto their souls, men who carried a certain gravity about them. He’d also seen plenty of expensive cars brought to his shop, often with stories attached that the owners were eager to omit. “Seventy-two Torino, huh? Haven’t seen one of those on the lift in a while. What kind of ‘rough patch’ are we talking about?”
“Let’s just say it was involved in an… incident,” Larkin said, choosing his words carefully. “It took some hits. Needs bodywork, engine check, the usual. But there’s more to it than that. It’s… modified. Subtly.”
Gus stepped closer, his gaze now fixed on Larkin’s car, as if he could already see through the paint and steel to the secrets within. “Subtle modifications. That’s usually code for something more interesting than a souped-up carburetor. What kind of modifications?”
“That’s what I need you to find out,” Larkin admitted. “And to fix, if possible. Without drawing attention. I need it to look like a standard restoration, but underneath… I need to know what’s there. And I need it done fast. And quiet.”
Gus scratched his chin, the rough stubble rasping under his calloused fingers. He looked at Larkin, then at the silent sedan, a flicker of curiosity igniting in his gaze. “Fast, quiet, and subtle enhancements on a classic muscle car. Sounds like my kind of Tuesday. Earl said you were… particular. Now I see why. Alright, Larkin. Let’s take a look at this lady. Earl doesn’t steer me wrong on his referrals. And I owe him a few favors myself.”
He turned and ambled towards the garage bay, his movements economical and sure. Larkin followed, the scent of oil and metal enveloping him. Inside, the garage was a shrine to automotive history. Tools hung neatly on pegboards, gleaming under the harsh lights. Shelves were lined with spare parts, each meticulously organized. And scattered throughout the space were the husks of forgotten classics, waiting for Gus’s touch – a ’69 Camaro, a pristine Mustang fastback, a brooding ’57 Chevy.
Gus stopped beside a lift, gesturing for Larkin to bring the sedan forward. As Larkin carefully positioned the car, Gus began to circle it, his eyes scanning every inch of the exterior. He ran a hand over a minor dent on the rear fender, his touch surprisingly gentle. “Yeah, she’s taken a beating. Nothing that good old-fashioned elbow grease and a bit of Bondo can’t fix. But you said ‘subtle enhancements’.” He paused, leaning down to peer under the chassis. “You weren’t kidding.”
He stood up, wiping his hands on a greasy rag. “This isn’t your typical bolt-on job. There’s some custom wiring here, looks like… advanced acoustic dampening. And this isn’t standard fuel line. High-pressure, reinforced. You put a different engine in this thing, or just got a very… enthusiastic previous owner?”
Larkin’s breath hitched. Acoustic dampening. High-pressure fuel line. This was beyond anything he’d anticipated. “I… I don’t know the full extent of it,” he admitted. “That’s what I need you to figure out. I need it operational, but I also need to understand what I’m working with.”
Gus let out a low whistle. “Well, well. This ain’t just a joyride vehicle, is it? You got something… special going on here.” He walked towards the front of the car, his hand tracing the grille. “And this front bumper… this ain’t just for show. There’s a reinforced mounting point here. And these headlights… they look standard, but I’m betting they’re something else entirely. Integrated camera mounts, maybe? Or something for… countermeasures?”
Larkin felt a chill creep down his spine. Countermeasures. The word hung in the air, heavy with implication. He’d been expecting some upgraded engine components, maybe a more robust suspension. But this… this was military-grade. “I suspect you’re right,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. “I need you to assess the integrity of all these… systems. Can you disable anything that’s overtly… hostile? Without damaging the core mechanics?”
Gus turned to face him, his eyes narrowed, a mixture of professional curiosity and a healthy dose of caution. “Hostile systems? Larkins, what exactly have you gotten yourself into? This ain’t your average restoration project. This car is kitted out like a spy gadget from an old movie.” He gestured towards the engine bay. “I can work on the mechanics. I can patch up the dents. I can make her run like she just rolled off the assembly line. But whatever this other stuff is… it’s outside my usual wheelhouse. I’m a mechanic, not a special ops technician.”
“I understand that,” Larkin said, stepping closer, his voice low and urgent. “But you’re the best, Gus. Earl said you could handle anything. I’m not asking you to understand the ‘why.’ I just need you to understand the ‘how.’ How to make it safe. How to make it… dormant. And then, how to put it all back together when I need it.” He met Gus’s gaze directly. “The payment will be… significant. Enough to make you forget you ever saw this car. And Earl can vouch for my discretion. And my ability to pay.”
Gus studied him for a long moment, the silence punctuated only by the distant growl of early morning traffic. He saw the intensity in Larkin’s eyes, the weary determination that spoke of high stakes. He’d seen that look before, on men who operated in the gray areas, men who dealt with things that couldn’t be discussed in polite company. And the mention of Earl, coupled with the promise of substantial payment, was a strong incentive.
“Significant, huh?” Gus finally said, a wry smile touching his lips. “That does tend to grease the wheels of discretion. Alright, Larkins. You got yourself a deal. I’ll take a look. I’ll assess what’s what. I can’t promise I can disable everything without leaving a trace, or that I won’t accidentally detonate something. But I’ll do my damnedest. I’ll need time. And I’ll need you to stay out of my way. This ain’t a public display. This is me, my tools, and whatever ghost you’ve parked in my bay.”
He clapped his hands together, the sound sharp and decisive. “Let’s get her on the lift. We’ll start with the bones. The metal and the mechanics. Then… we’ll see what kind of magic tricks this old girl has up her sleeve.”
As Gus expertly maneuvered the Torino onto the lift, Larkin felt a sliver of relief. He’d found his man. Gus was more than just a mechanic; he was a craftsman, an artist who understood the soul of these machines. And in his hands, this complex, dangerous machine might just become a tool for his survival, rather than an instrument of his demise. The true extent of the Torino’s modifications was still a mystery, a dark cloud gathering on the horizon. But for the first time since he’d found himself in this impossibly complicated situation, Larkin felt a flicker of hope. He had a chance to understand the weapon that had been turned against him, and perhaps, to turn it to his own advantage. The neon pulse of Nashville might be beckoning, but here, in Gus’s Garage, a different kind of pulse was about to be reawakened.
The scent of stale exhaust and hot metal, once a comfort, now felt like a cage. Larkin watched Gus disappear into the labyrinth of the garage, the rumble of his footsteps echoing off concrete walls. Earl’s assurance that Gus was discreet was a thin balm against the gnawing unease. He knew Lowe. He knew Lowe’s capacity for obsession, his meticulous nature when it came to control. If Lowe was hunting him, he wouldn’t be content with just knowing Larkin was in Nashville. He’d be hunting the car. The Torino.
A shiver traced its way down Larkin’s spine, not from the cool morning air, but from the chilling realization that Gus’s Garage, this sanctuary of vintage iron, might not be as hidden as it seemed. Lowe’s tendrils, like invasive roots, could reach into any soil, no matter how neglected. The enforcer thrived on disruption, on twisting the established order to his own sinister will. Nashville, with its vibrant pulse, its easy familiarity, was ripe for such a manipulation. Larkin had relied on the city’s anonymity, its capacity to swallow a man whole. Now, he feared Lowe would transform that very anonymity into a trap.
He pulled out the burner phone again, its black surface reflecting the dim fluorescent lights of the garage. He scrolled through his contacts, bypassing the usual channels. He needed to know what Lowe was doing. Not just the broad strokes, but the fine details. He found the number he was looking for, a contact forged in the fires of a particularly nasty investigation years ago – a street-level informant named “Whisper.” Whisper was a creature of the shadows, a collector of hushed conversations and whispered secrets, his network woven through the city’s underbelly like a delicate, dangerous spiderweb. He owed Larkin, and for the right price, he’d deliver anything.
The call connected, and a raspy voice, barely audible, answered. “Yeah?”
“Whisper, it’s Larkin. I need information. High priority.”
A pause, then a low chuckle. “Larkin. Been a minute. What’s got your knickers in a twist this time? Trouble find you in the Music City?”
“Something like that. Lowe. He’s looking for a car. Yellow Torino. ’72. He’s leaning on people. Local… contacts. Trying to get eyes on it.” Larkin kept his voice low, pitched to match Whisper’s own secretive tone. “He’s putting out feelers. Trying to make sure I can’t disappear.”
Whisper was silent for a beat, the gears of his informant mind clearly grinding. “Lowe, huh? Yeah, heard his name rattling around. Nasty piece of work, that one. He ain’t playing around. Saw a couple of his… associates… asking questions down by the precinct. Not official questions, you understand. More like… ‘have you seen this car?’ type of vibe. They ain’t flashing pictures, though. Just descriptions. Yellow Torino. Classic. You fit the bill, don’t you?”
Larkin’s jaw tightened. “He’s using muscle. Not just asking nicely. He’s leaning on informants, local PD. Anyone who might have seen something unusual.”
“That’s Lowe’s way,” Whisper confirmed with a sigh. “He likes to make examples. Likes to show his reach. Nashville ain’t exactly crawling with yellow Torinos, Larkin. Especially not one that’s been…
modified. He’s probably got a few of his own birds out, keeping an eye on the usual spots. Pawn shops, chop shops, that sort of thing. And he’s definitely put the word out on the street. Any chatter about a car like that, heads up. Bounty on it, in a manner of speaking.”
“What kind of bounty?” Larkin pressed, the word tasting like ash in his mouth.
“Enough to make some lowlifes look twice,” Whisper said. “Enough to get a low-level PD contact to ‘accidentally’ notice something. Lowe’s got deep pockets. And he’s got a long memory. He wants that car, he’ll tie up the city in knots to find it. He’s painting a target on your back, Larkin. And on that car.”
Larkin could already picture it. Lowe, sitting in some opulent Nashville hotel suite, a phone pressed to his ear, his voice a silken threat, orchestrating a city-wide dragnet for a single vehicle. He was turning Nashville, a city built on music and dreams, into a hunting ground. The neon lights, usually a symbol of excitement and possibility, now seemed to pulse with a sinister warning. Every alleyway, every darkened street, every police scanner crackle – all of it could be Lowe’s eyes and ears.
“He’s leaning on the local PD?” Larkin asked, his voice strained.
“Not directly, not officially,” Whisper clarified. “But he’s got friends. Or maybe just friends of friends. The kind who owe favors. Or the kind who can be… persuaded. A little pressure here, a little suggestion there. He’s not asking them to issue an APB, not yet. He’s just seeding the ground. Making sure if anything pops up, they’ll remember the description. And if they don’t, well, Lowe has other ways of making sure people remember.”
Larkin rubbed his temples, the weight of Lowe’s influence pressing down on him. It wasn’t just a matter of hiding the car; it was a matter of Lowe’s sheer persistence. Lowe wouldn’t just search; he’d manipulate. He’d exploit. He’d twist the systems, both official and unofficial, to achieve his goals. Nashville, with its close-knit community of musicians and law enforcement, could be a fertile ground for misinformation and suspicion. A whispered rumor about a suspicious yellow Torino could quickly snowball into a full-blown investigation, no matter how spurious the origin.
“He’s desperate, then,” Larkin said, more to himself than to Whisper.
“Desperate or just methodical,” Whisper corrected. “Lowe’s a planner. He doesn’t get sloppy. He’s probably got eyes on every major artery out of the city. And he’s got people watching the streets. Not uniform cops, mostly. His own guys. Guys who know how to look without being seen. They’ll be spotting anything that remotely matches your description. That bright yellow paint job… it’s not exactly subtle, even if the car is otherwise discreet.”
Larkin felt a cold dread settle in his stomach. The Torino was a beacon. A beautiful, powerful, deadly beacon that Lowe was determined to extinguish. He had underestimated the enforcer’s reach, his ability to turn even the most vibrant, alive city into a suffocating trap. The Music City was no longer a refuge; it was becoming another battleground, and Lowe was orchestrating the initial skirmish with chilling efficiency.
“Keep your ear to the ground, Whisper,” Larkin said, his voice tight. “Anything about Lowe, his people, or that Torino. You find out who he’s leaning on, who he’s paying. I need to know who’s watching for me.”
“You know the price, Larkin,” Whisper rasped. “And this is gonna cost you. Lowe’s playing for keeps. He’s not just looking for a car; he’s looking for you. And he’s turning this whole damn city into his personal search party.”
“I’ll make it worth your while,” Larkin promised, ending the call. The silence that followed felt heavier than before. He looked out at the vast expanse of the garage, at the hulking shapes of dormant machines. Gus was somewhere in there, dismantling the secrets of his car, unaware that the very act of repairing it might be drawing unwanted attention. Lowe’s shadow had fallen over Nashville, and it was long, dark, and unnervingly precise. He had to get the Torino out of here, had to find a new hiding place, a deeper shadow. But where? Where in this city, now under Lowe’s watchful, manipulative gaze, could he possibly disappear? The neon pulse of Nashville beat on, oblivious to the hunt that had begun, a hunt orchestrated by a man who saw every obstacle as a challenge and every shadow as a place to hide his prey. Lowe’s patience was a finite resource, and Larkin knew, with a chilling certainty, that the enforcer’s patience was rapidly dwindling. The clock was ticking, and the hunter was closing in, using the very pulse of the city to track his quarry…
Read More Below…
The Point of no Return: featuring Ben Larkin Kindle Edition
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The air in the Manhattan garage was thick with the scent of old oil, ozone, and the faint, metallic tang of desperation. Ben Larkin stood before it, the yellow Ford Torino, a magnificent, sun-bleached beast of a car, gleaming under the harsh fluorescent lights. It was a monument to a past he desperately wanted to bury, a gleaming, chrome-laden symbol of a life that had once promised freedom and now felt like a cage. He ran a gloved hand over the impossibly smooth, polished paintwork, the coolness of the metal a stark contrast to the heat that simmered beneath his skin. This was it. The last job. His final chance to break free, to outrun the shadows that had clung to him like cheap cologne for years.
The Jail Job: The intended guy is in Rikers Island doing a year. George uses Juanita’s computer skills to access the inmate Database and have him released early. Vinnie tells him he is a snitch and a suspected child molester, but the truth is he is an undercover ATF officer investigating Vinnie’s interests in Rikers Island, where he controls the drug and sex trade in the huge jail. When he is taken to the prison ferry and released, he has no idea what has happened. He finds himself on the street with no funds, phone, walking after he is dropped off by the prison transport bus. He resolves himself to the thirty block walk to the ATF offices. George catches him on the way and kills him.
The story follows Ben Watson. He is almost 70 years old and his life is in shambles. He has been married 4 times, and each marriage has been progressively worse. Now he is with a woman Sarah Horton, twenty years his junior and has learned to have a real relationship. She has been through trauma of her own, including a 25 year marriage and three children with a man who abused her, cheated on her and she finally worked up the courage to leave. Ben has three children of his own. Neither Ben nor Sarah see their children.
Main Story lines
Ben and Sarah: The two are living together and circumstance get worse. Ben is sick. He needs heart surgery. Sarah is also sick from undetermined illness that keeps her depressed and suicidal.
Robert Lake: They have a friend, Robert Lake who works for the government. Unbeknownst to them, Bob is in a top secret project involving time travel. He was assigned to watch them and use their lives as examples. But over time Bob begins to actually care for them.
The Clandestine mission: Bob attends several clandestine meetings where the abilities of the team are discussed. They can send people back to a specific date in time that has already occurred, but they can not bring them back, and their ability to communicate with them ends shortly after they arrive in the time. They never hear from them again.
How it Works: They use test subjects to find safe places to send soldiers. It is soldier volunteers they use to go back and check out the past. They use test subjects first, involuntarily, because they do not know where exactly the will arrive. Maybe in the middle of a body of water, a rock, a road where they will be hit and killed. The test subjects allow them to find safe places.
The Betrayal: The time has come for Bob to deliver Ben and Sarah to be test subjects, most likely killed. He can not do it and so he talks to Ben and Ben talks to Sarah. They come to realize they will be forced to do it. They decide to go back, but through a safe window Robert knows about. It will land them in 1968
2. Series Working Titles “Survive” 6 manuscripts dystopian survival series.
Plot Overview
The book follows survivors of a worldwide catastrophe which destroyed governments, cities, and social structures. Small groups of people band together to survive, rebuild, and create a new society.
Main Storylines
A small group of survivors on the East Coast, camped near Manhattan, must decide their next move a midst the ruins.
Adam takes charge of a group in Manhattan, fighting to protect them from gangs and violence.
Conner and Katie provide safe haven for others, leading to a showdown with rival factions.
Mike, left for dead, seeks revenge and reunites with his group
The series progresses through the six books. Character names are replaceable…
3. Working Title “Living in the ‘Nam” War, action, thriller, military survival.
General Plot: A group of men fight their way through the jungles of ‘Nam and Cambodia. Based on a short story I wrote a few decades ago. This follows the company of men assigned to patrols, seek and destroy missions. Here is a sample from the manuscript…
The hulking silhouettes of the Huey helicopters, their rotor blades a thunderous percussion against the bruised dawn sky, began their descent. Sergeant Beeker, helmet already snug, felt the familiar vibration hum through the soles of his boots, a premonition of the chaos to come. Below, the shoreline of Vietnam, a ribbon of pale sand fringed by an impossibly verdant jungle, beckoned with the promise of both mission and peril. The air, a thick, suffocating blanket, tasted of salt and the metallic tang of distant ordnance, a pungent perfume that immediately stripped away the sterile calm of the transit. It was a sensory assault, a brutal welcome to a war that had already claimed so many.
The roar of the engines, an all-consuming presence, seemed to drown out the ceaseless, percussive rhythm of the ocean’s surf crashing onto the beach. This was no tranquil shore; it was a contested threshold, a place where the known world bled into the terrifying unknown. Beeker’s men, their faces a mixture of grim determination and thinly veiled apprehension, shifted their weight, the heavy bulk of their rucksacks and gear an immediate reminder of the burden they carried, both physical and metaphorical. Each man was a walking arsenal, his life dependent on the mechanisms and ammunition strapped to his back, but also on the mettle of the souls beside him.
As the choppers settled, kicking up clouds of sand and spray, the ramp dropped with a clang that echoed Beeker’s own internal alarm. The men spilled out, a river of olive drab flowing onto the alien sand. The humidity seized them instantly, clinging to their skin like a second, sweat-soaked uniform. It was a damp, cloying embrace that promised no comfort, only discomfort and the constant threat of chafing and exhaustion. The sand itself was a deceptive carpet, shifting and soft underfoot, betraying the firm ground they had left behind. Every step was a conscious effort, a battle against the terrain before the real fight even began.
Beeker scanned the treeline, his eyes, trained by countless hours of instruction and grim experience, searching for any flicker of movement, any anomaly in the otherwise uniform green. The jungle loomed, a dense, impenetrable wall of vegetation, its silence unnerving. It was a silence that screamed of hidden dangers, of watchful eyes and coiled muscles. The distant artillery, a low, guttural rumble, served as a constant reminder that this was no isolated incident, but a theater of war, vast and unforgiving. The ocean’s roar, a primal force, seemed to mock their fragile human endeavors, a reminder of nature’s indifference to their plight.
Corporal Davies, his face tight with strain, adjusted his M16, his knuckles white. “Hot here, Sarge,” he muttered, his voice a rough whisper swallowed by the din.
“Keep your head down, Davies,” Beeker replied, his gaze never leaving the jungle’s edge. “It’s always hot.” He knew the heat was more than just the oppressive climate; it was the simmering tension that permeated the air, the unspoken fear that clung to each man like the sticky humidity.
The men began to spread out, fanning across the beachhead, their movements practiced and efficient, yet underscored by a palpable urgency. They were a small island of ordered chaos in a sea of natural indifference and potential hostility. The objective was clear: establish a perimeter, secure a foothold, and prepare for whatever came next. But the sheer scale of the task, the vastness of the enemy territory they had just infiltrated, weighed heavily on Beeker. They were a single unit, a mere handful of soldiers against an unseen enemy who knew this land intimately, who could melt into its shadows and strike with deadly precision.
Private Miller, barely out of his teens, stumbled slightly, his pack riding high on his shoulders. Beeker caught his eye, offering a curt nod of acknowledgment, a silent reassurance that he saw him, that he was accounted for. Miller’s youth was a stark reminder of the innocence being stripped away, piece by piece, with every step they took deeper into this conflict. The boys who had left home, full of bravado and patriotic fervor, were slowly being chiseled into something harder, something more resilient, but also something irrevocably altered.
The beachhead was a treacherous expanse, a narrow strip of vulnerability between the vast, indifferent ocean and the dark, menacing embrace of the jungle. It was a place of transition, a point of no return. The initial moments were critical, a race against time to establish a defensive line before the enemy could exploit their exposed position. Every man understood his role, the importance of his contribution to the collective survival. They moved with a focused intensity, their senses heightened, tuned to the subtle shifts in the environment that could signal danger.
Beeker felt the familiar knot of anxiety tighten in his gut, a constant companion on these deployments. It wasn’t the fear of death, not exactly, but the fear of failure, the fear of not being able to protect his men, the fear of making the wrong call that would send them all into the abyss. He trusted his training, his instincts, but he also knew that in this war, intuition and experience often warred against a capricious and brutal reality. The dice were loaded, and the stakes were lives.
As the perimeter began to take shape, a series of hasty defensive positions dug into the soft sand, a low hum began to fill the air, different from the helicopters’ departing thrum. It was a subtle sound at first, easily dismissed as the wind or the persistent insects. But it grew, becoming more distinct, more… purposeful. Beeker’s head snapped up, his gaze sweeping the treeline with renewed intensity.
“Hear that?” he barked, his voice cutting through the ambient noise.
A ripple of apprehension went through the men. They had been trained for this, prepared for the sudden eruption of violence, but preparation could only do so much against the visceral shock of contact. The enemy was always the unseen variable, the ghost in the machine, capable of materializing from nowhere.
Dozens of manuscripts ready now, or tell me what you need and I will supply it. I may even have what you want already written, Dell Sweet
Info: Manuscripts are finished to the point where you can edit and make them yours. The story lines are completely written. The manuscripts average about 100 k. There are character names and place names, they can easily be edited and mass changed.
You can check out my work on Amazon to see how I write and to satisfy yourself that I am legitimate and professional as well as a quality writer. Over 50 manuscripts available in many genres.
Reset: Onset. In a world ravaged by Apocalypse, Reset follows survivors as they struggle to stay alive. If you’re looking for series to binge-read you’ve found it. #Horror #ApocalypticFiction #Dystopian #ZombieFiction
The Jail Job: The intended guy is in Rikers Island doing a year. George uses Juanita’s computer skills to access the inmate Database and have him released early. Vinnie tells him he is a snitch and a suspected child molester, but the truth is he is an undercover ATF officer investigating Vinnie’s interests in Rikers Island, where he controls the drug and sex trade in the huge jail. When he is taken to the prison ferry and released, he has no idea what has happened. He finds himself on the street with no funds, phone, walking after he is dropped off by the prison transport bus. He resolves himself to the thirty block walk to the ATF offices. George catches him on the way and kills him.
The crooked Judge: This is a job George takes on for the bookie. The bookie has a friend who is a pimp for high dollar call girls. The judge has killed one of his girls and hushed it up through his buddies in the NYPD. This angers George and he takes the job. It turns out this story is the truth, but killing a judge has its consequences. Every law agency in the area is investigating. One of the cops who helped hide the truth remembers threats from the pimp and tells a cop buddy while drinking. That cop is an ear for Ben Larkin and relays the information to him.
The stench of stale urine and rotting garbage clung to the air, a familiar perfume in George Topsfield’s nocturnal endeavors. Rain, a relentless drizzle that had plastered itself to the city for days, slicked the cobblestones of the alley, turning the already dismal space into a treacherous, reflective mirror of the neon-drenched city above.
The air in the back room of the dimly lit Italian restaurant was thick with the scent of stale garlic and unspoken threats. Vinnie “The Hammer” Moretti, a man whose reputation preceded him like a bad omen, leaned back in his chair, a half-empty glass of wine swirling in his hand. His eyes, dark and shrewd, scanned the faces of the men seated before him. George Topsfield, his usual veneer of polite composure strained, fidgeted with the cuff of his expensive shirt. Across from him sat Marco, Vinnie’s enforcer, a hulking brute with a face carved from granite and eyes that held the unsettling calm of a predator.#Crime #HitMan #OrganizedCrime #Mystery #Thriller #Drama
The collapse had been a swift, brutal amputation. The surge, a cataclysmic event that had not only silenced our digital world but had also plunged vast swathes of the planet into darkness and disarray. The immediate aftermath had been a blur of panic, of desperate attempts to comprehend the incomprehensible. The abstract threats of cyber warfare or economic collapse had been replaced by the terrifyingly concrete realities of starvation, disease, and the primal struggle for survival. In the early days, the focus had been singular: survive. Find food, find water, find shelter. My technical skills, so vital in the old world, were largely useless. I learned to scavenge, to ration, to move with a stealth born of necessity. I learned the silence of the wilderness, the language of rustling leaves and snapping twigs. But survival, I was discovering, was not an end in itself. It was a means to an end, a precarious foundation upon which something more must be built. It was a recognition that to truly survive, I needed to do more than just exist; I needed to be.
Before Candace could speculate, a low, guttural growl echoed from the far end of the depot, followed by the distinct sound of heavy boots crunching on gravel. It was a sound of human origin, but there was an aggression to it, a territoriality that sent a prickle of alarm through Candace. “Someone else,” Elara whispered, her hand tightening on her pipe. Candace nodded, her gaze fixed on the source of the sound. “And they don’t sound friendly.” She could see them now – a group of figures emerging from the gloom, their silhouettes indistinct against the muted light. They were armed, their weapons glinting dully. Their movements were coordinated, purposeful, suggesting a trained unit rather than a disorganized band of scavengers. #Dystopian #Apocalyptic #Epic #Survival #Amazon #Kindle #KU #Horror
Lee Crow: Year 2196. Captain Lee Crow leaned back in his pilot’s chair as Eagle One slid into Moon Base 14’s docking bay with that familiar metallic groan. His fingers flew over the controls, years of muscle memory making the landing look easier than it was. This rustbucket of a cruiser had cost him most of his savings fresh out of college – worth every credit, even if the maintenance fees kept him awake at night sometimes. #SpaceTravel #Sciencefiction #SpaceColonization #DellSweet #SciFi #Amazon #KU #Kindle
The air, once a crisp promise of life, now hung heavy, a suffocating shroud of ochre dust and acrid fumes. Earth, their ancestral cradle, was gasping its last, ragged breaths. Decades of unchecked industrial sprawl, of rivers choked with effluent, of forests razed for short-term gain, had finally brought the planet to its knees. The sky, a bruised canvas of perpetual twilight, offered no solace, only a grim testament to humanity’s heedless ambition. From the viewport of the Eagle Two, Earth was a dying ember, its once vibrant blues and greens leached away, replaced by the sickly hues of decay.#SpaceTravel #Sciencefiction #SpaceColonization #DellSweet #SciFi #Amazon #KU #Kindle
Tuesday once more. It is cold enough here to build a snowman, if there were snow, and it was 25 degrees cooler. Okay, so it isn’t overly cold, but it is barely 50 degrees this morning, and I think officially I can stop complaining about the heat of summer and switch over to the coolness of winter. Okay, I’ll wait a few weeks, and honestly it has been so hot and humid this summer that I don’t really mind this cold yet. I think that is my problem with the weather this year, it has been too extreme one way or the other. Not much, or enough of the nice in between weather.
Spent my day yesterday with family and the small children that result from family. If you have not spent time around small children in awhile I suggest you do. Nothing like the way a child laughs to loosen your heart up and make you appreciate life, youth, beauty, the world.
I think the goals for this month are to get all of the books that should be available available. With new writers and deadlines that is a job. That is what I will be sticking too today, getting listings done.
As for Dell he is stepping back a little further. I will take over all of the day to day stuff and that is probably where that will remain. So he isn’t gone, he just isn’t here. I think things are finally running the way he wanted them too and so he stepped back as he said he would to allow them to run.
There isn’t much else going on. We are working to get books out and listed, working on the websites. I see there are still old links that offer free chat. Does anyone even use that? So things like that will be cleaned up as I go through the links, other than that you shouldn’t see any major changes. I will write this blog from now on and so my name will be on the blog, a small change. I will continue to make the websites phone and tablet friendly.
I think one thing you will see is a more centralized website. In other words all areas easily reached from a main menu. Right now things are spread out and the information, reading, art or whatever else you are searching for is on multiple sites and not easily found. I’m making the consolidation of that sound easy, I’m sure though that it won’t be.
I am going to leave you with that as far as news goes.
New writers:
I hope your Monday is good, I will leave you with a short story from Paul Block…
BLACKNESS OF THE SOUL
Blackness Of the Soul is copyright 2014 Dell Sweet. All rights reserved.
This excerpt is used with permission. If you would like to share this short story, please point those you wish to share it with to this page. This material may not be copied electronically or digitally and or distributed without the publisher’s express permission (Writerz.net). Permission is granted to use short excerpts in critics. The publisher of record for this work is writerz.net & Dell Sweet. The copyright holder retains all rights foreign and domestic to this work.
Paul Brown settled the barrel of the nine Millimeter pistol against his left palm, curled his hand around it as if to hold it forever, and then released it finger by finger. A sob escaped his throat and a fat tear drop rolled down his left cheek and splashed against the butt of the pistols grip where the clip protruded slightly. He took his free hand, wiped the tear away and then reached for the beer that sat beside him.
He raised the can to his mouth, drank deeply, and then continued to stare at the black pistol that rested in his right hand. Once again his left hand closed around the barrel, but lightly. Stroking it. Caressing it. He fished a cigarette from the pack beside him on the floor, thumbed the wheel of his old Zippo and pulled the harsh tobacco smoke into his lungs.
The smoke, or the beer, or both seemed to calm him, at least momentarily. His chest hitched but he stifled the sob this time. The sobs frightened him more than the gun. The sobs came on their own and there seemed to be no way to fight or stop them. They were a life unto themselves. The gun on the other hand only had to speak once. And technically he would never hear it.
“Probably never hear it,” he whispered into the semi darkness of the living room. He had pulled the curtains on the outside world. Blocked it away from him.
Probably never hear it. He wondered about the truth of the statement for what seemed to be an excessive amount of time to him, caught himself, and took another deep drink of the cold beer followed by a near frenzied pull from the cigarette. He waited on the sob but it came when he didn’t expect it. A flood of tears came with it, falling from his eyes, staining his reddened cheeks before he could think to try and stop it.
“Oh, God,” he moaned. He sucked in a deep breath, lifted the pistol to his mouth and bumped the barrel across his teeth and into his mouth.
Everything seemed to freeze. The taste of oiled metal flooded his mouth He gagged, and then nearly squeezed the trigger too hard because of it. Panicked, he ripped the gun from his mouth tearing open his upper lip on the gun site as he did.
He was breathing hard. He needed to calm down. The tears just continued to fall. His cheeks felt raw. His eyes full of sand. His head began to pound harder. It had begun to pound earlier. He thought about that too. No more headaches. None. No more worries. No more anything at all. He sighed and returned the gun to his lips. He could taste the oil and metal once more, mixed with the blood from the torn lip.
His lips did not seem to want to part. He eased the gun away, took a deep drag off the cigarette, his breath shuddered in and out. He tipped the can and took a deep drink to rinse his mouth of the tastes that had made him gag, then upended the can and drained it. He reached over and pulled another beer from the bag on the carpeted floor, took another deep drink to rinse the tastes from his mouth and then lit a new cigarette from the butt of the old one. He dropped the old butt into the freshly emptied can beside him. He pulled the smoke deeply into his lungs and then let it drift from his nose as he slowly exhaled, trying to calm himself. If he could only think this out, his mind jabbered. He took another deep drink from the can.
In a way it would be nice to sit down and think this through, but in another way he didn’t care if he ever had another thought in his life. He didn’t want to take the time to think it out at all. He had made up his mind earlier. In a few minutes, when he finished the cigarette and the beer he’d do it, he decided.
He didn’t want to die with a lit cigarette in his mouth and burn down the house. Anne had to live here… Well, maybe not, but even so she’d have to sell it or something… If she didn’t lose it…
He pulled hard on the cigarette as if rushing it to its end so he could rush his own end. He took a deep drink from the beer and felt the headache ease back a little.
He could feel the buzz from the beer. Maybe it would knock down the headache after all. Either way the headache was not long for this world, he decided.
Calm seemed to come over him all at once. The sob that he had been waiting for didn’t come. His chest didn’t hitch. His cheeks still felt irritated, his eyes full of sand, his mind weary and removed from him to a degree, but the hysteria he had been sure was going to grab him didn’t make another appearance.
Through the curtains he could see the late afternoon sunlight. Still gold in the sky. Heating up his part of the south. There was no noise except the steady rumble of the air conditioner. Whatever heat the sun held was lost on him today.
He pulled on the cigarette, noticed that it was all but dead and dropped it into the can with the last one. He upended the beer can and drained it. He waited, expecting the sobs to come back but the calm remained. He sighed once, was surprised to find that the gun was only inches from his lips, opened his mouth and slid the barrel in. The hysteria stayed at bay. He adjusted the barrel so it would be more comfortable, sighed at the absurdity of that thought, and then squinted his eyes down as his finger tightened on the trigger.
~2~
“How do you feel, Paul?”
Paul blinked and tried to look around him. He found that it was not entirely possible. He couldn’t really turn around to where the voice had come from no matter how he tried.
“It doesn’t matter though,” the same voice said.
And it didn’t. It became completely unimportant right then. Just like that.
“How do you feel?”
“I’m pretty upset. I…” He stopped. He had been pretty upset, but he wasn’t now. Now he felt… Well, at peace.
“That’s good, Paul. You should feel at peace.”
“It feels good,” he said. It seemed entirely normal that whoever was behind him could read his mind… Am I dead?
“I wanted to talk to you about how you got here, Paul.”
“How?”
“How.”
The time spun out.
“I stole about… I guess I don’t even know how much… I kept stealing and it kept adding up. And I knew they’d catch it… And they did… My boss must have called the cops,“ Paul said.
“Actually the company accountant… But I meant how you got here… To this point.”
“I… … I don’t know what you mean.”
“To kill yourself, Paul. I mean how did you get to this point where you decided to kill yourself… Take your own life… How did you reach that point, Paul?”
“Oh… I thought about it… I…” He stopped and thought about it. “I see… It’s just tough to understand… I don’t really know exactly… Are you God?”
“Do you think of me as God?”
Paul thought about it. “I think I do… I think so… I believe you are God.”
“Then I am.”
“You are? … Really? You really are God?”
“I really am, Paul…”
His voice was soft. Reassuring.
“I… I thought you would sound different… I… Am I dead?”
“No… Not yet… You have some little time left… I thought, since you asked, that before you do something that will change everything we should talk.”
Paul nodded. “I prayed… Earlier I prayed.”
“I know… You know, Paul, people sometimes think I don’t listen to prayer anymore… If I ever did. They tell themselves that and then they begin to believe it. I do listen though. I do. Every prayer. Every time. Do you believe that, Paul?”
“I do… I mean I do now. I do know that now. I’m ashamed to say that.”
“Don’t be. There is no shame here. You are used to saying words that really don’t mean anything true. They are there, you say them… In this case you say that you are ashamed when you are not ashamed.”
Paul examined himself. “You’re right… I don’t feel ashamed. I feel good still. At peace still.”
“So how did you get here. How did you come to be here? Who told you that suicide was a solution?”
“I… It was painful… My wife will leave me. We’ll lose everything… The kids… I can’t imagine what the kids will do… Feel… It seemed… It seemed right.”
“Did it?”
Paul thought about it. “Maybe not… It felt like the only choice I had.”
“Yet you called out to me. Why?”
“Because… Because I used to believe in you… I…”
He laughed. “And I am still here. Did you think I had died? Did you think I had stopped believing in you?”
“Some people think so… That you died.”
“You?”
“No… I guess the truth is I just stopped believing… I believed in other things… Taxes… Bills… Mortgage payments… Summer… Fall…”
“The things you see every day.”
“That’s a good way to put it.”
“I have a way with words.”
Paul laughed and then stopped. “I thought maybe that was a joke.”
”It was… Do you wish you had not stopped believing? Do you see how things could have been different?”
“I can see that now, but what good is it after the fact? I pulled the trigger… I remember that.”
“Did you? I think you asked me to help… Sometimes I help in unexpected ways… Thomas needed to see… To place his hand in my side… Peter needed to see me risen… Sometimes my people ask me for help and then don’t recognize the help when it comes.”
“Like now?”
“Like now, yes. It’s time to think. To breath… To make a decision… A different decision.”
“Then what?” Paul asked.
“Then? … What comes, comes… I know what it is to live. I have felt what you feel. Struggled with the same temptations. We take it as it comes to us, Paul.”
“So the problems would still be there?”
“Yes.”
“That’s help?” Paul asked.
“I will help you all that you will allow.”
Paul thought about it and realized it was true.
“So… How did you end up here?”
“I guess I just walked away… I guess I chose to do that.”
You still choose words that are untrue. Do you guess or do you know?”
“I know. I walked away.”
“You know, it’s a split second decision… Many times if you take the time to think you can get through whatever comes at you.”
Paul nodded, took a deep breath. “I see.”
~3~
The finger stopped. He remembered something… Something… Summer. A thousand years ago it seemed… Anne… When they had first met… The picture in his mind was so perfect, so intense. So real, and a flood of images followed it… But… There had been something else there for a moment, hadn’t there? He had been focusing on the trigger… The pressure… And there had been something else there… Just for a moment… It seemed so. It seemed as though he had been ready to pull the trigger and… And someone…
He pulled the barrel from his mouth and sucked in a deep breath. Whatever it might have been it was gone now. The sobbing came back with the fresh air. The pistol slid from his hand and fell to the carpet with a soft clunk. He lowered his head into his hands and let the tears take over…
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The Invisible Writers: Unveiling the World of Ghostwriters
Ghostwriters are the unsung heroes of the literary world, crafting stories, books, and articles that bear someone else’s name. Despite their significant contributions, ghostwriters often remain in the shadows, their work attributed to the credited author. This article explores the world of ghostwriters, their role, challenges, and the industries that rely on their skills.
What is Ghostwriting?
Ghostwriting involves creating content for someone else, usually without receiving public credit. Ghostwriters work in various genres, including fiction, non-fiction, memoirs, biographies, and even speeches. Their primary goal is to capture the voice, tone, and style of the credited author, making the content seem authentic and engaging.
Types of Ghostwriting
Book Ghostwriting: Ghostwriters create entire books, including novels, memoirs, and self-help books, for authors who may not have the time, skill, or desire to write themselves.
Article Ghostwriting: Ghostwriters pen articles, blog posts, and other online content for individuals, businesses, or publications, often under a byline that isn’t their own.
Speech Ghostwriting: Ghostwriters craft speeches for politicians, executives, and celebrities, helping them convey their message effectively.
Content Ghostwriting: Ghostwriters create content for companies, websites, and social media platforms, including product descriptions, whitepapers, and more.
The Role of a Ghostwriter
Ghostwriters wear many hats, including:
Researcher: Gathering information, conducting interviews, and analyzing data to create well-informed content.
Storyteller: Crafting compelling narratives, characters, and plotlines that engage readers.
Voice Chameleon: Adopting the tone, style, and voice of the credited author to ensure authenticity.
Editor: Refining content to meet the client’s expectations and publication standards.
Challenges Faced by Ghostwriters
Lack of Credit: Ghostwriters often remain anonymous, making it difficult to build a personal brand or portfolio.
Contractual Obligations: Ghostwriting contracts typically include non-disclosure agreements, limiting the writer’s ability to discuss their work.
Creative Constraints: Ghostwriters must work within the client’s vision, which can be restrictive for creatives who value artistic freedom.
Time Management: Ghostwriters often face tight deadlines, requiring efficient time management and writing skills.
Industries That Rely on Ghostwriters
Publishing: Many bestselling authors rely on ghostwriters to produce high-quality content.
Business and Finance: Companies hire ghostwriters to create thought leadership content, whitepapers, and marketing materials.
Politics: Politicians and government officials use ghostwriters to craft speeches, policy documents, and press releases.
Entertainment: Celebrities and public figures often employ ghostwriters to write memoirs, scripts, and social media content.
Benefits of Ghostwriting
Flexibility: Ghostwriting offers the opportunity to work on diverse projects, genres, and styles.
Income Stability: Ghostwriters can earn a steady income, as their services are in demand across various industries.
Skill Development: Ghostwriting helps writers refine their craft, adapt to different styles, and improve their research skills.
Networking Opportunities: Ghostwriters can build relationships with clients, editors, and other industry professionals.
Famous Ghostwriters
Tom Clancy’s Ghostwriter: Grant Blackwood, who ghostwrote several Tom Clancy novels, is a notable example of a successful ghostwriter.
Nora Roberts’ Ghostwriters: Romance author Nora Roberts has worked with several ghostwriters over the years, producing numerous bestselling novels.
Andrew Nurnberg: A well-known literary agent and ghostwriter, Nurnberg has worked with prominent authors and celebrities.
The Future of Ghostwriting
As the demand for high-quality content continues to grow, the role of ghostwriters will remain essential. With the rise of AI-powered writing tools, ghostwriters will need to adapt and focus on creative, nuanced writing that machines can’t replicate.
In conclusion, ghostwriters are the invisible architects of the literary world, crafting stories and content that captivate audiences worldwide. While their work may go uncredited, their impact on the publishing industry and beyond is undeniable. As the demand for quality content continues to grow, the art of ghostwriting will remain a vital part of the writing landscape.
Dell Sweet provides articles, short stories or full-length novels on demand. Crime, Horror, Zombie, Apocalyptic, True Crime, Historical Fiction and more.
Example:
Long live the King
Put your copyright notice here
A legal notice here, IE: This story is a fabrication by the author. Any resemblance to actual places, persons or things is unintentional
This is copyright protected material, do not copy and or distribute or utilize this written material in any way.
Aaron walked slowly out of the bedroom, and into the kitchen area. The music had cut off, and suddenly too. And for just a second there. For just one small second there, he had felt as though the last ten years had slipped away, had been made unreal somehow, and he was back in the run-down trailer in good old Palmview trailer court, in Florida. Which was ridiculous, had to be ridiculous, and even he knew that it was ridiculous, but nevertheless it had felt that way.
It had, thank God nothing to do with that though. It was fifty years later, he wasn’t in Florida, and everything was… Well, regular. The damn breaker had flipped again. A friend had helped set it up, and most of the time it worked just fine, but sometimes, like this time, he thought it didn’t. Sometimes when the sun slipped behind a cloud the thing just shut down. And the reason was clear. The electricity was solar, and they had hooked up a battery back-up, but the back-up was shot, kaput, done, finished, the damn thing couldn’t hold a charge more than fifteen minutes on a good day, and the last several days had been far from good days. Barely any sunlight six days running and it didn’t look as though there would be any real quick. No big deal, he thought, as he switched off the main breaker, and then reset the one that had tripped. It wasn’t like there were factories just pumping out batteries any longer. He had come a long way since his days as the king of rock and roll. And he really had been the king for a while there, even after he died; after he was supposed to be dead, he had still been the king. Still on top and no one had come along to knock him out of that top spot either. The Star Reporter had still been doing articles about him ten years ago. ELVIS LIVING AS A VEGETABLE IN BRAZIL, was his favorite. Really? Please, give it a rest. How much, he wondered now did they have to pay those people to say those things? Probably, he concluded, as he always did with a dry chuckle absolutely nothing. They were glad to say it, needed to say it even and would say it regardless of whether they were paid or not. Wouldn’t they be surprised to know that he had really spent those years since he was supposed to have died flipping burgers in a run-down diner on the outskirts of Miami? No, he decided, that would be too boring to print. They would have never gone for that. Aaron chuckled once more and walked back into the bedroom. His friend had stopped by just a few hours before, and invited him over to dinner, no time to think about Slander Sheets now, time only to get ready and not just for dinner. After all, there was some serious business ahead. Very serious, and his friend might not know it yet, but Aaron did he knew it for a fact. And he also knew, had a feeling really that this time… This time the king might really die. He might really die, and… He chuckled once more, an uneasy chuckle and again began to trim the bushy sideburns that had been one of his trademarks so long ago. It made no difference. Not to him and most surely it wouldn’t make any to his friend. If it was time, it was time. Life hadn’t been so bad, at the least the last several decades hadn’t, not at all. In fact, the last several decades of not being the king, of not living in the shadow of being the king, of not reading all that garbage every day, those years had made all the other years more than worthwhile. If he died so be it, Mamma would be there and Aron would be there, and he had spoken to his friend about death, so he was no longer afraid of it. It was a known thing now, an understood thing and if he had to go he would. The sound of a motor came to him from outside, slightly loud. The exhaust, he knew, was going on his friend’s old truck. It was too dark in here to see all that well anyway without the light. He set down the scissors and left the bedroom just as a short and feeble-sounding toot came from the truck outside. His friend could use a new horn too, Aaron thought, as he opened the front door, and walked to the truck. The large speed boat moved quickly through the morning air across the choppy surface of the water. The dark-haired side-burned man at the wheel piloted the boat easily, although in truth it had been several years since he had been at the wheel of a boat of any kind. For the last five, he had been holed up in the run-down trailer, leaving only to walk to his job at the fast-food restaurant down the road. Even he had begun to grow sick of his existence. He tried to push the thoughts out of his mind. It no longer mattered, and he was determined to leave that part of him behind. It was too painful, a shadow existence, not at all what he had imagined it would be like. Despite his efforts to push it away, it all came back in a flood. All of it, not just the trailer, and his miserable existence there, but before the trailer, the life he had led before he had ended up there. If the trailer and the crappy string of jobs he had worked to stay alive was bad, the time before had been even worse for him. It hadn’t started that way. In fact, it had started simple, innocently even, with just one small lie. The lie hadn’t been told by him, but by Mamma. That lie had blossomed into a huge deception. A deception that he’d had to live every day in the old life.
Times had been tough then, Mamma had told him. You could tell a person that times had been tough, but telling them didn’t mean they truly understood it. No matter, the times really had been tough, very tough, and she had been forced to decide. No man to care for the family, no money, and twin baby boys, one at each breast. The solution, although painful, had been obvious, and her sister had been agreeable. She could not support both of them, one more mouth to feed was enough to contend with.
Time went by. A lot of time and he had gone on to become a somebody, to use Mamas words, a big somebody. And Mama hadn’t expected that, she had seen nothing beyond the miserable existence they lived, let alone that he would make it big. People would look up to her boy? They would place him on a pedestal? No sir, she had told him honestly she had never even imagined it at all.
Then she had told him with tears and a great many stops and starts, but she had told him. His twin brother had not died at birth. There was a body, but it had belonged to Mamma’s sister and that child had been still-born, his brother was very much alive somewhere in the back country of Mississippi.
It had quickly become an obsession for him, at least until he had found him, and brought him to the huge mansion to live with his real family. He never realized until after, that it had been a mistake. If life had been hard for him to cope with, it had been doubly hard for his brother. He had been unable, or unwilling to deal with it. To the world he was dead, a non person, and it had finally caught up to him.
His brother had taken his own life. Mamma was long dead at that time, and her passing the way she had, had taken a lot of the heart out of both of them. No one besides Mama and Mama’s sister had known of the brothers existence. He had even managed to hide it from his own wife.
By that time he himself had grown tired of life. His wife was ready to leave him, Mamma was dead, what was the use, he had wondered, and then he had walked into the bedroom to find his brother dead. A scatter of empty pill bottles surrounding him.
Everyone he had loved, everyone who had loved him, had gone. He was alone, and . . . he had simply walked away. He had taken some money with him, not a lot, a couple of thousand dollars he had kept in the bedroom wall safe, along with the pistol he kept next to the bed, and just walked away.
The money he hadn’t understood at first, but the pistol he had plans for. He had intended to end it, the whole lie, one quick shot to the head, and he could join Mamma and his brother.
In the end he simply had not been able to pull the trigger, and, the way things had turned out, he supposed he was glad he hadn’t.
He had been riding in the cab of an old beat pickup early the next morning, when he had heard the news. The driver had picked him up hitchhiking, just ten minutes before. He had listened with shock, as the special news bulletin had broke into the music. The old farmer that had given him the ride, had gave him a strange look as he had reacted to the news. “Din’t you hear ’bout it?”
He had only wagged his head no.
“Yep, right on the shitter too, the king was on his throne at the end, that’s for sure.” he chuckled briefly at the small joke. “You know, you look sorta like him. Bet you heard that before though, huh?”
He had managed to snap his mouth shut, and thought quietly about it instead as they drove along. He was dead, or so the radio said, and wasn’t that a crock? And how had his brothers body gotten from the bedroom, to the bathroom? No answers.
At first he had felt nothing at all except a sense of sadness and a realization that once he surfaced he would have to set the record straight.
The old man driving the truck had dropped him off in the middle of Alabama later that day and as he stood hitching a ride further south it had suddenly dawned on him.
He had been about to climb up into the cab of an eighteen wheeler when it struck him, and he had stopped cold. The driver, after staring at him for a few seconds, had taken off like the hounds of hell were on his tail. The truck door slammed shut of its own accord, and he had been left standing in the dust, thinking.
That had been the start, and with the remaining money he had on him he had bought the trailer, which even then had been old and run-down and had begun his new life. It hadn’t been a bad life, much better than the one before, but it had slowly been suffocating him. Every time he picked up one of the slander sheets, as he thought of them his name was in it.
He was being kept alive on the moon, or working at a donut shop, whatever. Garbage story after garbage story, his ex-wife was doing this or that, his body guard had done this or that it was beginning to drive him crazy. That and the new music. At first it hadn’t been too bad, or at least not mainstream too bad, but then, as far as he was concerned, it had gone down hill fast. The only good thing had been the bargain bins at the local thrift store, stuffed with fifties music on cassette tapes for a buck a piece. It had been a gold mine, that and the cheap plastic cassette player he had bought used for five bucks. It had kept him going a long time, or at least as long as he had needed to keep going, he realized.
The press had found him. Just a odd chance in a million, maybe a billion, but they had found him. He had caught the photographer hiding out in the bushes at the edge of his driveway. A lady in a nearby mom and pops store had seen him and called the paper to report it. The reporter had thought it was bullshit, or so he had told Arron, but the very next day he had caught him nosing around his garbage. No good for him if the guy was digging that deeply into it. Although there was nothing in the garbage that would help him; if he really was that motivated he would eventually find something to prove who he was.
So, he had called his friend. In the early years he had done a little debt collection for a local bookie. Not something he was proud of, but you did what you did to survive, and the early years had been lean. That connection had been there for years. The bookie retired, the son took over and Aron still did a few favors for him. Now he needed a favor and so, he had asked.
It was no trouble for the son. He had made the arrangements in just a few hours. Louisiana. Swamp country, a place in the middle of nowhere where no reporters ever came, unless they wanted to leave in a box. The trailer home would have an accident. The investigators would find a body. That would be that. So, he had to die, but like the last time it was not a real death.
He glanced over his shoulder at the horizon as the boat plowed through the water. Now he had a new life, a real new life, and he could be any one he wanted to be. Live anywhere he wanted to live, and there would be no more shadows over his life.
He smiled into the wind. It felt good, really good, he told himself, and he was looking forward to being a real person.
As the boat plowed along through the Louisiana bayou country, he said a silent prayer of thanks. God had delivered him, he felt, to a life that was filled with possibilities. The best of which was just being a regular person, as they used to say back in Mississippi, just regular…
An example of a short story. If you need to check out some of my novel length work let me know. I also do cover design, Amazon Kindle and Paperback formatting and ePub production. Dell Sweet wendellsweet7@gmail.com Subject: Ghostwriter … Important, if you contact me via email make sure to mark the subject matter as Ghostwriter or I will not respond. Thank you. Phone number will be provided and immediate answer eMail upon hiring me.
