Why I like Prologues (Part 1)

I am sometimes asked why my books have Prologues. Many authors consider them old fashioned. I prefer to think of them as extensions of the book blurb, which serves as a teaser to readers. If the blurb piques my interest, I like another short piece of prose—a Prologue—to see whether or not the tale will continue to hold my attention.

The purpose of my Prologue is to set the tone for the reader. The subject matter contained in it may predate, be contemporary with, or only remotely participate in the tale, Nonetheless, each performs a certain task, such as introducing characters, revealing situations, or grounding the reader in the times.

As for being out-of-date, remember: What goes around, comes around.

Let’s take a look at two prologues by another local writer with Oklahoma roots.

*****

 Autumn 1831 along the Allegheny River

But for improvident fate, angry, boiling clouds would have unleashed nature’s cold fury upon this Yankee river valley the day he buried his ma and pa. Perversely, a rose-hued dawn washed the tall forests and granite bluffs in a warm autumn glow.

Prosperous Tory farmers, his forebears had rallied to Benedict Arnold’s American Legion during the Great Rebellion, participating in raids on Ft. Griswold and New London. Their lands confiscated, their very lives at risk, the family joined the migration of a hundred thousand Loyalists to Canada and the Mother Country upon the Crown’s surrender to the victorious Continental rebels.

At the turn of the century, his pa brought the little family south from Toronto to unsuccessfully petition for the restoration of their prosperity, but old hatreds die lingering deaths, and Tories were subjected anew to high prejudices with the burning of the President’s House in the War of 1812. The Marquis de Lafayette’s return to these shores in August 1824, and the old revolutionary’s warm reception by James Monroe, the last American President to fight in the Rebellion, put the barm on the brew, sentencing the family to hard labor merely to meet the cain on farmland that once had been their own.

Life doubly rocked the slender young man with hair the color of sandy soil and hazel irises shot with brown and green and gold when the tragic deaths of his parents in a farmhouse fire followed hard on the heels of a doomed affair with the daughter of a family of Patriots who had no use for Tories—real or reformed. The discovery of a hundred carefully hoarded gold English Pounds in the ashes of the family cabin confirmed his determination to abandon this hateful land and retrace the footsteps of his boyhood idol, Jedidiah Strong Smith, the legendary trapper and explorer of the Far West.

The passage above is the Prologue from Mark Wildyr’s CUT HAND. What does it tell us? Most certainly we have met and been provided a casual description of the book’s protagonist at a time when profound change rocks his life. We know that his viewpoint of the American Revolution is different from that of most who will be reading this book, a clue that the rest of the story will be seen through strange eyes, as well. We understand that our hero is being propelled through life by the sweep of history, and we can anticipate that this is what we will see throughout the remainder of this erotic historical novel. And we can anticipate that much of the novel will be told in colonial American and early American English. So we know or intuit a great deal from this Prologue

                                                                       *****

Let’s take a look at Wildyr’s MEDICINE HAIR, the fourth book in his Cut Hand Series. Likewise an erotic novel with a historical background, this book’s Prologue performs a different chore.

Monday, September 10, 1883, Turtle Crick Farm, Dakota Territory

Puzzled by the rosy hue of the crick water, he shifted his gaze to a western skyline pulsing with spectacular crimsons and shimmering corals. The horizon appeared ablaze, yet a cool breeze lapped his face. No hint of heat. No taste of smoke. His horses grazed placidly. This was no wildfire. It was another of those remarkable prairie sunsets.

The bizarre events had started a fortnight ago. He’d sensed movement beneath his feet. A few days later, air currents in a normally calm season. Hazy, filtered light. Sun dogs, usually rare and most often observed in cold months, now frequent. Moons the color of moldy cheese one night and as blue as a jay’s wing the next.

Despite his education, he heard the singing of his tribal blood and thought of witchcraft. Powerful medicine was at work.

We can discern the viewer (likely our protagonist) is a farmer puzzled by unusual natural phenomena. We also understand that wildfires are a hazard on the Dakota plains. Although likely a Native American, the man is educated yet not totally free of tribal mysticism. We tend to believe that what is happening here will be immediately important to the story. In fact, we are seeing mixed-blood John Strobaw as he is launched on the road to becoming Medicine Hair, a noted and respected shaman among the Sioux.

You will note that the first example, that from Cut Hand, is told from an omniscient point of view. The narrator knows facts the young man who is the point of the Prologue would likely not know. But the one from Medicine Hair is told from the third person limited point of view. Interestingly, both book are thereafter told from the first person point of view.

Glad to see I’m not the only writer who likes Prologues. The next time you run across one in a book you haven’t read as yet, study it a little to figure out what it’s designed to tell you.

Next week, we’ll take a look at another Okie’s approach to Prologues, which is a little different. In the meantime, keep on reading.

Feel free to contact me at dontravis21@gmail.com.

New Posts at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday

SouthWest Writers’ Novel Conference

This past Saturday, I volunteered at the Novel Conference hosted by SouthWest Writers, the state’s premier organization for professional and aspiring writers. I decided to blog about it because, heretofore, I’ve been somewhat ambivalent about such activities. This one, I found to be interesting and informative. Perhaps the fact I volunteered rather than was a participant shaped my feelings somewhat; nevertheless, I wanted to share a bit of the program with you.

This conference was organized around two representatives of literary firms that are players on the national scene. This year they were Mark Gottlieb, a literary agent at the Trident Media Group, and Annabella Hochschild, Editorial Assistant at St. Martin’s Press. Both guests addressed the group and took a series of pitches from attendees ranging from published to aspiring authors.

The subject of Mark’s talk was “Get it While it’s Hot: Musings on What Sells in Major Trade Publishing. TMG has been in business since 2000, and Mark has been ranked as high as
#1 on Agents on publishersmarketplace.com in Overall Deals. He has other top rankings in such various interests as Science Fiction/Fantasy, Thriller, Mystery/Crime, Romance and Young Adult.

Annabella addressed the group on “The Pitching Process,” focusing on what makes some pitches work and some fall flat. She worked for Vogue before moving to St. Martin’s Press to work on the desk of Tim Bartlett, who specializes in political and economic serious non-fiction.

As fascinating as it was to hear from professionals on the national scene, I found our local speakers to be equally engaging.

Johnny D. Boggs, winner of both the Western Heritage Wrangler Award and the Spur Award, spoke on the subject: “There’s No Crying in Publishing.” His talk addressed getting your novel published by a traditional publisher. JohnnyDBoggs.com.

Robin Perini’s topic was “The Power of Love: The Romance Market Uncovered.” She is an award-winning, international bestselling author and RITA finalist who has been on the Top 5 on Amazon Bestseller lists in the U.S., UK, and Germany. RobinPerini.com.

Joseph Badal talked to the group on “What’s Happening in Publishing for Thrillers and Mysteries.” Joe has published nine novels and was named One of 50 Authors You Should Be Reading in 2011, won first in the 2013 NM?AZ Book Awards in the Fiction-Mystery/Thriller category, the Tony Hillerman Prize for Best Fiction, and other prestigious awards. JosephBadalBooks.com.

Caroline Starr Rose spoke on “KidLit 101: Defining Terms, Knowing Your Audience, and Breaking In. She was named a Publishers Weekly Flying Start Author for her debut novel, May B, which was also an ALA-ALSC Notable Children’s Book. CarolineStarrRose.com.

*****

My reason for bringing up something already over and done with? I just wanted to toss kudos to Rob Spiegel, President of SWW and Joanne Bodin, Conference chair for the group. Well done, guys.

Oh yes, I also wanted to encourage my readers’ participation in such conferences, and if there’s not one available in your area, to consider organizing one. I’m sure Rob and Joanne and any number of others at SWW would be glad to give you some helpful suggestions. SWW’s email address is: swwriters@juno.com.

Feel free to contact me at dontravis21@gmail.com.

New Posts published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.

Smoky

Let’s try a short short story this week. No, I didn’t computer stutter, and there’s no comma between the shorts because first short modifies the second short, which modifies story, so it’s cumulative, requiring no comma. You might argue it needs one for "readability's" sake. Why did I go off in that direction? I’ll put it down to age and move on.

Hope you like the bit of nonsense that follows:

*****

SMOKY

I called her Smoky.

Her real name was Gwendolyn, and I was in love with her from the moment I met her in freshman English at the University of New Mexico. It was a big class, and I was fortunate enough to sit beside her one day. Before the bell rang, I screwed up the courage to utter the most difficult five words I’d ever spoken.

“Hi, I’m Am. Ambrose Haller.”

She looked puzzled before responding. “Gwendolyn Sharp. Nice to meet you.”

Understanding her confusion, I stiffened my spine and spoke again. “I didn’t stutter. I really said ‘I’m Am.’ That’s what everybody calls me instead of Ambrose.

“Oh? Then she smiled. Smiled with her whole being. With her eyes as well as her lips. Her irises were gray. Not pale. Dark. Smoky gray. They seemed infused with swirling mists of changing shades and shapes. I’d never seen eyes like that before. So she became Smoky to me.

Her laugh was crystal pinging on silver. “Let’s do that over again. Hi, Am, I’m Gwen.”

When I took the dainty hand she offered, some part of my heart seemed to flow through our clasped fingers into hers. Did she recognize what had just happened?

Professor Sorloff called the class to attention, breaking the magic of the moment and earning my undying enmity. Damn Sorloff! Why was somebody with a name like that teaching freshman English, anyway?

For one hour, three days a week over two semesters, I sat beside my angel. Although almost everyone else I knew despised the class, I could hardly wait for 9:00 a.m. on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. We became friends, almost intimates. Maisie Hines probably fit that role better than I; nonetheless, Smoky shared some confidences that made me feel close to her. I suffered some setbacks, as well. There was the boyfriend, Dirk, who showed up after class to claim her as though he owned her.Later came the bitter breakup that left her shaken and unhappy.

My opportunity, right? I thought so, too, but while she shared some of her feelings with me, it was a strapping footballer named Randall who apparently had a more comfortable shoulder. The school term staggered to a close with me little more than a classmate to my beautiful Smoky.

My sophomore year was a drag because she transferred to New Mexico State. Only later did I learn she’d followed her football tight end to Las Cruces.

Twenty years passed before I glanced through the one-way glass wall of my manager’s office at the Central Avenue Branch of the Spartan Bank into the lobby where a woman waiting in line for a teller caught my attention. She was wearing a pair of large, very dark glasses, something a sign prominently displayed on the doors discouraged. As usual, I took special notice of someone who might be attempting to mask her identity. The tall woman was quite well-formed. I’m not certain if I made that mental note as a banker looking at a potential scam artist or as a man who’d recently undergone a bitter divorce. Regardless of the reason, she was in my sights now.

The woman was not a regular customer of the branch yet somehow looked familiar. Drawn by curiosity—or perhaps caution—I moved into the lobby to stand at the tall table that once held blank deposit slips and counter checks before banks went to computers and did away with such necessities. She stood in profile to me as she moved up the line.

Her pleasant features sent my mind racing over wanted posters and past relationships, but I still had not pulled whatever was niggling at me from my memory banks by the time she finished her transaction and started for the door. On impulse, I moved to intercept her.

“Excuse me, ma’m,” I said. “I’m Mr. Haller, the manager. May I welcome you to our branch?”

She halted abruptly, which excited my suspicion.

“Am?” She pulled off the shades and looked up at me.

“Smoky!” I exclaimed.

Her laugh still sent shivers down my back “I haven’t been called that in years. It’s good to hear it again.” She held out her arms and gave me a brief embrace.

“I lost track of you after you transferred to State.”

“I’ve wondered about you often. So you’re a banker?” That tinkling laugh again. “My banker. I just opened an account last week.”

She was more beautiful as a mature woman than she had ever been as a teen. Back then her looks merely promised something. Now she delivered on that promise. True beauty.

Somehow we ended up agreeing to meet for coffee after work. She was employed as an electrical engineer at a firm a couple of blocks down the street. In that enchanted half-hour, I confessed my recent divorce and learned of her difficult breakup from her husband… that same footballer who’d taken her away all those years ago.

That coffee was succeeded by dinner a few nights later. That gave rise to others. Then came the magical night where I found myself where I’d never dared dream I would be.

On top of Old Smoky.

*****

What a pathetic ending, but somehow I wasn’t able to stop myself. Oh well, feel free to lodge your complaints at dontravis21@gmail.com.

New Posts published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.

Wordwrights Writing Class

Wordwrights Writing Class Logo

For the past three years, a colleague and I have co-hosted a class for people interested in writing. Every Monday afternoon (except for holidays) some fifteen to twenty-five of us gather in classroom 1 at the North Domingo Baca Multigenerational Center (7521 Carmel NE) in Albuquerque for a meeting of the Wordwrights Writing Class. Promptly at 1:30 p.m., we open with a Weekly Tip covering some aspect of writing, ranging from how to construct a sentence, proper use and placement of modifiers, involving the senses in your work, tenses, viewpoint, and the like.

Next, Dennis Kastendiek reads from and talks about various authors who have caught his attention. Thereafter, for about an hour and a half, various class members read from their work and accept comments from the class. Our group is open-ended, meaning it is free to any and all. Those who join us attend when they wish or skip classes when life gets in the way.

Membership is eclectic. We have published authors, serious writers struggling to be published, beginning writers, and people who just want the stimulation of being around creative people. We are poets and memoirists, novelists and essayists, technical writers and film reviewers… and of course, those who haven’t yet settled on exactly what they want to be.

Our writers have a number of projects underway. I won’t try to cover all of them, but here are some of our current efforts:

·       A cozy murder mystery opening with a body covered with chocolate in a bakery

·       A novel based on some gristly Hungarian murders in the 19th century

·       A book of poems based on the writer’s dating partners over the years

·       An early 20^th century novel about a young woman breaking the shackles of convention and coming into her own

·       A woman both charmingly and courageously excising her traumatic past by facing it through her poetry

·       A novel based on an ancient Egyptian princess who some believe gave Scotland her name

·       An essayist who brings the class to laughter with his clever twists on life’s lessons

There are many more, but for the sake of brevity, I’ll stop here.

The point of this post? You’re welcome to join us if you wish, but more importantly, if there is no such group in your area, consider starting one. I am convinced that everyone in our class would tell you the results are worth the effort. As a matter of interest, this writing class has been going on for eleven continuous years. Rob Spiegel and Larry Greenley from SouthWest Writers (New Mexico’s largest professional writing organization), started the class and ran it for eight years before turning it over to Dennis and me. That says a lot for the worthiness of the idea.

*****

I know this post is a bit different, but it’s something I’ve been thinking about for a while, so I finally sat down and wrote it. Hope you’ll consider becoming involved in such an effort… or start a class if there’s not one available in your neighborhood.

Feel free to lodge your comments at dontravis21@gmail.com.

New Posts published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.

THE ZOZOBRA INCIDENT Due for Re-release by DSP Publications in Fall 2016

As some of you know, the BJ Vinson mystery novels have been picked up by DSP Publications, an imprint of Dreamspinner Press. The first book, THE ZOZOBRA INCIDENT is due out this fall. A specific date hasn’t been set but is anticipated to be in September. THE BISTI BUSINESS and THE CITY OF ROCKS will follow one after the other approximately four months apart. Having recently completed the second edit of ZOZOBRA with Dreamspinner’s editorial staff, I’d like to post a particular scene from that novel. What follows occurs at the beginning of Chapter 3, and is the first time our confidential investigator meets Paul Barton, a young man who will become intimately involved with both BJ, personally, and the difficult and deadly case he is working on.

The following is from the second draft of the novel, which is a "Track Changes" document. Some of the edited changes show up as blue text. I thought that might be interesting for some of you, so it remains in the post.

*****

THE ZOZOBRA INCIDENT

I relaxed on a chaise lounge amid the clashing odors of chlorine from the pool and the summer roses climbing the whitewashed adobe walls as I eyed the North Valley Country Club’s new lifeguard. Lean, loose-limbed, and broad shouldered, he had the ideal swimmer’s build, reminding me somewhat of Del, even though Del was a Teutonic blue-eyed blond, whereas this young man was bronzed and brunette, and his eyes were likely brown. Up close, the dark shape on the left pec would probably morph into a small tattoo. Spandex seldom did anything for me, but his thigh-hugging, well-filled trunks were… interesting.

As the place was deserted at this early hour except for the two of us, the lifeguard turned pool boy and policed the area, scooping fallen leaves and debris from the water with one of those baskets mounted on a long aluminum pole. He worked his way to my side and netted a soggy candy wrapper.

“Kids,” he observed in a pleasant baritone.

Seized by an unexpected need that was 90 percent loneliness, I did something I had not done in twelve long months—reacted to the good-looking guy. Flustered, I fumbled for the orange juice on a table beside me and overturned my glass.

He knelt to recover the tumbler, holding it up and offering to get me another.

Yep, brown eyes, deep and soulful. Dangerous eyes on one so young. He couldn’t be more than twenty. The dark spot above the nipple was a small dragon.

“No, thanks. Nothing left but ice cubes, anyway. But I appreciate your offer, uh….”

“Paul. Paul Barton.”

“Paul.” I was surprised by the family name. There was a strong Latin look about him. Must be the mother’s blood.

“Anytime.”

He rose, our eyes locked—and the penny dropped. This was the young man I had seen dancing so energetically at the C&W last night. He broke first, raking me with his intense gaze. His lips twitched as he zeroed in on a two-inch scar on my inner right thigh. My body looked pretty good except for that purple, puckered blemish. At first I’d been spooked by Del’s reaction to the pockmark and tried to hide it from the world. But after putting up with that foolishness for six months, I said to hell with it. The world was full of imperfections, and it could deal with this one too.

“Bullet wound,” I said.

“Damn, I’ll bet that hurt.”

My throat closed up at his casual treatment of the wound. Maybe I wasn’t as blasé as I thought. “Like you wouldn’t believe. That’s why I swim early in the morning. Therapy.”

“Swimming’s the best exercise in the world,” he declared like a true water bug. “And you were really going at it a few minutes ago. Looked pretty good out there.”

“Thanks.”

As Paul turned back to the pool, a cell phone on a nearby table piped the first line of “Dixie.” The conversation was short. He admitted to someone named Jill that he got off work at five but said he’d decided to cool it this evening, turning down what was obviously an offer of some sort. Was it coincidental he was watching me throughout the entire brief conversation?

*****

There's definitely something going on here. It'll be nice to become better acquainted with this hunky Latin guy.

The cover art of the new release will be different, and there are a few tweaks in the prose (as you can see from the blue text above), so I’m really anxious to see the final product.

Thanks for being readers… and keep up the good work. Let me know what you think at dontravis21@gmail.com.

New posts published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.

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Don Travis: Rio Puerco Aphrodite- Conclusion, A Short Story

Don Travis: Rio Puerco Aphrodite- Conclusion, A Short Story: More of the Rio Puerco Valley Courtesy of geoinfo.nmt.edu Last week, we met Mack Macklerod , an Albuquerque engineer on vacation in th...

Rio Puerco Aphrodite- Conclusion, A Short Story

More of the Rio Puerco Valley
Courtesy of geoinfo.nmt.edu

Last week, we met Mack Macklerod, an Albuquerque engineer on vacation in the Rio Puerco Valley just as a vision seemed to rise from the waters of the Rio Puerco... to his mind, a local Aphrodite in need of help. Mack is perfectly willing to go to her aid, but circumstances dictate that they spend the night together in his camp beside the river. Let’s see what comes after a night of energetic love-making in the conclusion. I’ve included the closing chapters of last week’s post to ground us in the story again.

*****

RIO PUERCO APHRODITE (Conclusion)

I’d claimed I wasn’t a savage, but I morphed into one as soon as she turned to me in the tight confines of the sleeping bag and planted a wet kiss on my mouth. I’ve had my share of sex, but no one had ever given me a ride like Linsey. And she barely let me get my wind back before she came for a second helping. I went to sleep with her murmuring “Thank you” in my ear.

Sometime later, I came half-awake as she started squirming around.

“Sorry,” she said. “Call of nature. And it can’t be denied.

The campfire was dead, but she was silhouetted against a starlit sky as she performed a delicate dance pulling on her shorts and tank top.

“Brrr!” she said. “Can I borrow your boots and parka?”

“Sure. You don’t have to be bashful. I won’t peek. I’m going back to sleep.”

“Thanks, cowboy, but I like my privacy. I’ll go over by the Jeep.”

I was almost back to sleep when a common ordinary noise I’d heard a thousand times brought me upright in the fart sack. The sound of an engine struggling to turn over and catch. Disoriented, I reached for my keys where she’d thrown them last night on my pack. They were there. I shook my head, trying to make sense of things. Had someone driven in at this time of night?

Then the engine caught, and I recognized the sound of my own vehicle. I held the keyring up to the starlight. It didn’t take long to realize that the long, distinctive key to the Wrangler was missing.

I came up out of the bag and scrambled to find my boots.

My boots! She had them. As she did my flashlight and my vehicle. Bright lights stabbed the night, blinding me and revealing my nakedness. I thought I caught a wolf whistle just before the Jeep slammed into gear and began moving.

Infuriated, I tried to give chase, but was reduced to hurling rocks at the retreating vehicle. Through a red haze of anger, I realized to give chase barefoot in the darkness was to invite cutting up my feet and possibly crippling myself. It was going to be hard to maneuver the rocks and weeds when the sun came up. In the dark, it was impossible.

Still muttering to myself, I crawled back into the sleeping bag for some warmth. No way would I get any more sleep this night.

But I must have because I woke later that morning to a clear, beautiful day. Then remembering what had happened a few hours earlier, I charged out of the bag swearing a blue streak. After venting my rage, I settled down and accepted my situation. It might be days before anyone wandered within hailing distance. I’d have to figure out how to save myself.

My backpack gave me a couple of pair of thick socks to put on my feet to make walking easier. But this volcanic rock would soon shred wool socks to pieces. So I sacrificed my backpack by cutting out two hunks of canvas to fashion into sandals. I always carried spare laces, so I had a way to bind them to my feet. That took an hour, but I had a little mobility now. Enough so that I could at least try to walk back up to the mesa where there would be more people moving about.

I had just finished eating a breakfast of cold cereal—that I didn’t really want but ate to keep up my strength—when I caught the sound of a helicopter. I made my careful way to the river bank and spotted the craft high in the western sky. Although there was little chance they’d see me, I waved my arms until they were out of sight.

An environmentalist to the end, I hid my things in a clump of juniper, keeping only those items I needed for survival… such as my half-full canteen. The Rio Puerco is a dirty river, meaning that it carries a high amount of suspended particulate matter. Nonetheless, I would have to fill my canteen before starting on my difficult journey.

As I knelt at the riverbank to accomplish that chore, a horrendous racket momentarily transfixed me. I twisted around in time to see an olive green helicopter clear the mound behind me and pass overhead so close that the wash from the rotor toppled me over. I caught myself with my right hand, but the canteen became dislodged and began to float away. I recovered my balance and grabbed at the strap, but it eluded me and went on its merry way to join the waters of the Rio Grande.

The loud, whacking noises persisted, drawing my attention back to the chopper. The machine now hovered twenty feet above the swift-moving river. The big white letters on the side spelling out the word “Police” were reassuring until two men in camouflage gear appeared at the rear door bearing mean-looking rifles. One of them spoke into something at his mouth.

“On the ground now, Haynes!” ordered an amplified voice struggling to be heard over the roar of the big machine’s motor.

I waved my arms. “I’m not—”

“Now!” the voice roared, clearly audible now. “Or we open fire!”

I dropped into the mud and had to support my torso on my hands to keep my head out of the water. I heard rather than saw the two men splash into the shallow river and slosh toward me. In a moment one stood on each side of me. Arms caught me beneath the shoulders and hauled me to a sitting position. Now my butt was in the water.

“Where are your weapons?” one man demanded as he turned to give a thumbs-up signal to the helicopter hovering over the river. The machine immediately whacked its noisy way off to the north.

I blinked into the face of the speaker, a weathered man with a hawk nose who carried an air of authority. “Weapons? I don’t have any.”

“Yeah, right. Take a look, Gilpin.”

His companion took time to cuff my hands behind my back before complying.

“W-who are you, and why are you holding me prisoner?” I struggled to put some strength in my voice.

“Sergeant Joe Mora of the New Mexico State Police. And you know damned well why you’re in cuffs, Hastings.”

“Hastings? Who’s Hastings.”

“You are, and don’t try to deny it. Where's your partner?”

“What partner? And my name’s not Hastings. It’s Macklerod.”

“Right, and that’s not your red Nissan Xterra disabled in the middle of Leaping Frog Arroyo a mile north, either. Right?”

“That’s right. My Jeep Wrangler’s somewhere on the way back on its way to Albuquerque or wherever with the woman who stole it last night.”

It’s hard to sound indignant when telling a take-charge, go-get-um cop you got snookered by a pretty woman.

One of the two men dug around in my pocket and extracted my wallet. A moment later, he confirmed my ID said I was Macklerod.

Mora released my hands from the manacles. “Okay, get up.”

I rose and started trying to swipe mud off my face and clothing.

“Hands up. Hold still.”

“But you have my—”

“IDs can be phonied.” He held up a photograph, stared at it, and then transferred his steely-eyed stare to me. “Okay, so you aren’t Julian Hastings. Put your hands down and tell me what happened.

During the telling of my tale, we heard the chopper clatter back and land nearby. Another couple of officers approached through the trees as I finished.

“Found Hastings in the Nissan. Dead.”

Mora relaxed a bit. “Shot?”

The officer who’s helmet had the letters P-I-L-O-T painted on it nodded. “Yep. The witnesses were right. The guard shot him during the escape, but why didn’t Breckers leave him at a hospital somewhere. I didn’t have her pegged as a callous killer.”

“She’s a trained nurse, remember. Maybe she was going to treat him herself. Besides, they were being pushed hard. APD wasn’t far behind her until she finally gave them the slip in Rio Rancho.”

“Breckers?” I asked. “Was her first name Linsey?”

All four law enforcement officers turned their attention back to me.

“That’s the name she gave me, anyway.” I explained.

“Yeah, Linsey Breckers. That’s the name she’s going by now. Who knows what her real one is.”

“What’s she done?”

Mora ignored me and turned away to take care of the business of broadcasting a description of my vehicle, but his headset wouldn’t reach, so he snared the pilot to give him some altitude in order to accomplish that chore.

Before leaving he turned back and answered my question. “Jewelry store heist. One that turned deadly. Hastings shot the guard when he blundered in on the scene from a coffee break. But the guard got off a round and apparently hit his killer. Tit for tat, I guess. Was Breckers carrying anything when she showed up on your doorstep?”

I frowned in concentration. “Yeah. She had a bag. You know, the usual kind women carry. It had a shoulder strap.” I paused. “It wasn’t that big. Maybe 8x12.”

“Doesn’t take much to carry a million dollars’ worth of diamonds and rubies and gold,” the pilot responded.”

I cast nervous eyes skyward as the helicopter lifted off and gained some altitude. I needed a ride out of this joint, but Mora wouldn’t leave his own men stranded here, would he?

As I puzzled over this, one of the remaining two state troopers wearing a name tag reading Wilson grabbed me to identify anything Linsey Breckers had touched. Unfortunately, I’m a neat camper and the mess gear she’d eaten from was already sand-scoured and washed clean. When he learned she’d spent the night—or part of one, anyway—in my sleeping bag, Wilson confiscated the sack so the lab could look for DNA. Oh, lord! What else would he find in there after our energetic romps?

Eventually the state police were finished on the Rio Puerco and condescended to give me a lift to their office in Albuquerque. No one seemed inclined to offer me a ride to my house, so I called a taxi.

As I was paying the cab driver, my neighbors, Dennis and Bunny Wharton came flying out of their house and halted abruptly on their way to the orange Chevy Blazer sitting in their drive.

“Mack! You’re okay?” Dennis shouted.

I dropped my gear on the driveway and walked to meet them.“Yeah. Shook up, but okay. Why?”

“We got a phone call a few minutes ago saying you were stranded over in the Rio Puerco.”

I felt my eyebrows climb. “You did? Who called?”

Bunny spoke up. “Some woman. She didn’t identify herself. Just said you were stranded and needed help. There wasn’t any caller ID. Blocked, it said.”

“How long ago?”

“Not more than five minutes. I just took the time to check the computer for your email message before heading out to find you.”

Dennis and I habitually informed one another of our camping plans whenever we went off alone on a jaunt. Our emails usually included a Google Earth map of our planned route.

Goosebumps prickled my back. Promising an explanation later, I raced for the front door. I fumbled my way inside and checked every room. No one was there, but someone had been.

Linsey had taken time to heat one of the Healthy Choice frozen dinners in my freezer—and confiscate a couple of others for the road. She’d also left me a note on the kitchen counter.

Lovely home. Didn’t see any sign of a woman in your life, though. Shame, you’re so good at taking care of one. Wish I’d met you before… Well, before.

You’ll find your Jeep in the garage, if you haven’t already. Undamaged and a bit cleaner than I found it. Used the garage opener to gain access to your house. You really should install a home alarm system for frustrate people like me.

Thanks for your help, even if it was unwilling help. Wish things could be different. Who knows, maybe one day you’ll look up and there I’ll be, standing right in front of you with a big smile on my face. And there would be if my eyes were looking at you.

For the record, I didn’t simply abandon Julian. He kept insisting he’d be okay until we reached a safe spot. I should have suspected he was hurt worse than he thought when he fell silent. I’ll always feel guilty about not halting—even in plain sight of the police—and helping him survive.

I didn’t abandon you, either. I took the liberty of getting your neighbor’s phone number from your Rolodex. I’ll call them later when it’s safe to do so and let them know you need help.

                                                Love…Linsey

The Jeep Wrangler sat in the garage scrubbed cleaner than it had been in some time. She’d gotten my address from the insurance card in the glove box and put my car where the cops would never have found it. They’d be scouring the roads and highways thinking she was fleeing in my vehicle. But it was hidden in my garage before the police helicopter ever found me. How had she made her way from my house to wherever? She was a clever gal who apparently found a way.

I wrestled with my conscience for a good quarter of an hour before concluding I needed to turn the note over the police. But I was tired and needed sleep. I’d do it after I snatched a few hours of zzzzs.

*****

Was that what you expected for the concluding part of the story? It wasn’t for me… and I wrote it. It’s a case of characters grappling control from the author’s hand and doing whatever they want. It seems that way sometimes, at any rate.

I hope you enjoyed this little tale. Let me know what you think of it at dontravis21@gmail.com.

New posts published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.

Don Travis: Rio Puerco Aphrodite- Part 1, A Short Story

Don Travis: Rio Puerco Aphrodite- Part 1, A Short Story: Last week’s blog was about a trip I took to the Rio Puerco Valley a few weeks back, discovering for myself that one didn’t have to drive hu...

Rio Puerco Aphrodite- Part 1, A Short Story

Last week’s blog was about a trip I took to the Rio Puerco Valley a few weeks back, discovering for myself that one didn’t have to drive hundreds of miles to find hoodoos and broken bluffs. That trip inspired the following short story. Unfortunately, it grew to the point where I need to break it in half. So we’ll get he opening of the story this week and the conclusion next week. I hope you enjoy the tale.

*****

The Rio Puerco with Cabezon Peak
in the background
Photo Courtesy of geoinfo.nmt.edu

RIO PUERCO APHRODITE

She was just there. Suddenly. Unaccountably. Standing motionless twenty yards away like a Greek Aphrodite risen from the sea foam. Or this case from the Rio Puerco, which translates into Pig River, giving the illusion an ironic twist. Even clad in short shorts, halter, and canvas walking shoes—inappropriate for the environment—the erotic image still lingered.

I had been perfectly content to be alone in this rugged section of the Rio Puerco Valley. So far as I knew, I was the only soul in this volcanic wasteland served by the ephemeral Rio Puerco, even though not more than twenty miles to the east lay Rio Rancho and Albuquerque. I say ephemeral because that’s what they call a river without streamflow for a good part of the year. At the moment, it was semi-full of water flowing peacefully past my campsite on its journey south to join the Rio Grande somewhere below Belen.

The population of my little Eden doubled when the blonde-tressed, alabaster statue came alive and stumbled toward me with a delicate hand shading her blue eyes. “Thank God! Can you help me?” she asked in a throaty alto.

I rose from where I had been cleaning my solar cook stove to face her. “If I can, ma’am. What’s the problem?”

“I’m stranded. I need a ride back to Albuquerque.”

“Well, sure. I’ll be happy to help you.” I frowned. “How’d you get here? I mean, where’s your vehicle. If it conked out, maybe I can get it running. I’m a decent home garage mechanic.” I clamped my mouth shut to keep from babbling on.

“About a mile north, but don’t bother. The engine froze, and there’s oil all over the ground.”

“Must have high-grounded and tore out the oil pan.”

“I guess.” She glanced at my Jeep Wrangler in the near distance. “But your car works all right, doesn’t it?”

I saw the puzzlement in her eyes and explained why the vehicle was parked so far from where I’d made camp. “The Rio Puerco has a reputation for sudden flooding, and I don’t want my lifeline to civilization to be caught in one.”

“Oh.”

“I’m happy to help, but it’s a little late to tackle the road back to town.”

She turned to glance west where the low-hanging sun was painting a brilliant landscape for the folks of New Mexico. “We should be able to make it.”

I shrugged and reasoned with her. “The best road back to town is north, the way you came in. And you tore out the bottom of your car in broad daylight.”

“Can’t go that way. It’s blocked. My dead Nissan is sitting right in the middle of the road in a nasty wash.”

“Well, there you go. I’m not about to tackle the south road this time of day. We’d lose the light before we even get to the bad spots in the road. You’ll just have to stay the night, and we’ll start out early in the morning.”

An irritated look flashed across her features for a moment. “I guess you’re right. Does your cell phone have any bars? Mine’s useless.”

“So’s mine. Don’t worry. I’m not a savage. You’ll be safe with me. My name’s Mack, by the way. Mack Macklerod.”

She smiled and became beautiful. “Linsey. Is Mack your Christian name or a takeoff on your family name?”

“It’s Russell, but everyone calls me Mack.”

“Well, Mack. Do you have any food left?”

The evening was enchanting… at least for me. And she seemed to loosen up and begin to enjoy herself once she accepted the idea she was here for the night. Her low voice was enchanting, soft on the ear. Her laughter floated away on the night breeze. The sight of her moving by the light of the campfire reminded me I was a man.

She asked lots of questions and soon knew I was a civil engineer roughing it on vacation, divorced with no kids, and pretty well satisfied with my life as it was. But I learned very little about Linsey. In a way, that was appropriate for a Greek goddess who had risen from the waters of the river. I did learn there was no one in her life at the moment, yet the way she said it left me wondering if that was really true. Or perhaps it was a relationship that had ended abruptly in the recent past.

The days might be hot in the Rio Puerco Valley, but the nights are quite chilly. As soon as old Sol signed off on his light show, the temperature dropped significantly. I offered to get a spare jacket out of the Jeep, but she said she needed a walk. I tossed her my keys and watched the glow of the flashlight I’d loaned her bounce its uncertain way to where the jeep was parked.

A short time later, she returned with my jacket thrown across her shoulders and hanging halfway down her long, slender legs. She tossed my keys on my pack and sat down beside me.

“Thanks. You’re a life saver.”

Linsey had apparently had a difficult day because her lids began drooping soon thereafter. When I offered her my sleeping bag, she gratefully accepted, but protested when I said I’d wrap up in a blanket beside the fire. We’d both fit in the sack, she insisted. And when she stood to strip off the shorts and halter before climbing into the bag in brief panties and skimpy bra, I lost the urge to protest.

I’d claimed I wasn’t a savage, but I turned into one as soon as she turned to me in the tight confines of the sleeping bag and planted a wet kiss on my mouth. I’ve had my share of sex but no one had ever given me a ride like Linsey. And she barely let me get my wind back before she came for a second helping. I went to sleep with her murmuring “Thank you” in my ear.

Sometime later, I came half-awake as she started squirming around.

“Sorry,” she said. “Call of nature. And it can’t be denied.

The campfire was dead, but she was silhouetted against a starlit sky as she performed a delicate dance pulling on her shorts and tank top.

“Brrr!” she said. “Can I borrow your boots and parka?”

“Sure. You don’t have to be bashful. I won’t peek. I’m going back to sleep.”

“Thanks, cowboy, but I like my privacy. I’ll go over by the Jeep.”

*****

Where is this going? Are we seeing the beginning of a love story? Or is this a brief meeting, giving two people fleeting insights into themselves. We’ll find out next week.

Thanks for being a reader. As regular readers of this blog know, I’m a fan of anyone who takes the time to read.

Feel free to contact me at dontravis21@gmail.com.

New posts published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.

A Short Journey to Otherworld, New Mexico

This blog was originally intended to extol the beauty and marvels of this great State of New Mexico, but over time has wandered into many other fields, such as last week’s post highlighting the faults and foibles of one Don Travis. This week, I’d like to share a little more about our state.

One of my favorite spots… aside from the Valles Caldera area, which is extra, extra special—remains the Bisti/De-Na-Zin Wilderness, an area of around sixty square miles in the badlands south of Farmington. Its otherworldly appearance inspired me to write a novel featuring the area, which is appropriately called The Bisti Business. The book is off the shelves at the moment, but Dreamspinner Press has picked up the BJ Vinson mystery novels (of which this is one). I just completed an edit of the first, The Zozobra Incident, for the publisher, and although the release date isn’t yet set, it’s expected to be sometime in September. Bisti will follow that one by about three months, and the third as yet unpublished book in the line, The City of Rocks, will follow the second one by about three months.

But back to my tale. While I love the area and the spooky rock formations of Bisti, it is such a long trip from Albuquerque that I haven’t been back lately.  So imagine my surprise, when my photographer/geologist/computer guru neighbor and friend, Joe Bridwell, told me about some hoodoos lying just west of Rio Rancho. Folks, that's no more than fifty miles from where we were. Now Joe has traipsed this country both by foot and by vehicle far more than I and is totally fascinated by the Bisti hoodoos. Any hoodoos. I should have known better, but I opened my mouth anyway.

“Rio Rancho. Our Rio Rancho. The one across the river and up the way?”

“That’s the one.”

“Don’t believe it,” I scoffed. “Hoodoos are up in the badlands country.”

Never one to permit a challenge to his veracity, Joe plopped me in his four-wheel drive Nissan SUV and headed west at breakneck speed. Now, I don’t entirely deserve credit for the trip for two reasons: Joe just spent an immense amount of money on a new camera he wanted to try out, and he had convinced himself by studying Google Earth Landsat photographs he’d discovered three new hoodoos in that area simply by looking at shadows.

At any rate, we raced to Rio Rancho, sped through the town on Northern Boulevard until we ran out of road, turned right, jogged left and somehow headed west to the Rio Puerco country. And sure enough, as we dropped off the mesa a whole new world appeared. There were distant buttes rising like monoliths from the desert floor. Broken country... not like badlands, but getting closer.

Then to my delight and amazement, we came upon an area of real hoodoos carved by wind and rain and time. For those of you unfamiliar with hoodoos, they are eroded columns of softer stone and shale capped by stone of a harder material (sandstone, for example) which often take the shape of flat dishs or French berets. These produce very exotic-looking images which remain with the viewer for a long time.

After feasting our eyes on a dozen or so of these geological wonders, we spotted a big column of rock about a half mile to the south which looked to be what threw the shadows on the Google Earth photos. On closer inspection, that proved to be the case. Joe identified the projections at the edge of the rock shelf as hoodoos, but they appear to me to be rock columns rather than hoodoos. Remember, he’s the geologist, and I’m the writer. Nonetheless, our dispute remains unresolved. Joe captured a magnificent shot of the formation with its stone pillars in the foreground with the night sky in the background. So tell me what you think. Are they hoodoos or not?

 

Courtesy: Dr. Joseph Bridwell, Rio Puerco Hoodoos

 *****

Thanks for reading. I really appreciate someone who takes her or his time to read something of mine… or something of anyone’s. Readers are absolutely necessary for the orderly function of our world.

Feel free to lodge your comments at dontravis21@gmail.com. I’d be interested to know if you consider the spires in the photograph to be hoodoos or not.

New Posts published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.