THE CITY OF ROCKS

As this post publishes, my younger son and I are driving across New Mexico and Texas to visit my older son, my brothers, and sister—not to mention a host of nieces, nephews, in-laws, and probably an outlaw or two. The purpose of this introduction is to say everyone should buy a copy of my new book, The City of Rocks… as well as The Zozobra Incident and The Bisti Business. I have to finance this trip somehow, you know.

At any rate, I wanted to give the readers another glimpse of the new novel. The following is a doctored version of a post from my publisher's blog:

*****

Artist: Maria Fanning

Valuable Boot Heel Area Duck Kidnapped—No Ransom Demand Yet Received

At least according to Don Travis’s The City of Rocks

That was the headline in southwestern New Mexico newspapers recently... at least in Don Travis's The City of Rocks, the third in the BJ Vinson Mystery Series published by DSP Publications. The Zozobra Incident came out last November, followed by The Bisti Business in March of this year. City is due out July 18. The fourth novel The Lovely Pines is in production at DSPP with a target date of 2018. The fifth novel in the series, Abaddon’s Locusts, is growing fat on OneDrive on my desktop.

City opens “tongue-in-cheek,” but things become serious very quickly. The following is the book’s blurb”

Confidential investigator B. J. Vinson thinks it’s a bad joke when Del Dahlman asks him to look into the theft of a duck… a duck named Quacky Quack the Second and insured for $250,000. It ceases to be funny when the young thief dies in a suspicious truck wreck. The search leads BJ and his lover, Paul Barton, to the sprawling Lazy M Ranch in the Boot Heel country of southwestern New Mexico bordering the Mexican state of Chihuahua.

A deadly game unfolds when BJ and Paul are trapped in a weird rock formation known as the City of Rocks—an eerie array of frozen magma that is somehow at the center of the entire scheme. But does the theft of Quacky involve a quarter-million-dollar duck-racing bet between the ranch’s owner and a Miami real estate developer, or someone attempting to force the sale of the Lazy M because of its proximity to an unfenced portion of the Mexican border? BJ and Paul go from the City of Rocks to the neon lights of Miami and back again in pursuit of the answer… death and danger tracking their every step.

Regular readers of either my books or my weekly blog at dontravis.com know that BJ, my protagonist, is a former marine and Albuquerque PD detective turned confidential investigator after he was shot on the job while apprehending a killer. They also know that he is a gay man, neither in the “closet” nor flamboyantly advertising the fact. Actually, he considers himself a pretty regular--but very lucky—guy once he found his life mate, Paul Barton. Unlike the prior books, Paul plays a prominent role in City. He’s a grad student at UNM and intends to pursue a career in investigative journalism. What better place to start practicing than in the middle of one of BJ’s cases. But maybe he picked the wrong one to start with when people start dying.

DSPP informss me I have to tell you a little about myself. Boring! But here goes. Growing up as a tubercular child in my native Oklahoma, I eschewed physical activities and lived in the local library. It was not until I found myself in the US Army, trudging up and down the mountains of southern Germany with a light machine gun or a Browning Automatic Rifle slung over my shoulder that I discovered I could do what any other guy my age could do. But by then, the die of my life had been cast, and I was hooked on reading, and by extension on writing. I tried oil painting for a while (and did okay with it), but it did not scratch my creative itch, so I returned to a childhood habit of writing short stories. After selling around 60 of them under another name, I decided to try my hand at novels.

After eight years as a widower, I have not yet learned to cook or keep an orderly house. Passable… but not orderly. I do not own a pet, but have dog-sat a great little black and white Papillon named Gizmo for fourteen years. Yep, fourteen years. This is the best of all worlds. I get to see Gizzy often and then return him to his parents, just like a grandchild.

To give back to the community, I am active in SouthWest Writers and teach a free writing class at the North Domingo Baca Multigenerational Center in Albuquerque. I warned you it was boring.

*****

Feel free to render your unvarnished opinions at dontravis21@gmail.com.

The following information provides contact information and the DSP Publications links:

Don Travis Email: dontravis21@gmail.com

Blog: dontravis.com

Facebook: Don Travis

Twitter: @dontravis3

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/City-Rocks-Vinson-Mystery-Book-ebook/dp/B071Z9V7DT

DSPP: https://www.dsppublications.com/books/the-city-of-rocks-by-don-travis-393-b

Barnes and Noble: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-city-of-rocks-don-travis/1126419974

Apple: https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/the-city-of-rocks/id1217068245

Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/the-city-of-rocks

As always, thank for being a reader.

Don

New blogs are posted at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.

COY

Last week’s post about Cleveland brought back memories of not only the feisty Bichon but also my redheaded wife Betty. In truth, almost everything from my past reminds me of my late wife. I still miss that gal.

This week, I’d like to return to the word of flash fiction with a little story. Hope you enjoy it.

*****

Courtesy of Pxhome.com

COY

Albuquerque’s Episcopal Cathedral of St John overflowed with people both prominent and ordinary—like me. Empty, seemingly without bones or nerves, I squeezed against a back wall and wept silently as a somber pipe organ and tremendous banks of flowers filled the church with oppressive dirges and a cloying redolence that would have appalled Eliot Ross.

A door to the left of the altar opened, and the relatives filed in, led by his blonde ex-wife in figure-hugging black, the epitome of expensive simplicity. Two pretty, yellow-haired young women and a tall, dark youth followed closely, trailed by the extended family. The girls were Eliot’s daughters, but the identity of the trim, graceful young man stumped me until I figured out that he was Eliot’s nephew… the son he’d never had.

Tears streamed down my cheeks during the sophomoric eulogy by Eliot’s brother. God! Were these people blind or just stupid? Eliot had been so much more than a captain of industry and doting family man. He was alive and vibrant and joyful and caring and… loving. Sensing I was drawing unwelcome attention, I made an effort to pull myself together, ineffectually swiping at my tears and resolutely staring into a stained-glass window above the altar until the sunlit colors fractured and swam before my eyes.

The nephew, Ryan Ross, I think his name was, read a passage of scripture in a rich, deep baritone that put me in the mind of a preacher, although I knew him to be a senior at UNM where I was pursuing my Masters.

As a line formed for the viewing, a desperate yearning for a last look at the man I had loved selflessly for the past five years gave way to the knowledge that I was an unwelcome interloper. I stumbled to my car and drove straight to the place of interment to arrive ahead of the pack and locate a vantage point in a thin copse of trees. The freshly dug grave made a hideous scar on the otherwise uniformly green expanse.

Within half an hour, the slow, stately cortege appeared at the gates of Heaven’s Rest Cemetery. Two white limos and a line of Cadillacs, BMW’s, Mercedes, Bentleys, and a host of other luxury cars trailed the huge hearse. The few Fords and Chevys probably belonged to staff.  Mercifully, the graveside service was short. As soon as the family moved toward the limos and the crowd thinned, I made my way slowly down the hill and stood at the open pit.

Eliot would have hated the burnished bronze casket. Polished oak would have been his choice. My eyes threatened to fill again. The odor of moist, recently turned earth brought me to the realization this was really happening. Afraid of losing control, I gently released a love poem to flutter like a graceful butterfly into the grave with him.  Utterly drained, I turned on my heels and came to an abrupt halt.

A tall young man stood not three feet from me. The nephew… Ryan Ross. He was handsome, as were all the Rosses, but in a totally different way. Dark, saturnine almost, with strange green eyes that contrasted nicely with his ebony hair and coconut-butter complexion.

“I’m Ryan,” he said in a voice sounding so much like Eliot he sent shivers down my back. “You’re Coy Dawes, aren’t you?”

Lifting my head defiantly, I swallowed hard, grateful that tears were not flooding my eyes although my lashes were wet. “Yes.”  My voice broke slightly.

“I thought so.  I’ve seen you at the U a couple of times.  Glad you came.”

Surprised, I could only manage a nod.

“Well, they’re waiting for me, so I’d better run. But I wanted to meet you.” He reached out and took my hand in a firm, masculine grasp. “He loved you, you know.”

“I-I know.”

“The others don’t understand how Uncle Eliot could love a man.” A gentle smile touched his lips. “But I do. Would it be all right if I called you? You know, after we’ve had time to grieve him in our own way?”

My missing parts returned in a rush: my heart again thudded in my chest, numb extremities regained feeling, my belly took its proper place under the pressure of his warm grip. I felt as if Elio had reached out to me from the grave.

“I’d like that.”

 *****

Let me know what you think of the story at dontravis21@gmail.com.

I hate to sound like a broken record, but The City of Rocks is now available. Hope you will show your support by buying a copy. Publishing houses are rather insistent that there be sales before they’ll bring out another of my books. The following provides contact information and the DSP Publications links:

Don Travis Email: dontravis21@gmail.com

Blog: dontravis.com

Facebook: Don Travis

Twitter: @dontravis3

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/City-Rocks-Vinson-Mystery-Book-ebook/dp/B071Z9V7DT

DSPP: https://www.dsppublications.com/books/the-city-of-rocks-by-don-travis-393-b

Barnes and Noble: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-city-of-rocks-don-travis/1126419974

Apple: https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/the-city-of-rocks/id1217068245

Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/the-city-of-rocks

As always, thank for being a reader.

Don

Me'n Cleveland

Not Cleveland, but a look-alike
Courtesy of Pinterest

Umpity-umph years ago, my wife Betty decided to do dog sitting for a friend who owned a beautiful little Australian Shepherd. She was quiet and gentle and obedient, so Betty expanded her horizons and accepted a second dog, this one a bichon named Cleveland who taught me several lessons about the art of dog sitting.

The first lesson was to meet the dog and its parents before accepting responsibility for said animal. Cleveland’s owner brought him over after we’d made telephone arrangements to care for the dog while his owners went on a three-day trip. Second lesson: Especially do not accept the responsibility for a pet for more than one day at a time without meeting the animal first.

When Cleveland’s dad, a very nice man named Dale who’s become a good friend, brought him for the first time, I took the leash and the dog followed me without a backward look at Dale. His dad’s dismay at being dismissed so readily was evident, but I was so pleased that the dog wasn’t going to give me trouble about being parted from his family I thought nothing about the exchange.

I took him upstairs to our apartment where Betty and Cleveland met for the first time. It was love at first sight. He galloped over to her and showered her with licks and kisses, and the world was right.

Then he turned around and glared at me, and I’ll swear I could hear his thoughts: “Okay, buster, I’ll put up with you just so I can be around her.” And that’s the way it was. From then on, he loved Betty and tolerated me. In fact, I’m convinced he preferred the company of women over that of men.

Bichons are built long and low so that they appear to be small dogs, but they must have bones like dinosaurs. Cleveland loved laps, but he didn’t fit onto Betty’s very well, so he must have figured mine was better than nothing. That dog weighed forty pounds. My legs went dead within minutes, and he didn’t tolerate much wiggling around to try and restore the blood flow.

In truth, Cleveland was a great guy with short, curly white hair and coal black skin that only showed when he got wet and big, deceptively innocent eyes. A perfect pet… except he had a mind of his own. That dog possessed free will and exercised it often. Especially when we went on walks, as I discovered on the very first excursion.

He was well trained to the leash and followed me downstairs without a problem. But once on the sidewalk, we discovered we had different goals in mind. I wanted to walk around the apartment complex. Cleveland wanted to go the other direction. I patiently explained we were going north, and he watched intently with those big, intelligent eyes before heading south. I halted him with the leash. He planted all four feet and dug in when I tried to walk off in the direction I wanted. It was a case of a small dog with big bones vs. an overweight man who wasn’t trained in canine psychology. I pulled and backed away. I gave sharp, authoritative commands. He responded with a defiant stare. Nothing to do but hope he went about his duties quickly so I didn’t have to drag him all the way around the place.

When Dale got back, a little anxious about the well-being of his beloved pet, he found a happy, healthy dog thanks to Cleveland’s love for Betty.

It wasn’t long before Dale and Carol went on another trip and we accepted Cleveland for another time. He was overjoyed to see Betty and condescended to allow me to pet him and chuck him under the chin. On our first walk that visit, we had the same problem. It took three months for me to learn to simply stand for a minute and direct my attention elsewhere before saying “Okay, we’re going this way, Cleveland.” Then he’d come along and take the lead as if this had been his intent all along.

We continued to sit Cleveland for several years until the little guy got cancer and had to be put down. One day, I related my walking experiences with Dale—who’s a pretty sharp guy—and concluded with the way I’d trained his dog to comply with my wishes.

Dale looked at me for a minute before asking. “Who trained whom?”

To this day, I haven’t figured out the answer.

*****

Let me know what you think at dontravis21@gmail.com.

The City of Rocks is now available. Hope you will show your support by buying a copy. Publishing houses are rather insistent that there be sales before they’ll bring out another of your books. The following are my contact information and the DSP Publications links:

Don Travis Email: dontravis21@gmail.com

Blog: dontravis.com

Facebook: Don Travis

Twitter: @dontravis3

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/City-Rocks-Vinson-Mystery-Book-ebook/dp/B071Z9V7DT

DSPP: https://www.dsppublications.com/books/the-city-of-rocks-by-don-travis-393-b

Barnes and Noble: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-city-of-rocks-don-travis/1126419974

Apple: https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/the-city-of-rocks/id1217068245

Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/the-city-of-rocks

As always, thank for being a reader.

Don

New blogs are posted at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.

More of ABODDON'S LOCUSTS

I’ve told you of my fifth BJ Vinson mystery novel (three published, one pending, and one still a gleam in my eye. Well, that fifth one, ABADDON’S LOCUSTS, is fleshing out and growing on my One Drive. On April 13, I gave you the Prologue and the first couple of pages to Chapter 1. Now let me give you a sample of Chapter 2.

In the following scene, BJ’s life companion, Paul Barton, arrives home to find a hunky Navajo inside talking to BJ. Let’s pick up from there.

*****

Courtesy of PxHere

ABADDON’S LOCUSTS

        

  “Whose bike is parked out there?” When Paul came into the den, he stopped dead still. “Henry? Is that you?”

          The Navajo had made an impression. They’d only met once about three years ago in my motel room in Farmington when I was working a case up there. Of course, both Henry and his brother Jazz were impressive guys—as was Paul.

          “’Fraid so. Hope you don’t mind me coming over without no warning.”

          I cut straight to the issue. “He’s got a problem. Or at least, Jazz has.”

          The love of my life took a seat as I explained the situation. I wasn’t certain how he would react. The green-eyed monster had shown up briefly when I introduced Paul to the sexy teenager I’d been working with in Farmington while searching for a wine mogul’s missing son. Paul was as secure as any man I knew, but Jazz Penrod was such a package of raw sex that he made most men—gay or straight—feel threatened. My lover fooled me… once again.

          “Vince, you gotta find him.” The world called me BJ, but two men referred to me as Vince: Paul and my ex, an attorney named Del Dahlman. Paul pointed to Jazz's laptop Henry had brought. “Check this Juan guy’s username through that fraud service you use.”

          “Okay, but I can almost guarantee it’s going to be a dead end.”

          The two of them followed me into my home office so I could use my own computer to conduct the search. The NoFraud.com service I used wouldn’t lead us to a URL address, but when one was exposed as a fraud, these guys published the Internet address. Juan’s address wasn’t listed, which was no comfort at all. He simply hadn’t been exposed yet.

          “Well, crap,” Paul said.

          Henry blew air through his nose. “I thought these things were easy to run down. You hear about guys getting hacked all the time.”

          “You’ve just said the magic word. Hack. Hackers do it if they have the time and equipment necessary. Law enforcement has to get a warrant, hand it to the server, and wait for a response.” I took Jazz’s computer from Henry. “Don’t know if you caught it, but there were a couple of messages where Jazz and this Juan guy exchanged personal information.”

          I searched until I found the Email I wanted. “Here it is. Juan Gonzales with an address of 111½ Fifty-Ninth NW in Albuquerque. And there’s a phone number.” I asked the two of them to be quiet while I dialed. It proved to be disconnected.

          “Well, we have his name and an address anyway,” Henry said with a dangerous look on his face.

          “They’re both probably phony,” I said.

          Paul put in his two cents. “And Juan Gonzales is like John Smith. There’s a million of them.”

          “Let me put my office manager Hazel on this,” I suggested. “She’s better than I am at locating people over the Internet. Give me Jazz’s cell phone number so Charlie can start trying to trace it.” Charlie Weeks, Hazel’s husband, was a retired APD cop and my partner in Vinson and Weeks, Confidential Investigations.

          The number Henry supplied matched the number already in my records for Jazz. He also handed over the license plate number for his brother’s Jeep, after which I phoned my office and handed out some assignments. That done, I called my old APD riding partner Lt. Gene Enriquez and explained the situation. He was still at the downtown police station.

          “You know this kid pretty well?” Gene asked.

          “He was one of the local assets I told you about when I was working on the Alfano case up in the Bisti Wilderness. He’s a good kid.”

          “Yeah. If I remember, you said he was pretty open about being gay.”

          “Yes, honest and open. Why?”

          “How do you know he didn’t just go off and meet this other gay guy for a fling?”

          “Because he’s more responsible than that. He would have contacted his mother at the very least. No one’s heard from him for a month. At least put out a BOLO on his vehicle.”

          “Okay. Give me the details. But this means I gotta open a case. Have the brother come in and file a request.”

          “We’ll do that first thing in the morning. In the meantime, will you put out the order.”

          “Yeah. Be here at nine, okay?”

          When I hung up, Henry asked me what a BOLO was.

          “Be on the lookout,” Paul answered. “But tell me something. You say that’s Jazz’s computer. If he was going to meet someone wouldn’t he take it along?”

          He’s got a smart phone and a tablet, whatever that is. He claims that gives him access to anything he needs. He usually leaves the laptop at home when he travels around.”

          “With photos like that on it?” Paul asked. “What if his mother saw them?”

          “Nobody invades Jazz’s privacy. Only reason I did was because I’m worried about him. If he turns out to be all right, he’ll give me hell for peeking at his private photos.” Henry frowned, showing his uncertainty. “And I hope that’s exactly what happens. BJ, you sure we gotta involve the police in this?”

          “We need their help. And somebody, Jazz’s Uncle Riley maybe, needs to go to the Farmington PD and file a missing person’s report.”

          “He already did. Said he’d go in the next day after he gave me Jazz’s laptop. That would be today. He should have gone in this morning. He was gonna ask for that Sgt. Dix Lee we met back when we were working together.”

          “Good. Henry, you’ve got to get over your aversion to authority. If this is what I think it is, the feds will be involved.”

          “Which ones?”

          “I don’t know much about it, but when the victim is a US citizen, the FBI is called in. I think they have a Domestic Sex Trafficking Program. If it’s over the border stuff, I’m sure ICE will be involved. That’s US Immigration and Customs Enforcement. They’re both a part of Homeland Security, so it’s apt to be an interagency thing. A task force, maybe.”

          “Crap. What if he just went to meet a guy and they got wrapped up in one another?”

          I leveled a look at the hunky Navajo. “Do you believe that?”

          He hung his head. “Naw. I don’t. Something’s wrong. So let’s get the big bad Feebees involved. So whadda we do now? Sit around and wait until tomorrow?”

          “Nope. We’re going to check out 111½ Fifty-Ninth NW—even if it is a fool’s errand.”

*****

Folks, I sincerely believe this is turning out to be a good tale. Let me know what you think so far at dontravis21@gmail.com.

The City of Rocks is now available. Hope you will show your support by buying a copy. Publishing houses are rather insistent that there be sales before they’ll bring out another of your books. The following are my contact information and the DSP Publications links:

Don Travis Email: dontravis21@gmail.com

Blog: dontravis.com

Facebook: Don Travis

Twitter: @dontravis3

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/City-Rocks-Vinson-Mystery-Book-ebook/dp/B071Z9V7DT

DSPP: https://www.dsppublications.com/books/the-city-of-rocks-by-don-travis-393-b

Barnes and Noble: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-city-of-rocks-don-travis/1126419974

Apple: https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/the-city-of-rocks/id1217068245

Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/the-city-of-rocks

As always, thank for being a reader.

Don

New blogs are posted at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.

Ladybug

Well, last week’s “Chatterbox House” elicited a few “likes.” Always appreciate them.

This week, let’s try a short, short story of a different vein. Let me know how you like this one.

*****

LADYBUG

When Melvin Travers called her Ladybug in the sixth grade, Nancy Nunce thought it was cute. By the end of the seventh grade, all the kids called her that. By then she hated the name. She devoted the next five years to getting everyone to call her Nancy or Nan. By and large, she was successful. Except for Mel Travers. To him, she was still Ladybug.

Nan might have been attracted to the jock had he not hung onto that stubborn nickname he’d given her years before. He was properly handsome and built like the high school football hero he was. As smart in his classes as she, they vied for valedictorian and salutatorian honors as graduation approached.

Mel had made it clear he wouldn’t object to coupling the two best minds—not to mention bodies—in school. But he simply refused to give up that ridiculous formerly-cute-now-irritating name. Worse, lately, he’d taken to shortening it to simply Bug.

Despite her repeated rejections, Mel pursued her relentlessly. She even agreed to go with him again if he promised to give up that demeaning name. He did, but after he slipped and used the appellation on three successive dates, she quit him cold.

That must have hurt his pride because he redoubled his efforts to get her back. Finally fed up with the whole thing, she agreed to a date to the spring prom. This time, she gave him everything he wanted. They danced close, foreheads touching romantically. She showed the room he was hers… or vice-versa… by keeping him close and touching his arm or hand or cheek whenever they were not dancing. Mel about busted his buttons.

After the dance, they parked, along with lots of other kids, on the south bank of the river at the edge of town. It was a traditional make-out place, casually patrolled by the police who seldom bothered to get out of their patrol cars unless there were signs of trouble. This relaxed, remote supervision was enough to put a halter on most of the adolescent libidos.

Everything went well for a while. He hadn’t called her that name once during the entire evening, and she enjoyed his passionate kissing. He was a good kisser, she admitted privately. She liked the way he nuzzled her neck, sometimes with lips, sometimes with tongue, and sometimes with teeth. She got a thrill out of his occasional almost-accidental caresses of her breasts. Things were going well until he exclaimed in the passion of the moment.

“Wow, Bug. You really are something.”

She pushed him back onto the seat and turned to him.

“I am not a bug, Melvin Travers!” She reached for an intimate part of him and squeezed. Hard. He gave a strangled gasp. “And I’m certainly no lady.”

With that, she got out of the car and strolled home through the cool, pleasant evening.

*****

Let me know what you think of the story at dontravis21@gmail.com.

The City of Rocks is now available. Hope you will show your support by buying a copy. Publishing houses get off on that sort of thing. The following are my contact information and the DSP Publications links:

Don Travis Email: dontravis21@gmail.com

Blog: dontravis.com

Facebook: Don Travis

Twitter: @dontravis3

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/City-Rocks-Vinson-Mystery-Book-ebook/dp/B071Z9V7DT

DSPP: https://www.dsppublications.com/books/the-city-of-rocks-by-don-travis-393-b

Barnes and Noble: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-city-of-rocks-don-travis/1126419974

Apple: https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/the-city-of-rocks/id1217068245

Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/the-city-of-rocks

As always, thank for being a reader.

Don

New blogs are posted at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.

Chatterbox House (Finale)

Did last week’s installment of the Chatterbox House story catch your attention? Well, here’s the climax. Remember that last week our nameless protagonist was taking down a non-load-bearing wall between two upstairs rooms to make a master bedroom suite. Interested in hearing about your reaction.

*****

Courtesy of Geograph

CHATTERBOX HOUSE

Infuriated by my groundless fear, I took the wall down with little further difficulty. Once that was done, I confirmed my earlier judgment. The two rooms melded perfectly, giving the suite pleasing proportions and a roomy feel. In the process of gathering splintered two-by-fours and plasterboard onto a tarp to carry to the trash, the familiar rush of muffled voices that weren’t voices surrounded me. I caught a few audible words: father and stairs and ruining. And the word home pierced my consciousness several times.

The voices grew louder… no that wasn’t right. Intenser. They grew more intense as I gathered the four corners of the tarp and hoisted the load over my shoulder. Grabbing the sledge, I walked into the hall to the head of the stairs. After shifting the load more comfortably over my shoulder, I prepared to take the first step of the steep, elbowed flight. Sweat broke out under my arms as the sound of voices and the flutter of indistinct, invisible things surrounded me.

While my left foot was still in the air, someone—or something—pushed me. Maybe it wasn’t a push, merely pressure, but it was enough to throw me completely off balance. I stumbled to the second step and felt myself going over. Dropping everything, I managed to clutch the bannister with both hands and prevent my fall, but wood and chips and nails and sawdust slid down the staircase and through the railing to the hallway below. Wood and glass splintered as the hammer dropped onto a table beside the stairway.

As I leaned against the unstable bannister, holding the railing in a death grip, I had the impression of something rushing at me, of air pressing against my face, of some force trying to dislodge me. My breath came in gasps. My stomach churned. My heart raced. Surrendering to a nameless fear, I let go and bumped down a stairway turned into a slide by the debris of the trash I’d been hauling out. I banged to a halt against the wall where the stairs turned to the left. In a panic, I glanced toward the top of the stairs and caught the terrifying ephemeral outline of a woman… a young woman, her indistinct face contorted by rage standing with hands on hips. Other amorphous shapes hovered at her shoulder.

Scrambling to my feet, I vaulted over the bannister and came to an abrupt halt as a wall of orange flames rose in front of me. The sledgehammer had crashed through the table, taking the lamp and old-fashioned electric clock to the floor and smashing the can of alcohol I’d put there to be out of the way. Live electric wires ignited the alcohol. The worn carpet and bits of trash littering the floor were not only flammable, they were combustible.

My first inclination was to run for the fire extinguisher in the kitchen, but I raced straight out the back door and around to the front of the house as smoke began to escape from gaps in the window and door frames. I had my keys and billfold, but my cell phone was up in my bedroom. That was all right. I had no intention of trying to extinguish the flames. The screams and wails coming from inside the building discouraged me from that. I had the feeling that nothing could expel the evil residing in Chatterbox House, so let it burn to the ground. The heat of the hngry flames shattered windows, feeding the fire oxygen. The place was totally engulfed in minutes.

A month later, my life had more or less returned to normal. I’d found a place to live and the insurance papers had been signed. The arson investigation turned iffy a couple of times, but eventually, my story of the incident became the official record. Of course, I’d left out a couple of details, such as the mysterious voices and the push on the stairs.

As soon as I had a chance, I visited the town’s newspaper morgue to learn more about the history of Chatterbox House. The original owner, a man by the name of Horace Humbolt, had died in 1958 from an unaccountable tumble down those same stairs that had nearly gotten me. He was elderly but not infirm. His five daughters had been questioned, and the eldest was suspected of having a hand in his accident. But eventually the ruling of accidental death prevailed. One article contained pictures of the family, and there she was… my phantom. Elsa, the eldest, looked exactly like the figure I saw at the head of the stairs wearing the same hateful look. One by one, in the succeeding years, the sisters had died in that house. All seemingly of natural causes. Elsa was the last to go.

There were tenants over the years, but none lasted long. They all complained of voices. In time, locals labeled it the Chatterbox House. And I knew how accurate that name was.

*****

Well, was that worth waiting a week for? People who know me say I ask ill-advised questions (like that one), soliciting rude answers. It must be a character flaw… I can’t help it.

Let me know what you think of the story at dontravis21@gmail.com.

Remember, the March 21 release date of The City of Rocks has come and gone, and the book is now available. The following are my contact information and the DSP Publications links:

Don Travis Email: dontravis21@gmail.com

Blog: dontravis.com

Facebook: Don Travis

Twitter: @dontravis3

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/City-Rocks-Vinson-Mystery-Book-ebook/dp/B071Z9V7DT

DSPP: https://www.dsppublications.com/books/the-city-of-rocks-by-don-travis-393-b

Barnes and Noble: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-city-of-rocks-don-travis/1126419974

Apple: https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/the-city-of-rocks/id1217068245

Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/the-city-of-rocks

As always, thank for being a reader.

Don

New blogs are posted at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.

Chatterbox House (Part 1 of 2 Parts)

 After last week’s bit of fluff, let’s go for something with a little more meat. I hope you enjoy learning about Chatterbox House.

*****

Courtesy of Geographic

CHATTERBOX HOUSE

Chatterbox House. The name intrigued me as much as the bargain basement price for the vacant property.

I bought the old Tudor with overgrown greenery at the end of Englesbury Lane six months ago without knowing its history or even the origin of the strange name. That was just what folks called the place. I knew that the previous owner died some years back from a fall down his staircase and that five daughters lived with him at the time. That was the sum total of my knowledge—other than the fact that the house had lain vacant for two years.

I settled in for a few days before starting to modernize the place, choosing the old-fashioned kitchen as my initial project. According to my budget, I could spend up to $25,000 in repair and refurbishing and still make a killing off the place. The one acre, semi-rural lot would easily accommodate another home if I chose to go that way.

The first time I took my crowbar to the cabinets over the sink, a scream reverberated through the house. The impression was so real that I paused before applying the tool again. This time, it appeared to be only the squeak of old boards as they came free. I quickly ripped them out and measured for new cabinets. I’d build them myself rather than buy pre-fabs.

As I washed up in preparation for bed that first night after starting work on the kitchen, I thought I heard a woman’s voice in the next room. I grabbed the antique, discolored porcelain knob and turned off the running water. Nothing.

Then a murmur. A second voice seemed to answer a bit more sharply.

“Who’s there?” I called.

Silence, but it was a restless silence—whatever that meant.

I grabbed a towel to dry my face and walked into the bedroom. Empty. I opened the heavy, brocaded drapes and peered into the darkness outside. The yard light exposed an expanse of green, clipped lawn. Nothing unusual. Certainly no strange women. Snorting in exasperation, I went through the house room by room without discovering intruders. After that, I completed my ablutions and turned in.

I was almost asleep when something brought me wide awake. Whispered voices. More than one. More than two. I wasn’t certain, but I thought they were all female. Damnation, had my womanizing youth caught up with me at age thirty?

I sat up in bed and caught a single word. “Hush!” Mature voice. Softly spoken rather than whispered. Then a smothered giggle. Enough moonlight poured through the open drapes to see no one was there. Shivers played up and down my back. The hair on my arms prickled. Impulsively, I hit the button on my bedside radio and soft swing music floated through the room.

Once the kitchen remodel reached completion, I turned to the dining room. The large, built-in hutch was quality work, so I decided to leave it in place and simply refinish it. I’d no sooner applied my sander to take off countless layers of paint than that anguished scream came again. I froze. My back puckered fiercely. I had the impression of multiple eyes staring at me. I whirled. Nothing there. After drawing a shaky breath, I returned to my work. Once the paint was removed from the beautiful natural maple of the hutch, I used alcohol to remove the original shellac. Then I moved the can of alcohol to an out of the way place in the hall near a table at the base of the stairs.

The dated, tufted velvet wallpaper was next to go. There were no more eerie incidents during that laborious process, but I felt the weight of something—disapproval?—as I worked.

This house didn’t like what I was doing. That thought gave me a jolt. A house was wood and brick and nails and paint. It had no likes or dislikes. It was just… there.

Once finished with the dining room, I inspected my work, pleased with the renovation thus far. This house was going to be one grand showcase when I finished. The logical place to proceed would be in the living room… or as the family called it, the parlor. That brought me to a halt again. How did I know they used an old-fashioned term like that?

Deciding to ignore logic, I tackled the bedrooms upstairs. There were five of them, and simply by tearing out a non-load-bearing wall, the two smaller ones would make a great large master bedroom suite, complete with its own bath and lounge area.

As I lugged a sledgehammer up the steep stairs, it seemed to grow heavier and heavier with each step. Shrugging it off as my imagination, I selected the spot where I wanted to begin the demolition and lifted the sledge over my shoulder. All of a sudden, I found myself on my butt. Reason said it wasn’t possible, but the weight of the head of that hammer had thrown me off balance. I’m an experienced builder to whom many weird things had happened, but for the life of me, this just didn’t seem possible.

Embarrassed—even though there was no one to witness my humiliation—I got up and drove a hole in the interior wall between the two rooms with one mighty whack. No screams this time, but I had the impression of gasps… and a distinct “Oh, no!”

*****

What’s going on here? Has our nameless hero happened on a house with a soul, or is it something else? Perhaps something more sinister. Tune in next Thursday for the finale.  Let me know what you think of the story at dontravis21@gmail.com.

Remember, the March 21 release date of The City of Rocks is right around the corner. The following are my contact links:

Don Travis Email: dontravis21@gmail.com

Blog: dontravis.com

Facebook: Don Travis

Twitter: @dontravis3

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/City-Rocks-Vinson-Mystery-Book-ebook/dp/B071Z9V7DT

DSPP: https://www.dsppublications.com/books/the-city-of-rocks-by-don-travis-393-b

Barnes and Noble: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-city-of-rocks-don-travis/1126419974

Apple: https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/the-city-of-rocks/id1217068245

Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/the-city-of-rocks

As always, thank for being a reader.

Don

New blogs are posted at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.

Honey Bunny

Thanks to Mark Wildyr for his guest post last week. Just a reminder that DSP Publications is bringing out a revised edition of his novel, CUT HAND on October 31 of this year. Hope you will read it.

As for this week, let’s go for a little bit of fluff.

Courtesy of Max Pixel

Courtesy of Cliparting.com

*****

HONEY BUNNY

          Everyone said we belonged together. After all, her name was Honey (not a nickname), and mine was Bunny (really not a nickname—dammit). To be clear, she was Honey Bartholomew while I was saddled with Jonathan Throckmorton Bunny III. As if two of them weren’t enough, already. With a name like Jonathan, you’d think everyone would label me Jon, right?

          Not so. Too much could be done with my last name. Like: Here comes Bunny hopping down the sidelines. Touchdown! I’d heard that one for two years now. I held a dance at our house once, but when everyone labeled it the Bunny hop, that was it. No more dances. My junior yearbook held a picture of a toothy rabbit standing on his hind legs eating a carrot labeled Our Jonathan.

          To be fair, Honey didn’t have it much easier. She was always her daddy’s Honey Bee. The local librarian refused to issue her a card until she produced a birth certificate to prove Bunny was not a nickname. Of course, she was often Honey Bun, which morphed into Sticky Bun. She swore that if her Aunt Bertha said she was as sweet as her name one more time, she was going to stomp on the old gal’s ingrown toenail.

          Alas, the thing that pulled us together ultimately drove us apart. Our names. One too many times she heard that refrain Look, there’s Honey Bunny and announced we were through, finished. Kaput. After loudly proclaiming she wasn’t shallow enough to let that tear our relationship asunder, I finally became convinced she was.

          So Honey moved on to a guy who was named John Jaar. Couldn’t she see what was rolling down the pike at her?

           That was all right. I hooked up with a gal I’d had my eye on for a while, a perky brunette named Mildred Bugsliatta. Unfortunately, everyone in school, including the teachers, called her Bugs.

  

*****

Wow! Where did that come from? To be honest, I have no idea. I just woke up one day, and there it was rattling around in what’s left of my brain. Let me know what you think of this rant at dontravis21@gmail.com.

As the March 21 release date of The City of Rocks approaches, I’d like to give you my contact information and the DSP Publications links:

Don Travis Email: dontravis21@gmail.com

Blog: dontravis.com

Facebook: Don Travis

Twitter: @dontravis3

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/City-Rocks-Vinson-Mystery-Book-ebook/dp/B071Z9V7DT

DSPP: https://www.dsppublications.com/books/the-city-of-rocks-by-don-travis-393-b

Barnes and Noble: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-city-of-rocks-don-travis/1126419974

Apple: https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/the-city-of-rocks/id1217068245

Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/the-city-of-rocks

As always, thank for being a reader.

Don

New blogs are posted at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.