tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-71801498607024506962024-03-13T04:34:36.710-07:00RobrylandRobert Rylandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08975924826530958916noreply@blogger.comBlogger30125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7180149860702450696.post-27254666226441297682015-04-23T08:56:00.000-07:002015-04-23T08:56:55.055-07:00Rediscovering Nevil ShuteA few months ago I was browsing through the stacks at my local library when I came upon several books by author Nevil Shute. I remembered Shute from many years ago as the author of <em>On the</em> <em>Beach</em>, an Armageddon-themed story of worldwide nuclear destruction. <em>On the Beach</em> was subsequently made into a film with Gregory Peck and Ava Gardner. For a long time, this frightening novel and movie was all I knew about Nevil Shute. And then a few years later, my parents loaned me a book entitled <em>In the Wet</em>, a story about the Australian outback during the "wet" season that dealt with the mystical-religious theme of reincarnation. Wow, I thought. This guy Shute digs into a lot of different and interesting subjects. I was intrigued, yet somehow got distracted by other writers exploring themes in the current mainstream. Now, at my library many years later, I am catching up with Shute's other books, with themes ranging from those dealing with bridging social barriers and race, to characters surviving life-threatening episodes to build productive lives for themselves and others. <br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-K2OOtXQywNY/VTkPLqleE1I/AAAAAAAAAJ0/SbaQ57Y2KEs/s1600/LittleRockFinalWeb.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-K2OOtXQywNY/VTkPLqleE1I/AAAAAAAAAJ0/SbaQ57Y2KEs/s1600/LittleRockFinalWeb.jpg" height="320" width="213" /></a>Shute, whose full name was Nevil Shute Norway, was an aeronautical engineer who at one time formed his own aircraft construction company and worked on dirigibles before World War II. A number of his novels contain aviation and engineering as backdrops (<em>An Old Captivity, Trustee from the Toolroom</em>). Shute's books offer a "comfortable" read, written in an easy, storytelling style, sometimes with a first person narrator—a character sitting with someone over a drink recalling a life-changing episode he or she has experienced, or describing an incident involving someone they know. For instance, <em>A Town Like Alice</em> explores the travails of a woman and man caught in the Japanese occupation of Malaysia, how they survive, and ultimately reunite in the small Australian town of Alice Springs. <em>Pied Piper</em> tells the story of an old man who rescues seven children from German-occupied France and brings them to England and America. <em>The Far Country</em> describes a young woman who is frustrated with post-war socialist England and travels to Australia to seek a better life. I could go on and list his other works, but I won't. Shute wrote a total of 24 novels and novellas in his lifetime. I haven't read them all, but those I have have been very engrossing. <br />
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I know there are many current works that offer more compelling stories than those of a writer who died over fifty years ago. But as we know, literary themes never really change. Characters always find themselves in conflict with each other, with society, with the elements, government or religion. If this weren't the case, Charles Dickens wouldn't still be as popular as he is today. Nevil Shute is one of those subtle perveyors of social/cultural issues who is able to wrap his themes in a good story. So, if you haven't discovered him already, visit your library or book store and pick out one of his titles. You may like what you find.<br />
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<br />
<strong><em><u>See my books on Amazon:</u></em></strong> <br />
<br />
THE LITTLE ROCK MESSENGER<br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B003YOSYHK">www.amazon.com/dp/B003YOSYHK</a><br />
<br />
ELECTRIC HIGHWAY<br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B004RJ81LU">www.amazon.com/dp/B004RJ81LU</a><br />
<br />
DREAM TRAVELER<br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B009LTTMS2">www.amazon.com/dp/B009LTTMS2</a><br />
<br />
<br />
Robert Rylandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08975924826530958916noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7180149860702450696.post-72103293518569472002015-03-26T13:39:00.000-07:002015-03-26T13:39:29.366-07:00A Good Walk Can Ease the MindThe other day, I got caught up thinking about too much at once. I was irritated and worried and disheartened all at the same time. Things were getting to me, and I was doing what is often called over-thinking. <br />
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As a writer, I can frequently put distance between myself and pesky real-life problems by sitting down and putting words on paper. I enter the imaginary world of my story and characters, and usually, I can escape. But on this occasion, not even the muse could silence the internal fuss I was having. Pressure was building, and I was getting frustrated. So, I looked out my office window, saw the line of distant hills, and decided to go for a walk.<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-mT6W-3fvPXU/VRMj1j8p3GI/AAAAAAAAAJg/6sbH9psBeS0/s1600/LittleRockFinalWeb.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-mT6W-3fvPXU/VRMj1j8p3GI/AAAAAAAAAJg/6sbH9psBeS0/s1600/LittleRockFinalWeb.jpg" height="320" width="213" /></a>I started out on a familiar route along the pedestrian/bike path near my house. It was a day of mixed cloud and sun, on the cool side, but comfortable enough to set out at a brisk pace. At first, I continued to think about all the stuff that had driven me outside. Worry and irritation dogged me. But I kept moving, one step at a time. By the time I had gone a mile, perhaps a little more, the troubling thoughts began to fade. And then I began to take in my surroundings. I saw fluffy white clouds on a mountainous horizon. Smelled freshly-turned earth and wet grass; heard birds in trees, high schoolers on a nearby playing field. I was surrounded by a physical world I saw too little of, and the more I walked, the more reassurance I felt that it was still there. It was an immediate connection, like I was bonding with nature. I wondered why I didn't walk more often.<br />
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We are often told that a change of scene puts things in proper perspective. I believe it does. In many cases, worry and confusion can be left behind by simply leaving the house. Finding harmony doesn't have to be a time-consuming exercise in soul searching. It can be as simple as opening your door and going outside. <br />
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Take a walk in the great outdoors. It's fresh, invigorating, and therapeutic. And it's free!<br />
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<br />
THE LITTLE ROCK MESSENGER<br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B003YOSYHK">www.amazon.com/dp/B003YOSYHK</a><br />
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Robert Rylandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08975924826530958916noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7180149860702450696.post-17876651376182366842015-03-19T08:30:00.000-07:002015-03-19T08:30:07.892-07:00The Writer in All of UsWe are all writers. <br />
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We look at the world through our own special lenses. There are things we see as individuals that nobody else sees. People, places, events—nothing looks the same. We call it perspective. <br />
<br />
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-wmBl4NgvapA/VQrncD9e_hI/AAAAAAAAAI8/pxSNiSxmi5A/s1600/LittleRockFinalWeb.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-wmBl4NgvapA/VQrncD9e_hI/AAAAAAAAAI8/pxSNiSxmi5A/s1600/LittleRockFinalWeb.jpg" height="320" width="213" /></a>As a fiction writer, I do a lot of visualizing, picturing scenes of high drama as well as the very ordinary. Sometimes these scenes make it into prose; sometimes not. But it is all part of the process of composition. I survey the landscape of reality and transform it into one of story and characters. And through this journey, I am transported to a time and place of my own creation. It's what fiction writers do, and in a sense, it's what all of us do, whether we formalize the process as writing or not.<br />
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Those of us who do not capture our world view on paper nonetheless "write" the stories of our times. Each day is another composition about people and problems, and the way we would like things to be—the day to day experiences we all have that become our personal stories. Unlike fictional creations, however, these stories often do not tie up neatly into organized plot lines. They are sometimes messy, unsatisfactory accounts of challenge and heartbreak, with endings that taper off without any meaningful resolution. These are our personal histories, biographical sketches of how the world succeeds or fails within the confines of our lives. And the events and characters are very real.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-fpDG3SZs50A/VQrop3owlsI/AAAAAAAAAJI/x0V00EFp5pM/s1600/DreamTravelerWeb.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-fpDG3SZs50A/VQrop3owlsI/AAAAAAAAAJI/x0V00EFp5pM/s1600/DreamTravelerWeb.jpg" height="320" width="213" /></a>The vanity in those of us who write believes we can draw on the compelling aspects of our lives and that of the world around us to make a story that holds the reader's attention. We shape our plots and polish our prose to create something entertaining. It is a work of faith. We don't know how the end product will be interpreted. But we do it anyway because somewhere deep down, consciously or unconsciously, we believe our story may strike a familiar chord. Why? Because some readers have lived something similar to what is in the story, or they know someone who has. After all, fiction contains truth, no matter the genre—literary, romance, mystery, fantasy—it all reflects some aspect of life. As people leading real lives, we contribute to that truth. <br />
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We are all writers.<br />
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-2BBqkifqlgY/VQro46CqVVI/AAAAAAAAAJQ/9PgrJswJ9Bc/s1600/ElectricHwyFinalWeb.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-2BBqkifqlgY/VQro46CqVVI/AAAAAAAAAJQ/9PgrJswJ9Bc/s1600/ElectricHwyFinalWeb.jpg" height="320" width="213" /></a><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
THE LITTLE ROCK MESSENGER<br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B003YOSYHK">www.amazon.com/dp/B003YOSYHK</a><br />
<br />
DREAM TRAVELER - Book One<br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B009LTTMS2">www.amazon.com/dp/B009LTTMS2</a><br />
<br />
ELECTRIC HIGHWAY<br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B004RJ81LU">www.amazon.com/dp/B004RJ81LU</a><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Robert Rylandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08975924826530958916noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7180149860702450696.post-36928972989071001132013-04-19T08:19:00.000-07:002013-04-19T08:19:31.278-07:00The Stoic Victims of Dysfunction - A Short Story Review I have never been drawn to short story fiction, but I have recently had the pleasure of reading a work that may change my mind. <br />
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<span lang="EN">S.A. Williams’ short story <i>Parable</i> reveals the festering wounds of children of dysfunction. The narrator is Sam, a boy who has been forced to act as mediator and pacifier in the household of an abusive father. His close friend J.C. is a girl who has watched the corrosive effects on him of his family challenges, and by way of storytelling tries to open his eyes to the personal disintegration he is suffering. Although Sam considers himself the strong, stoic force in his household, J.C. realizes he is blind to what is happening to his life. She attempts to open his eyes through parable, spinning the tale of two uncles living separately in foundationless houses on the beach. One uncle is blind; the other is not. A storm comes up and damages both houses irreparably. The blind uncle doesn’t see the storm’s destruction, and tries to live on in his unstable house. The other realizes the futility of trying to fix the damage, and leaves. The metaphor is clear. You can’t fix what you can’t control. </span><br />
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The author provides stark imagery of Sam and J.C. walking along the cliffs above Lake Michigan. We feel the chill and stormy nature of the water as they talk and argue. They are both on the edge, “looking over”, struggling with demons. A mutual friend, Owen, a victim of child abuse, has already dealt with his own demon by committing suicide. Now, Sam and J.C. must decide how to deal with theirs. The resolution is deftly handled. <br />
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Williams has written a compelling story that is timeless. The reader is drawn into the conflicting emotions of the dialogue, the denseness of the theme. Childhood traumas are often hidden by quiet suffering. Our young can grow into adulthood shouldering invisible baggage. Occasionally, something unexpected reveals this baggage — sometimes with tragic results.<br />
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S.A. Williams is a writer to watch. I believe readers will likely hear more from him in the future. Visit his website at <a href="http://authorsawilliams.wordpress.com/">http://authorsawilliams.wordpress.com</a> <br />
<br />
<br />
<u>See my books on Amazon</u>:<br />
<br />
DREAM TRAVELER<br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B009LTTMS2">www.amazon.com/dp/B009LTTMS2</a><br />
<br />
THE LITTLE ROCK MESSENGER<br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B003YOSYHK">www.amazon.com/dp/B003YOSYHK</a><br />
<br />
ELECTRIC HIGHWAY<br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B004RJ81LU">www.amazon.com/dp/B004RJ81LU</a><br />
Robert Rylandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08975924826530958916noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7180149860702450696.post-52666217284014241762012-12-14T12:21:00.001-08:002012-12-14T12:21:14.050-08:00Christmas in CombleuxWhen I was a boy, my family lived in France. Dad was an officer in the Army, stationed at a base in Orleans, a mid-sized city in the Loire Valley about fifty miles southwest of Paris. This was in the early 1950s when American troops were still welcomed in France after the war to assist with the rebuilding efforts and to provide rear-area security against any possible Soviet aggression.<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-PHMiqW-RClg/UMuGSwlKibI/AAAAAAAAAIA/k3Y1I8qwIr8/s1600/064.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-PHMiqW-RClg/UMuGSwlKibI/AAAAAAAAAIA/k3Y1I8qwIr8/s320/064.JPG" width="320" /></a><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-u6P8jXLMTIs/UMuF-6-wmNI/AAAAAAAAAH0/S33Iu35X1hY/s1600/061.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-u6P8jXLMTIs/UMuF-6-wmNI/AAAAAAAAAH0/S33Iu35X1hY/s320/061.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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As a nine-year old, I had very little idea of the impact of the war to the people of France, other than noticing the bombed-out buildings in certain areas of Orleans. But since we lived in Combleux, a little village on a canal outside of Orleans, we didn't see the rubble of war on a regular basis. Our lives were confined primarily to making ourselves as comfortable as possible in a rundown old villa we rented, and trying to stay warm in the damp chill of winter. At one time, the villa had been someone's country home, designed only for summer visits by its owners from Paris. It was never meant to be occupied in cold weather, and consequently had no central heat. There was a fireplace in the drawing room, but someone had bricked it up, making it useless. So my dad got a local man named Couchard to build a new fireplace in an attached room once used as a stable, but he did such a poor job that the fireplace never drew properly. Instead of going up the chimney, smoke poured into the room whenever we had a fire, and Couchard couldn't seem to fix it. So it ended up another room without heat. Finally, Dad got the Army to provide us with some old unvented kerosene space heaters. We had to place them by cracked-open windows so we wouldn't asphyxiate ourselves. Because these heaters were smelly to operate, we normally used them just long enough to heat up our bedrooms before turning-in each night. Then we'd shut them off, close the windows, and go to sleep under a pile of blankets. The only really warm room in the house was the kitchen, which became our family gathering place. We would cook and eat there, play games, listen to Armed Forces Radio, do homework, et cetera.<br />
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-O-hqUcPtiEM/UMuAFw7ByxI/AAAAAAAAAHk/P3Gx2dtfLls/s1600/DreamTravelerWeb.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-O-hqUcPtiEM/UMuAFw7ByxI/AAAAAAAAAHk/P3Gx2dtfLls/s320/DreamTravelerWeb.jpg" width="213" /></a><br />
Christmas of 1953 was very special to us. Not only were we in France, we also had a new baby in the family, my little sister Jane, born earlier in the year in May. She was round and happy, and lighted-up our lives. When we first moved to the house, because of my mom's pregnancy, a local woman from the village was hired to help do the cleaning and cooking. Her name was Andrea, and we liked her right away. She in turn liked us, but when little Jane came along, she fell hopelessly in love. Andrea became a second mother and more-or-less took over, which ended up leaving my mom more time for other things. Needless to say, baby Jane grew very attached, and as she got older, would often spend the night with Andrea and her family when my folks got the chance to get away to Paris. <br />
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That first Christmas with Andrea, she made a special potato-vegetable soup for us. I remember watching in the kitchen as she boiled all the vegetables together - potatoes, carrots, onions, lettuce and celery. After that was done, they went through a vegetable mill, or <em>moulin</em> as the French called it. Andrea would pile them in, then crank the handle to mash them up over a large pot. The result became a thick, nourishing soup called <em>potage. </em>It was good on its own, of course, but was often accompanied by great chunks of crispy baggettes, buttered, along with swiss cheese and thinly-sliced ham. Andrea pointed out that the soup's flavor was enhanced by washing it down with a good Bordeaux. Mom provided her a glass, and she happily demonstrated. The whole family ended-up loving <em>potage.</em> It was the only thing we ate that Christmas eve, and it became our traditional Christmas eve meal from that time on.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-AoUj5gLUN-8/UMt9B3cUDqI/AAAAAAAAAHU/wsuZsNQGMkQ/s1600/LittleRockFinalWeb.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-AoUj5gLUN-8/UMt9B3cUDqI/AAAAAAAAAHU/wsuZsNQGMkQ/s320/LittleRockFinalWeb.jpg" width="213" /></a>After we finished dinner, and mom and dad had their requisite coffee and cognac - and baby Jane got passed around for goodnight kisses - we all bundled up to go to the local village church for midnight mass. Andrea stayed behind with Jane. The church was an old, stone structure that had probably been there a century or more. It was located next to a canal that ran behind the village and emptied into the Loire River a few miles away. The church's stone walls seemed to soak up all the moisture from the nearby water, and like most old churches and cathedrals of the period, body heat was all there was. The sanctuary was like a refrigerator. By the time we arrived, all the pews were filled, and we were forced to stand at the back. I remember spending that long service stomping on the hard floor to keep my feet warm. As the priest droned on in French and Latin, my mom and dad would take turns hugging me into the lining of their coats. My older sister was just as uncomfortable, I'm sure, but she didn't complain, and stood miserably silent next to us.<br />
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When mass ended, we shook hands with a number of the villagers we recognized. For the most part, they were friendly people, pleased to have Americans attend their church. I noticed a few who appeared sullen, however, and in retrospect wonder if they resented our intruding on their services. One of them, however, was Couchard, the fireplace builder. He had his own reasons for being sullen, still angry with my dad because he never got paid the last installment of his fee. He claimed he had been cheated, and this after witnessing for himself the malfunctioning fireplace. I guess his view was my dad was expected to pay in full for shoddy work. We greeted him in a yuletide spirit, but he turned away from us with an arrogant scowl on his face. <em>Les Americains vilains!</em><br />
<br />
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bdCbcjY13O4/UMt81rzZxrI/AAAAAAAAAHM/nUGDsJ9VrFM/s1600/ElectricHwyFinalWeb.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bdCbcjY13O4/UMt81rzZxrI/AAAAAAAAAHM/nUGDsJ9VrFM/s320/ElectricHwyFinalWeb.jpg" width="213" /></a>After church, we walked back home in a stiff wind, went into the stable room and sat around our Army-issued kerosene heater to open one present each before going to bed. Months before, I had picked out several items from the Sears-Roebuck catalogue, as had my older sister, and hoped they would be delivered in time for Christmas. As they were mailed directly through the Army post office, I wasn't aware when they arrived. My dad had probably snuck them into the house one day when I wasn't looking. Anyway, I watched patiently as my sister opened up a package containing a new cashmere sweater. She tried it on, and paraded around in silly fashion to receive the obligatory compliments all teenage girls expect from their folks. Then it was my turn. I tore open a wrapped box about eight inches square, and found inside what I'd been wanting for a long time - and I hadn't seen it at Sears-Roebuck. It was a ViewMaster, with about a dozen wheels of films. Ecstasy! I was overjoyed, and immediately began looking at 3D pictures of faraway places - jungles and mountains, full of color and drama, up close, like I was there - all the wonders of the world. It was new entertainment. It was escape. And I was happy.<br />
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Mom and Dad smiled as my sister kept looking at herself in the mirror and I stayed glued to my ViewMaster. Peace was at hand. All was well in the family. Christmas was a success. And then - as was inevitable - came the smoke, this time not from the fireplace but from the kerosene heater. A smelly cloud began covering the room. My dad uttered a favorite four-letter word and threw back another cognac. Damned Army, he muttered. Mom laughed, and shook her head. At least this time, she pointed out, he couldn't blame Couchard! <br />
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We gave up on the stable room, turned off the heater, and rushed through the frigid house to our beds. For awhile, I looked at more 3D pictures under the covers, then fell asleep thinking of Christmas and jungles and mountains ...and smoky old kerosene heaters.<br />
<br />
<u>See my books on Amazon:</u><br />
<strong><u></u></strong><br />
<strong><em>DREAM TRAVELER</em> </strong><br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B009LTTMS2">www.amazon.com/dp/B009LTTMS2</a><br />
<br />
<strong><em>THE LITTLE ROCK MESSENGER</em></strong><br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B003YOSYHK">www.amazon.com/dp/B003YOSYHK</a><br />
<br />
<strong><em>ELECTRIC HIGHWAY</em></strong><br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B004RJ81LU">www.amazon.com/dp/B004RJ81LU</a><br />
<br />
<br />
<strong><u></u></strong><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Robert Rylandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08975924826530958916noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7180149860702450696.post-91420671315683319622012-10-30T11:34:00.001-07:002012-10-30T11:34:43.553-07:00The House of Blue LightsIt sat alone in a field outside the city limits. There was a porch running around two sides, buckled front wooden steps, a warped porch swing hanging by one chain. It was an old house, a single-story, turn-of-the-century Victorian with missing windows and weathered siding. <br />
<br />
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-qpFkPLVXtrE/UJAVRyhN0hI/AAAAAAAAAGs/Fzx0NeAs7Hc/s1600/DreamTravelerWeb.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-qpFkPLVXtrE/UJAVRyhN0hI/AAAAAAAAAGs/Fzx0NeAs7Hc/s320/DreamTravelerWeb.jpg" width="213" /></a>Like all old dilapidated houses, it seemed a perfect host for a legend, which went like this. The house belonged to an elderly woman with scraggly hair and no teeth. Her husband died mysteriously in one of the rooms years before. but no one came to remove the body. The suspicion was it was buried somewhere on the premises. The woman was said to wander aimlessly from room to room talking to the walls, trying to contact her dead husband. She also kept a herd of feral cats, vicious things that would attack if anyone approached. At night she would wail hideously, her screams echoing throughout the house. That was the story, told and retold by every teenager in town. It was gospel, irrefutable as far as kids (and some adults) were concerned. Yet even as people described this old woman, over and over, no one claimed to have ever seen or spoke to her. And how could they? The house was vacant. It looked abandoned. Nothing moved - inside or outside. People who lived on neighboring properties dismissed the story. No one lived in the house, they said. It had been deserted for years. There was no old woman there. There was no one there. How could there be. Because anyone living in the house would eventually be seen. <br />
They'd have to come and go, get groceries, pick up mail. <br />
They couldn't live there and stay hidden. It was impossible. <br />
<br />
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-BPaawyL8cBk/UJAVZIbP3gI/AAAAAAAAAG0/p9-dHUpiykM/s1600/LittleRockFinalWeb.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-BPaawyL8cBk/UJAVZIbP3gI/AAAAAAAAAG0/p9-dHUpiykM/s320/LittleRockFinalWeb.jpg" width="213" /></a>But the story of the scraggly-haired, toothless woman persisted. True enough, there were never any signs of life. Never, ever. No old woman. No cats. No screams. Well...not during daylight hours, anway. But at night... so the story went...things were different. At night, something happened which no one could explain. People had seen it. Young people especially (of course). And it was always on a dark night...moonless and cloudy. Gloomy. There was no old woman, or cats, or screams, but there was something else. Lights. Strange lights. And they seemed to move mysteriously on their own, suspended in air, floating. Blue lights moving inside the house, flickering eerily from window to window. Blue lights, unnatural glowing orbs nobody could explain. And so, over time the place became...the house of blue lights. <br />
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I was eight years old when I first heard about it. And it was all because of my sister and her current boyfriend. He wanted to take her for a drive in his car. My mother wasn't sure this was a good idea. So being cautious, she forced sis to take me along as insurance, to prevent anything from happening in the car that <br />
shouldn't. (I guess I was the 1950's version of birth control) Much to my sister's irritation, I was the unwanted passenger, and I jumped happily into the back seat for my big adventure. The boyfriend, as I recall, was some cocky teenager doused in after-shave who, for some reason, didn't seem too worried about having me along. So, with my sister gritting her teeth, off we went on our drive. It ended just out of town at the house of blue lights. <br />
<br />
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-JrfCwn3TUxU/UJAVdJ4UMDI/AAAAAAAAAG8/84z4radTxBM/s1600/ElectricHwyFinalWeb.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-JrfCwn3TUxU/UJAVdJ4UMDI/AAAAAAAAAG8/84z4radTxBM/s320/ElectricHwyFinalWeb.jpg" width="213" /></a>Once there, the boyfriend told the story everyone but me seemed to know. The old woman, the cats, the wailing, and the lights. Then he instructed me to sit in the front seat (while he and my sister got in the back) so that I could watch closely for the lights. I was told to never take my eyes off the house, or I might miss something. It was very important, he said, that I keep looking, and never turn away. And so I watched...and watched...and watched...and never did see any blue lights. Saw no cats, and heard no wailing either. But after what seemed hours of waiting to an eight year old (more likely less than thirty minutes) I did see something... a light, a very bright, <em>white</em> light streaming in through the back window, and I yelled excitedly, "I see it! I see it!" The boyfriend and my sister jumped apart like they'd been tasered. I noticed they looked scared, and it made me scared too. "Is it the light? Is it?" I asked, nervously. They didn't answer. My sister began straightening her blouse.<br />
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A face appeared at the back window of the car. "Looking for the blue lights?" asked the cop. I nodded eagerly, and said I thought I saw one. He smiled as he glanced into the back seat. "Good for you, buddy. Maybe you can tell these two all about it on your ride home."<br />
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The cop waited until we drove away. I was disappointed. I never actually saw the blue lights that night. I just fibbed. I wanted the cop to think I had. But as I got older, driving out to see the house or the lights didn't seem all that important. The legend had faded. Other things had become more interesting to me, things like driving a car somewhere to park with a pretty girl - and <em>not</em> look for lights.<br />
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<strong>E-books available on Amazon:</strong><br />
<br />
DREAM TRAVELER <br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B009LTTMS2">www.amazon.com/dp/B009LTTMS2</a><br />
<br />
THE LITTLE ROCK MESSENGER<br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B003YOSYHK">www.amazon.com/dp/B003YOSYHK</a><br />
<br />
ELECTRIC HIGHWAY<br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B004RJ81LU">www.amazon.com/dp/B004RJ81LU</a><br />
<br />
<br />Robert Rylandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08975924826530958916noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7180149860702450696.post-77332293113616829792012-10-11T09:18:00.000-07:002012-10-11T09:24:08.286-07:00Feeling Fall in Smalltown, USAI was at my favorite coffee place today, and everybody was talking about the cooler weather. Well, it <em>is</em> October, and we <em>do</em> live in the mountains of North Carolina, so I suppose it's obvious that we're going to feel a chill in the air. But that's not the point. People <em>always</em> talk about the weather no matter how obvious the change. It's what we do as humans, particularly as small-town humans. We have opinions and observations about everything from weather to politics to who bought the old farm off Crab Creek Road. It's who we are. Inquistive, sometimes prying, but always interested in people and events around us.<br />
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-NxkL7zaN3Qo/UHbtr7QD4fI/AAAAAAAAAGA/UGeGR96Y5BQ/s1600/193.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-NxkL7zaN3Qo/UHbtr7QD4fI/AAAAAAAAAGA/UGeGR96Y5BQ/s320/193.JPG" width="320" /></a><br />
Now if you've read any of my earlier blogs, you know I haven't always lived in a small town. I'm a recent transplant from a big city - recent going on eight years, that is. And although I'm not part of one of the local families who go back ten or more generations, I feel I'm fully vested in my town, and can speak with authority on what makes us locals tick - that is, what inspires us to live where we do and be who we are. It's no mystery, of course. There's no cipher to work out. You see, we just plain LIKE ourselves here. We enjoy each other. And when I say enjoy, I mean it in a sincere way, in a community way that speaks of commitment, fellowship and support. Do I mean we are churchgoers? Sure, many of us are devout, and some are closely defined by religion. But the above qualities also reside outside of church membership. Our commitment to each other can be found everywhere - in our local government, our music and arts community, our small businesses, our college and schools, and our many volunteers who donate time and money to sponsor activities for the library, the hospital, and most particularly, the children. We are small enough to know what needs doing and to fill the gaps where we can. <br />
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So, as Fall breaks out, bringing brisk temperatures and reminding us that Winter is on the way, living in a small town is a good place to be. And I especially like how people get into the spirit of the season: visitors coming in from surrounding states to enjoy the explosion of color across our mountains; corn stalks decorating Main Street for Halloween and costumed shopkeepers passing out candy to the kids; people gathering under a profusion of twinkling lights to enjoy our Christmas parade and all the food and camaraderie of the season. It is this time of year when I feel happiest living where I do, feeling a spirit of a place much more profoundly than I did during my urban years. <br />
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Do I miss the cultural diversity of big city life - the dining opportunities, entertainment venues, major league sports teams? Not really. Life is full of stages, isn't it? We pass through the years and soak up what we want; discard what we don't. Choice is a big part of living, after all, maybe the biggest part. In the early stage of my life, big city life was important, brought me a career, marraige and family. It was where I needed to be. But my perspective shifted, and everything changed. BIGness was no longer important. SMALLness took over...and I'm very happy it did.<br />
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Happy Fall, everybody!<br />
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<a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B003YOSYHK">www.amazon.com/dp/B003YOSYHK</a> <a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B009LTTMS2">www.amazon.com/dp/B009LTTMS2</a><br />
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Robert Rylandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08975924826530958916noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7180149860702450696.post-66996006441178468922012-10-06T12:47:00.000-07:002012-10-06T12:47:17.693-07:00New Book - DREAM TRAVELER - Synopsis<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SIVJvLtclvw/UHCIDDRsAtI/AAAAAAAAAFw/rHtbPJByHVI/s1600/DreamTravelerWeb.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SIVJvLtclvw/UHCIDDRsAtI/AAAAAAAAAFw/rHtbPJByHVI/s320/DreamTravelerWeb.jpg" width="212" /></a><span lang="EN"></span></div>
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><strong>DREAM TRAVELER</strong></span><br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B009LTTMS2">www.amazon.com/dp/B009LTTMS2</a><br />
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See Interview at <a href="http://indieauthorland.com/">http://indieauthorland.com</a><br />
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Seventeen year old Jeff Hayden is confined to a wheelchair as a result of a back injury he sustained in a car accident that killed his mother. His father James Hayden, a successful biochemist and researcher, has been missing since before the accident. Now parentless, Jeff lives with his Uncle Hank, a former Navy SEAL, who is suspiciously guarded about what he knows regarding Jeff’s missing father. This trait causes friction, and Jeff yearns for the day he can be independent and away from his uncle’s aloofness. <br />
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Everything changes, however, when Jeff starts “dreaming” he is with his dad, with episodes so real he believes they must be more than dreams. His Uncle Hank is reluctant to talk about it, and suggests the dreams are simply Jeff’s way of mourning the loss of his parents. Then one day, prompted by a physical assault on his friends, the boy finds himself using unknown mental powers to “leave” his body and <i>travel</i> to their defense. This unexpected ability makes him realize he has a special gift - that maybe the dreams of his father were <i>not</i> dreams. Confronted with this discovery, Jeff forces his uncle to open up and reveal secrets he has kept hidden about his mother, and about his father‘s classified research. These revelations answer a lot of questions for Jeff. But they also lead to more questions when he learns that his “dreams” are really trips into a compelling and dangerous world called The Realm, a psychic energy network used by other <i>travelers</i> like himself. It is a place of abstraction and mystery, confusing, full of challenge, and frequently surprising. Once discovered, The Realm alters life inexorably for Jeff. But he realizes he cannot turn back. He can only move forward to look for answers to his past, and to seek whatever his future holds. </div>
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<br />Robert Rylandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08975924826530958916noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7180149860702450696.post-66752552765814023522012-10-05T10:40:00.000-07:002012-10-05T11:11:49.491-07:00DREAM TRAVELER - Synopsis<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B009LTTMS2">www.amazon.com/dp/B009LTTMS2</a><br />
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<span lang="EN">Seventeen year old Jeff Hayden is confined to a wheelchair as a result of a back injury he sustained in a car accident that killed his mother. His father James Hayden, a successful biochemist and researcher, has been missing since before the accident. Now parentless, Jeff lives with his Uncle Hank, a former Navy SEAL, who is suspiciously guarded about what he knows regarding Jeff’s missing father. This trait causes friction, and Jeff yearns for the day he can be independent and away from his uncle’s aloofness. <br />
<br />
Everything changes, however, when Jeff starts “dreaming” he is with his dad, with episodes so real he believes they must be more than dreams. His Uncle Hank is reluctant to talk about it, and suggests the dreams are simply Jeff’s way of mourning the loss of his parents. Then one day, prompted by a physical assault on his friends, the boy finds himself using unknown mental powers to “leave” his body and <i>travel</i> to their defense. This unexpected ability makes him realize he has a special gift - that maybe the dreams of his father were <i>not</i> dreams. Confronted with this discovery, Jeff forces his uncle to open up and reveal secrets he has kept hidden about his mother, and about his father‘s classified research. These revelations answer a lot of questions for Jeff. But they also lead to more questions when he learns that his “dreams” are really trips into a compelling and dangerous world called The Realm, a psychic energy network used by other <i>travelers</i> like himself. It is a place of abstraction and mystery, confusing, full of challenge, and frequently surprising. Once discovered, The Realm alters life inexorably for Jeff. But he realizes he cannot turn back. He can only move forward to look for answers to his past, and to seek whatever his future holds. <br />
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<a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B009LTTMS2">www.amazon.com/dp/B009LTTMS2</a><br />
</span><br />Robert Rylandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08975924826530958916noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7180149860702450696.post-73386493955505562492012-09-29T13:34:00.000-07:002013-04-19T09:05:45.900-07:00A Dream So RealMost of us dream, and when we wake up, we know we've been dreaming. Nothing about dreams, most dreams, could ever be mistaken for anything else. We know they aren't real.<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-n6TjZN_EJzo/UGdOo653SCI/AAAAAAAAAFM/XmnAarV0laM/s1600/DreamTravelerWeb.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-n6TjZN_EJzo/UGdOo653SCI/AAAAAAAAAFM/XmnAarV0laM/s320/DreamTravelerWeb.jpg" width="213" /></a>Yet, the mind is very inventive. For a moment, even a long moment, a dream can seem perfectly believable as it performs miracles: bringing those from our past into the present; delivering the dead from their graves to talk and laugh as if they'd never left. In one dream alone, we can be at home, on a mountaintop, in the middle of the ocean, all in the span of seconds. We can play any instrument, speak any language, push the boundaries of personal safety. A dream can be deeply pleasurable or coldly terrifying. <br />
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Dreaming, we are told, is important. It is the mind's way of handling stress, of putting to rest the anxieties and fears of life's challenges. Moreover, some transpersonal psychologists believe that dreams can be a window into new paranormal and transformational experiences, that they can bring cosmic awareness. This branch of psychology grew out of the 1960s and 1970s when patients reported experiences that traditional theory couldn't explain. At the time, there was a lot of experimentation with psychedelic drugs, which ended up skewing some patient symptoms. Therapists had to learn to differentiate between a normal person's mystical experiences and that of a psychotic's delusional behavior. Transpersonal psychology gave therapists a new perspective and new language to explain specific symptoms.<br />
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Various schools of psychology have offered theories about the meaning of dreams. Freud argued that all dream content centered on conscious wish fulfillment, whereas Jung thought dreams reflected both conscious and subconscious influences. Parapsychology, called pseudoscience by some, investigates ostensible paranormal phenomena, like telepathy, precognition, clairvoyance and telekinesis. Dreams figure into some of these fringe studies, including out-of-body (OBE) experiences, episodes which suggest that the mind floats apart from the body allowing the dreamer to see themselves in their physical state. Some people have described very lucid moments of such "travel" beyond their bodies. Acutely ill patients have also related near-death experiences where they are convinced they have left the physical plain for a metaphysical state called the astral plain, referred to as astral projection or soul travel. <br />
<br />
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-n6TjZN_EJzo/UGdOo653SCI/AAAAAAAAAFM/XmnAarV0laM/s1600/DreamTravelerWeb.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-n6TjZN_EJzo/UGdOo653SCI/AAAAAAAAAFM/XmnAarV0laM/s320/DreamTravelerWeb.jpg" width="213" /></a>Although some parapsychologists treat OBEs as evidence that a soul or spirit can detach itself from the body to visit distant locations, traditional science remains deeply skeptical. OBEs are considered rooted in nothing more esoteric than hallucinations which stem from various psychological or neurological factors. The empirical mindset will not acknowledge evidence that cannot be proved. And yet, the physical world is filled with the unexplained. There are many instances of phenomena that have confounded the scientific community. Guy Lyon Playfair in his book, <em>The Indefinite Boundary</em>, speaks to this conundrum and offers the following observation: "Science and the occult have always had a certain amount in common. Each has tended in the past to assume that things exist because they must, and not because anybody has actually proved they do." In other words, proving it's <em>not</em> may be as difficult as proving it <em>is.</em><br />
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So, are dreams simply the result of chemical reactions in the brain, or do they come from something less organically based? Some of us are convinced we know the truth. Others are not so sure. <br />
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In my new book, DREAM TRAVELER, teenage protagonist, Jeff Hayden, who is physically challenged and confined to a wheelchair, discovers a psychic energy stream called The Realm, where the physical world is superceded and often diminished by a superior mental plain of existence. Jeff's mother is dead, and his father has mysteriously disappeared. The boy's uncle believes his father is dead, but Jeff doesn't, and experiences very realistic dreams of being with his dad in an undisclosed location.<br />
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DREAM TRAVELER now available at Amazon's Kindle Book store:<br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B009LTTMS2">www.amazon.com/dp/B009LTTMS2</a><br />
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Robert Rylandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08975924826530958916noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7180149860702450696.post-40935884425656275292012-09-17T12:47:00.001-07:002012-09-17T12:47:50.919-07:00Reviews - THE LITTLE ROCK MESSENGER<br />
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<a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B003YOSYHK">www.amazon.com/dp/B003YOSYHK</a><br />
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<strong>A taut, riveting, deeply moving thriller...</strong><br />
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"...Like Paul Gallico's brilliant novel, THE BOY WHO INVENTED THE BUBBLE GUN, this fine novel has as its protagonist a young boy who seemingly comes of age during a single bus ride. The author somehow manages to bridge the gap between Europe in World War II and the American South during the civil rights upheaval of the 1950s. And the formula works splendidly. From the get-go the author has a difficult task: keeping a whirlwind plot moving while providing background information on the many disparate characters involved in the race to reach Atlanta. In the hands of this talented author it not only works, but it is a novel that kept me reading at the edge of my seat right until the very end. NOTE: as well as being a terrific thriller, this is a terrific novel for young adult readers to learn a few things about America's past during the civil rights era and before..."<br />
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- T. Bundrick<br />
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<strong>My First Review</strong><br />
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"...The opening chapter hooked me immediately and held my attention all the way to the end. The characters that populate the story are people you really care about, don't trust, dislike, understand, despise and root for. The main theme of the story is justice, long overdue, but that makes it all the more compelling. A secondary theme is Jim Crow and ethnic prejudice: in this book the victims are blacks and Jews. It is the summer of 1956, when America was just beginning to hear about a man named Martin Luther King, Jr., well before the civil rights movement got moving, and some ten years after the Holocaust. These two historical events merge in a bus ride from Little Rock to Atlanta, covering a three day period, and bring out the worst and best in humanity."<br />
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- Larry S. Miller<br />
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<strong>A Messenger of Faith</strong><br />
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"People who take on a dangerous but worthwhile challenge are called courageous. But a child who does so is extraordinary. This is the stroy of one such child, a twelve-year old African-American boy living in the South of 1956. As the story unfolds, the reader feels the heat of summer and the prejudice through the backdrop of a long Greyhound bus ride to Atlanta. As the central character, the boy is asked by an old man he has just met on the bus to help deliver something important to a woman in Atlanta. The boy struggles with his fears as a racial minority, and must choose between the safety of inaction and the principles of his strong religious upbringing. This is a layered story, weaving a message of moral courage into a fast-paced plot that drips with suspense and intrigue..."<br />
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- William J.<br />
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<strong>Very well-written, reads like a masterpiece!</strong><br />
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This is a story every American should read. The author does a superb job of describing the prejudice and discrimination imposed upon innocent victims by our justice system and our society in the aftermath of World War II. The reader relives the invasion of privacy of suspected Communists and daily degradation of minorities that hindered our country's progress during the mid-twentieth century.<br />
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Twelve year old Lincoln South boards a bus traveling from Little Rock, Arkansas to Atlanta, Georgia in 1956. Lincoln takes one of the seats reserved for African-Americans in the back of the bus. Lincoln is a sharp lad with keen intuition, whose mother has instilled a strong sense of right and wrong. Two key players in the story join Lincoln in the back rows. One is an arrogant, flashy young man running from the law and looking for trouble. The other is a quiet, reserved foreigner on a mission to right a wrong administered by the Nazi Party during the war. The foreign stranger attempts to return stolen goods to the rightful owner and realizes that he is being followed by a hired killer. Both men trust Lincoln, befriend, and involve him in their problems. Lincoln's involvement with these men makes him the messenger that will change future generations.<br />
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This is a very well-written story that reads like a masterpiece. It is an informative look at life in America during the mid-1950s.<br />
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- Alle Wells<br />
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<a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B003YOSYHK">www.amazon.com/dp/B003YOSYHK</a>Robert Rylandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08975924826530958916noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7180149860702450696.post-57305913701893743022012-09-10T12:52:00.000-07:002012-09-10T12:53:20.971-07:00More Excerpts from DREAM TRAVELEROn October 5, my new e-book, DREAM TRAVELER, will be launched on Amazon's Kindle book site. DREAM TRAVELER is a Young Adult, Paranormal Thriller centering on a physically challenged teenager named Jeff Hayden with psychic-travel and telekinetic abilities. Each time he leaves his body, he enters a psychic energy network called The Realm, a place of mystery and abstraction, where the unknown is a constant challenge to survival.<br />
<br />
Following are excerpts from the book:<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Later when
they were driving home in the van, Jeff could tell Dwight was still troubled by
the explanation he’d given him about the attack on Quint.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After all, it was a lot to swallow, even for
a fantasy gamer like Dwight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And maybe
the more he thought about it, the more he realized how outrageous it
sounded.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why should anyone believe such
crap?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i>How</i> could anyone believe
it?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were irrefutable laws of
physics, and what Jeff claimed to do had violated all of them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Jeff
suddenly hated what was happening to his life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He was changing, becoming more serious and reserved.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And it wasn’t just because of his
paralysis.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was because of his mom’s
death, his Uncle Hank and the <i>traveling</i> dreams - everything.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was all making him more internal, more
secretive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He wasn’t the same boy he was
when he and Dwight first met as freshmen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Now he was different, very different, and he wouldn’t blame his friend
if he decided to cut him loose.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After
all, who would want to put up with such drama.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>If their roles were reversed, he wasn’t sure he would.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So far,
neither boy had talked on the ride home, then suddenly Dwight said, “How come
you didn’t tell Klein what you told me?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Jeff
shrugged, watching the road ahead.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I
didn’t think it was the time.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“But you
told me.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-2zwczFV2w1M/UE5AD4dwjHI/AAAAAAAAAEM/Qz3_4x7FK28/s1600/DreamTravelerWeb.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-2zwczFV2w1M/UE5AD4dwjHI/AAAAAAAAAEM/Qz3_4x7FK28/s320/DreamTravelerWeb.jpg" width="213" /></a><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah - I
did.“<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He thought a moment, then said,
“You’re my best friend.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I needed to
confide in someone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I figured you
wouldn’t automatically tell me I’m crazy - at least not at first.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He turned to Dwight, trying to read his face.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I don’t expect you to buy into it
completely.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know I’ve got to prove it
some way…and I will.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just give me a
chance.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Dwight began
shaking his head<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Dude -
you’re kinda weirding me out,” he admitted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“It’s creepy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I mean, how can you
leave…how can you be…outside of yourself?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And don’t say it’s like <i>Dream Masters</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You ain’t no video game.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Jeff
sighed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nothing he said would make any
sense, and he knew it.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> ***********</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></span> </div>
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> Hank sat
down at the kitchen table.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He looked
tense.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He said,
“This thing that happened - it’s going to change everything.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Jeff didn’t
reply, and slowly wheeled himself to the table.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Hank took another pull from his water, studying the boy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Since your
dad disappeared, I’ve worked hard to make sure you were protected,” he went
on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“But an incident like the one on
Saturday can make that harder.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are
people who are…well, you have to be careful, Jeff.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You understand that, don’t you?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Jeff didn’t
reply at first.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After what happened
outside Reese Perry’s trailer, he and his uncle had spent a quiet day on Sunday
mostly avoiding each other.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They didn’t
say much of anything.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was as though
they knew they needed time to think.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Something new had come crashing into their lives, and there was a lot to
absorb.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Everything was different.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even things that always seemed normal looked
skewed somehow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-4J3e1gct_gA/UE5AtFGTQrI/AAAAAAAAAEU/M7L3fAbrRgM/s1600/DreamTravelerWeb.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-4J3e1gct_gA/UE5AtFGTQrI/AAAAAAAAAEU/M7L3fAbrRgM/s320/DreamTravelerWeb.jpg" width="213" /></a><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Now Hank
seemed ready to talk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Jeff wondered if
he had made some decision, and what it would be.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He knew what he thought should be the next
step, but he wasn’t sure his uncle would agree.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Finally, he
said, “Uncle Hank, my dad is alive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m
sure of it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I need to try to reach him,
to let him know we want to help him.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The big man
stared at his water bottle, looking troubled.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“How can you
be sure of what you’ve seen?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That it’s
really him being held somewhere, and not just a dream?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The boy
shook his head.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I wasn’t sure
before.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I admit it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But now, knowing what you told me about mom,
and knowing what happened on Saturday…it just has to be dad.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can feel it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know I was there…with him…in that room.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Hank closed
his eyes and sighed deeply.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Even if
that’s true, what do you expect to do?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>James could be anywhere.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’ll be
impossible to find him.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“But I need
to try,” Jeff argued.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I need to get
back there somehow - to be where he is - and listen to conversations, maybe
look for something that can tell me his location, a landmark or something.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Hank took
another swallow of water, then screwed the cap back on the bottle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Jeff felt himself grow anxious, and wondered
if his uncle really understood how important his dad was to him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He saw his face settle in thought, hoping it
was a sign of agreement.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Jeff said,
“He’s alive, Uncle Hank.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And you know
that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can tell.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Hank looked
at him soberly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-LgfUOrBwydE/UE5BBzDyraI/AAAAAAAAAEc/uwR9IZPjTg8/s1600/DreamTravelerWeb.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-LgfUOrBwydE/UE5BBzDyraI/AAAAAAAAAEc/uwR9IZPjTg8/s320/DreamTravelerWeb.jpg" width="213" /></a><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I want to
believe it - yes.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He stood and carried
the water back to the refrigerator, then turned back to his nephew.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“But what does it matter, Jeff?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What you’ve experienced so far has
been…random.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You admit yourself you have
no control.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How do you expect to target
the next event?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In order to find your
dad, you have to be able to…navigate some way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>You’ve never done that before.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Jeff thought
about this, and realized his uncle was right.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>There was no way to know when he would <i>travel</i> next, or where it
would take him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The dreams he thought he
was having of his father weren’t planned.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>They just happened.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But why?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What had caused them in the first place?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And the incident at Reese Perry’s house.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why had that happened?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Was it the sight of his friends being
beaten?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Was it his own rage that had
triggered something?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How had that
worked?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And how could he ever plan such
an event in the future?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He felt
defeated, thoroughly frustrated, and it must have shown on his face.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The next thing he knew Hank had pulled up a
chair next to him, and had a hand on his arm.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Jeff, you
need to take a step back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe it’s
best to take things slow, see what happens from here on - not get too far ahead
of yourself.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Yes, of
course, thought Jeff.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was the same
old advice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The same old Uncle Hank
telling him to be cautious, to resist temptation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The man with the one-track mind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Be careful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Be safe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Think before
acting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All the bullshit stuff.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What was his problem?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hadn’t he ever been young?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hadn’t he ever been impulsive, or passionate
about anything?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Couldn’t he understand
what Jeff felt?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Look,” the
big man went on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I know of a woman - a
professor at Ridgemont University - not far from here.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She knew your mom and dad.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve spoken with her a few times since James
disappeared - and once since…since the accident.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think she might be able to help.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you let her, maybe she can give you some
answers - open some doors.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Jeff
realized he was gripping his chair so tightly his fingers had gone numb.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What did he say?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Had he heard his uncle right?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He looked over at him, his stomach churning
with anticipation.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What -
?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Who is she?” he asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Her name is
Dr. Sharon Xavier,” Hank answered.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“She’s a clinical psychologist.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She’s familiar with your dad’s research - with CIEP.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He hesitated before going on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“If we meet with her and you tell her about
your dreams - the<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i>traveling</i> - she
might have some insights that can help you.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You’ve
known about her all this time?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Hank
sighed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Yes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I wasn’t sure - it wasn’t until recently
that I felt I should call on her to help.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She’s a busy lady.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She has her
classes and her research.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m not sure
how much time we can get with her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I
think it might be worth it.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"><strong><u>DREAM TRAVELER, coming October 5, 2012</u></strong></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;">An Amazon e-book. </span></span></div>
<br />
Available now at Amazon:<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B003YOSYHK">www.amazon.com/dp/B003YOSYHK</a> <a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B004RJ81LU">www.amazon.com/dp/B004RJ81LU</a> <br />
<br />
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Robert Rylandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08975924826530958916noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7180149860702450696.post-12264906593782060542012-09-03T14:45:00.002-07:002012-09-04T07:38:32.883-07:00DREAM TRAVELER - The Power of MindOn October 5, 2012, I will be launching my latest novel, DREAM TRAVELER. <br />
<br />
This book is a departure for me, a Young Adult, Paranormal story about a physically challenged teenager named Jeff Hayden. Jeff has troubled dreams of his missing scientist father, very powerful and very realistic dreams. After experiencing them a number of times, he realizes he is actually <em>seeing</em> his father, and learns he is alive and being held prisoner in a secret location. He also learns that his "dreams" have nothing to do with sleep. They are in fact trips through a psychic energy network called The Realm, a place of abstraction and mystery used by other <em>travelers</em> like himself. This out-of-body experience allows Jeff to move from one location to another, and as such, it alters his life dramatically by freeing him from the confines of his wheelchair. Although liberating, <em>traveling</em> presents challenges Jeff doesn't foresee. The Realm, it turns out, holds secrets, and offers an environment as harsh and unforgiving as any in the physical world.<br />
<br />
Following is an excerpt from DREAM TRAVELER. Seeing his friends being assaulted outside his specially modified van, Jeff is frustrated by his inability to help them. It is at this point that something happens, and he realizes fully his extraordinary gift of psychic travel:<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Inside the
van, Jeff was enraged by what he saw.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>His physical limitation only added to his anger.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He groped for the latches securing his chair
to the floor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If he could get free, get
himself out of the van, he might be able to do something.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dwight and Klein couldn’t do it alone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He had to help them, somehow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He had to get out there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He heard the
smacks of fist against bone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The thuds
of a boot against back and side.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Both
boys were taking a cruel beating.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Both
could end up in the hospital…or worse.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Reese kept trying to intervene, but was batted away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was too much.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He couldn’t stand it, couldn’t sit there
useless, doing nothing, letting his friends pay for his stupid idea to drive
over there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was his fault.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They should never have come.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He should have known better.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And for what?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>To satisfy his curiosity?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To see
how Reese lived?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What was it about Reese Perry?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why should he care?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because of him, Dwight and Klein were getting
stomped on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because of him….<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-QetGPUN1vmQ/UEUfxi2T2XI/AAAAAAAAADk/k_nKl-SPUmw/s1600/DreamTravelerWeb.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-QetGPUN1vmQ/UEUfxi2T2XI/AAAAAAAAADk/k_nKl-SPUmw/s320/DreamTravelerWeb.jpg" width="213" /></a><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And then
quite unexpectedly, something shifted his perspective.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Everything looked different.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Energy surged through him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Compulsion gripped him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A need so strong, so overwhelming, he knew
there would be nothing to stop it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
possessed him, something he felt had been there all along, uncovered, exposed,
a veil lifting from a secret strength that lay hidden inside.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was a sensation of release, of
buoyancy… an exhilaration…and then he saw himself in the chair, his face a mask
of anger and indignation, a boy not yet a man, trying to be more than he could
physically be.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He felt rage,
frustration…and then it was gone, left behind with the boy in the chair.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The van was below him now, and he knew he was
floating, a consciousness apart from who he was in the wheelchair.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was…in two places at once…and now he saw
his friends on the ground, writhing under the blows of their attackers -
bloodied, bruised, faces twisted in pain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Jeff watched…composed…still angry, but now resolved.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Something in him made him realize this couldn’t
continue.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It happened
fast - so fast Jeff was hardly aware of it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And no one saw it coming.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not
Reese, and certainly not the boys or their attackers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was no warning, no sign that anything
was about to change.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And all anyone knew
was that Quint was suddenly on the ground, unable to move, shock on his face,
groaning in pain and fear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The pirate
rushed to help, and went down too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They
both lay prostrate, calling for help, looking around in panic for whatever it
was that pinned them down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One minute
they were dominating forces; the next, useless heaps on the ground.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Dwight and
Klein took advantage of the situation, and hobbled back to the van.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dwight cranked-up the engine, backed up
quickly and turned around.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In five
minutes they were racing down the narrow road for the main highway.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><strong><u>DREAM TRAVELER - Coming October 5, 2012</u></strong> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">An Amazon ebook</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"></span><br />
Available now on Amazon:<br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p><a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B003YOSYHK">www.amazon.com/dp/B003YOSYHK</a> <a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B004RJ81LU">www.amazon.com/dp/B004RJ81LU</a></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><o:p></o:p></span> </div>
Robert Rylandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08975924826530958916noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7180149860702450696.post-48407174359390278242012-08-17T11:04:00.000-07:002012-10-10T12:08:02.372-07:00Big City to Small TownWhen I was in high school, I moved with my family from Memphis to West Covina, California, a suburb of Los Angeles. Almost from the start, I loved California. In subsequent years, I finished high school, went to college and ended-up working for a large energy utility in the corporate offices in downtown L.A. As a young single guy, I became a big booster of everything California - the beach, the desert, the mountains, Hollywood - even the ever-frustrating freeway system. Here I was , a southern transplant from Tennessee in the land of milk and honey and glitz, with a good job and a decent lifestyle, feeling smug and superior to the land of my roots. I believed I had <em>arrived.</em><br />
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As I grew older, married, acquired children and a house and a mortgage, I grew more settled and less smug. Now don't get me wrong. I was as happy as any family man can be. I loved being a husband and father, going to school activities, soccer, T-ball, swim meets - all of it. But at the same time, on my way up the corporate ladder (a journey which leveled-off well below the top), I also became one of the faceless millions on a daily one-hour commute into the city. It started off in a car, fighting for space on congested freeways, scrambling for parking in over-crowded lots. Then it progressed to a commuter bus, leaving the driving to somebody else, locking me into a rigid schedule of pickup and delivery. Finally, the MetroLink train system was created, and I became an avid rail-rider. Travel stress was greatly reduced, and the schedule far less rigid. Nevertheless, even with these transportation improvements, my life was still structured around a daily twelve-hour window of work and commutation, with all other activities crammed into weekends. But it was just the way it was. I knew we weren't going to move closer to the office. And for the most part, I didn't mind, and neither did my family. We adjusted to the routine like thousands of other families in our suburban community. We <em>adapted</em> our priorities. However...slowly, inexorably, my outlook was beginning to change. The allure of big city life was on the wane.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5Qu01Cibv5U/UC6Dy9UOTQI/AAAAAAAAADM/nCW25ZoWEWc/s1600/LittleRockFinalWeb.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5Qu01Cibv5U/UC6Dy9UOTQI/AAAAAAAAADM/nCW25ZoWEWc/s320/LittleRockFinalWeb.jpg" width="213" /></a>Eventually, a corporate merger came about, and the headquarters offices moved to San Diego. Ah! I thought. A welcome change. This would inject a whole new outlook on things: smaller city, easier commute, charming harbor and beaches, great zoo - everything less complicated and easy to reach. More relaxed. Life would be good. And it was - for awhile. Then after three years, I took the opportunity to retire early, and began working on my first novel. At about this same time, my wife and I began to take a good look around ourselves, and asked, Is this it? Is this where we want to live-out our lives? Yes, the city had its pluses compared to L.A. Yes, it had beauty and lots of recreation. Yes, we had friends and family and a nice house. But still...there was something missing. It was one of those unexpressed feelings a couple can sometimes communicate to each other. We knew we should be happy, and we were...sort of. But we felt there should be more.<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B003YOSYHK">www.amazon.com/dp/B003YOSYHK</a><br />
<br />
The answer came unexpectedly. A good friend I had worked with over the years relocated to a small mountain community in western North Carolina. She too had been an L.A. urbanite, but decided to relocate to the same area her sister and brother-in-law did after retirement. On a visit to us, she described her new life in the Blue Ridge, and made us want to see this place for ourselves. So a few months later, we took an exploratory trip, drove across the state, and knew immediately we were seeing our future. Within a year, we sold our house and moved to our present home. And we have never regretted it.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-j9Bos6C_lAk/UC6D85T30xI/AAAAAAAAADU/WAyEJUKq-ik/s1600/ElectricHwyFinalWeb.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-j9Bos6C_lAk/UC6D85T30xI/AAAAAAAAADU/WAyEJUKq-ik/s320/ElectricHwyFinalWeb.jpg" width="213" /></a>I think lurking somewhere inside me there has always been a small-town guy. I love the feel of community here in North Carolina, the sense of belonging and contributing to things we can see and understand. There is something more personable, more friendly in our day-to-day lives now. My daughter moved with us, and with our help, started a small business right in town. Through her, we have gotten to know a lot of people, other business owners, local politicians, farmers, some whose families go back many generations, even as far back as the Civil War. As a writer, I've gotten to know the works of Robert Morgan, Ron Rash, Charles Frazier, writers who've delved deep into the history and character of these mountains. Reading them and others, and living here, I believe my own work has improved, and I'm sure it has to do with the local environment and culture. There is a spirit to the place that is palpable, something absent in my former life as a city dweller.<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B004RJ81LU">www.amazon.com/dp/B004RJ81LU</a><br />
<br />
Oh sure, small town life isn't perfect. Our lives touch each other more. People gossip, and pettiness isn't unknown. But on balance, I think I'd rather put up with that than the frequent indifference of the big city. This is not to say community doesn't exist in the neighborhoods of New York, Chicago or Los Angeles. I know it does, and there are nice people everywhere. I've met a lot of them. But my wife and I wanted something more, a sense of place, a special connection that you don't often find within large populations. We wanted "small." <br />
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And we found it. <br />
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Robert Rylandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08975924826530958916noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7180149860702450696.post-677104541357590812012-07-10T07:32:00.000-07:002012-07-10T07:32:04.765-07:00Book Excerpt - Memphis Bus Station in 1956<em>The following is an excerpt from my novel THE LITTLE ROCK MESSENGER. The story centers on a twelve year old African-American boy who makes a harrowing Greyhound bus trip to Atlanta. The year is 1956:</em><br />
<br />
Lincoln stopped to look for the Atlanta bus and saw that it would leave at twelve-thirty in the afternoon, in a little over an hour...<br />
<br />
Negroes weren’t allowed to use the
seats in the main terminal, but he spotted a row of benches along the side of
the building outside where he could sit with his lunch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Other colored people had already congregated
there, and he found himself next to an old woman who was hunched over and
gnawing on a large peach.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She made loud
slurping noises and paid no attention as Lincoln sat down with his suitcase,
knapsack and bag of food.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
He pulled out a package of
foil-wrapped chicken, removed a leg and started eating.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His mouth watered at the flavor of the meat
as he tore at it ravenously.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After the
leg was finished, he gobbled up a breast, then crunched an apple until it was
nothing but a brown-streaked core.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Once
done, he tossed the bones and apple core into a trashcan, took a drink from a
“Colored” water fountain, then looked around for the bathroom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One of the men on the bench pointed toward an
alley in back of the building, and said he would watch his suitcase while he
was gone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lincoln thanked him, stuffed
the bag of food in his knapsack and took it with him as he moved for the alley.
<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Two women were waiting in line in
front of him outside a door marked “Colored Rest Room”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Neither of them responded as he greeted them
courteously, so he began to occupy himself by surveying the area around him,
noticing in particular the back of several old apartment buildings -
ramshackle-looking places three stories high that needed paint and repair.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Along the alley next to them were rusted-out
cars parked amid tufts of crabgrass and weeds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>They looked like they had been in the same spot for years, covered in a
thick coat of dirt and grime.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Interspersed
between the cars were dozens of banged-up metal trashcans, half of them
knocked-over and spilling-out garbage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
As Lincoln studied the scene, he
heard music come from an apartment window in one of the buildings, drums
beating-out a rhythm behind a man’s high-pitched voice singing something loud
and fervent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Was it <i>“Frutti Tutti” </i>or
<i>“Tutti Frutti?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i>He wasn’t sure
which, but it was music new to him, something very different from the old hymns
and gospel singing he was used to at home and at church.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In fact, it sounded like music Camilla would
probably not like, something she wouldn’t want Lincoln listening to.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
One of the women in the bathroom
line began shaking her head, commenting on how shameful it was to listen to
such music, how it turned young people away from the Lord’s teachings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The other woman agreed, saying she had a
nephew who listened to that stuff, and it was turning him bad.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was sure the boy had been taken by Satan
- that he would end-up soul-less and on fire in Hades.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All the young people would end-up soul-less
listening to such trash, she emphasized, purposely cutting her eyes at
Lincoln.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The other woman followed her
gaze.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lincoln looked away quickly,
saying nothing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
By the time he’d finished in the
bathroom, a longer line of people had formed, many of them looking anxiously at
their watches, afraid of missing their buses.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>There were now eight in line waiting to use the bathroom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Two small boys were squirming uncomfortably,
close to wetting their pants.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Their
mothers pulled at them impatiently to be still.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Lincoln went back to the bench to
sit down with his suitcase.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He removed
his knapsack and put it on his lap, then began to think about the bag of food
inside holding his mother’s generous provisions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In his boredom, he thought about pulling
something else out to eat, knowing there were four more pieces of chicken and
another apple.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But he quickly decided
against it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His food had to last until
he arrived in Atlanta, and he still had a long ride ahead of him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He remembered his mother warning him to be
careful about eating too much too soon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>What had she said?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was a
word she used that started with an “R”, he thought.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She had said he must “ration” his food so that it would last-out the
trip.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If he ate too much at once, he
would find himself hungry later in the day – and then after that, he would be <i>very</i>
hungry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By the time he finally got to
Atlanta, after hours of not eating, he would be in pain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She said he must eat smart.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He must dole-out his food a little at a time
– be wise about his situation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
At the moment Lincoln didn’t feel
wise.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was alone in a strange city,
waiting to get on a bus to another strange city.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All around him were people he didn’t know,
folks who didn’t seem to notice him, or care about the fact that he was only
twelve years old and by himself a long way from home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He always believed he was strong for his age,
and lately had thought a lot about being grown up and out on his own.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
The idea of being old enough to
take care of himself, to be his own person and out from under the influence and
protection of the indomitable Camilla was something Lincoln looked forward
to.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He couldn’t wait to make this trip
so he could show his mother he was becoming a man, that he was old enough to
ride by himself five hundred miles by bus.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He thought the trip would prove he was no longer a boy, and that he
could be independent of his mother and her daily supervision and guidance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At least that’s what he told himself he
thought. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
But now, looking at all the strange
faces, hearing and smelling a place of cold utility where nothing resembled the
comfort of his home environment, Lincoln knew he really didn’t know what to
think.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was all so different from what
he imagined.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe he had more growing
to do, and hadn’t wanted to admit it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Maybe he wasn’t ready for independence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Not yet anyway.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Was he still a
child then?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Was that what he was telling
himself? <o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
He started to bite his lower lip in
frustration, didn’t want to think about these things anymore.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He wanted to just get on with his trip to
Atlanta and start his summer with his grandmama and his uncles, aunts and
cousins.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There would be time enough to
think about his future, what he would be as a man, and how he would live his
life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For now, being a kid was still all
there was, and he might as well just give in and accept it. <br />
<br />
<u>Sample Reviews:</u><br />
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<em>"A taut, riveting, deeply moving thriller...a novel that kept me reading at the edge of my seat until the very end...The author somehow manages to bridge a gap between Europe in World War II and the American South during the civil rights upheaval...the formula works splendidly."</em><br />
<em>- T. Bundrick, New York</em><br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2uLIwzx8H-8/T_w5zHq74nI/AAAAAAAAADA/4aew2rd1zRQ/s1600/LittleRockFinalWeb.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2uLIwzx8H-8/T_w5zHq74nI/AAAAAAAAADA/4aew2rd1zRQ/s320/LittleRockFinalWeb.jpg" width="213" /></a><em>"The opening chapter hooked me immediately and held my attention all the way to the end...The characters that populate the story are people you really care about, don't trust, dislike, understand, despise and root for. The main theme of the story is justice, long overdue..."</em><br />
<em>- Larry S. Miller, California. </em><br />
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<em>"...a story every American should read. The author does a superb job of describing the prejudice and discrimination imposed upon innocent victims by our justice system and our society in the aftermath of World War II...This is a very well-written story that reads like a masterpiece...an informative look at life in America during the mid-1950s."</em><br />
<em>- Alle Wells, North Carolina</em><br />
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<a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B003YOSYHK">www.amazon.com/dp/B003YOSYHK</a>Robert Rylandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08975924826530958916noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7180149860702450696.post-23477859897795091122012-06-23T04:14:00.000-07:002016-02-02T11:33:07.574-08:00Bringing New Life to Past ExperienceWriting fiction is largely about people and events that are born out of the imagination. The writer shapes them to suit the storyline. And yet, nothing created over a keyboard is entirely spun out of thin air. There are too many ties to real people and events and smells of days gone by to not have them creep into the prose of a writer's latest work. It is unavoidable. We are what we've lived. We can't divorce ourselves from the passions of experience, the pangs of heartbreak, the devastation of tragedy. It all seeps into sentences and paragraphs like rainwater into earth.<br />
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When I was in my teens, I worked for my uncle at his truckstop just outside of New Orleans. This was in the early 1960s. The civil rights movement was gathering steam, northern college students were in the South helping with black voter registration, and there was a lot of tension in the air, particularly in neighboring Mississippi. I had been living in California, where social tolerance and local laws were more accepting of racial equality. Although I'd lived previously in Memphis as a kid, returning South wasn't something I would have chosen to do. My parents wanted to live in New Orleans, so I was conscripted to help them move. Once there, I decided to stay for a year and earn some money working for my uncle before returning to school in California.<br />
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My truckstop job was pretty basic. I pumped gas, changed oil and tires, cleaned restrooms, and occasionally got to move big rigs from the pump islands to gravel parking areas while their drivers ate burgers, drank beer and played pool. My fellow workmates were both black and white, some redneck, some cajun, a few with prison records. They came in all shapes, sizes and colors. My uncle was ahead of his time - an equal opportunity employer. We all worked together, sweated together, swatted mosquitos, fought flying beetles and lovebugs, and listened to Bobby Vinton and Brenda Lee over outside speakers. In our world, on the job, there was no color divide.<br />
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Now, my uncle was no wise Atticus Finch type bent on fairness and social justice. But he was pretty astute when it came to judging a person's worth, and he wouldn't tolerate mistreatment of any man because of his background or color. He handled conflict calmly, and often with humor, which I came to admire. Because unless you're dealing with a complete sociopath, a good laugh can relieve just about any potentially explosive situation. A lesson I never forgot.<br />
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One of the memorable characters I worked with at the truckstop was a big black man named James Clayton. This was a guy at least six foot-six, who chewed on an unlit cigar and waxed poetic about life's ups and downs. He had a rich, baritone voice, an engaging laugh, and a habit of shaking his head at the stupidity he saw around him. "That white boy ain't got the sense of a possum - and they gits' run over all the time!" he would say. And we would all roar in agreement. James had a down-to-earth wisdom, and a kind of nobility I never forgot. He took people as they were, and was respected by everyone.<br />
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Drawing on experience enriches writing in a way that pure imagination can't. It's a powerful influence that enlivens characters, provides texture, and garnishes the drama of setting and atmosphere. During the time I worked for my uncle, well before I began to write in earnest, I knew that some day I wanted to capture the feel and essence of that truckstop. I wasn't sure how, but the kinship I felt with the place and those people never left me. I wanted to write a book about the South, about racial prejudice, friendship, and honor. I promised myself it would be dramatic and at the same time authentic. The characters would not ring false. The situations would be credible.<br />
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Many years later, I did write that book. It's not about a truckstop, but it is about the South. My hope is it's turned out as promised. <br />
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<a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B003YOSYHK">www.amazon.com/dp/B003YOSYHK</a><br />
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Robert Rylandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08975924826530958916noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7180149860702450696.post-22661240608969382222012-05-22T09:22:00.002-07:002012-05-22T10:58:31.490-07:00Why Do We Write?There are probably any number of reasons why people decide to become writers, but I can only talk about me. Here are my reasons. <br />
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I write Fiction. I write because I have an ego that tells me I have something to say that people will want to read. Vanity knows no limits, right? I also write because it would be nice to have readers pay for what I say so I can earn money. Craven commercial ambition. No surprise there. But then there is that other reason for writing which isn't as easy to explain - that gnawing, ceaseless hunger to turn the imagination into settings and characters and plots of fear and love and violence between good and bad elements of humanity's extremes; that desire to create worlds over which I have complete control while being happily free of any fallout which might occur. I guess it's all about power. Is that a God Complex? Maybe, although I never intended to reach that high! <br />
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From my earliest years, and I'm sure many writers would say this, I've looked at people and places in my world as scenes in a book or movie. When I first tried my hand at writing, these scenes ended-up as screenplays - crude, formless scribblings that depicted dramas out of simple, everyday occurrences. Over time, I perfected these screenplays until I actually got an agent, and had modest success. But eventually I transitioned to short stories, and then later to the novel. I rarely wrote in the first person because I found it too limiting. It was important for me to be along with my characters no matter where they went, no matter what time of day or night. I wanted omniscience. My objective was to see the world not as it <em>was</em>, but as I would <em>have</em> it be. Damn! That <em>is</em> God-like, isn't it? <br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-LJVw9Ss1Ymo/T7vM5lq0wYI/AAAAAAAAACc/2JIXI6tlpT0/s1600/LittleRockFinalWeb.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-LJVw9Ss1Ymo/T7vM5lq0wYI/AAAAAAAAACc/2JIXI6tlpT0/s320/LittleRockFinalWeb.jpg" width="213" /></a>Basically, I write to guide the destiny of my characters and hopefully to entertain. I don't write to inform, although that's sometimes a beneficial by-product of a good story (author experience and research). Other than the obligatory term papers and business reports I was forced to write for college and work, my first choice as a writer was always fiction. That's because I am lazy. Pure and simple. It takes a certain amount of patience and skill, not to mention a high degree of talent, to write non-fiction. I could never be an historian like Doris Kearns Goodwin or master biographer like David McCullough. They spend years researching, interviewing, building careful listings of source materials. They are wonderful writers who through research and skill make their subjects come alive for the reader. But they are stuck having to describe the people and places and events as they were. <em>They have no control over their world</em>! They are writers of fact, which is simply too much work and responsibility for me.<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-zuYuNbNKyIg/T7vM_AiFDzI/AAAAAAAAACk/KflNFjzNcSo/s1600/ElectricHwyFinalWeb.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-zuYuNbNKyIg/T7vM_AiFDzI/AAAAAAAAACk/KflNFjzNcSo/s320/ElectricHwyFinalWeb.jpg" width="213" /></a>Fiction, on the other hand, allows for great latitude. A writer can create multiple characters with peculiar habits and dangerous lifestyles, and can manipulate events so that someone lives and someone dies. Or a character leading an ordinary life can be suddenly thrown into extraordinary circumstances and become a hero by hidden skills or simple luck. It's all up to the writer. The setting can be New York or Paris or Istanbul. It doesn't matter. There are no real boundaries to fictional characters or locales. Through characters, the writer can be anyone and do anything. Supposedly, it was E.L. Doctorow who once said, "Writing is a socially acceptable form of schizophrenia." I believe he may have a point. Yet writers are not so much delusional as they are secret actors, living vicariously through their creations. It's harmless, satisfying, and possibly even therapeutic. It was James Thurber who may have caught the true spirit of the fiction writer in his short story <em>The Secret Life of Walter Mitty</em>. His message was timeless. Imagination frees us from the ordinary - even from ourselves. And who doesn't want to be someone else - at least for a little while.<br />
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Now don't get me wrong, here. I'm not suggesting I speak for all writers. Motivation is a complex subject. No one can be certain about why we do <em>anything</em> we do - especially writing. But I do know that in my case, writing has given me an important way to harmonize my life. It isn't merely an escape, although I suppose it can be used that way. It offers a better perspective of the world - dare I say, a more <em>positive</em> view of the disorder in our day-to-day lives. If that sounds crazy, forgive me. But that's how writing has affected me. <br />
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Fiction writing, of course, hinges on the ability to imagine all sorts of things, to believe the impossible can be overcome. And writers are dreamers. They believe in the <em>possible</em>, and the shear determination of their characters to bring justice to the world. It's all about imagination. In fact, there is a quote from somebody, I don't know who and I'll probably get it wrong, but it goes something like this: <em>By using chemistry and physics, I exist; by using imagination, I live.</em> <br />
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I guess that about sums it up.<br />
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Visit my author page at:<br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B004RJ81LU">www.amazon.com/dp/B004RJ81LU</a><br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B003YOSYHK">www.amazon.com/dp/B003YOSYHK</a><br />
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<br />Robert Rylandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08975924826530958916noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7180149860702450696.post-84778086375262556812012-04-18T14:01:00.001-07:002012-04-19T06:11:21.262-07:00How Will Publishing Evolve?Anyone writing today has to be intrigued by discussions about e-book publishing taking place on writers blogs. Some comments suggest Amazon's platform is going to lead to the death of traditional publishing, that the Big Six are doomed and paper books will become relics of the past. Others see traditional publishers adapting in order to play a role in both the paper and e-book marketplace. One thing that seems to be certain is that <em>nothing</em> is really certain at this point.<br />
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History has shown that industries change and adapt with changing times and tastes. People, of course, make up industry, and they are never satisfied. They want style and convenience at a reasonable price. They want quality and safety. And they're never happy with the status quo. Today that's compounded by the fact that we live in a mobile society, where we demand instantaneous communication from a variety of sources - and we want to take it with us. <br />
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In a sense, traditional publishing and retail book-selling is already a relic. It can't meet the immediate demand for new and back-listed material the consumer wants today. This is not to say I believe books, bookstores and libraries will all disappear. On the contrary, I think there are still millions like myself who like being surrounded by books, poring over old volumes and reference materials, and smelling dusty leather bindings that open magic doors to knowledge and adventure. Nothing electronic will replace that experience, in my opinion.<br />
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I do believe, however, that some, if not most, of the vestiges of book selling is bound to disappear. Why? Because it must. Our world is accelerating and doesn't have time for communications that can't keep pace with business and personal demands. Think about it. At one time, a computer taking up five thousand square feet of building space was once required to match the processing speed of the typical laptop today. Now, the laptop is in danger of being replaced by tablets and smart phones. Digital imagery has made film obsolete. E-mail bankrupted the U.S. postal service. Clouds are replacing hard drive storage. Social networking is revolutionizing contact across the globe. Nothing is static anymore. Change will never stop.<br />
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So what does it all mean for traditional book publishing? It means it's already adapting. We know magazines and newspapers are. They all have e-platforms in order to survive. The Big Six publishers will probably do something similar. They can't compete directly with the likes of Amazon, but they may ultimately strike some kind of alliance with them and others to launch books directly on-line at the same time they wholesale hard copy versions to retail outlets. Of course Amazon may have no incentive to strike such a deal. They're in a pretty good spot already. What this portends for indie writers like myself is hard to predict. What I hope we don't see happen is any future tightening of access by Amazon and other e-platforms as they grow more dominant in the industry. Maintaining the openness of the e-book marketplace to indie's is critical to allowing readers to find us and enjoy our work. <br />
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No matter how publishing evolves, the paperback and hardbound book will never disappear. How many bookstore outlets survive is unknown. But there will always be big box store and grocery chain outlets, airport news stands, and tourist locations for traditional publishers to target. And of course, I believe, and fervantly hope, that libraries will remain a large buyer of new volumes. Maybe it's my generation speaking, but nothing beats the smell of a nicely bound book.<br />
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See my books: <br />
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THE LITTLE ROCK MESSENGER <a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B003YOSYHK">www.amazon.com/dp/B003YOSYHK</a> <br />
ELECTRIC HIGHWAY <a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B004RJ81LU">www.amazon.com/dp/B004RJ81LU</a>Robert Rylandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08975924826530958916noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7180149860702450696.post-12838927002400214082012-03-14T14:00:00.001-07:002012-03-15T19:36:25.588-07:00Taking on the DemonsWhen I was a small boy and would go to the movies with my older sister, I used to spend as much time looking at the beam of light coming from the projection booth as I would looking at the screen. I liked to watch how the beam would split into multiple shafts of light as scenery changed or characters walked across the picture. I didn't understand photography in those days. I thought all the images I saw in movies were drawn, and marveled at how life-like they appeared.<br />
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As I grew up, I learned the truth about movies and film, and at first wanted nothing more than to be a projectionist. I thought being in charge of running a movie would be the coolest thing ever - controlling the picture, and pushing the button that opened the curtains as the Colombia or Fox or Warner Bros. logo announced itself to impressive music. Then as time went on, I started making 8 mm movies with my friends, dreadful things full of monsters and gore and terrible silent acting. (Spielberg and I have that in common, but of course that's where the similarity ends) Eventually, I started writing scripts. As a young man I wrote any number of teleplays on spec for all kinds of shows - detective, adventure, comedy. I only had one sell, and came close with a few near misses. By this time, however, I was married, having kids, and was obliged to make a living in a more stable, less exotic industry.<br />
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But in my spare time I kept writing - scripts, plays, short stories, and finally a first novel. My writing style evolved. I was an English Lit major so I was familiar with many of the classics of Eurpoean and American literature, as well as the tedium of figuring out complex, often convoluted literary themes. I knew what "good writing" was supposed to be - Hawthorne, Melville, Faulkner, Steinbeck, Flaubert, Camus, Stendahl, Dickens, etc., etc. But this wasn't what I was going for. I wasn't out to dazzle with some didactic treatise on why society eats its young and yearns for war. My intent was to entertain, to write page-turners that readers could visualize like a movie, with characters they could empathize with because they might be like people they knew. I "saw" my scenes like a camera. I read aloud my dialogue to make sure it rang true and seemed natural. I had my wife (long suffering though she is) read my first drafts and comment on continuity, grammar, characterizations, and all the rest. She became, and still is, not so much editor as sounding board, and believe me, she's good at picking up false notes.<br />
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Today, retired from the "less exotic" industry that reliably supported me and my family, I'm still writing, still going for entertainment over literary relevance. I'm not vain enough to believe I've made a choice here. Writing a literary novel is not something I ever thought I could do. And maybe that's got something to do with how I've approached my craft. Still, the movie lover in me, the great believer in seeing a reader hooked, spellbound, and imprisoned by a fast-paced plot and compelling characters, has always preferred to be entertaining. I love to perform magic, and share the fun with people who like magic too.<br />
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Like anything in life, writing isn't easy. It's full of demons out to frustrate you in any number of ways. It leads you down blind plot alleys and trips you up on inconvenient character details. It perlexes, frustrates and mesmerizes. And yet, it stays with you, and you with it. Do you struggle with it by choice or by obsession? I can't answer for anyone but myself. Choice was never an option. And for you writers reading this, I'm sure I'm not alone in that assessment.<br />
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<a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B003YOSYHK">www.amazon.com/dp/B003YOSYHK</a> <a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B004RJ81LU">www.amazon.com/dp/B004RJ81LU</a><br />
Robert Rylandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08975924826530958916noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7180149860702450696.post-87472249960578542542012-02-16T07:46:00.001-08:002012-02-16T07:54:41.109-08:00Morgan Freeman and Atticus FinchI don't know the actor Morgan Freeman, and don't have a clue as to his character when he isn't performing. But I am familiar with a number of film characters he has played over the years, and have always admired the integrity that seems to come through in his performances. I'm also familiar with the character of Atticus Finch in TO KILL A MOCKINGBIRD, Harper Lee's timeless novel of a child's eye view of small-town life in the American south of the 1930s. Finch is a struggling single father and attorney, a quiet-spoken man who disciplines his children with a gentle hand, and is known for his fairness and deep respect for the law. <br />
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Although it may seem a stretch, it strikes me that both men, one a real-life actor playing a character, the other a fictional character from a Pulitzer Prize-winning novel, have similar notable attributes. They both seem to look at the world as a large tapestry woven of many parts, and try to see the parts not as obstacles to truth but as elements contributing to truth that cannot be ignored. Whether its Ellis "Red" Redding in THE SHAWSHANK REDEMPTION, Hoke Colburn, the chauffeur in DRIVING MISS DAISY, or U.S. President Tom Beck in DEEP IMPACT, Morgan Freeman imbues his characters with a quiet dignity that will not be lost to intolerance or prejudice. In these roles, he exhibits the best qualities of the human spirit. He is the "everyman" we should all aspire to be. In fact, if not for the circumstances of the Alabama setting in 1936, I believe Morgan Freeman could easily have filled the Atticus Finch role immortalized by Gregory Peck.<br />
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As a writer, I dream of creating a character that embodies the nature of these two men. More than ever, it seems important to look for rationality. We live today, and I suppose we've always lived, in very messy times. And there don't appear to be simple answers to any "big questions." But there are people who seem to have the wisdom to overlook the noise and chaos to seek the right answers. Most of these people lead quiet lives, working, taking care of families and giving what they can to their communities. They have no megaphone or celebrity to tout their generosity, or great wealth to create parks and museums. Like Jimmy Stewart said in IT'S A WONDERFUL LIFE, they are just the people who do all the living and working and dying, the ones who are the backbone of any small town in America (and most big cities too).<br />
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I may be misquoting, but I believe Atticus Finch tells Scout at one point that to really know a person, you have to walk around in his shoes for awhile. It's a simple notion, and one that may not originate with the Finch character. But it certainly makes the point about how easy it is to ignore the conditions each of us live under -our hopes, our dreams, our day-to-day burdens. It may sound sophomoric, perhaps trite, but it is this very basic theme which, even today, runs through a lot of our storytelling. And it always seems to be the strong, virtuous character that makes the plot within come alive.<br />
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So, here is to Morgan the actor and Atticus the character for what they have given to us. They have few if any equals in the pantheon of film and literature - and I doubt they ever will. <br />
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</div>Robert Rylandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08975924826530958916noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7180149860702450696.post-27171163837152787822011-07-13T08:47:00.000-07:002012-01-05T08:10:13.894-08:00Excerpt from The Little Rock MessengerHere is a short excerpt from my book <u>The Little Rock Messenger</u>. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-2ZXyOxriUt0/Tu4seEIlO7I/AAAAAAAAAB0/q9ElCYF-u_w/s1600/LittleRockFinalWeb.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" oda="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-2ZXyOxriUt0/Tu4seEIlO7I/AAAAAAAAAB0/q9ElCYF-u_w/s320/LittleRockFinalWeb.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">The year is 1956. Young Lincoln South, a twelve year old African-American boy, is on a Greyhound bus trip to visit his grandmother in Atlanta. Along the way, he suddenly finds himself with the responsibility to deliver family valuables to a young Jewish woman in Atlanta whose family perished in the Holocaust. In this scene an older boy he befriended has convinced him to leave the bus because a hired killer may be looking for him. (From Chapter Twelve of <u>The Little Rock Messenger)</u>: </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Lincoln hesitated, not sure how much he should tell Jeff Twilley.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He wasn’t exactly the most trustworthy kind of person.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He seemed like a boy in some ways, a boy trying to act like a tough dude, but he wasn’t sure exactly what he was.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lincoln could tell there were things going on that Twilley wanted kept hidden, maybe because he was guilty or ashamed of something.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And if that was the case, he didn’t know if he could really trust him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">But there was something else about Twilley as well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He seemed to like Lincoln, and even acted protective toward him - like a big brother.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was as if he cared about him, and didn’t want anything to happen to him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In his present circumstance, Lincoln knew this counted for a lot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was alone with a big responsibility, and it was hard for him to keep it to himself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He needed to tell someone about what Jabing wanted him to do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He needed help.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And in the end, there was no one but Jeff Twilley he could talk to about it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Lincoln swallowed, then said, “Well - see, at the last stop - there in Chattanooga before we got on the bus, Mr. Jabing said there was a man after him, the white man who come into the waiting room - you remember - the one who knocked Mr. Jabing down and stole his case.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“The German dude,” said Twilley.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“That’s him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mr. Jabing said he was after things that belonged to a lady who lives in Atlanta,” he explained.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“He said he was taking these things to her, but they weren’t safe with him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So he - he wanted me to keep them for him on the bus.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think he knew that man would come after him, that he’d steal them away.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Lincoln could see Twilley thinking about what he said.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“So, tha’s why the German snatched the old man’s case,” Twilley offered.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Lincoln nodded.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Yeah - but it didn’t have the lady’s stuff in it.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He saw Twilley’s interest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I have it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mr. Jabing gave it to me before we got back on the bus.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And now the German man was just here.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That‘s who the cops are looking for now.” </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Twilley had been leaning in close to Lincoln, taking in everything he said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now he straightened up, more alert.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“The dude from the bus station - he‘s here?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Lincoln nodded nervously, watching as Twilley considered this development.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“He still lookin’ for the old man’s stuff,”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Twilley speculated.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His eyes narrowed at Lincoln.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“What was it Jabing give you?” he asked in a quiet voice.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Lincoln looked around, saw they were far enough away from everybody, and removed the jewelry box and key from his knapsack.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Twilley took the box from him and opened it, giving an audible gasp at its contents.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The pearl necklace lay across a bed of blue satin, lustrous even under the dim light.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lincoln reached over and placed the locker key in the box alongside the pearls.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Twilley wet his lips, staring in wonderment at the necklace.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Mr. Jabing says a woman will be waiting at the bus station in Atlanta, and that I’m to give these things to her,” Lincoln explained. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Twilley took a deep breath and looked up at him.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“You tell the po-leese ’bout these pearls?” he asked, his eyes hard.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Lincoln shook his head.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Good,” he said, exhaling in relief.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Never see ’em again if the cops get hold of ’em.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Twilley took the necklace into his hands, felt the pearls and the weight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He shook his head slowly and smiled.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“This is some hard cash right here, Linc,” he concluded.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“You hear what I say?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These things could buy maybe three or four Cadillacs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe more besides!”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Lincoln watched him fondle the pearls, bring them close to his eye for closer inspection.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Twilley was so preoccupied he forgot for a moment that Lincoln was there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Suddenly, he came back to himself, and looked quickly around.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Better put ’em away, boy,” he advised.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Bad people would slice you open like a melon for ‘em.”</div><br />
- From <u>The Little Rock Messenger</u> by Robert Ryland<br />
Available at Kindle Books <a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B003YOSYHK">http://www.amazon.com/dp/B003YOSYHK</a><br />
<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-stPxWmoVab0/Th24q-1W1PI/AAAAAAAAABk/FX9MB8-2iyo/s1600/book+cover+photos+011.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a></div>Robert Rylandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08975924826530958916noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7180149860702450696.post-9664684957480532632011-06-16T14:35:00.001-07:002012-02-19T08:51:20.230-08:00Zeus and BellaMy two dogs, Zeus and Bella, follow a strict daily schedule. Each day, we get up and they get a dog biscuit, then go outside to perform morning rituals. About 10:30 a.m., they begin making noises about a car ride -- usually to our local dump. Of course, I don't take trash to the dump every day, but when I do, it is usually around -- you guessed it -- 10:30! Then if I am working in my office and I happen to go past twelve noon or twelve-thirty, they are quick to brush me with their noses to let me know it is lunch time. They usually get a small tidbit as I prepare a sandwich for myself. In the afternoon, between three and three-thirty, I begin hearing some odd grunting sounds, accompanied by more nose-brushing. This is code for "We wanta go out for a walk!" Now they have a perfectly good, generously-sized dog run that they can access at any time. But the air and the smells there, you see, are not nearly so sweet as they are on a walk along our street or up the occasional path. So -- a walk it is, which is good because it gives the "Master" some exercise as well. Finally, at 5:50 p.m. on the dot, my two mongrels make their last request of the day known, which has to do with dinner. No matter what I'm doing, or how deeply I'm involved in my office or in some project around the house, Zeus and Bella expect their bowls to be promptly filled with a doggy culinary delights.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-8bOsfOZSuWk/Tfp3EbATfAI/AAAAAAAAABg/r8PbWNw55zY/s1600/12-2012+058.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-8bOsfOZSuWk/Tfp3EbATfAI/AAAAAAAAABg/r8PbWNw55zY/s320/12-2012+058.JPG" t8="true" width="320" /></a></div>Now it might seem that I give excessive attention to my resident canines, but when you think about it, their schedule is not much different than mine. Each day I get up, have breakfast, take trash to the dump (although not every day), eat lunch, take an afternoon walk, and have dinner. Of course, I don't make grunting noises or give nose brushes to signal the start of each event, but our day generally works out the same way. So I don't think you could say they are the masters of this game because we follow the same routine. After all, if I put my foot down, things bend to my will -- not theirs. Remember the saying - "Dogs have masters; cats have staff." At least I have dogs, and I'm pretty sure they know who's in charge. Me. I'm pretty sure. <br />
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<a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B003YOSYHK">www.amazon.com/dp/B003YOSYHK</a> <a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B004RJ81LU">www.amazon.com/dp/B004RJ81LU</a>Robert Rylandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08975924826530958916noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7180149860702450696.post-60584720099288488322011-05-23T13:05:00.000-07:002011-05-23T13:05:19.598-07:00The Transylvania ConnectionThe county of Transylvania where I live in western North Carolina was named after the Transylvania Company, which was controlled by land speculator Richard Henderson before the Revolutionary War. Loosely translated, Transylvania means "across the woods" or "into the trees", and is well-named because of the thick forests that cover its 381 square miles. The county seat of Transylvania is Brevard, a picturesque small town nestled in a hilly terrain of poplars, red oak and hemlock. <br />
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The name Transylvania always seems to conjur up images of bats and vampires, which is understandable because of iconic Dracula movies that are part of our popular culture. Dracula was created by Irish novelist Bram Stoker in 1897 in his gothic novel of the same name. He apparently never visited Eastern Europe or the Transylvania region of Romania, but based his novel on research he did into European folklore and mythological stories of vampires. The vampire myth soon became a staple of other books and then movies, starting with the 1922 silent film <em>Nosferatu</em>. Anne Rice popularized the vampire in more current literature in a series of books, starting with <em>Interview with a Vampire</em>. This was over twenty years ago, and the genre continues with many variations of dark princes on TV and in movies, the most popular being the <em>Twilight</em> series by author Stephenie Meyer. <br />
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An interesting and compelling variation on the vampire theme is one created by Elizabeth Kostova in her 2005 novel <em>The Historian</em>. The story interweaves the history and folklore of Vlad Tepes, a 15th century prince of Wallachia known as "Vlad the Impaler" and his fictional equivalent Count Dracula with that of a history professor, his sixteen year old daughter, and their quest to find Vlad's tomb. The book is described as a combination of genres, including gothic, detective, and historical thriller. Kostova has lived and traveled in Eastern Europe, and based her book in part on stories her historian father told her about Dracula when she was a child. She began writing the novel after hiking in the Appalachian mountains and flashing back to her father's stories.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-A3yFIiiEeNI/Tdq8y7Ft80I/AAAAAAAAABc/H3_YnIGkVpc/s1600/008.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" j8="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-A3yFIiiEeNI/Tdq8y7Ft80I/AAAAAAAAABc/H3_YnIGkVpc/s320/008.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>Appalachia, and particularly the mountainous terrain of Transylvania County, is similar to the landscape of the Transylvania in the Carpathian Mountains of Romania. Although no one knows for sure, natural settings probably account for a good portion of a writer's creations. Meandering through forests and over hills, looking out over lakes and coastlines, how could one not imagine a tale to go along with such wonders. Robert Rylandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08975924826530958916noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7180149860702450696.post-75964771960889397492011-05-07T03:51:00.000-07:002012-01-08T09:28:48.184-08:00The Wilderness of WritingSitting down to write can be like taking a hike in the woods. You can look for the designated trails - the upper loop, the lower valley, maybe the creekside path to see waterfalls - or you can just strike out into the trees and let your feet set the direction. Writers have different ideas about the process of setting down words. Whether it's fiction or non-fiction, there is no prescribed way to "put pen to paper" or fingers to keyboard. Some like to construct elaborate outlines which detail characters and scenes; others simply sit before a blank page or screen and allow the story to take them on a journey. I don't think there is any science to the writing process because it is so subjective. After all, we're not dealing with an empirical construct here.<br />
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I like to write more from the seat-of-my-pants, so to speak - more in the vein of allowing the story to take the lead. But I don't work from a completely blank slate. I always let the idea for a story or book gestate awhile so I can consider every angle. Therefore, by the time I sit down to write, I have a pretty good idea about a general direction. Sometimes on the journey I will alter the direction a bit and find a new character or two, maybe a new plot point, but more often than not I just follow the lead of the story.<br />
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<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Both of my books - <u>The Little Rock Messenger</u> and <u>Electric Highway</u> - started out as long-consdiered ideas without any set path in mind for the stories to take. The journey I discovered in each project happened through some mysterious alchemy called writing, and I've been happy with the results. But the only way I will know for sure if my journeys are a success is to hear back from you. Check out my books on Kindle Books at <a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B003YOSYHK">www.amazon.com/dp/B003YOSYHK</a> and <a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B004RJ81LU">www.amazon.com/dp/B004RJ81LU</a> and let me know.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"> </div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-KxycpQlegSo/TwnQGGacW2I/AAAAAAAAACM/am9WnCPMKY8/s1600/LittleRockFinalWeb.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" rea="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-KxycpQlegSo/TwnQGGacW2I/AAAAAAAAACM/am9WnCPMKY8/s320/LittleRockFinalWeb.jpg" width="213" /></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-bFrIR15okLE/TwnQCN_4t6I/AAAAAAAAACE/iEJHLgxBVRA/s1600/ElectricHwyFinalWeb.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" rea="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-bFrIR15okLE/TwnQCN_4t6I/AAAAAAAAACE/iEJHLgxBVRA/s320/ElectricHwyFinalWeb.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>Robert Rylandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08975924826530958916noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7180149860702450696.post-43875042996251166602011-04-15T07:29:00.000-07:002011-04-15T07:29:37.004-07:00Down South in SavannahMy wife and I traveled to Florida recently to visit relatives, and on the way back home, stopped by Savannah, Georgia for a brief looksee. I have always been fascinated by Savannah as a place of old world charm, gentility and hint of sweet decadence. As a writer I love its layers of personality, with its colonial past, its shaded park-like squares of restored mansions, and its thriving business center and seaport. And then there are the city's unusual surprises like the Telfair Academy of Arts and Sciences (one of the south's first public museums), the First African Baptist Church (built laboriously by slaves after long days in the field), and the Temple Mickve Israel, the third oldest synogogue in America. Savannah also happens to be the birthplace of Juliette Gordon Low (founder of the Girl Scouts) and more recently, Johnny Mercer, singer, actor and composer of over 1500 songs. <br />
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Author John Berendt might have captured the city's qualities best in his book <u>Midnight in the Garden of</u> <u>Good and Evil.</u> Although in my short visit I didn't see the characters he described in his book, Savannah is a place with a certain feel which I'm sure can incubate all kinds of people and drama. And there must also be lots of stories buried in the city's colonial and civil war past. A little digging, and I'm sure a writer could unearth some interesting facts to build a novel around - like the underground railway used to transport slaves north, or the fact that Savannah was one of the few important cities spared by General Sherman during his march across the south. (It seems old William Tecumsah had a couple of friends who lived there, and as a favor to them and because he wanted to present Savannah as a gift to Lincoln, he didn't torch it.) And thank goodness for that! Sherman's gift is one I would say just keeps on giving.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3F-bUrRp2UI/TahUSnIOj9I/AAAAAAAAABM/J3PBQIlA3QU/s1600/195.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" r6="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3F-bUrRp2UI/TahUSnIOj9I/AAAAAAAAABM/J3PBQIlA3QU/s320/195.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-A9Ham2VmUZo/TahVU54JGaI/AAAAAAAAABQ/A9LJRmcwPDM/s1600/196.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" r6="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-A9Ham2VmUZo/TahVU54JGaI/AAAAAAAAABQ/A9LJRmcwPDM/s320/196.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-mKooAlbwces/TahWPHEuhrI/AAAAAAAAABU/Gjz0kXCRplQ/s1600/183.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" r6="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-mKooAlbwces/TahWPHEuhrI/AAAAAAAAABU/Gjz0kXCRplQ/s320/183.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>So if you're a writer, and it's history, mood and color you're after, a locale like Savannah is close to pitch-perfect for a good story. I believe I'll return some day - but only after I explore a little more in my own backyard of western North Carolina. I'm sure there are a few surprises there too. Robert Rylandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08975924826530958916noreply@blogger.com0