A request from one of my FB friends, Robert: .... I was wondering please if you had the time sir to post a little of your book again? Want to show my lady friend....... ..... Tosh any possibility you could post a little from your book. I want to show my lady friend. Thanks chief. .... Robert. Here is the intro I am working with and a little tid bit from the middle... kind of a teaser for you my friend... and thanks for your interest and feedback... Deep Cover Shallow Graves: CHAPTER ONE BY THEIR DEEDS YE SHALL KNOW THEM... A SICK MANS DREAMS After the explosion and the debris and smoke had cleared, a ghostly figure, an old battle scared soldier emerged from the burning building. Behind him thick black smoke laced with reddish fingers of fire bellowed skyward. In the distance the sickening sound of battle echoed throughout the ravaged landscape. Horrified. I watched from the mountaintop as the machinery of war slowly crept forward. I watched mechanical monsters with teeth of iron and steel ravished and devoid the land. I watched mercenaries, those without moral purpose or country, entered the smoldering town oblivious to the begging children and stumbling elders. I watched as their chariots of steel, one by one rolled over them. I cried in anger. I beat my fist upon my head as I helplessly watched them die. The old soldier, limping slightly, his gaze fixed solid upon me, tears in his eyes, approached. He called out to me. I waved. He cautiously came forward. His hair, face, and hands were badly burned. His uniform in rags ripped apart by flying shrapnel hung in tattered shreds upon his frail body. The bomb blast—having vaporized the nearby gun crew killing four of his comrades—was now a soldier’s memory. As he approached, I noticed four golden feathers and an old battle worn sword in his hand. The sword’s steel blade caught the sunlight and through the smoke and haze it shimmered like quick silver. The old warrior called out to me again. His voice weaker than before, but still commanding: “Old Black Knight, Yes. You! Ancient One! Come fly with me again, and I will make thee an eagle with golden wings—a leader of many nations—and a deadly scorpion to all those who deny thy dominion.” He threw his head back as if beseeching some compassionate god and then shouted loudly. “ Come! Ancient One. Hurry! Our time is SHORT!” He tried to hand me something. “Here! Take my sword and guard my fortress— Fly my Banners high— And with Heavenly Angels at our side, and this ‘Sword of Truth’ waving proudly, we’ll once again sail upon those fierce tropical winds. Together, sitting there in our old dilapidated cockpit, we’ll again challenge a host of worldly gods. We’ll scatter them and their bastard children to the four winds. We’ll destroy their wicked leaders and all those who lead good men astray. Once again we’ll sit proudly as others have in that worn blood stained cockpit. Flying high above cotton like clouds, we’ll again laugh at those lost ones, as we toast the fruits of hell. Together we’ll breach their gates forcing their wicked to flee—leaving their children to be sacrificed to games of glee”. “ So come, ‘Ancient One’, I beg. Here take my sword. Come fly with me once again I plead. Here! There is not much time.” He extended his hand to me, but his body was slowly dissolving. Vanishing. Disappearing right before me. I watch helplessly as the old soldier drifted away. Soon he was lost within the haze and fog of war, lost somewhere within that valley below. He was gone. However, his battle worn sword, ‘The Sword of Truth’ he had left at my feet. Bewildered, I looked around the ravished landscape. Cautiously I watched from the mountaintop and then asked myself, “Was he gone?” Really gone? Or was he still out there somewhere in the shadows watching me? Just waiting—watching and wondering? Soon day became night. I had again seen within this day the ugliness of war. I had tasted its fruit once before, long ago. Yes. I had witnessed the horror and death created by a nation at war. I had walked among the smoldering buildings— seen the dead children— the animals— and all the other mangled casualties of war. I looked around again, expecting to see the soldier, but all I saw before me was a smoldering ravaged landscape filled with death and destruction. I looked down in shame, and noticed the old soldier’s sword laying at my feet”. Confused. I turned and looked around the landscape. Was he really gone, or was he still out there somewhere watching me? Was he secreted somewhere out there in those dark shadows, smiling, just watching and waiting.., wondering what I would do? I glanced down at the sword. Was it real? Should I pick it up? If I did where would it lead me this time? What new adventure for me would it unlock? What wondrous powers would it release? I wondered. I smiled. I challenged myself. I laughed— Then I reached for the weapon.” *** I stopped typing and put the computer in ‘sleep’ mode, then looked up from the desk and out the window into the flat gray light of dawn. I had been sitting all night at this rickety old desk writing, but not knowing if I had written anything of substance or not. Doctor Yancey had told me during our one of our therapy session. “You might not have a best selling novel, but your attempt to write one would, I believe, be damn good therapy for you”. So with that in mind, I bought a computer and a book on how to use a computer, and another book on how to write a book, and now by definition, ‘I are a writer’. My small two-room miners cabin in the Colorado Rockies is cold and drafty. A tinge of frost has formed around the inside edges of the cracked glass windowpane. The old soldier and his war are gone. I got up from my ‘home-made’ rickety desk— an old flat outhouse door, the one I didn’t use for the outhouse out back. It was laying on four cinder blocks used as legs. It leaned, propped precariously against the back wall. I put fresh coffee water on the wood stove to boil. The furnace was out of propane again— and I was broke, again. Outside, near the outhouse, for the second straight season the snowmobile sat on blocks waiting for parts. I noticed fresh snow had fallen in the night, signaling perhaps another early winter. The first snowfall had barely dusted the flat land, but had heavily choked the higher mountains. For the past three weeks winter’s icy-cold fingers had been slowly reaching down the mountains and into the valleys below. Winter was lurking, punching around in Colorado’s high country. Within another week, or less, I would need snowshoes, or my snowmobile, to get around in these hills and valleys. However, because of finances it looked like this year, I would again be using snowshoes to get around— once again the snowmobile would have to wait for its repairs. In the meadow below an Elk bugled loudly. Its sound lingering on the crisp autumn air. Soon another far away answered. The Rocky Mountains were alive with change. You could hear it and see it. You could feel, smell, and taste it. The season’s first snow, a ‘virgin snow’, some called it. Winter had found Colorado. Soon coffee aroma filled the two-room cabin with its sweet fragrance. I had decided a few years ago that all I wanted now in this life was seclusion— to be secreted somewhere off the main grid, back on some outback trail high in some mountain wilderness, away from all the ‘clowns in action’, away from the glitter and all the fake fanfare of society; the ‘talking heads’ and their news spinning media. That self imposed isolation had been my thinking, my motivation, my mindset, my dream; my cup of tea so to speak, for these past fourteen years. After a failed marriage, a nasty divorce, and fighting with Internal Revenue, and my past employer, CIA and the Pentagon, and a pregnant girlfriend, all I wanted now was peace and quiet and to be left alone. It didn’t take me long before I found the perfect place for my ‘hide-out’, an old ‘run down’ miner’s shack high in the Colorado Rockies, not far from the historical mining town of Geneva City. I told Chuck and Rojas, two of my pilot friends, from back in my flying days in Cuba, and Central America, while on contract with CIA, that all I wanted, or needed in life— after retirement from this Gig— was a little piece of land, ‘two rooms and a path’—and a typewriter. Then I could concentrate, write, and finish the damn book, “…the world’s future bestseller”, I told anyone that would listen. Its all about what we’ve been doing down here these past few years…“Your all in it”, I told them. Col. Scott Wheeler threw a rock at me; a few others in the group quickly turned away. Some laughed, while others just hurried down the tarmac, shaking their heads, looking for their ride. Danny Sullivan, the serious one, looked me dead on; “They’ll kill you” he said. “Hell, they’ll even eat cha’ just to make a point”, he laughed, then walked away, singing quietly that old song, which soon would be a hit ** “… ‘ They’re coming to take you away’— ‘ha ha’, ‘hee- hee’…ho-ho. Yes Sir-Ree’ their coming to take you away—Ho’ ho’ Ha- ha’, Hee’ hee.. Danny, laughing and singing, disappeared between two aircraft, two C-47, ‘Gooney Birds’, both parked side by side on the tarmac, both painted a dull olive green with a solid black tail. One of them ‘Galloping Sue’ was Danny’s ride. Well today I am living that dream. I’m writing that novel, and living high in the Rockies, literally. So far in eight years I’ve dug a hole in the ground for the outhouse, built a shed over the hole, and rigged a half ass shower next to it. That has currently been my only creation so far, and I am proud of that accomplishment. The snowmobile parked near the outhouse? Well it’s still broke down from last year, and the year before, still needing parts and me still needing money. The book? Well, to date, most of it is still down there somewhere in the ‘out-house’ with the rest of the crap. I’ve concluded. I’m not a writer, I’m too lazy, I’m pathetic, I’m a slow learner.., and Im ugly. The coffee was perking. I poured myself a cup of the hot brew-- toned it down a little with cream and sugar, then took a sip. I knew today was going to be another long grilling session with Doctor Yancey and I had to prepare myself mentally for this second encounter, or else. The old soldier, the misty fields, burning buildings, and his war were now a distance memory. It was the haunting plea from his frail voice that kept reverberating in my head; over and over like a distant echo it rang, “Old Black Knight. Come fly with me”. It was troubling.
Posted on: Tue, 07 Oct 2014 11:47:37 +0000
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