Scribbling and spinning good ole fashion nonsense, with a southern helping of buttermilk and cornbread garnished with spring onions.
MY JOURNEY
Monday, November 21, 2016
author T. Allen Winn: Easy enough to do. Go to T. Allen Winn on Face Boo...
author T. Allen Winn: Easy enough to do. Go to T. Allen Winn on Face Boo...: Easy enough to do. Go to T. Allen Winn on Face Book. Open a Chat and tell ole T which one and/or how many books you'd like signed and sh...
Thursday, April 7, 2016
Easy enough to do. Go to T. Allen Winn on Face Book. Open a Chat and tell ole T which one and/or how many books you'd like signed and shipped your way. We'll discuss cost and so forth and get it or them in your hands via the mail. Hungry authors with expensive publishing habits have to eat too. Remember you are supporting made in America merchandise. Great gifts for family and friends or just give a copy to a stranger. Hurry now while all novels are currently available.
Both Detective Trudy Wagner thrillers, Road Rage and North of the Border.
The bully book: Dark Thirty
The Perfect Spook House...backdrop, hometown Abbeville, S.C.
Lou Who, Alzheimer's with a paranormal twist
Memoirs:
The Caregiver's Son, Outside the Window Looking In
Cornbread and Buttermilk, Good Ole Fashion Home Cooked Nostalgic Nonsense
And Mountain Mysts with my short story 'Cilled Me a Bar'
Mister Twix Mystery, A Cat Scene Investigation
Being Bentley, a Dog Like No Other
The Man Who Met the Mouse
Raw Ride, a Good Ole Wild West Zombie Apocalyptic Shoot'um Up
Both Detective Trudy Wagner thrillers, Road Rage and North of the Border.
The bully book: Dark Thirty
The Perfect Spook House...backdrop, hometown Abbeville, S.C.
Lou Who, Alzheimer's with a paranormal twist
Memoirs:
The Caregiver's Son, Outside the Window Looking In
Cornbread and Buttermilk, Good Ole Fashion Home Cooked Nostalgic Nonsense
And Mountain Mysts with my short story 'Cilled Me a Bar'
Mister Twix Mystery, A Cat Scene Investigation
Being Bentley, a Dog Like No Other
The Man Who Met the Mouse
Raw Ride, a Good Ole Wild West Zombie Apocalyptic Shoot'um Up
Sunday, March 20, 2016
Retired and trying to decide which book to publish next...
As you can see I have no shortage of completed books, books in various stages of completion and other projects. It would be great if a publisher was interested in publishing them instead of me self publishing; oh well is all good and fun, my expensive hobby.
My Completed Books
- Absent on Arrival (Blue Ridge Mountains, people are vanishing)
- Foot (Bigfoot series)
- Another Foot (2nd in the Bigfoot series)
- Mack (Dark Thirty sequel)
- Last Stand on the Grand Strand (Aquatic creatures are terrorizing the beach community)
- No Mulligan (Up and coming golf phoneme's career comes to screeching halt)
- Outside the Clique (Surprises await Ricky Waddell at his Calhoun Falls High School reunion)
- Raw Ride, A Good Ole Fashion Zombie Apocalyptic Shoot-um Up
- The Tenth Elemental (Not your yard gnome tale)
- The Lord's Last Acre (Syfi End of the World as you have never seen it)
- Tithe and Offerings (The 3rd in the Detective Trudy Wagner series)
- The Man Who Met the Mouse (Myrtle Beach Circa 1950's, the journey begins)
- The Bixby Murders, 2003 Abbeville
- Digging Sea Turtles, Bobby Duncan Saves Scoot (kid's book)
- Mister Twix is Missing, A Cat Scene Investigation (kid's book)
- Bully on Board (book of short stories about bullying)
- Diva Series (inspired by Bill Davis's Diva paintings)
- The Hardwood Walker of Ports Harrelson Road (Haunted tale based on true story)
- Just Who the Heck Are the Joneses (Waking up in a house alone, not good...)
- Path the Hash, More Nostalgic Nonsense Served on White Loaf Bread (Memoir)
Books in Progress and/or Other Projects
- Apnea, Don't Let the Boo Hag Ride You
- Believing in Angels
- The Final Foot (third in the Bigfoot series)
- Trudy Wagner, Southern Belle (4th in the series)
- A Dog Named 'Get-Outta-Here' (kids story)
- The Mike Smith Story, How Not to Make it in Nashville
- Being Bentley (kid's book)
- Walking my Fish (kids book)
- Chicken Lovers Inc. (kid's book)
As you can see I have no shortage of completed books, books in various stages of completion and other projects. It would be great if a publisher was interested in publishing them instead of me self publishing; oh well is all good and fun, my expensive hobby.
Wednesday, March 16, 2016
Enjoy my unedited and raw short:
Carson City
General William Tecumseh Sherman met Kit Carson inMonterey ,
California . Sherman wrote: "His fame was then at its height, ... and I
was very anxious to see a man who had achieved such feats of daring among the
wild animals of the Rocky Mountains, and still wilder Indians of the plains ...
I cannot express my surprise at beholding such a small, stoop-shouldered man,
with reddish hair, freckled face, soft blue eyes, and nothing to indicate
extraordinary courage of daring. He spoke but little and answered questions in
monosyllables."
Colonel Edward W. Wynkoop wrote: "Kit Carson was five feet five and one half-inches tall, weighed about 140 pounds, of nervy, iron temperament, squarely built, slightly bow-legged, and those members apparently too short for his body. But, his head and face made up for all the imperfections of the rest of his person. His head was large and well-shaped with yellow straight hair, worn long, falling on his shoulders. His face was fair and smooth as a woman's with high cheekbones, straight nose, a mouth with a firm, but somewhat sad expression, a keen, deep-set but beautiful, mild blue eye, which could become terrible under some circumstances, and like the warning of the rattlesnake, gave notice of attack. Though quick-sighted, he was slow and soft of speech, and posed great natural modesty.”
Lieutenant George Douglas Brewerton made one coast-to-coast dispatch-carrying trip toWashington , D.C. with Carson . Brewerton wrote:
"The Kit Carson of my imagination was over six feet high —
a sort of modern Hercules in his build — with an enormous beard, and a voice
like a roused lion ... The real Kit Carson I found to be a plain, simple ...
man; rather below the medium height, with brown, curling hair, little or no
beard, and a voice as soft and gentle as a woman's. In fact, the hero of a
hundred desperate encounters, whose life had been mostly spent amid wilderness,
where the white man is almost unknown, was one of Dame Nature's gentlemen.”
Chris hadn’t embraced his latest
endeavor, much too contrary to what he was accustomed to doing. He would give
anything a try but this one might just be a bit short lived. The bookkeeping
part of it just served to get his blood boiling. He didn’t take kindly to
people owing him money long term. He reminded those who did that he didn’t run
and operate a bank; extending credit and accepting huge IOU vouchers was not
something he highly tolerated. He eyed the man clambering down from the buckboard
outside, hitching his horses to the post. Chris prepared himself for the
conversation he was about to have with one of the most arrogant bastards he had
crossed paths with in these parts.
“Has my barbed wire come in yet?”
“Can’t say it has but might be because
I never ordered it.”
“You never ordered? I placed that
order over a month ago. What kind of dry goods store do you operate Chris?”
“One that is much obliged to people
who pay for what they order. Charity doesn’t pay my bills or guarantee I place
your orders. I as much told you so when you were in here last time, Mister
Benson. Laughing it off and paying me no mind was your mistake, not mine.”
“I know you haven’t been here that
long but I reckon I’m going to have to give you a little history lesson and
help you brush up on your manners to boot. It might assure you live a tad
longer educating you on both.”
“If there is one thing I tolerate
less than freeloaders, that is a man coming into my store and aiming threats in
my direction for something he bears responsibility for, and unless you’re
prepared to pay up your account, this conversation is over, including your
history lesson and your offer to help with my manners.”
“We’re not finished with this, I
assure you.”
“You still owe me three hundred
sixty one dollars and twenty three cents. Once paid in full I might be more
obliged to listen to your historical accounts and how you think you can make a
better man out of me; doubtful but a feller has a right to his ambitions and
hope for the best that they’ll work out for him. Either way I would suggest you
consider taking your business elsewhere, Mister Benson.”
“You’ll pay dearly for your poor
judgment and misguided respect.”
“And you, you’ll pay your debt or
face the most unfortunate consequences. By the way, neither of us are Mexican
so consider this no standoff.”
“Store clerk you have riled the
wrong rattler, there’s no cure for my venom.”
“A snake, you couldn’t have painted
a better portrait of yourself, Mister Benson. Believe me when I speak it; I’ve defanged
far worse. You better back up that rattle with a bite.”
“And the next time we meet you
better be totting something besides a broom, store keeper.”
For the remainder of the day Chris
thought no more about the incident other that than the three hundred sixty one
dollars and twenty three cents still pending on his ledger. Mister Benson would
pay up eventually, one way or the other. At this point Chris wasn’t too choosy
how his books got balanced. He hoped Benson would come to his senses. If he didn’t,
so be it. A man best be prepared to not allow his mouth to overload his ass.
Times were changing of course but some things remained the same. Egos got you
buried six feet under, a feast for critters welcoming you to their side of the
dirt. Worms and
maggots weren’t particular with their bedfellows. Even the likes of Benson
would be welcome.
Closing up the store Chris headed
over to Maggie’s for supper but decided to stop in at Cactus Joe’s Saloon first
for a well deserved drink of whisky while he pondered his future. He had all
but decided he would discount his losses and sell the business. He wasn’t cut
out for what it took to run the store and he sorely missed the adventures the
great outdoors had to offer. He kicked his own ass wondering what had he been
thinking becoming a proprietor for the public. It had been by far the hardest
job he had ever endured. Contrary to the name, the saloon was owned and
operated not by a feller named Joe but by a refined Bostonian named Josephine
McDougal, a fiery Red headed Scott. Today Josephine was behind the bar
filling in for Monk Martin, her regular barkeeper, having been kicked
unconscious by his temperamental old mule and still ailing from the
repercussions. A few days of bed rest had been prescribed by the doctor.
The saloon wasn’t much on the
hustle and bustle side for a Tuesday so Josephine joined Chris at his table.
She was a much better listener and advice giver than Monk. Chris laid out the
episode with Benson and his plans to get out of the dry goods business. She
smiled, reminding him that she had told him it was a bad idea the first time he
had mentioned it. Telling him so was easier to swallow coming from her.
Josephine wasn’t bad on the eyes and they had already tussled at time or two
underneath the bed sheets, on the house of course. Not many in town could
afford her anyway. This alone lessoned the risk for bedding her and a chance to
walk away with something unwanted.
Finishing up his second drink Chris
was about to head over to Maggie’s, passing this time on a poke with Josephine,
when low and behold, good ole Mister Benson barged through the swinging doors
like he thought he was the proper owner of the saloon. Josephine placed her
hand on his arm and shook her head no. Obviously she was thinking about
Benson’s well being, not his. Benson was thinking period. He walked directly
over to their table and took a chair directly across from Chris. He turned up
the whisky bottle, took a swig and then slammed it on the table just missing
Chris’s fingers resting by his glass. History lessons and manners were
definitely on the agenda. Difference being Chris would be conducting both.
Josephine stood and stepped away, held up her hands indicating she had tried to
prevent this, realizing she could have never stopped it.
“Did your order my wire?”
“Did you bring a hundred sixty one
dollars and twenty three cents with you?”
“Hell no.”
“Then my response would also stand
as hell no.”
“I warned you, Chris. I’m not a
fellow to be taken lightly in these parts.”
“Who started that rumor, you?”
“Aaron Benson, you might wish to
think hard about what you’re instigating,” warned Josephine, now standing
behind the bar.
“She offers excellent advice. I’d
suggest you take it.”
Benson was not the least bit
impressed by the man clearly a foot shorter than his six foot six frame and at
least a hundred pounds lighter. His facial features reminded Benson too much of
a female, smooth skin, high cheek bones, penetrating blue eyes, a man clearly
suited to be a store clerk, no more. He certainly resembled no man who should
be acting so bold and boisterous. Getting killed over a ledger debt didn’t
match the demeanor of the man sitting across the table from him. Still, Chris
was determined to make him play his hand. A man of his word, Benson was willing
to call that bluff and rain tea wholly hell down on him. Not ordering that
barbwire for his fencing had caused him much grief and considerable setback
with winter quickly approaching.
“I own the largest ranch in these
parts. I may as well own and operate the only dry goods store too.” Benson
glared at Josephine and barked, “Might add this saloon and the bank across the
street and rename the town Benson Flats when it’s all said and done.”
Josephine mouthed a very unladylike
response before reaching underneath the bar and then placing a sawed off double
barrel shot gun on the bar top. Her way of saying just try was delivered loud
and clear. Chris couldn’t help but muster up a little smile; don’t mess with a
Scott clearly intended. Benson stood, sweeping the whisky bottle and glasses
from the table with his hand before kicking his chair out of the way, clearly
highly pissed by the antics of both of them. Chris calmly eased back his chair
and stood as well, staring down the mountain of a man standing across the table
from him.
“Three hundred sixty one dollars
and twenty three cents seems to me to be a bargain for your ranch given a dead
man really has no need for it. Do you have a preference for burial plots? It’s a
just reward seeing that you used own it. I call be a tolerable sort of feller
if I set my mind to it. Fair is fair, right? What you say we rename this town, Carson City , Josephine?
You keep the saloon and I don’t have a hankering to own a bank. The store and
ranch will do just fine.”
“Kit Carson having a town named
after him does seem appropriate, given the life of a true frontier legend you
have lived,” replied Josephine.
“Kit Carson,” repeated an astounded
Aaron Benson.
“Christopher
Houston Kit’ Carson
gracing your presence, Mister Benson…retired mountain man, fur trapper,
wilderness guide, Indian agent and American Army officer and now store keeper
with a three hundred sixty one dollars and
twenty three cents debt still pending on my ledger; that is unless you’re
willing to pay what is currently owed. Bank is across the street and it will be
open for business in the morning. I’m sure they’ll grant you a loan given
you still currently have the largest ranch in these parts. Understand,
ownership could change in the blink of an eye and in a puff a gun smoke. I
would consider those odds if I were you. Perhaps these parts aren’t best suited
for your livelihood either; just another humble suggestion.”
Aaron Benson nervously retrieved
his wallet from his coat’s vest pocket and tossed four one hundred dollar bills
onto the table and made a hasty retreat without uttering another word. Chris
counted out three hundred sixty one dollars and twenty three cents, making
change from his pocket. He gave the balance to Josephine saying he would
appreciate her company later. She refused, folding it and slipping it in his
trouser pocket, adding a well placed squeeze to indicate no charge, saying drop
by when he was free. Chris found a buyer for the store and moved on. He married his third wife, 14-year-old Josefa
Jaramillo, the daughter of a wealthy and prominent Mexican couple living in Taos .
In 1868, at the
urging of Washington and the Commissioner of Indian Affairs, Carson
journeyed to Washington D.C.
where he escorted several Ute Chiefs to meet with the President of the United States
to plead for assistance to their tribe. Soon after his return, Josefa died from
complications after giving birth to their eighth child. Her death was a
crushing blow to Carson .
He died a month later at age 58 from an abdominal aortic aneurysm in the
surgeon's quarters of Fort Lyon ,
Colorado . Christopher Houston "Kit" Carson accomplishments and
contributions can not be disputed or denied. A river in Nevada is named for Carson
as well as the state's capital, Carson
City .
General William Tecumseh Sherman met Kit Carson in
Colonel Edward W. Wynkoop wrote: "Kit Carson was five feet five and one half-inches tall, weighed about 140 pounds, of nervy, iron temperament, squarely built, slightly bow-legged, and those members apparently too short for his body. But, his head and face made up for all the imperfections of the rest of his person. His head was large and well-shaped with yellow straight hair, worn long, falling on his shoulders. His face was fair and smooth as a woman's with high cheekbones, straight nose, a mouth with a firm, but somewhat sad expression, a keen, deep-set but beautiful, mild blue eye, which could become terrible under some circumstances, and like the warning of the rattlesnake, gave notice of attack. Though quick-sighted, he was slow and soft of speech, and posed great natural modesty.”
Lieutenant George Douglas Brewerton made one coast-to-coast dispatch-carrying trip to
Tuesday, March 8, 2016
The rope had been tossed over a sturdy limb
from the ancient oak. The noose drawn taunt, hands tied behind her back and
legs bound at her ankles. Martin made eye contact with those gathered, making
certain none were about to betray him and back out of this necessary execution.
Each man nodded, assuring him they would abide by his wishes. A mere nod didn’t
satisfy Martin. He called each by their name and asked them to verbally commit.
Hang her…hang her…each and everyone repeated those words without the slightest
bit of hesitation.
Still, Martin needed more; he trusted no one
and would not be blackmailed later. He pulled the parchment paper, a sharp pen
knife and a quill from his coat. He spelled out his instructions. Each of his
accomplices, executioners in this particular case, would prick their fingers,
using the quill and their blood, would then sign the agreement, binding them to
this decision.
Each man did as instructed, no questions
asked, none opposing his request. Fear can be a powerful motivator. Martin read
the names aloud: A.B. Abram, Abe
Bergmann, Joseph Herzberg, Horatio Thomas, Zachariah Hanson.
Satisfied, he signed his name last, Martin
Kravis. He folded the paper and placed it back inside his coat. He then
ordered every man to grab hold of the hangman’s rope.
“On this day, May 17, 1890, I
curse the soul of Margarett Levine Reznik. May she burn in hell for eternity for what she has done. She has betrayed
each man, now her executioner. You will be laid to rest in an unmarked grave in
a secluded location and shall share the maggot infested earth with those not
worthy of recognition or descent burials. Gentlemen, hang the witch.”
Margarett
Levine Reznik vaguely gained consciousness to eye the six bastards one last
time. She etched their memory in her mind and silently cursed them one last
time. Death came quickly; the rope around her neck had hanged her dead, twenty
one years old this very day.
“Happy
birthday, Margarett. Now bury the bitch,” spoke Martin. “Bury her deep. May
your rotting flesh never see the light of day, you worthless whore.” He then
spat on her corpse and kicked dirt in her bluish discolored face. Justice had
been served. Let no man question the verdict.
“The witch knew who had killed
her and she snatched pieces of time, here and there, from the business of
dying, to make her revenge.”
― Kelly Link, Magic for Beginners
― Kelly Link, Magic for Beginners
The auburn
haired Emma ‘Lou’ Stetson, forty five, of medium height, build and weight,
could blend into most any crowd, if not for her bubbly personality. No denying
it, when she graced any landscape with her presence, it made for a better place
for all who occupied the same turf. Her friends said she reminded them of the
more mature version of Sally Fields.
Lou possessed
natural beauty, rarely ever wearing any serious makeup. Plus, it was too
expensive and time consuming, said she. Like me or not, I am who I am, you
can’t pretty up perfection, she would often quote in jest. Her great love,
other than her husband, Wade, was the great outdoors. Greenwood , South Carolina
had been their home since their introduction into this world. Both grew up
knowing one another, living in the same neighborhood, same street, and just
four houses apart.
Friends
forever, it made eventual matrimony a piece of cake. They hadn’t known they
were in love until after both had graduated college; Lou from Clemson and Wade
from the University
of South Carolina , a
house divided when it came to college choices in the Palmetto state. Lou and
Wade always made a friendly wager when the two football programs clashed at
season’s end. There were no losers.
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