Little Mountain

 

Abbeville, South Carolina, nestled between the state capital, Columbia and the piedmont of Greenville, is rich with history but being a kid growing up there in the fifties through the seventies, I didn’t exactly appreciate the significance of my heritage so to speak. I had more important fish to fry, enjoying life, taking risks on the wild side and creating my very own tiny town theatrics. Sure, the ole home town was the birth place and death bed of the confederacy but what did that really mean to me.  What did I really know or care about the southern states succeeding from the Union, Succession Hill signifying the meeting place where the premise evolved? The most important event in my life had to be the end of another school year and summer adventures tugging at my cut-off jeans.

To put things in perspective for the generation of couch bound, video game savvy kids lacking imagination, vitality and the gumption to venture outside and embrace what life has to offer, we mostly invented ways to entertain ourselves.  Baseball, basketball or backyard football could only hold our attention for so long during those long summer days, before we were bored and yearning for that dare factor, to go where no kids had gone before us.  It was always outside for us; don’t even think about making us come inside. We’d fight our parents tooth and claw for the right to push the limits of dark thirty. Sorry, dark thirty is that time of the day just before darkness falls.  It can’t be found on the face of a clock but trust me; everyone back in my day knew the significance of the setting sun.

One of our favorite summer pastimes had to be quenching the oppressive humidity any which way we could. Sometimes this was accomplished via the oscillating sprinkler watering the yard connected to the hose pipe.  Sorry, southern slang, hose pipe is garden hose to those not privy to the lingo of my time. Running though the fan tailed spray, jumping through the water, kept us quite satisfied and momentarily entertained.  The Slip and Slide was the ultimate adventure. The long roll out of durable plastic, affixed to the hose pipe, with water spurting from tiny holes,; all one would have to do is get a running start on the grass then belly or butt flop on to the slick surface and ride her to the end. 

Sadly, one cannot live by sprinkler or Slip and Slide alone.  Water cost money and the meter was running as long as the water was flushing through that hose.  Money doesn’t grow on trees; our parents would constantly remind us. What that had to do with staying cool lost something in translation for us.  Swimming pools, other than at the recreation center, were virtually unheard of back in the land before time.   A few legendary paddle pools existed, so I’ve heard.  I had one, once upon a time, maybe 8 x 8 feet and two feet deep filled to the brim, but even this was a big deal for the gill-less fish we were. My Granny had a concrete pool at the bottom of the hill in her backyard.  It required clogging the drain with a rag or whatever we could find to plug it, filling her up with a hose pipe and then enjoying the water until it became too filthy and then you drained it, maybe.

Not to worry, we had Little Mountain Lake, just down the Cedar Springs Road from Hunter Street where I lived.  The actual name was Parsons Mountain, the highest point around, peaking at 832 feet. It was a little mountain, that’s how we came to call it thusly. It was originally named after Mr. James Parsons back in 1772 and gold was even discovered there in the 1800’s. It’s now part of the Sumter National Forest.  For our purposes, it had a lake that was constructed there in the 1940’s. If we were fortunate and with a tad of luck tossed in, our parents, grandparents or some family member would load up a slew of us kids and take us to our swimming hole.  We thought this water paradise was enormous and in a kid’s eyes it was. Visiting there as an adult, it more resembles an oversized pond now.  The eye is in the beholder and back then, we were beholding to the adventure and time spent there.

Hiking the winding dirt and gravel road to the top of our little mountain highlighted many trips there.  It was our very own Mount Everest. There on the top rested the ranger’s lookout tower, but I’ll get to that shortly. Along the way, on the opposite side of our lake’s designated swimming area was the dam and spillway. No, this was not of Hoover proportions, nowhere close as a matter of fact. Heck, none of us had seen a real dam so again, eye of the beholder. Further up the winding road, Lost Lake was a place of interest, maybe not for us as kids, but the teenagers were drawn to the secluded mud hole like flies. It was a favorite parking spot for making out and making ones fantasies come true. It would grow on us later and we too would eventually appreciate its significance, older and wiser as they say. A similar place existed closer to town, just off the 28 bypass, ‘The Beach’, a place where fill dirt was excavated down the end of a secluded road.  Well, not too secluded, because everyone knew where it was located.

Before reaching the tower, we had to pass the old gold mines. Yes, these were genuine gold mines, three of them long ago deserted. These weren’t clearly marked so you had to know where to go. We did. Two were surrounded by a fence and the third was a slanted hole into the ground, the entrance caved in with no opportunity for spelunkers. Each visit was marred with dares. Climb the fence and see how far you can go. We were all daredevils back then but none of us were quite that stupid.  An obvious entry way didn’t exist so climbing the fence really served no purpose. Sure, we talked up gold prospecting but what did really know about generating our very own gold rush. Just the same it was fun going there. Now they are marked as part of the Tower Trail.

The tower, now that was our Holy Grail. Negotiating the long incline to the tower to us was like ascending Mount Everest. Once we arrived, there rested the ranger station at the top, resembling our very own Eiffel Tower. Next dare, who’s going to the top of the tower? Really there was no risk, steps extended to the ranger platform.  The doorway to the inside of the station was padlocked so you could only ascend to the section just below it. From there the view was breathtaking. We were on top of the world, standing there at the highest point of our Little Mountain.  Etching our names in the metal framework at the top was mired in tradition and marked our territory, our testament that we had completed the climb. You could always count on one scribbling; Kilroy Was Here, a bald-headed man (sometimes depicted as having a few hairs) with a prominent nose peeking over a wall with the fingers of each hand clutching the wall. The doodle supposedly originated during World War II and was graffiti associated with GIs.  You could find it on most any bathroom wall or in out of the way places. Of course other inscriptions contained profanity and brought about bursts of laughter from us, taboo as it was.

Little Mountain was not just reserved for kid adventures. Some involved partnering up with adults. If you have to, you have to. One particular tradition was our version of a hayride. Papa or daddy always needed pine needles. What better place to collect this bounty than the pine forest of Sumter National Park. It was free after all and child labor laws weren’t enforced in Abbeville County. A bunch of us would pile into the bed of papa’s 1961 Apache 10 Chevy pickup truck, securing the rakes with our bodies and we were off to collect pine needles.  This was yet just one more creative game for our wild imaginations. Raking was not fun but the real fun hinged on us filling the bed of that truck. Once it reached the height of the cab we were done. We then became kid tarps, brought along to secure the load. We embraced our job seriously; well, maybe not seriously but mashing down those needles and wallowing in them brought sparkles to our eyes.  Let the hayride begin.  In a less stressful time, no one ever considered riding in the back of pick-ups; the bed certified the passengers as human projectiles. This was life before seatbelts or other restraints.  A kid had the freedom to roam anywhere in a vehicle, unrestricted, often landing in the lap of the driver and helping them navigate.  My favorite spot when I was small enough was stretching out on the platform in the back window. Cars had child size shelves just above the back seat in the day when you could tell a Chevy from a Ford. Life was good.

Sometimes we would venture to Sumter National Forest in search of an elusive plant. We became medicine men in the Amazon jungles, seeking some sort magical cure for what ails you. Actually we had no idea why we were looking for this plant. My black mama, Anise, my second mama, the one who kept me in check while my parents worked the second shift @ Milliken textile mill, required this plant, so enough said.  Looking back, I think this was some sort of Ginseng. She supposedly made tea from the reddish root, it having some sort of healing and curative properties. As an adult, one of my coworkers referred to it as Bo-hog root and he said it was used for sexual enhancement purposes; home remedy Viagra maybe. Either way, it was a game of see how many we good find.  It secured us another ride in the back of Papa’s Chevy as he would bring her and us to forest.

Further down the Cedar Springs Road stood what we considered to be a genuine haunted house, the octagon shaped Frazier-Pressley House, but I will save that one for another chapter, a more teenager version of life in Abbeville. We definitely upped the ante as we reached our adolescence, becoming more creative, our innovation peaking new levels, once we could now drive.  No longer handicapped by someone else getting us to where we wanted to go or possibly places we should ever go; we took many a peek inside Pandora’s Box and for the most part survived our experiences unscathed.  It wasn’t from lack of effort, pushing the envelope.  Parents don’t need to know everything, right?  What happens on our mountain; well you know how it goes.  

Jan 1^st, Resolutions, Revolutions and Evolutions

 

January the 1^st is just that, the first of January. It comes every year as does every other date. Professing to launch a new beginning, break old habits, give yourself an extreme physical or emotional makeover, find love, lose weight or seek any other thing you are not particularly happy with is not magical on the first day of every year. If you were fat on the 31^st, you’re still fat on the 1^st and probably over the next few days or weeks thereafter. If you don’t have what you perceive as love in your love, then maybe you’re looking for love in all the wrong places. If you drink too much, you probably over did last night thinking today would be the start of not drinking like a fish. And if today is the day you stop smoking, then why did you smoke so much last night and pollute those around you? If you didn’t like yourself December 31^st, what makes you think you’re a sweetheart today?

 

No, resolutions are not the miracle cure for what makes you so unhappy. Sorry, but it’s just another day like the run before and the one tomorrow. Why is it that we too often launch a revote against our eating habits moments before midnight, only to gorge ourselves on collard greens and black-eyed peas, cornbread and all the fixings, sweet tea and desserts the very first day we profess to take control. We’re taking the K&W approach today; no home cooking and leftovers of the rest of the week, no aroma of collards greens penetrating every inch of the house for days, no clean up or washing dishes necessary; and guess what, the K&W serves portions and if you can back for seconds, you pay for seconds. Being older and wiser, we join those other elderly folks at the K&W (Kanes and Wheelchairs), a right of passage. Seriously, have you ever scanned the tables when there, Q-tips dot the horizon. It is good food bought cheaply.

 

Greens consumed on the 1^st day of the year are supposed to ensure you have plenty of cash during the year. I eat greens (turnip salad, collards, spinach) once or twice a week and it ensures iron in your blood, not gold or silver in your pockets. Working and earning a living ensure cash flow. Political jab, sorry, try to stay away from this but government is not going to buy you happiness. Entitlements arte ruining the country, making too many people fat and lazy and the New Year’s revolution is not going to win that war. You control your life and what has happened can and shouldn’t be blamed on the success of others. I’ve worked my entire life and am still working. I owe you nothing so why should mine be used to supplement yours. Don’t even get me started on healthcare, the evolution sending us though the wormhole. Off my soap box, just ticks me off anyway and today I really don’t wish to stress about it.

 

New Years is just the beginning of another year. There is nothing magical about it. Your life will not undergo miraculous transformations just by you professing to change, do things better, shed old habits or pounds. There is nothing wrong with setting goals but waiting until January the first to set those goals is probably just a tad too late. You should have probably already set and been working on these things that make you unhappy. Keep in mine that you can only change what you can personally control. You can change other people or other situations that aren’t within your grasp to influence. If you hate your job, look for another one. Same goes for your spouse and significant other in any relationship. There’s nothing worse than being unhappy, so shame on you if you stay in either, if you don’t want to be there. Walking away isn’t easy, the first step being the hardest. I’ve left marriages and jobs that I didn’t particularly like and have never looked back. Stop throwing the pity party. Your friends don’t want to be invited to your unhappy life.

 

Yes, it is the first day of another new year and we all have dreams, aspirations and visions of a wonderful future. Destiny is but a word. You control it, not some pre-destined journey chosen for you. Take me. I’m no one special. I grew up in a small town, no particular standout my any measure, most of my life being uneventful except for misfires on my part; those events that you’re not really proud of, but it is what it is. I can’t change the past or blame others for how I have lived or the mistakes I have made. Today I can live the life I desire and I can influence tomorrow. I was no standout in school, not one to be remembered for being the smartest or most athletic; heck in most cases I was the unknown, the one skirting the shadows. I didn’t go onto college or earn any sort of degree but I have been successful; no, not rich, but I have managed and have everything I could ever want. I’m even a published author, four times and no one can take that away from me; even if I had to pay out of pocket to hold the completed books in my hand. But guess what, when I’m gone, my books will live on. I’ll be more than just another name on headstone in the graveyard. Thanks go out to those who have supported me, mostly family and friends; me wetting my hook in the fishing hole more times than I probably should have. I’m no million best seller but million is just number just like the 1^st. Writing and publishing my writing is an expensive hobby but I enjoy it so mission accomplished. I can strike that one off my bucket list so to speak.

 

No, today is not special. It is but the first day of the month of another new year, but it is what you make of it but no different than how you lived yesterday or plan to live tomorrow. Resolutions, revolutions and evolution are just words ending in ‘tion’. If it floats your boat to believe than there is nothing wrong in believing I suppose. Believing in Santa, The Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy have done wonders for my childhood, but the difference, adults can control their lives where as children we needed to believe in fairy tales. Last night we hugged, we kissed, possibly even more and we held up our glasses to toast what had been and what can be. Ultimately, it is what you make out of it, choices and you do have them. If today means the first step in your journey then so be it. Regardless, just be happy and live today as if you don’t have a tomorrow. You’ll like yourself if you just be you and not what you want to be or what others might want you to be. Happy first day of the rest of your life to each and every one of you and today and every day here after, belongs to you.

 

Disclaimer: fast and furious fingers pecked on the keyboard this morning so I do apologize up front for any grammatical, punctuation or sentence structural errors. I did run spelling checker but that’s about. I do not apologize for content. It was just me being me and January 1^st absolutely had no impact on my rambling scribbling.

44 pages completed for this novel and here's the opening:

Raw Ride

A Good Old Fashion Zombie Apocalyptic Shoot-um Up

‘The only good Indian is a dead Indian, or maybe not.'

 

Vargas sat on the rickety old bunk, his back to the wall, staring down at the blood soaking the front of his shirt, thankful it wasn’t his, not that it bettered his current circumstances. He’d never thought he would draw comfort from being behind bars, but he now assessed his jail cell differently.  Many would probably blame him for this, if they knew the whole story. No denying it, he had most likely contributed to the current set of affairs. Greed had never been one of his best attributes. This time though, it had cost him everything.  He wasn’t even sure if what had been done could be undone. One thing for sure, there would be no three square meals in his future, nor any opportunity for parole or pardon. His future lay squarely in his hands, and seemed bleak at the best.

The calendar hanging on the wall opposite his barred cell indicated winter was knocking at the door. Winters could be harsh in these parts, but harsh seemed a relevant term now.  Vargas had survived many brutal winters but none seemed as deadly as the one ahead. He glanced over at the only other cell in the tiny jail, where the young man still hunkered down behind his upturned mattress and bed. The boy, maybe in his late teens, had not spoken a word. Vargas hadn’t attempted to strike up a conversation with him, not really willing to share what he knew just yet, not that the kid knew that he could enlighten him about their little dilemma. Funny, the kid was there because he had broken some law and Vargas was here by choice. He twirled the key ring on his finger, a reminder that he could leave at anytime, of his own free will.  He was comfy, not so cozy for the time being, and wasn’t that eager to venture back outside.

Vargas thought he heard something; cocked his head for a better listen, but was overpowered by his own nasally heavy breathing and pounding heart beat.  This damn waiting was taken its toll. At least in here it was a safe haven.  Out there…out there, it was anyone’s bet. One thing for sure, he couldn’t stay behind bars forever, as much as it did seem to be a smart move. Name your poison, a death sentence is a death sentence, or maybe not, given his new understanding of dead and not dead. He inspected his fingers, his hands and then his arms, reassuring himself that the bloody spots were not wounds, just blood, and not his. How the mighty Vargas had taken a plunge, fallen from his self imposed pedestal, infamous and in high demand once upon a time, but now his fairy tale had reached a not so happy ending, nightmarish beyond even his wildest dreams.

 The deathly silence was abruptly interrupted, the voice causing Vargas to flinch, a man fearful of his own shadow now days. Taking a deep breath, he turned his head to see the kid standing there, clinching the bars in a death grip. He was pale and wild eyed. Vargas didn’t fault him for that. He had a right to be.  The kid’s breathing was heavy and irregular, almost as if he had forgotten how to breathe. He had the look of a fish out of water, only lacking the flopping motion on the bank after being hooked and landed. Vargas twisted his head one way, and then the other, his neck snapping and cracking like breaking tree limbs, bones old and worn, too much tension adding to the discomfort.

“Mister, you were out there, what’s going on in those streets?”

Vargas rubbed his hands through his gray streaked oily hair, and then rubbed his eyes and face, before standing. Both knees popped loudly, arthritis questioning his maneuver. He hobbled towards the kid, his legs still protesting his first steps.  Rubbing his gnarly almost all gray beard, and then his neck, he stopped one step shy of the bars that separated him from the frightened young lad.  Eyes locked, he thought carefully before he spoke, measuring his words, as had become the art of being a showman, a snake oil peddler and seasoned con man. He wasn’t sure the kid could handle the truth, the whole truth, so help him God. Unbelievers couldn’t always be convinced, but these were unbelievable times, even by his standards. Smoke and mirrors, deceitfulness, illusions and lies, had been his forte, at least until it was no longer required, not after his most magnificent discovery, the game changer, and his ticket to the Holy Grail. Wealth and riches, watch for what you wish, he reminded himself.

“Hey kid, what you in for?”

“They said I stole a horse. I didn’t. I found it.”

“Hang’um high just the same, no tolerance in these parts for horse thieves, guilty unless you can prove otherwise, so goes it.”

“Why did you lock yourself in? You have the keys, are you a deputy or something?”

“Or something about covers it.”

“Mister, I heard a whole lot of shooting, yelling and screaming earlier. It sounded like a war had started.”

“Yep, indeed it did. Wars can be won by one side or the other and it’s wise to pick the winning side, but in this case, that isn’t necessarily the best choice.  The good guys are at a disadvantage and the bad guys, the ones like me and you, are not a sure thing either. The table is running against us, odds not in our favor, and even cheating doesn’t ensure a winning hand.”

“Then who are they fighting?”

“Who are they fighting? The key to the war being waged is not necessarily one you could peg on a who.  This fight is not like any a young pup like you has ever seen. Hell, this is new for an old dog’s eyes.   I’m not sure you would even call this an even fight. It’s like they say, never bring a knife to a gun fight, only worse. No rules, no holds barred, knockdown, drag out, last man standing, and the one that gets knocked down don’t amount to much; they just keep coming, unless you know the secret how to stop them.”

“Mister, I have no idea what you’re saying. You’re not making much sense. You’re not touched in the head, are you? “

“I’m crazy all right. I’ve seen things that would put most men in one of those straitjackets, locked away, never to see the light of day again; and being crazy might be better than being a sane man living in an insane world.”

“I don’t even know why I’m talking to you.”

“You instigated this little conversation, kid, not me. It makes no mind to me if we chat or not. Anything I have to say doesn’t change a single solitary thing. You want out; here’s the key. You’re free to leave. I don’t have a dog in the hunt and it doesn’t much matter to me what the hell you do. ”

“Why don’t you leave then?”

“You some sort of moron, boy; you said it yourself, I came here and locked the door. I had good call to be locking my ass in a jail cell. Bars are not for just keeping people inside; it keeps the outside from getting in.  Here, you want the keys or not? All I ask is just hand it back over to me once you unlock your door.”

“Please, just tell what’s going on out there, Mister.”

“Call me Vargas. Everything has a starting point, a beginning before the ending. This is no different, except the ending might be the real end in this case. Do you have religion, boy? Don’t answer that. It’s not much good for what I’m about to tell you. God is not going to save you from hell on earth. There are powers that maybe even he can’t control or destroy. I’m not a God fearing man, never have been and believe me when I say it; you can’t pray your way out of this mess.”

“I’m Henry McCarty.  I don’t think the deputy who locked me up in here knows who I really am and I’m sure as hell not going to be confessing my identity.”

“Ah yes, I’ve heard of you, kid. Not to worry, it’ll be mine and your little secret. Horse thieving isn’t the worse of your offenses or worries, but like I said, hanging is hanging, and if you’re lucky enough, just maybe you’ll meet that hangman some day.  So, tell me, Henry, do you want to hear this from the beginning? We got plenty of time, so long as we keep these cell doors locked.”

“I reckon I might be persuaded to stay a spell, at least until I know what’s going on out there is done. Like you said, we can leave anytime we want.  We got us the keys.”

“Hold on to them and hold on to the seat of your breaches. You might even want to sit down. I’m long winded and got plenty to say.”

 

Happy New Year

 

Politically INCORRECT

 

Okay it's rant time. Reader warning, I'm about to type my mind, one fed up with one sided bull crap. Our freedom is dissolving as surely as AlkaSeltzer tablets in a glass of water and it tastes just about as bad. Attacks by those who have nothing better to do than ruin the lives of those who don't agree with them. That's why were re different, PEOPLE!!! We have likes and dislikes, those things we believe in and those things we don't. Why should we like the same food, same movies, same sports, have the same religious beliefs, have the same political beliefs. Here I go with just  a few examples:

 

A Massachusetts family says they have received a letter from an anonymous scrooge blasting their Christmas decorations because “not everybody in the neighborhood is Christian." It's Christmas and it has been Christmas forever. Get over it. Neighbors gathered around her home on Saturday night to sing Christmas carols and show their support. Way to go, like that.

 

 

A TV station in Raleigh was in hot water after an anchor of their early afternoon news shows mistakenly said that Santa was made up, according to sources. Okay, is there anything reall worth saying here?

 

 

The Pennsylvania middle school that suspended a 10-year-old for pretending to shoot a fellow classmate with a bow and arrow has until Friday to remove the suspension from the student's record, or face potential legal actions from the boy's parents. I kissed a girl on the monkey bars when I was six. I've a sixty year old fugitive of justice. Folks this is getting out of hand, I'm just saying.

 

 

 A five year old was issued a suspension from school for making a gun gesture with his hand. He was playing army on the playground. Busted, I grew up playing army, cops and robbers, cowboys and Indians, killing and being killed with play guns. Guess what, I didn't turn out to be a serial killer or on the Most Wanted List. Parents start treating your kids like kids. Allow them to be kids, not adults. Stop acting more like children than real children and earn their respect, try to be role models, share family time with them and quit blaming others for the way they act or disrespect kids, teachers and other adults. By the way, teachers are not supposed to be the parents and stop blaming them for your short comings. And bullying on any level is not to be tolerated.

 

 

Camels back has been broken. What is this world coming to now? The famous quote from Planet of the Apes when our protagonist sees the Statue of Liberty in shambles 'It's a mad house!" 

Phil Robertson referenced the Bible when talking to GQ about his thoughts about homosexuality and sinning and he mentioned many more sins than just the one everyone keyed in on. Without getting into all the rhetoric and debate, he said comments, news media and special interest groups weighing in and demanding Phil's head on a platter, the demise of Ducky Dynasty, I say just one thing, Watch where this thing goes A&E. Jumping the gun like you have done, Pandora's Box has been flung open and the real majority will speak loudly and clearly. Papa always said God gave us two ears and one mouth for a reason; he wanted us to listen twice as much as we talked. Listen to what your viewing audience is saying and weigh carefully what you say moving forward. If I were a Robinson, giving the circumstances, I'd bid you a fond farewell and take my following with me...ouch! Like Phil, I always say what I believe, one man's opinion, you don't have to agree with me, that's your right just as it is mine to be me and speak my mind, do what I feel I need to do and not be someone I'm not, just for the sake of being popular or politically incorrect. If I don't care for a movie or tv show I don't watch them. I listen to music I like and don't if it doesn't appeal to me. I like some actors, don't like others. I don't demand that everyone and every circumstance changes to suit little on me because others out there feel differently and like other stuff that don't appeal to me. Relax, enjoy life the way you feel you need to live it and stop trying to change the lives of those they see things differently. Trust me, it will be a lot less stressful when you do. Phil, I raise my class to you, not for saying what you said but for being whom you are, true to yourself. Lessons can be learned I people can put away the stirring pot and enjoy what life has o offer them. We're all unique and that's all right with me.

 

 

I do have a plot for a novel entitled ironically 'Politically Incorrect'. One day it might see the light of day and when it does, you have the right to read it or not, agree with it or not, and I have no issue with your thinking, good, bad or ugly. We have the right to disagree but let's be seasonable and reasonable and not go off half coked always demanding for people to be fired or punished for doing and thinking differently.  Look in the mirror, it's not that becoming to be like that. One man's opinion is just that. 

Okay, 22 hours of fun at he Dickens Show is now behind my alter egos, Little Tommy Dickens and Scrooge. Some thought I was a statue; ole stone face still lives. Book buyers didn't exactly over run booth 127 but we experienced wonderful fellowship among the attending Beach Author Network authors. We certainly had plenty of time to reflect, assess and brain storm the next greatest event. For those of you who failed to drop by and pay the price for admission, you missed the greatest show in town because booth 127 was filled with punchy authors, making merry and surviving as best we could. I fear you have forever missed your opportunity to purchase those deals at this event; a one and out for most of us. The Myrtle Beach Convention Center will never be the same. If there are any hard book cover readers out there, let us hear an amen. Visit Beach Author Network on Face Book and offer hungry writers a tad of encouragement to continue spinning our tales. Our hobby is an expensive one and the only way we continue is with your loyal support. Begging for more is appreciated. Support local and hope to see you at the next greatest bookarama.  

Sorry, been away for awhile, new Dell laptop has crashed and burned, limping long barely, writing has come to a screeching halt. Did jot down an opening for a new novel, possibly a novella, my first, titled The Widow Magnet. Got you interested? Still contemplating launching a kid's book too, Bobby Saves Scoot, about a sea turtle. Book is actually finished, needs to be illustrated though. My issue is I just have too many completed novels and it's too expensive to release them in hard copy. E-book might be where I should head. TBD after I fix the Dell issue. Short and sweet this time...

Okay, I've got to get those promotional juices flowing again. This is my version of one of those 'But Wait" commercials; so tune me in or turn me off, the choice is a your finger tips.

For a limited time offer (forever if you're interested), I am offering jump off the shelves deals.

For those Detective Trudy Wagner lovers, adventures along the grand strand, you have a two-for at your finger tips.

Trudy arrived on the Carolina coast from Ohio to take care of her ailing mother in Road Rage. As the serial killer unleashed the fury in Horry and Georgetown counties, readers were blessed to be introduced to another predator, Newsman Lance Rocker. Lust and perversion hit a new low with the self proclaimed 'Rock your Worlder.' Let's not forget Woody, the detective bulldog and Trudy's new partner. Then there as Sheriff Hank Singleton, a big on grizzly bear, southerner to the core. Valuable lesson learned in Road Rage, drive like you know how or pay the price.

With the road rage serial killings behind them, Horry County's finest again take on forces feeding on new prey .In North of the Border, the detectives meet another formable foe. Yes, all your favorites are back.

Email talenwinn@mail.com to see how you can get your copies of Road Rage and North of the Border, each for the low, low price of $15.95.

BUT WAIT!!! Contact ole T. Allen now and receive both for $25.

Then there is Dark Thirty,  sixteen year old Dale Thomas Jackson, his new pals, Debra and Ted take on the bullies. It's tough to pretty up bulling so this one is not for the weak at heart. Meet Mack, the worst of the worst.

Available for $15.95 by contacting T. Allen...

OR, Order contact T. Allen right now @ tallenwinn@mail.com and arrange to receive your very own signed copy to $10.

Then there is T. Allen's favorite, The Caregiver's Son, Outside the Window Looking In, a personal memoir that will have you crying and laughing, not all a once of course.

You know the drill, contact ole T. Allen for your $14.95 copy for $12.

BUT WAIT...you didn't really think I was finished, did you?

For the first zillion emailers, you can received signed copies of all four for the basement, first time offer of $40.00, excluding shipping cost. Be the first in your house to own all four novels, from a groveling hungry southern spinner of fiction tales; all except the Caregivers which is mostly true, as best T. Allen can remember.

Getting your copies is just as easy as banging on those computer keys. tallenwinn@mail.com, letting our staff (me) know which deal of the century meets your fancy; perfect for Christmas, birthdays, Halloween, Thanksgiving or just any weekday celebration that comes to mind. Heck buy yours and sending them people you don't even like.

That's tallenwinn@mail.co, that's tallenwinn@mail.com, lines are open to take your request. Sorry, I'm out of knife sets or I would include them too.