Wordsmith Holler

Original Pulp Fiction

Category: My Craft

  • A Motivational Speaker’s Motivational Quotes

    A Motivational Speaker’s Motivational Quotes

    “Never quit,” I tell them frequently
    Until my hoarse voice shrinks from wear
    And whispers before I can speedily
    Say “Follow your dreams, work hard, practice and persevere.”

    I rise them up with crescendo
    “Small deeds done are better than a great deed’s plan.”
    The audience takes my hidden agenda
    To convince them to “If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again.”

    My motivational speech is done
    The stimulated swim in the future dream
    They jump and squeal; their planning begun
    “What the mind can conceive and believe, it can achieve.”


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  • Jake Rutledge and the Guy With Bad Timing: Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing – Part Three

    Jake Rutledge and the Guy With Bad Timing: Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing – Part Three

    Before I could register what he was saying, Dan passed out.

    He had a huge bloody gash on his forehead. And that would have been bad enough, but an IV stand stuck out of his stomach.

    The wound gushed blood no matter what I did and the pipe sticking out his gut would need a miracle.

    I tore my t-shirt into a bandage and tied it over the gash. Dan lay crumpled with his hands behind him. I found my knife and cut the restraints. That took care of his arms but there was no way he could stretch out with the IV stand sticking out of him. At that point, I thought he might as well be dead.

    Yellow sparks from the overhead light sparked no color in his face, and it remained gray like the storm clouds circling the torn roof. Pieces of ceiling tile and sheet rock covered the floor. I huddled by Dan next to torn insulation, ceiling tiles, bricks, and broken glass.

    Dan moaned.

    “What’s that?” I jumped to him.

    He whispered gibberish, which I couldn’t understand except for a few pieces. He plainly said “cube” and “weapon protocol.”

    The second phrase scared me, but “cube” piqued my curiosity. Where was this cube and could it be a key to the weather machine?

    “The cube is the key,” he moaned.

    “Key to what?” I wanted to know, yet he was moaning, talking gibberish, and passing out. I doubted he could tell me.

    “The weapon protocol!” Dan raised straight up and shouted. I decided he hoped they could hear him through the hole in the ceiling. It was important to him. But for all I knew, Dan was having a bad dream. It reminded me of watching a movie with no sound: you can see the action and still not know what is going on.

    Scuffing sounds came from the front of the clinic and Earnest tossed the wall away to find us. The short-order cook wiped a dirty hand on his apron.

    “We heard a roar and followed a huge funnel,” said Ernest, reaching out his hand. “It came out of the sky, set down, and wiped you out.” The way Earnest described it, the funnel targeted us before ripping up the clinic.

    “Nothing else in town is destroyed. The funnel only set down on the clinic and tore it up.”

    Earnest reviewed the room.

    “Where’s Doc Martin and the sheriff?”

    I had forgotten about them. They were here and then they weren’t.

    “Likely half-way to Iowa by now,” I mumbled. Earnest gave me a confused frown.

    “It sucked them out of the building.” I pointed at the hole and the gray sky.

    We were interrupted by the lights of a black 4X4, which lit us up in a yellow wash as the driver raced to a stop. “You hurt?” the driver asked. “What can we do?” He sounded like a pent-up Boy Scout. I shrugged my shoulders.

    I recognized the driver and his passenger as a couple linebackers from the high school football team. They always wore their Letterman jackets and pranced around the diner after school.

    “The sheriff’s gone,” Earnest called out.

    “Where did he go?” the driver peered through the broken window.

    “He went that way.” I pointed north in the direction the tornado carrying the sheriff, the deputy, and the doctor went.

    “We’ll go get him.” And before I could tell them about how the funnel cloud had sucked all three men from the clinic, the driver punched it into reverse and tore away.

    “I suppose somebody should fetch them,” I stuttered.

    Thinking about all that happened, I realized we had bigger problems to deal with. My brother Dan was dying, again, and I didn’t really know what to do about it.

    “The flag burner is bleeding good,” announced Sally, who sneaked by when I looked away. She had lost the gum, so I had no way of knowing she was near. She had a worried frown and touched Dan’s face. “We need to do something.”

    “We’ve got ice and a first-aid kit at the diner,” Ernest disclosed. “You will find a bunch of civil defense stuff in our storm shelter.”

    Charlie crawled over the debris and shook my hand.

    “Did you have a good nap?”

    “Well, I was doing good until all this ruckus.”

    My brother, who I was now thought of as the weatherman, moaned again. He tried to rise but the IV stand kept him pinned to the floor. He groaned and placed a hand on the bleeding cut, pulled back a red hand, and fainted.

    “We need to move him inside and find a doctor.” I gestured forCharlie to help me carry him out of the clinic and over to the diner. A crowd shuffled around us and some men offered to help carry Dan.

    Four men carried Dan like he was in a coffin while two others struggled to keep the IV stand from hitting the ground. They failed, and each time the stand struck the ground, my brother wiggled out of the hands of the four carrying him. And did he scream. This went on a few times until the weatherman passed out again.

    Ernest and I looked at the rubble of the clinic.

    “We will need a new clinic,” he contemplated. I stared at the rubble and the storm clouds floating away. “And a new doctor,” I added.

    Inside the diner, the men dropped my brother on a table. He still had the IV stand sticking out of him and it was bleeding even more. They propped the stand beside him and a group of ladies stood around whispering. Sally found a pair of scissors, a pile of cloth linens, a tablecloth, and some tape from the first-aid kit.

    “Go on. I found the first-aid supplies.” Sally turned to the other women in the room. “You do something.” The women stared at Sally like she was asking them to strip off their clothes. Finally, one of them picked up the gauze.

    I thought Dan was nearly dead, and before he passed out again or died, I needed to figure this out. With the women doctoring him, I grabbed two mugs, filled them with coffee, and found a corner booth to talk with Charlie.

    “I was trying to talk to him when the storm hit.” I poured enough sugar in the mug to make syrup.

    “I caught it all from the alley,” added Charlie. “A fierce, dark funnel cloud pounced on the medical clinic. Tore it up in pieces. Then it vanished and left a pile of rocks.”

    “After the storm, he told me the Air Force wants him dead.”

    “Why?”

    “Because he knows how they turn weather into a weapon.” I could tell Charlie was trying not to laugh. He smiled at me with skepticism and I barely believed what I was saying.

    A weather radio warned us of another impending tornado. “The National Weather Service in Springfield has issued a Tornado Warning for Reno County in central Kansas until 10 pm central time.”

    “A tornado warning means we need to take cover,” urged Charlie.

    “There is your shelter?” Sally pointed to the floor in the center of the diner.

    Men and women rushed out of the diner and I guess they had better shelters to hide in. This left me, Charlie, Ernest, Sally, Dan, and two grandmas who I thought needed me to carry them down.

    “Can you two manage?” I reached out to help.

    “Don’t worry about us,” one of the grandma’s said. “We can move when we need to.”

    Part One – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Two – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Three – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Four – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Five – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Six – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Seven – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Eight – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Nine – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing


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  • The Road to Kelso

    The Road to Kelso

    The bus broke down five miles outside Kelso on the Joshua tree road near where the train tracks hang on the yellow hills. The few tourists unloaded their bags deciding they would rather walk than stand in the heat. Sally smoothed her pettifor and adjusted her wide-brimmed hat. She would wait in the bus. Twenty minutes later a private stuck his head into the bus and offered a ride and Sally joined the bus driver in the army jeep as it sped past the tourists. Later, Sally sat in the Kelso Depot sipping cold lemonade and eating sardines on crackers.


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  • Jake Rutledge and the Guy With Bad Timing: Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing – Part Two

    Jake Rutledge and the Guy With Bad Timing: Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing – Part Two

    The stranger lay on his stomach randomly screaming about “the tyranny of the state” and “the air force knows a secret.” At one point he caught my eye like he was pleading “help me, man.”

    “I swear he could be your brother.”

    “I know. I find it hard not to stare,” I replied.

    It was improbable and impossible because Dan was dead.

    The sheriff and his deputies raised the flag burner from the ground and led him to their car. I wondered why they were putting so much effort into the arrest. It’s not like he triggered a bomb. But again, looking around at the shocked faces, I suppose lighting up the U.S. Flag in the center of town was just as bad for these folks.

    “I will try to talk to him,” I told Charlie who gave me a notion he was done with the excitement.

    “You go ahead. I will go take a nap.” Charlie walked off towards the hardware store, where I presumed, he planned to count cars and sleep.

    They took the guy down to the medical clinic where I waited until dark clouds rolled over the west. A steady stream of thunder boomers headed north to Nebraska and Iowa to dump rain, hail, and perhaps, a tornado in a cornfield. We had missed the brunt of the storm.

    In fact, all the thunderstorms this spring rolled away from Pretty Prairie. Even though I could use the work clearing debris, I am no fan of tornadoes. The thought Mother Nature can swat me away like a flea sends lightening bolts to my boots.

    I lit another cigarette and strained to focus through the glass window of the clinic. They still had the flag burner locked inside for medical tests and whatever else they decided he needed. I imagined he had to focus on pictures of patriotic children saluting the flag to prove he was squeamish. Goodness, who burns a flag in one of the most backwater places in America? Not for the TV trucks because there were none. He had to be nuts for even trying it here.

    Besides wondering what would happen to the guy, I also wanted a second take of him. My brother Dan died when he stepped on one of those homemade explosives in Afghanistan. He was dead. I went to the funeral. So why did this guy remind me so much of Dan? There had to be a believable explanation.

    I dropped the stub of the cigarette and crushed it with my toe. As I reached for my another, a weary Air Force truck stopped in front of the clinic. It was rusted like it needed a bath and a shine.

    A baby airman climbed from the driver’s side of the truck and ran around to the other door. He soon followed a cranky officer wearing a blue field shirt with a bunch of patches above the words “US Air Force” and a patch on his right arm showing he was Special Operations. He was important enough for the baby airman to rush to yank on the door of the clinic. They passed me loitering by the door without even looking my way.

    The clinic door slowed to a stop, and I slipped in behind them. The clinic waiting room was empty but I could hear shouting from the back. I creaked the door to the hallway and heard the important officer standing and shouting. He demanded to talk to the flag burner and a young nurse was stammering.

    “I… I… can’t let you bother him,” she squeaked out.

    “I don’t care what you can’t do,” the man barked. “I’m only interested in seeing my airman.”

    An older man in a white robe entered the hallway followed by a deputy. The doctor took no time in confronting the angry man.

    “You need to leave,” he declared. “We are not allowing anyone in to talk,” he paused, “or threaten him.” The doctor pushed the air force colonel with a jab of his thumb. This didn’t go over very well and the officer did not hide his irritation. The deputy placed his hand on his gun as a precaution.

    The cranky officer and the doctor stated a stare down and I wondered who would blink first. The officer let out a blast of air like a punctured tire and placed his flat hand on the doctor’s shoulder. He leaned in until he was inches from the doctor’s nose. Even I flinched at his sneer. This went on for a few minutes until I decided it was a good time to interrupt.

    “Um,” I paused because what I was about to say sounded impossible. “Um. I think he might be my brother.”

    “That seems far-fetched,” challenged the doctor. “Why would he be your brother?”

    The cranky officer and the doctor finally agreed.

    I shrugged my shoulders, “I recognize him.”

    The officer rushed to yell at me more. “The guy you think is your brother is a deserter, an enemy, and he needs to go with me.” He stressed with a hateful face. “This guy is just one of his anarchy friends.”

    The baby airman showed me disdain to add emphasis to his boss’ words.

    “Honestly, I’ve never seen him. He feels familiar,” I replied with more than a little nonchalance. Everyone waited for me to go on.

    I told them about my brother Dan and how this guy resembled him. I made myself out as a neutral party and explained how it couldn’t hurt to talk to him, and besides, as soon as I cleared this up I could go find some work. I waited as the cranky officer, the baby airman, and the doctor weighed what they would say.

    The commotion had made me more curious than anything and I wanted to figure out this thing about my brother Dan.

    “Maybe I can check?” I offered and started toward the door.

    Everyone stared at me until the doctor spoke up. “Sure. Let’s see if you’re related to him,” he decided. “You gentlemen can just as soon go. I’m not letting you back there.”

    I squeezed passed the officer, and he snarled as I went by.

    “Oh, we’ll be back with some MPs,” barked the colonel. “And we’ll take that airman back with us. You can count on it.”

    “Don’t you worry Colonel Cox,” the deputy chuckled. “He won’t spill any state secrets.” He laughed as the cranky officer huffed and stormed down the hall.

    I followed the doctor and the deputy into the middle of the room, where the sheriff and another deputy towered over the flag burner. He sat on an exam bed wearing handcuffs and a restraining belt.

    I could tell the stranger had been struggling to get out of his cuffs, and he was only sitting still because he had decided he couldn’t flee. It made sense because a wide deputy stood next to him like a bull terrier. The flag burner wouldn’t be going anywhere.

    “What’s your name?” asked the doctor.

    “I’m Jake. You stitched up my hand last week.” The doctor ignored me.

    “Well, Jake, I doubt he’s your brother, but we’ll see.”

    The wind kicked up and whistled through the vents sending debris into the utility pipes on the roof. Leaves and broken branches danced over the skylight. I assumed the edge of the storm had moved closer to Pretty Prairie and was taking some of our garbage with it.

    I took stock of the flag burner. His eyes were brown, while Dan’s were blue. His chin appeared wider than Dan’s. Although, he had my brother’s scar from when he flew over the handlebars and landed hard on the pavement.

    The stranger had Dan’s blonde hair, slender nose, and my thin lips. But it was the feeling I got inside when he glanced back that suggested familiarity, like I had eaten breakfast with this guy or hung out in our Dodge Charger drinking beer.

    It was a familiarity; like we shared a secret.

    “Dan?” The flag burner did not respond. I knelt down in front of the stranger and put my hand on his shoulder. “Dan?”

    The stranger smiled.

    “Do you remember the time we set off bottle rockets and almost took down the Pine Street bridge?” The guy just stared.

    “How about the time we slid down the ice sheet and ended up sliding across the road in front of those cars?”

    The flag burner followed my eyes, and I tried to see some recognition. He turned to the deputy and shuddered. He returned to my eyes and laughed.

    “This is my brother Jakey.” The flag burner went from pointing and laughing to pointing and crying. “He’s my brother Jake,” he stammered.

    I rose to give the man a hug, and the deputy took a step back. Something about the hug appeared off and as I brought my brother closer he spoke into my ear, “You’ve got to rush me out of here before that colonel comes back.”

    I pulled back, and the guy whispered, “We’re not safe.”

    A huge gust of wind ripped the roof off the clinic like it was a sardine can and it sucked the doctor, sheriff, and the deputy into a violent funnel cloud. The wind tossed Dan into a corner and me under a table where I clung to the legs as the wind tried to suck me out. Then the wind stopped and an eerie silence took over.

    “Dan?” I yelled. “Dan? Are you alive?”

    I rushed to the corner where Dan lay on his side bleeding from a gash in his head.

    “I need your help,” he gasped. “The Air Force wants to kill me because I know all about their weather machine weapon.”

    Part One – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Two – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Three – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Four – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Five – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Six – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Seven – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Eight – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Nine – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing


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  • Heat and Tension on the Grapevine

    Heat and Tension on the Grapevine

    The drive-it-yourself moving truck stalled on the Grapevine, the mountain pass stopping the San Joaquin from spilling into Los Angeles. Sweat rolled down the backs of the three passengers resigned to suffer the heat. The truck lacked air conditioning, so there was no need to complain. The truck belched through the stall as the driver pushed into the lowest gear and rolled at a burro’s pace as a parade of cars followed. A single horn, then others, squaked displeasure at the lack of speed. The driver aimed the truck for a turnout, wiped his face, and waved the parade around.


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  • A Cooper’s Hawk Snags a Meal

    A Cooper’s Hawk Snags a Meal

     

    After sixty steps, he decided he made a bad choice to leave the car to photograph Joshua trees in the Nevada desert. He wanted a swallow of the water sitting in the passenger seat now getting hot in the light. The sun burned the bald spot he forgot to cover with a hat. He thought about going back. Then, a quail hawk lifted off its perch of evergreen bayonets and dove to the ground. It pursued its prey by half running and half flying until it snagged a meal. He snapped a series of pictures before sprinting to the car.


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  • Jake Rutledge and the Guy With Bad Timing: Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing – Part One

    Jake Rutledge and the Guy With Bad Timing: Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing – Part One

    I like my steak well-done, my eggs runny, and my toast black.

    My waitress, who always wears a blouse with just enough cleavage showing, popped my toast in again to make sure she charred it. I appreciate the little touches provided by this dive of a cafe on the main drive of Pretty Prairie in southern Kansas. A regular three-calendar restaurant where the farmers arrive early to drink coffee and fight over who has the tallest sweet corn. Ever since my car overheated on the outskirts of town, I have sipped Irish coffee, listened to the squawking farmers, and dabbed my runny eggs with black toast.

    As far as engine trouble, I might have done worse and ended up in Nebraska. Besides, this town needs me. A small place always favors a guy willing to do the stuff no one else will do, and well, I am that guy: Jake Rutledge, handyman. I am that roustabout people call when they need something fixed, thrown away, or made better.

    Early this morning, I eyeballed a fortunate sign on the western horizon as storm clouds formed at daybreak. The chance of a windstorm always meant someone would need a fence repaired, a tree cut, or a something found. I had no worries of the threat of a tornado. The fight over nature is something I can handle.

    I waved at Sally and pointed at my coffee.

    “You want to fill my mug?” I gave an expectant glance with a hint of sarcasm.

    Sally rested on a hip and stared through me. Like everyone else in this town, I got the impression she took joy in taking time to ponder if she wanted to help. Sure, a small puddle of coffee had dried in the bottom of my mug, and I wanted more. Nevertheless, I had to give Sally time to decide if I needed another cup. She took her time to reach for the pot and shuffle over to my end of the counter.

    As Sally lifted the pot over my cup, she teased, “So, do you still love me?” She had a sweet smile.

    “Pour the coffee and we’ll talk.”

    “Oh, the man doesn’t approve when I refuse to jump at his beck and call.” She returned the coffee to her hip.

    “I don’t care if you jump, as long as you’re quick about it.”

    The coffee filled to the brim and a steam cloud rose from the mug. Sally curtsied. Then she blew a bubble, snapped the gum with a pop, and winked before turning away. I admire Sally’s sass, but she should spit out the gum.

    I took a sip of the coffee and realized it needed a refresher. In my coat, I reached for my flask of whiskey, poured a finger into my mug, and took a sip. Overall, a fine version of a leprechaun’s kiss.

    “The car is still dead?” This line of questioning was rote. The person sitting next to me always started the morning by asking me when we were leaving.

    “I have my priorities. I would love to leave but I couldn’t hang out with you.”

    My neighbor laughed a deep hoarse rattle that became a cough.

    “You know Charlie, you ought to visit a doctor.”

    “Well, I ain’t got the money,” Charlie stated.

    We made a pair; two drifters stuck in Pretty Prairie, Kansas. Charlie Wadmeyer, landed here by riding with me in my junk of a car. He has always been tailing me and helps me when I need it. We go back to kindergarten, and he is my best friend. When he’s not following me around, he sits outside Honeyman’s Hardware down the street and watches the traffic. Once he counted two cars at once. You know how slow it can get in a small town.

    The noise from the farmer’s corner reminded me of hens in a chicken barn. I sipped my coffee and eavesdropped.

    “And so the guy shows up and plugs in a doodad and tells me the alternator is bad.” The old farmer nudged his glasses above his nose.

    “In the old days, you could diagnose it yourself.” I thought he might shout. His friends stirred their coffee mugs and waiting for him to continue.

    “Well, now a guy with a computer needs to tell you what’s wrong.”

    “Computers run everything nowadays,” another farmer waxed philosophical wearing a John Deere hat.

    “Yeah, unless I need a refill,” the old farmer remembered. “Hey, Sally. I need more coffee.” I held in a laugh. Darn if she didn’t glaze through him too.

    Sally eventually shuffled over to the farmers snapping her gum and balancing the coffee pot in her left hand. I could never call her one of those quick diner waitresses. It didn’t matter. Before she made it to the table, the whole booth of faded blue overalls stood to peer out the window.

    It had to be exciting for these guys to jump out of the seat, so when the farmers craned their necks to take it in, I decided I had better watch too.

    I had to push through the farmers to spy what was happening, and from what I could tell, nothing good would come of the spontaneous outrage in the parking lot. Surrounded by two cowboys, a pregnant mom, her kids, and a deputy sheriff, a lanky blonde stranger was dragging Stars and Stripes on the ground. He was shouting at the crowd.

    The deputy sheriff pulled the mom and her boys away from the protest. The two cowboys flanked the man who wore a black riding boots and full leather motorcycle gear. He pulled out a lighter setting the national emblem ablaze. This only enraged the cowboys. As flames touched the stars, both of them tackled the stranger to the ground. He let out a scream as the deputy stomped out the burning flag. Those cowboys might as well had hog-tied the man. He struggled to push away a boot on his back and squirmed around toward the cafe.

    By now we were all outside, me, Charlie, the farmers, Sally and everyone else. The guy rolled away from the cowboys and stood with one cowboy holding his leg. Charlie and I ran over to stop the guy from leaving. He threw a punch that landed right on my chin. I stumbled back while Charlie ducked another punch. I shook off the shock of the upper cut and tackled the guy to the ground. He landed hard enough to knock the wind out of me, and he appeared winded too. I rolled off the stranger as Charlie ran up.

    “Hey Jake,” Charlie noted. “That guy could be you.”

    Charlie was right. The man resembled me and how my face might appear if I was trying to fight off my attackers in a parking lot in Kansas.

    I took a second glance and then it hit me. The guy reminded me more of my brother Dan who died fighting in Afghanistan.

    Part One – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Two – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Three – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Four – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Five – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Six – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Seven – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Eight – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing
    Part Nine – Jake Rutledge and the Guy with Bad Timing


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  • Superstition Mountain Treasure

    Superstition Mountain Treasure

    The tour guide led them inside the Bird Cage and over to the faro table where Doc Holliday and Johnny Ringo faced off between it and the grand piano. The older men crowded around the table and pretended to twirl a cup like a gunslinger. Abbey shifted her weight and roller her eyes. She wished this tour with the grandparents would end.

    While the rest crowded around the faro table, she turned to the piano, and climbed over the rope. Abbey sat on the bench and fingered the keys. She played seven measures from Minuet In G and everyone stopped to listen. When she touched the F-key it failed to ring out. It sounded muffled like something covered the hammer.

    Abbey hit the F-key a few more times and it still made a muffled sound. Her grandfather climbed over the rope and looked into the soundboard. He asked her to strike the key. The hammer stopped before it could hit the string. He reached inside and touched the hammer. Behind it he found a small folded piece of paper.

    [bctt tweet=”Abbey hit the F-key a few more times and it still made a muffled sound.”]

    He unfolded the paper square and laid it out on the keyboard. The crowd drew around the piano to see what was on the paper. In faint letters, they could see it was a drawing of a map and the words, “Superstition Mountain Treasure.”

    One of the old men shouted out, “She found it! She found the lost Dutchman Mine.” Abbey shrunk down into the bench. She hadn’t intended to be seen. It was bad enough she had to go on this trip and now she was the center of attention.

    “Looks like you’ve found a piece of history,” her grandfather said. “Now, I guess we’ll have to find it.”


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  • July Newsletter

    July Newsletter

    In my latest newsletter I muse about writer’s block, review a new TV Western, and give away my latest novella.

    All in a day’s work!

    You can join the newsletter here:

    Join my Wordsmith Holler Newsletter


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  • Left Hanging on Craigmore Rock

    Left Hanging on Craigmore Rock

    He dug into the rock face deeper with his right hand while he swung his left hand up to meet it. He now hung over the gorge too tired to pull himself up and too centered in self-worth to let go. He swung closer to the edge hoping to find a foothold. He swung back away from an edge too far to offer anything to grab. He felt the tension in his fingers.

    [bctt tweet=”He looked down to the bottom. A hell of a drop.”]

    He looked down to the bottom. A hell of a drop. He began to release when she grabbed both arms and pulled him onto the canyon lip.


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