Gary Starta's Blog
October 14, 2017
Iris and Mitch, ghosthunter vs. ufologist
In January 2017, The Twilight Recorder interviewed the lead investigators of two major paranormal research groups: Iris Camden of the Colorado Ghost Hunters, and a man who only would like us to identify him as “Mitchell” from the Colorado Eyes in the Skies.
Skeptics and believers both, I thought listeners might find it interesting to find such a division in beliefs as evidenced in the following transcript. As both Iris and Mitchell investigate the unknown, they both rather have strong opinions on ghosts and aliens. Iris believes in ghosts, Mitchell in aliens. So, the more interesting aspect of my interview will be to get both to divulge their skepticism respectively. Ultimately, you will be the judge if paranormal investigators residing on different ends of a spectrum can make each other stronger in the quest to shed the fiction from fact and determine if we are really “not alone” in both the universe and the spiritual realm. Unfortunately, the interview gets cuts short. It’s indeterminable if it’s a malfunction or a paranormal manifestation that interferes. Again, I’ll let you be the judge.
Interviewer Tim Cage: Good Evening, Mitch and Iris. I’m finding it hard to pick which of you to go first. But let’s make it Iris. What made you find ghosts so fascinating?
Iris: Ghosts kind of found me fascinating, I guess. I have a psychic sense, and I can sense they are out there. But I’m not a medium like my sister, DJ, who can actually speak with the dead.
TC: Mitch, you look like you’re going to burst. What’s on your mind about this topic?
Mitch: I’m just wondering if Iris can substantiate how her sister “talks” to the dead. Without an audio representation, which would still be subject to scrutiny, how do you know who she is talking to isn’t really alive?
Iris: Grunts. So you think I’m making this up? She shakes her head. My sister is talking to my dead stepmom, Mitch. We know it’s Mom; no one else could pretend to be that annoying. I must admit I’m not really close to her and that’s why she is probably attracted to DJ. But, just to let you and the audience know, it’s not even DJ’s choosing. The girl is freaked out by her mother’s death and each visit just reminds her of an untimely passing. She is becoming a recluse and I’m worried about her. Actually, I wish I could just tell my stepmom to stop!
TC: This is an interesting take on a paranormal relationship. I’m wondering if the blood relation is making the afterlife connection possible. I mean, Iris, you would think your stepmom might find a way to communicate with you.
Mitch: Scrubbing at his chin. That’s a fascinating take, Tim. If what you posit is true, why doesn’t every one of our parents come back and “annoy” us in the fashion DJ’s mother is said to be capable of. I’m wondering if DJ is so scarred by the death, the “haunting” is in her imagination. Perhaps, it’s guilt revisiting her. If so, I would think DJ might be better served by a counselor who might make the guilt tenable. Perhaps, she needs the guilt to disappear more than her “visiting mother.”
Iris: While I’m finding Mitch’s skepticism “fascinating,” I’m also wondering how a man who chases lights in the sky can be qualified to disqualify the existence of ghosts. I mean, lights in the sky can be anything, stars, gas, photo distortion, and even just an earthbound craft.
Mitch: Rubs his hands together. Of course! You’re absolutely right…I believe in UFOs—meaning “unidentified” objects. They could very well be Earth-based ships, but what I find untenable is the government’s complete denial of the sighting itself. I don’t think every ship in the sky is from another planet, but I do think that some of “our” ships were reverse engineered from confiscated alien technology. How else do you explain the rapid advances of technology since the 1960s? Why were we just learning to make an automobile and develop a photograph some fifty years or so prior? Who gave us the edge, and more importantly, why?
TC: Mitch you’ve stated your case very well. So, Iris, do you believe every apparition or specter is a ghost?
Iris: I never made the claim that I do. I head an investigative team where it’s very important to rule out what things “aren’t” are. My dear friend, a former lead investigator who I won’t name out of respect, came upon something even I can’t classify to this day. But it did its damage to him. It disabled him. It’s my duty as the lead investigator to direct my team in the proper direction and get in the face of danger if necessary. We are not talking about fantasy or delusions in most cases. I can’t tell you if the entity was a ghost or even a person. But it was damaging—
Mitch: Ah! So, you’ve just admitted that even when you think you are classifying a ghost, you might be experiencing another entity, something not of our known world…
TC: Okay, you two are sparring pretty well. So, Mitch, what are you getting at?
Mitch: What if an inter-dimensional being were to appear to us? It might be slightly out of phase with our world. What most think of as apparitions of former living persons might just be aliens in disguise. It may be capable of appearing to us in a form we can understand. So, even if you can prove a shadowy being beyond doubt on an EVP, what if it’s impersonating a human?
Iris: Takes off her spectacles and cleans them with her shirt. Mitch, what reason would an alien have to do such trickery? And are you seriously suggesting an alien is impersonating my annoying, but loving, stepmom?
Mitch: I think the very nature of an alien encounter would be unclassifiable. I mean, you’ve got me, Iris. I don’t know how I can prove it because it’s an entity not previously “officially” categorized. It would break the mold, at least, if you believe the government’s story that a weather balloon crashed in Roswell in 1947. So, we start from scratch. But we don’t always jump to the ghost conclusion, either.
Iris: This is your idea of being fair? Huh. Well, I can’t find the motivation for an alien to target my lonely stepsister DJ. The only consequence would be cruelty. I can agree that the entity which harmed my friend was not your typical specter. It certainly wasn’t just residual energy, meaning it could react. And its reaction was terrifying.
TC: And do you have any record of this entity?
Iris: It did its best to wipe my memory, Tim.
Mitch: So, if it did that, what even makes you think you experienced something formerly alive, and not an entity fully alive, aware, and possibly from another realm of our universe…? Or, possibly a hallucination….
Iris: It was a red ball for God’s sake.
Mitch: Red, and not orange…?
Iris. It was red, like your shirt, Mitch.
Mitch: There are orange balls of light known as OBOLs they are thought to precede UFO sightings. They are even thought to forge the distinct geometrical shapes known as crop circles. Just wondering…
Iris: Come now! We have two old men admitting to this forgery.
Mitch: If you think two old drunken men were capable of crafting such magnificence with a wooden board in the dead of night, then you are…
TC: What was that? Ladies and gentleman, we may be losing our broadcast signal. It appears our lights have just flickered on and off. Is this a technical malfunction? I’d have to ask my engineer. But with the very nature of our conversation this evening, do either one of you think…
Iris. The problem is we cannot think or even theorize without facts and evidence. So, you see not every bump in the night is a ghost to me. Nor, is it a deceased and annoying relative waiting in hiding…
Mitch: Perhaps I’m such a loner that ghosts don’t think to visit me. But for this light flickering, I cannot hazard a guess. It would be speculation. And Iris, you have my respect as an investigator. I just wanted to see if I could rattle your cage tonight…
At this point in the interview, I hear a tinkering sound but it’s never found on the tape by my engineer who hears it as well. Is it the entity which harmed Iris’s friend, or, is it an alien entity giving us an answer as to its existence…?
Several hours later, a crop circle appears in the City of Cherry Hills Village…
This reporter dares not speculate further. The interview you’ve read was fully recorded but without the tinkering clinking sounds at the interview’s end. Dare I posit that a noise made in another dimension might not be recordable in ours?
Three months later: A strange light show resembling the aurora borealis haunts the legendary Chaco Canyon area. Investigators Mitch and Iris claim they made contact with something but for the safety and good of the populace they are adamant they cannot make any statements. And I find it very odd that two people who are both committed to revealing their separate truths seem to uphold disclosure, something which has left a bad taste in the paranormal community’s mouth for decades. I must know what frightened them in Chaco Canyon. I pledge to make an effort to get Iris and Mitch back on my show in the near future. This is Tim Cage saying goodnight and make sure to keep the porch light on.
https://www.amazon.com/Coalescence-Ca...
Skeptics and believers both, I thought listeners might find it interesting to find such a division in beliefs as evidenced in the following transcript. As both Iris and Mitchell investigate the unknown, they both rather have strong opinions on ghosts and aliens. Iris believes in ghosts, Mitchell in aliens. So, the more interesting aspect of my interview will be to get both to divulge their skepticism respectively. Ultimately, you will be the judge if paranormal investigators residing on different ends of a spectrum can make each other stronger in the quest to shed the fiction from fact and determine if we are really “not alone” in both the universe and the spiritual realm. Unfortunately, the interview gets cuts short. It’s indeterminable if it’s a malfunction or a paranormal manifestation that interferes. Again, I’ll let you be the judge.
Interviewer Tim Cage: Good Evening, Mitch and Iris. I’m finding it hard to pick which of you to go first. But let’s make it Iris. What made you find ghosts so fascinating?
Iris: Ghosts kind of found me fascinating, I guess. I have a psychic sense, and I can sense they are out there. But I’m not a medium like my sister, DJ, who can actually speak with the dead.
TC: Mitch, you look like you’re going to burst. What’s on your mind about this topic?
Mitch: I’m just wondering if Iris can substantiate how her sister “talks” to the dead. Without an audio representation, which would still be subject to scrutiny, how do you know who she is talking to isn’t really alive?
Iris: Grunts. So you think I’m making this up? She shakes her head. My sister is talking to my dead stepmom, Mitch. We know it’s Mom; no one else could pretend to be that annoying. I must admit I’m not really close to her and that’s why she is probably attracted to DJ. But, just to let you and the audience know, it’s not even DJ’s choosing. The girl is freaked out by her mother’s death and each visit just reminds her of an untimely passing. She is becoming a recluse and I’m worried about her. Actually, I wish I could just tell my stepmom to stop!
TC: This is an interesting take on a paranormal relationship. I’m wondering if the blood relation is making the afterlife connection possible. I mean, Iris, you would think your stepmom might find a way to communicate with you.
Mitch: Scrubbing at his chin. That’s a fascinating take, Tim. If what you posit is true, why doesn’t every one of our parents come back and “annoy” us in the fashion DJ’s mother is said to be capable of. I’m wondering if DJ is so scarred by the death, the “haunting” is in her imagination. Perhaps, it’s guilt revisiting her. If so, I would think DJ might be better served by a counselor who might make the guilt tenable. Perhaps, she needs the guilt to disappear more than her “visiting mother.”
Iris: While I’m finding Mitch’s skepticism “fascinating,” I’m also wondering how a man who chases lights in the sky can be qualified to disqualify the existence of ghosts. I mean, lights in the sky can be anything, stars, gas, photo distortion, and even just an earthbound craft.
Mitch: Rubs his hands together. Of course! You’re absolutely right…I believe in UFOs—meaning “unidentified” objects. They could very well be Earth-based ships, but what I find untenable is the government’s complete denial of the sighting itself. I don’t think every ship in the sky is from another planet, but I do think that some of “our” ships were reverse engineered from confiscated alien technology. How else do you explain the rapid advances of technology since the 1960s? Why were we just learning to make an automobile and develop a photograph some fifty years or so prior? Who gave us the edge, and more importantly, why?
TC: Mitch you’ve stated your case very well. So, Iris, do you believe every apparition or specter is a ghost?
Iris: I never made the claim that I do. I head an investigative team where it’s very important to rule out what things “aren’t” are. My dear friend, a former lead investigator who I won’t name out of respect, came upon something even I can’t classify to this day. But it did its damage to him. It disabled him. It’s my duty as the lead investigator to direct my team in the proper direction and get in the face of danger if necessary. We are not talking about fantasy or delusions in most cases. I can’t tell you if the entity was a ghost or even a person. But it was damaging—
Mitch: Ah! So, you’ve just admitted that even when you think you are classifying a ghost, you might be experiencing another entity, something not of our known world…
TC: Okay, you two are sparring pretty well. So, Mitch, what are you getting at?
Mitch: What if an inter-dimensional being were to appear to us? It might be slightly out of phase with our world. What most think of as apparitions of former living persons might just be aliens in disguise. It may be capable of appearing to us in a form we can understand. So, even if you can prove a shadowy being beyond doubt on an EVP, what if it’s impersonating a human?
Iris: Takes off her spectacles and cleans them with her shirt. Mitch, what reason would an alien have to do such trickery? And are you seriously suggesting an alien is impersonating my annoying, but loving, stepmom?
Mitch: I think the very nature of an alien encounter would be unclassifiable. I mean, you’ve got me, Iris. I don’t know how I can prove it because it’s an entity not previously “officially” categorized. It would break the mold, at least, if you believe the government’s story that a weather balloon crashed in Roswell in 1947. So, we start from scratch. But we don’t always jump to the ghost conclusion, either.
Iris: This is your idea of being fair? Huh. Well, I can’t find the motivation for an alien to target my lonely stepsister DJ. The only consequence would be cruelty. I can agree that the entity which harmed my friend was not your typical specter. It certainly wasn’t just residual energy, meaning it could react. And its reaction was terrifying.
TC: And do you have any record of this entity?
Iris: It did its best to wipe my memory, Tim.
Mitch: So, if it did that, what even makes you think you experienced something formerly alive, and not an entity fully alive, aware, and possibly from another realm of our universe…? Or, possibly a hallucination….
Iris: It was a red ball for God’s sake.
Mitch: Red, and not orange…?
Iris. It was red, like your shirt, Mitch.
Mitch: There are orange balls of light known as OBOLs they are thought to precede UFO sightings. They are even thought to forge the distinct geometrical shapes known as crop circles. Just wondering…
Iris: Come now! We have two old men admitting to this forgery.
Mitch: If you think two old drunken men were capable of crafting such magnificence with a wooden board in the dead of night, then you are…
TC: What was that? Ladies and gentleman, we may be losing our broadcast signal. It appears our lights have just flickered on and off. Is this a technical malfunction? I’d have to ask my engineer. But with the very nature of our conversation this evening, do either one of you think…
Iris. The problem is we cannot think or even theorize without facts and evidence. So, you see not every bump in the night is a ghost to me. Nor, is it a deceased and annoying relative waiting in hiding…
Mitch: Perhaps I’m such a loner that ghosts don’t think to visit me. But for this light flickering, I cannot hazard a guess. It would be speculation. And Iris, you have my respect as an investigator. I just wanted to see if I could rattle your cage tonight…
At this point in the interview, I hear a tinkering sound but it’s never found on the tape by my engineer who hears it as well. Is it the entity which harmed Iris’s friend, or, is it an alien entity giving us an answer as to its existence…?
Several hours later, a crop circle appears in the City of Cherry Hills Village…
This reporter dares not speculate further. The interview you’ve read was fully recorded but without the tinkering clinking sounds at the interview’s end. Dare I posit that a noise made in another dimension might not be recordable in ours?
Three months later: A strange light show resembling the aurora borealis haunts the legendary Chaco Canyon area. Investigators Mitch and Iris claim they made contact with something but for the safety and good of the populace they are adamant they cannot make any statements. And I find it very odd that two people who are both committed to revealing their separate truths seem to uphold disclosure, something which has left a bad taste in the paranormal community’s mouth for decades. I must know what frightened them in Chaco Canyon. I pledge to make an effort to get Iris and Mitch back on my show in the near future. This is Tim Cage saying goodnight and make sure to keep the porch light on.
https://www.amazon.com/Coalescence-Ca...
January 25, 2017
I Bought the Sun for a Dollar
I Bought the Sun for a Dollar
You’re probably familiar with the concept of six degrees of separation, whereby you and everyone on the planet can be connected through a chain of no more than five intermediaries. This small world theory has been considered for almost ninety years and like all theories it may not yet be proven. Still, connections, whether remote or in our faces may impact us more than we can ever realize.
My idea for I Bought the Sun for a Dollar centers around the universe and how it twirls and spirals all around us, far away and sometimes close, allowing objects such as the planets and ever our precious sun to at one time or another, impact our emotions, feelings or thoughts through connectivity. We have all felt the sun’s rays but most have never maybe even seen Jupiter through a telescope let alone pondered it. That doesn’t matter. The universe’s effect upon all of us may be unconscious for the most part. And just like the tug of the moon on a tide, we are unwittingly moved by astral bodies just as much as we may be from a not so pleasant conversation with a motorist or a heavenly encounter with a beautiful ‘human’ body. Near or far, short or long, there is impact.
Quantum entanglement is a theory that helps to prove this idea whereby two objects may be in the same place at the same time, even though separated by great distances. This idea posited by Einstein is considered even more valid today as theoretical physicists test particles by separating them and discovering there could be communication via some as yet explained means at light speed. Does everything in effect communicate, and if so, does this communication set an outcome for good or bad?
It is believed that plants possess a form of communication and taking that idea farther, maybe the planet itself communicates with the universe in a language to be named later.
Just as intriguing is that astrology may be more valid than some think as the position of the planets could have an impact upon yourself and your actions. If so, our actions may be always influenced. But I’d like to think we hold some percentage of control regarding our final actions and choices.
I invite you to see how Timothy Ray handles his newfound discovery…
Timothy Ray’s home is first invaded by burglars and then by a spy in a lover’s guise in I BOUGHT THE SUN FOR A DOLLAR, a romantic suspense novel.
Can anyone actually buy peace or happiness? Perplexed by the loss of job and fiancé, Timothy Ray makes a symbolic purchase of the sun for a dollar to try to right things in his slightly off course career trajectory. When he stumbles upon a brilliant, cascading sunrise and then a chance meeting with a statuesque blonde he feels his life is about to change for the better but his new girlfriend is a spy, working for a contracted data mining firm.
Undaunted and unaware that Lou Ann is actually Kate, Timothy continues to encourage people via social media to experience how energy is shared between us and the cosmos. Kate and her employer fear Timothy’s hope will threaten the leadership’s status quo. The firm incrementally steps up its spy game and seems to have no remorse about putting Timothy at risk of ridicule and perhaps worse. But Timothy’s biggest threat may come from the very source of his inspiration, the sun itself. Will he be able to save all from a cosmic catastrophe?
Timothy Ray stumbles across a brilliant cascading sunrise that changes him profoundly. His symbolic purchase of the sun for a dollar, leads to huge social media following and a new girlfriend who is a spy out out to discredit him, or worse.. But Timothy’s biggest threat may come from the very source of his inspiration, the sun itself. Will he be able to save all from a cosmic catastrophe?
Can anyone actually buy peace or happiness? Perplexed by the loss of job and fiancé, Timothy Ray makes a symbolic purchase of the sun for a dollar to try to right things in his slightly off course career trajectory. When he stumbles upon a brilliant, cascading sunrise and then a chance meeting with a statuesque blonde he feels his life is about to change for the better but his new girlfriend is a spy, working for a contracted data mining firm.
Undaunted and unaware that Lou Ann is actually Kate, Timothy continues to encourage people via social media to experience how energy is shared between us and the cosmos. Kate and her employer fear Timothy’s hope will threaten the leadership’s status quo. The firm incrementally steps up its spy game and seems to have no remorse about putting Timothy at risk of ridicule and perhaps worse. But Timothy’s biggest threat may come from the very source of his inspiration, the sun itself. Will he be able to save all from a cosmic catastrophe?
https://www.amazon.com/Bought-Sun-Dol...
You’re probably familiar with the concept of six degrees of separation, whereby you and everyone on the planet can be connected through a chain of no more than five intermediaries. This small world theory has been considered for almost ninety years and like all theories it may not yet be proven. Still, connections, whether remote or in our faces may impact us more than we can ever realize.
My idea for I Bought the Sun for a Dollar centers around the universe and how it twirls and spirals all around us, far away and sometimes close, allowing objects such as the planets and ever our precious sun to at one time or another, impact our emotions, feelings or thoughts through connectivity. We have all felt the sun’s rays but most have never maybe even seen Jupiter through a telescope let alone pondered it. That doesn’t matter. The universe’s effect upon all of us may be unconscious for the most part. And just like the tug of the moon on a tide, we are unwittingly moved by astral bodies just as much as we may be from a not so pleasant conversation with a motorist or a heavenly encounter with a beautiful ‘human’ body. Near or far, short or long, there is impact.
Quantum entanglement is a theory that helps to prove this idea whereby two objects may be in the same place at the same time, even though separated by great distances. This idea posited by Einstein is considered even more valid today as theoretical physicists test particles by separating them and discovering there could be communication via some as yet explained means at light speed. Does everything in effect communicate, and if so, does this communication set an outcome for good or bad?
It is believed that plants possess a form of communication and taking that idea farther, maybe the planet itself communicates with the universe in a language to be named later.
Just as intriguing is that astrology may be more valid than some think as the position of the planets could have an impact upon yourself and your actions. If so, our actions may be always influenced. But I’d like to think we hold some percentage of control regarding our final actions and choices.
I invite you to see how Timothy Ray handles his newfound discovery…
Timothy Ray’s home is first invaded by burglars and then by a spy in a lover’s guise in I BOUGHT THE SUN FOR A DOLLAR, a romantic suspense novel.
Can anyone actually buy peace or happiness? Perplexed by the loss of job and fiancé, Timothy Ray makes a symbolic purchase of the sun for a dollar to try to right things in his slightly off course career trajectory. When he stumbles upon a brilliant, cascading sunrise and then a chance meeting with a statuesque blonde he feels his life is about to change for the better but his new girlfriend is a spy, working for a contracted data mining firm.
Undaunted and unaware that Lou Ann is actually Kate, Timothy continues to encourage people via social media to experience how energy is shared between us and the cosmos. Kate and her employer fear Timothy’s hope will threaten the leadership’s status quo. The firm incrementally steps up its spy game and seems to have no remorse about putting Timothy at risk of ridicule and perhaps worse. But Timothy’s biggest threat may come from the very source of his inspiration, the sun itself. Will he be able to save all from a cosmic catastrophe?
Timothy Ray stumbles across a brilliant cascading sunrise that changes him profoundly. His symbolic purchase of the sun for a dollar, leads to huge social media following and a new girlfriend who is a spy out out to discredit him, or worse.. But Timothy’s biggest threat may come from the very source of his inspiration, the sun itself. Will he be able to save all from a cosmic catastrophe?
Can anyone actually buy peace or happiness? Perplexed by the loss of job and fiancé, Timothy Ray makes a symbolic purchase of the sun for a dollar to try to right things in his slightly off course career trajectory. When he stumbles upon a brilliant, cascading sunrise and then a chance meeting with a statuesque blonde he feels his life is about to change for the better but his new girlfriend is a spy, working for a contracted data mining firm.
Undaunted and unaware that Lou Ann is actually Kate, Timothy continues to encourage people via social media to experience how energy is shared between us and the cosmos. Kate and her employer fear Timothy’s hope will threaten the leadership’s status quo. The firm incrementally steps up its spy game and seems to have no remorse about putting Timothy at risk of ridicule and perhaps worse. But Timothy’s biggest threat may come from the very source of his inspiration, the sun itself. Will he be able to save all from a cosmic catastrophe?
https://www.amazon.com/Bought-Sun-Dol...
July 28, 2013
Demon Inhibitions, a paranormal summer read
IMMORTALITY & BEYOND REVIEWS DEMON INHIBITIONS
Caitlin Diggs - Ex FBI, New Investigator, Totally Rocks!
Celeste - Everyone with a supernatural ability needs a cool pet!
Plot - Fantastic!
I have to say that I've read Mr. Starta's work before and I love it. Demon Inhibitions was a great addition and another great work of art to add to my collection. I loved the entire premise behind the book and I think I myself, having to live in two dimensions may have lost it a little. Caitlin is an awesome character and handles it superbly. Starta does a great job pulling the reader in from the first page, keeping you engaged and wanting to find out more.
All the characters were easily related to, and I'm not sure who I like more. Caitlin or Briana. Both were very well developed, and perfect for the storyline.
I will say that I felt the story dragged out at times, but before you knew it you were back in the money and moving right along. Having read Demon Inhibitions only made me like this author's work even more and I can't wait for the next book.
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00BVAYAVI/?...
Caitlin Diggs - Ex FBI, New Investigator, Totally Rocks!
Celeste - Everyone with a supernatural ability needs a cool pet!
Plot - Fantastic!
I have to say that I've read Mr. Starta's work before and I love it. Demon Inhibitions was a great addition and another great work of art to add to my collection. I loved the entire premise behind the book and I think I myself, having to live in two dimensions may have lost it a little. Caitlin is an awesome character and handles it superbly. Starta does a great job pulling the reader in from the first page, keeping you engaged and wanting to find out more.
All the characters were easily related to, and I'm not sure who I like more. Caitlin or Briana. Both were very well developed, and perfect for the storyline.
I will say that I felt the story dragged out at times, but before you knew it you were back in the money and moving right along. Having read Demon Inhibitions only made me like this author's work even more and I can't wait for the next book.
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00BVAYAVI/?...
March 20, 2013
Mix genres, expand worlds - Demon Inhibitions
Mixing it up with Demons and Parallel Universes - Gary Starta
I always like to expand the genre as much as possible, stretch it like an elastic band until it threatens to break. My new release, Demon Inhibitions, incorporates paranormal suspense, urban fantasy, science fiction and romance. It also takes a look at demons in a new way, leaving behind some of the more stereotypical accounts we're used to finding in fiction.
What if not all demons were bad? What if some wanted to overcome their natures? Would humans still hate them all anyway?
Could a demon be inhibited? I created a character who has the ability to tame their urges. But this solution is not so simple when prejudice against the demons blind haters from allowing the possibility of peace and harmony.
Thrown into the mix of a demon/human segregation war, Agent Caitlin Diggs finds a new universe caught in the wake of a wormhole. Will Caitlin also see all demons as evil? Or, can she differentiate allies or enemies in her new world?
I hope you'll take the journey with Caitlin into a new universe where even demons desire home, jobs and family.
Excerpt
Grant’s ruggedness gave me strength. The notion that I would be
flying in single engine plane brought back the wave of nausea I had
experienced when I first experienced my cold symptoms. Only the cold
symptoms were gone, along with any dizziness one might feel when
imbibing a cup of murky green cold medicine. I couldn’t explain this. I
couldn’t explain a lot of things. Yet an eyeful of Grant gave me courage,
even inspiration. Robust and bright eyed, Grant possessed a pair of broad
shoulders and a six-foot three-inch frame, nicely packaged in a gray
pinstriped designer suit. Sea green eyes peered at me, hungry, curious for
answers. Carter must have laid it on thick concerning my psychic skills. Did
this man have every confidence in my clairvoyant abilities, or did he just
want to jump my bones? Hard to tell, I thought, staring out a window at the
murky brownish colored sea below us that was nothing as effervescent or
alluring as Charles Grant’s eyes. Yes. It had been a long time since I dated.
And my horizontal dance with incubus boy didn’t count. Youth is nice but
this man could be a walking definition of the “whole” package.
Charming as well, he comforted me straight away as we lifted off.
“Don’t worry Ms. Diggs, the Cessna 400 is the most reliable single engine
piston powered-plane on the market.” I smiled with the alacrity of a mental
patient when he accentuated the words “piston powered.” Yes, much too long
without the company of a man. I unconsciously began to fan myself although
the cabin temperature had been cool enough, in fact quite a welcome relief to
the ninety degree plus weather outside.
So he could immediately pick up on my worries and needs. Maybe
just a coincidence, I told myself, still foolishly fanning myself with a Chinese
takeout flyer I had dug out of my purse. And merely coincidental I found him
irresistibly attractive. No, this isn’t about falling in love at first sight. Nooo…
Then he put his hand on my knee, and I felt my heart thump.
“You know,” he began, “if you need privacy to conjure up your
vision or dream state, I can go sit with the pilot.”
“Oh, no.” I nearly screamed it. His eyes told me he either realized my
phobia of flying in small aircraft had been a ploy to garner his attention or
perhaps a real deep seated fear, one which might invite a panic attack.
“Okay, then,” he said. His voice became gentle and lilting in reaction
to my squawk. “I’m not going anywhere. It’s just that it’s imperative we get
a lead, any kind of lead to stop Mollini.”
“Yes,” I said staring into his sea green eyes. “I know what it means
to be desperate… I… uh, mean, desperate for a break on a case.”
“Now do you?”
I wondered how Grant could not recognize me. Surely, he must have
at least heard my name. I had had the best arrest/conviction rate in the
Bureau. But I realized it would be best if he continued to think of me as a
civilian—which I now was. The Bureau hadn’t been kind to me lately. And I
had left in large part because I believed they would never accept my gift; or
how I had come to acquire it.
“Oh, I just watch a lot detective shows,” I said.
He laughed, hopefully swallowing my lame-assed explanation.
So he possessed an open mind, at least when it came to crunch time.
That point in a case where you would rub a bald man’s head for luck if it
brought you any closer to apprehending the perp.
“Then we probably realize we’ve got to make a stand.”
I could tell by the way he said it that even he didn’t give it much
chance of success. And his gaze fell away, distant, probably counting the
number of colleagues who would be fitted for body bags.
“Have you thought about an alternative?” I blurted out.
“I’m open to suggestion.” His eyes rejoined mine. Again, I could
literally hear my heart beat.
“I suppose following protocol would be best,” I said half heartedly,
my eyes fighting to disengage from his.
“I don’t want to pressure you. But do you have any inkling? Any hint
where Mollini might be ultimately headed?”
Shit, I thought. I sure as hell did. And now I couldn’t share with this
man, something my physical self desperately desired. And as I wallowed in
guilt, I began to question my sudden attraction to this man, the irresistible
urge to bare all with this man-damn it—the near uncontrollable urge to
unfasten the waist ties on my halter and bare more than just the truth. What
was happening to me? I thought about it for a few seconds.
Perhaps Grant believed I had fallen into a psychic trance. If so, that
would buy some time. I stared, pensive, eyes trained on the floor, playing the
stereotyped crystal gazing psychic to the hilt. And I realized that along with
my vision, came my ability to read people. My empathic gift had come back
as well. Possibly this power seemed so overwhelming to me because I had
spent the last few weeks living as a shut-in. As if black clouds suddenly
rolled away exposing a radiant, blinding golden blast of sunshine, I could
read the goodness of this man, not only see his aura but also feel it.
Intoxicated, I realized the reconnection to my feelings and emotions had
caused sensory overload. Maybe that’s why I had nearly succumbed to
infatuation when I should have been plotting how to stop Mollini.
But first things first, I had to misdirect Grant. It would be for his
good. And mine as well, from a selfish standpoint. Whether my lust had been
organically or paranormally stimulated, I genuinely perceived Grant to be an
honest and caring man. I could not lead him to his slaughter. And with that
realization, came baggage. I also could honestly say that one part of me
really didn’t care if a butt load of FBI agents went down fighting. That part
of me, the self-righteous, self-absorbed portion, would say they had it
coming, foolishly attempting to combat a supernatural power with
conventional weapons, and in the process only making the perpetrator
stronger. I only cared about Grant’s safety—his sea green eyes, melt-me-inhis-
mouth kind of safety… Shut up, I told myself, trying to disconnect the
imagery. I had to quell that voice. That would be the voice of pride
speaking—and possibly the voice of lust as well. And while I was in full self
diagnosis mode, it was a voice that needed to feel justified for leaving my
FBI career. A voice that said they would regret allowing me to resign. Shut
up, I said again, more forcefully. Who am I kidding? I am replaceable. Even
this wonderful agent doesn’t recognize me.
Time to get a grip, Caitlin, it’s time to do your job. You didn’t join
the Bureau for glory, I told myself. You did it because you had no other
choice; the job was already part of you—it never needed to become part of
you. You and the job were already symbiotic. Okay, so now it’s time to do
the job. Despite the fact I was no longer FBI, I would think like I was.
Unconventional, that’s how I solved the lion’s share of my cases. I would use
my paranormal abilities to combat Mollini’s. It all sounded so simple, in
theory. I would stick to the plan. I let my eyelids flutter as if the vision were
ending. And I spoke.
“I think I have a lead. I see where Mollini will make his stand.”
As Grant’s eyes bore into me for detail, I glanced away for a second,
to catch the time.
“Where are we now?” I asked.
“Somewhere at the end of New England, and the beginning of the tristate
area.”
“That’s good. You’ll continue on—without me—to this address.” I
rummaged through my cluttered purse, amazingly pulling both a pad of paper
and pen in my first attempt. I wrote the address down, tore off the sheet from
the pad and handed it to Grant.
“That’s where you can get Mollini. He’ll need to replenish himself
there.” Grant stared at me. “Yes, with souls from living bodies,” I said in
reply to his polemic gesturing. “He’ll need a mass killing. But he’ll be
vulnerable for a window of time. You and an attack team might be able to
take him down, even without firing a weapon, possibly in hand-to-hand
combat. Although,” I quickly added, “I wouldn’t recommend that.” And even
though I knew this encounter would most likely never happen, I couldn’t bear to see Agent Grant get caught in Mollini’s demonic grip.
See it, buy it here...
http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/...
Demon Inhibitions
I always like to expand the genre as much as possible, stretch it like an elastic band until it threatens to break. My new release, Demon Inhibitions, incorporates paranormal suspense, urban fantasy, science fiction and romance. It also takes a look at demons in a new way, leaving behind some of the more stereotypical accounts we're used to finding in fiction.
What if not all demons were bad? What if some wanted to overcome their natures? Would humans still hate them all anyway?
Could a demon be inhibited? I created a character who has the ability to tame their urges. But this solution is not so simple when prejudice against the demons blind haters from allowing the possibility of peace and harmony.
Thrown into the mix of a demon/human segregation war, Agent Caitlin Diggs finds a new universe caught in the wake of a wormhole. Will Caitlin also see all demons as evil? Or, can she differentiate allies or enemies in her new world?
I hope you'll take the journey with Caitlin into a new universe where even demons desire home, jobs and family.
Excerpt
Grant’s ruggedness gave me strength. The notion that I would be
flying in single engine plane brought back the wave of nausea I had
experienced when I first experienced my cold symptoms. Only the cold
symptoms were gone, along with any dizziness one might feel when
imbibing a cup of murky green cold medicine. I couldn’t explain this. I
couldn’t explain a lot of things. Yet an eyeful of Grant gave me courage,
even inspiration. Robust and bright eyed, Grant possessed a pair of broad
shoulders and a six-foot three-inch frame, nicely packaged in a gray
pinstriped designer suit. Sea green eyes peered at me, hungry, curious for
answers. Carter must have laid it on thick concerning my psychic skills. Did
this man have every confidence in my clairvoyant abilities, or did he just
want to jump my bones? Hard to tell, I thought, staring out a window at the
murky brownish colored sea below us that was nothing as effervescent or
alluring as Charles Grant’s eyes. Yes. It had been a long time since I dated.
And my horizontal dance with incubus boy didn’t count. Youth is nice but
this man could be a walking definition of the “whole” package.
Charming as well, he comforted me straight away as we lifted off.
“Don’t worry Ms. Diggs, the Cessna 400 is the most reliable single engine
piston powered-plane on the market.” I smiled with the alacrity of a mental
patient when he accentuated the words “piston powered.” Yes, much too long
without the company of a man. I unconsciously began to fan myself although
the cabin temperature had been cool enough, in fact quite a welcome relief to
the ninety degree plus weather outside.
So he could immediately pick up on my worries and needs. Maybe
just a coincidence, I told myself, still foolishly fanning myself with a Chinese
takeout flyer I had dug out of my purse. And merely coincidental I found him
irresistibly attractive. No, this isn’t about falling in love at first sight. Nooo…
Then he put his hand on my knee, and I felt my heart thump.
“You know,” he began, “if you need privacy to conjure up your
vision or dream state, I can go sit with the pilot.”
“Oh, no.” I nearly screamed it. His eyes told me he either realized my
phobia of flying in small aircraft had been a ploy to garner his attention or
perhaps a real deep seated fear, one which might invite a panic attack.
“Okay, then,” he said. His voice became gentle and lilting in reaction
to my squawk. “I’m not going anywhere. It’s just that it’s imperative we get
a lead, any kind of lead to stop Mollini.”
“Yes,” I said staring into his sea green eyes. “I know what it means
to be desperate… I… uh, mean, desperate for a break on a case.”
“Now do you?”
I wondered how Grant could not recognize me. Surely, he must have
at least heard my name. I had had the best arrest/conviction rate in the
Bureau. But I realized it would be best if he continued to think of me as a
civilian—which I now was. The Bureau hadn’t been kind to me lately. And I
had left in large part because I believed they would never accept my gift; or
how I had come to acquire it.
“Oh, I just watch a lot detective shows,” I said.
He laughed, hopefully swallowing my lame-assed explanation.
So he possessed an open mind, at least when it came to crunch time.
That point in a case where you would rub a bald man’s head for luck if it
brought you any closer to apprehending the perp.
“Then we probably realize we’ve got to make a stand.”
I could tell by the way he said it that even he didn’t give it much
chance of success. And his gaze fell away, distant, probably counting the
number of colleagues who would be fitted for body bags.
“Have you thought about an alternative?” I blurted out.
“I’m open to suggestion.” His eyes rejoined mine. Again, I could
literally hear my heart beat.
“I suppose following protocol would be best,” I said half heartedly,
my eyes fighting to disengage from his.
“I don’t want to pressure you. But do you have any inkling? Any hint
where Mollini might be ultimately headed?”
Shit, I thought. I sure as hell did. And now I couldn’t share with this
man, something my physical self desperately desired. And as I wallowed in
guilt, I began to question my sudden attraction to this man, the irresistible
urge to bare all with this man-damn it—the near uncontrollable urge to
unfasten the waist ties on my halter and bare more than just the truth. What
was happening to me? I thought about it for a few seconds.
Perhaps Grant believed I had fallen into a psychic trance. If so, that
would buy some time. I stared, pensive, eyes trained on the floor, playing the
stereotyped crystal gazing psychic to the hilt. And I realized that along with
my vision, came my ability to read people. My empathic gift had come back
as well. Possibly this power seemed so overwhelming to me because I had
spent the last few weeks living as a shut-in. As if black clouds suddenly
rolled away exposing a radiant, blinding golden blast of sunshine, I could
read the goodness of this man, not only see his aura but also feel it.
Intoxicated, I realized the reconnection to my feelings and emotions had
caused sensory overload. Maybe that’s why I had nearly succumbed to
infatuation when I should have been plotting how to stop Mollini.
But first things first, I had to misdirect Grant. It would be for his
good. And mine as well, from a selfish standpoint. Whether my lust had been
organically or paranormally stimulated, I genuinely perceived Grant to be an
honest and caring man. I could not lead him to his slaughter. And with that
realization, came baggage. I also could honestly say that one part of me
really didn’t care if a butt load of FBI agents went down fighting. That part
of me, the self-righteous, self-absorbed portion, would say they had it
coming, foolishly attempting to combat a supernatural power with
conventional weapons, and in the process only making the perpetrator
stronger. I only cared about Grant’s safety—his sea green eyes, melt-me-inhis-
mouth kind of safety… Shut up, I told myself, trying to disconnect the
imagery. I had to quell that voice. That would be the voice of pride
speaking—and possibly the voice of lust as well. And while I was in full self
diagnosis mode, it was a voice that needed to feel justified for leaving my
FBI career. A voice that said they would regret allowing me to resign. Shut
up, I said again, more forcefully. Who am I kidding? I am replaceable. Even
this wonderful agent doesn’t recognize me.
Time to get a grip, Caitlin, it’s time to do your job. You didn’t join
the Bureau for glory, I told myself. You did it because you had no other
choice; the job was already part of you—it never needed to become part of
you. You and the job were already symbiotic. Okay, so now it’s time to do
the job. Despite the fact I was no longer FBI, I would think like I was.
Unconventional, that’s how I solved the lion’s share of my cases. I would use
my paranormal abilities to combat Mollini’s. It all sounded so simple, in
theory. I would stick to the plan. I let my eyelids flutter as if the vision were
ending. And I spoke.
“I think I have a lead. I see where Mollini will make his stand.”
As Grant’s eyes bore into me for detail, I glanced away for a second,
to catch the time.
“Where are we now?” I asked.
“Somewhere at the end of New England, and the beginning of the tristate
area.”
“That’s good. You’ll continue on—without me—to this address.” I
rummaged through my cluttered purse, amazingly pulling both a pad of paper
and pen in my first attempt. I wrote the address down, tore off the sheet from
the pad and handed it to Grant.
“That’s where you can get Mollini. He’ll need to replenish himself
there.” Grant stared at me. “Yes, with souls from living bodies,” I said in
reply to his polemic gesturing. “He’ll need a mass killing. But he’ll be
vulnerable for a window of time. You and an attack team might be able to
take him down, even without firing a weapon, possibly in hand-to-hand
combat. Although,” I quickly added, “I wouldn’t recommend that.” And even
though I knew this encounter would most likely never happen, I couldn’t bear to see Agent Grant get caught in Mollini’s demonic grip.
See it, buy it here...
http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/...
Demon Inhibitions
December 7, 2012
Change Your Mind...The Source Field Investigations
We Can Unify Our Minds for Positive Change
If I were to tell you we can unify our minds for positive change, would you accept or dismiss this statement? Conditioned minds might discard this as deception or fiction, concluding it to be a state of consciousness we could never realistically achieve. It may sound like the next campaign slogan or a veiled promise from an alien leader in a science fiction move.
David Wilcock, author of The Source Field Investigations, proposes this is sound science theory. I am quite passionate about the contents of this fascinating book that explores ‘consciousness science’ and an array of topics including DNA transformation, multidimensional time and travel via wormhole. It is the most comprehensive tour of ancient physics and spirituality you might find. I like to think of it as a metaphysical bible or encyclopedia of the paranormal.
When I classify the theories of this book as metaphysics or the paranormal I feel I am cheapening the very idea of the source field. I feel as though these terms convey doubt about the reality of this zone of energy. Yet I am very excited about its likely existence. I write science fiction and many ideas and concepts I introduce in my novels are sometimes based on theory or what some might label fringe science. But in reference to the source field, I feel it is much stronger than a concept or theory. It is the science fiction story that comes true.
So what is the source field? It may be the answer to everything. Wilcox proposes all space, time, energy, matter, biological life and consciousness in the universe is a product of the source field. It runs throughout the universe and emits light via photons. Since its non-electromagnetic it’s been hard to detect.
We can channel the light of the source field via our pineal glands, a small gland situated in the middle of our brains. Unfortunately, because of poor diets and environmental pollution our pineal glands are not running at optimum efficiency. If they were, we would be absorbing all the glorious light the source field has to offer. It would literally change us via our genetic coding in positive ways. Light is absorbed in our DNA and the right light frequencies can be used for healing. Ultraviolet light can carry coding that affects the structure of DNA. If we were at an optimum receiving level, Wilcox believes the source field would appear in our DNA as virtual photons and be stored for usable energy.
Even more amazing, since every living organism stores and releases photons inside its DNA, you could remove the DNA and the photons would keep spiraling in that same area for up to a month. Experiments referenced in the book seem to prove that a pulse of light or wave may contain all the genetic information needed to build an organism. Consequently, our DNA coding is not fixed. It can be altered for benefit. We are not the sum product of our genetic coding. An outside source is a substantial contributing factor to our makeup.
Wilcox cites human evolution is now moving a hundred times faster than at any other moment in recorded history. An outside light source may be responsible. He believes overall happiness levels are on the rise and this is a product of evolution. The Journal of Happiness Studies reported that happiness protects our bodies from becoming sick.
It would seem the ancients already knew all this. Pyramids were built in specific shapes to funnel the energy of the source field. From Machu Picchu in Peru to the Four Corners area of the Hopi in the American Southwest, the evidence of these stone monuments theorizes building placement was intentional to maximize the powerful healing effects of the source field. Another benefit to this alignment is free energy.
The source field could be a means to share a collective mind with others. Dr. Cleve Backster posited the mind is an energetic field. He deduced all living things may share the same mind with us. Plants, animals, bacteria and even eggs are part of this collective. If a plant were to believe harm might come to it there would be a reaction. Backster maintained his plants screamed when a man who mowed lawns for a living came into his lab. If we could synchronize in positive ways, might we all better off? We could make each other feel better. Dr. William Braud discovered a nervous person could be calmed remotely by a person who shared comforting thoughts with them from a distance.
Health benefits are just one positive outcome. Wilcox cites the phenomenon of simultaneous discovery. Scientists may seem to stumble upon a breakthrough idea in multiples. It may come from mind sharing. Wilcox references Dr. Rupert Sheldrake’s experiments which maintain we all access a common databank of information when we try to solve a puzzle, for example. It is believed we can solve problems more quickly when a segment of the population has already thought about the very same problem.
Wilcox references Dr. Paul Pearsall’s work with organ transplants. “Thoughts are apparently being stored within individual organs before they appear in the recipient’s mind.”
All these examples seem to suggest that our thoughts and intelligence is not contained within our brains. It is possible, through the source field, that we may act as antennae and receive information from outside our bodies.
A shared mind makes sense to me personally. I’ve always wondered why ancient civilizations separated by oceans all thought to construct pyramids. If you don’t buy into ancient alien theories, maybe the idea of transmitted thought could solve this conundrum.
It’s very interesting to at least consider the theory. Have you ever experienced sharing the same unspoken thought with a friend? Or have you ever wondered how your dog or cat seems to know when you’re about to arrive home?
I suggest picking up a copy of the Source Field Investigations and make up your own mind – if single-minded thought is at all possible.
I welcome you to peruse my list of science fiction at this link:
http://www.amazon.com/Gary-Starta/e/B...
Please follow me on Twitter at:
https://twitter.com/scifiauthorGary
Visit my SciFi FB fan page:
https://www.facebook.com/GaryStartaSc...
And join my blog at:
http://praisegods.blogspot.com/
If I were to tell you we can unify our minds for positive change, would you accept or dismiss this statement? Conditioned minds might discard this as deception or fiction, concluding it to be a state of consciousness we could never realistically achieve. It may sound like the next campaign slogan or a veiled promise from an alien leader in a science fiction move.
David Wilcock, author of The Source Field Investigations, proposes this is sound science theory. I am quite passionate about the contents of this fascinating book that explores ‘consciousness science’ and an array of topics including DNA transformation, multidimensional time and travel via wormhole. It is the most comprehensive tour of ancient physics and spirituality you might find. I like to think of it as a metaphysical bible or encyclopedia of the paranormal.
When I classify the theories of this book as metaphysics or the paranormal I feel I am cheapening the very idea of the source field. I feel as though these terms convey doubt about the reality of this zone of energy. Yet I am very excited about its likely existence. I write science fiction and many ideas and concepts I introduce in my novels are sometimes based on theory or what some might label fringe science. But in reference to the source field, I feel it is much stronger than a concept or theory. It is the science fiction story that comes true.
So what is the source field? It may be the answer to everything. Wilcox proposes all space, time, energy, matter, biological life and consciousness in the universe is a product of the source field. It runs throughout the universe and emits light via photons. Since its non-electromagnetic it’s been hard to detect.
We can channel the light of the source field via our pineal glands, a small gland situated in the middle of our brains. Unfortunately, because of poor diets and environmental pollution our pineal glands are not running at optimum efficiency. If they were, we would be absorbing all the glorious light the source field has to offer. It would literally change us via our genetic coding in positive ways. Light is absorbed in our DNA and the right light frequencies can be used for healing. Ultraviolet light can carry coding that affects the structure of DNA. If we were at an optimum receiving level, Wilcox believes the source field would appear in our DNA as virtual photons and be stored for usable energy.
Even more amazing, since every living organism stores and releases photons inside its DNA, you could remove the DNA and the photons would keep spiraling in that same area for up to a month. Experiments referenced in the book seem to prove that a pulse of light or wave may contain all the genetic information needed to build an organism. Consequently, our DNA coding is not fixed. It can be altered for benefit. We are not the sum product of our genetic coding. An outside source is a substantial contributing factor to our makeup.
Wilcox cites human evolution is now moving a hundred times faster than at any other moment in recorded history. An outside light source may be responsible. He believes overall happiness levels are on the rise and this is a product of evolution. The Journal of Happiness Studies reported that happiness protects our bodies from becoming sick.
It would seem the ancients already knew all this. Pyramids were built in specific shapes to funnel the energy of the source field. From Machu Picchu in Peru to the Four Corners area of the Hopi in the American Southwest, the evidence of these stone monuments theorizes building placement was intentional to maximize the powerful healing effects of the source field. Another benefit to this alignment is free energy.
The source field could be a means to share a collective mind with others. Dr. Cleve Backster posited the mind is an energetic field. He deduced all living things may share the same mind with us. Plants, animals, bacteria and even eggs are part of this collective. If a plant were to believe harm might come to it there would be a reaction. Backster maintained his plants screamed when a man who mowed lawns for a living came into his lab. If we could synchronize in positive ways, might we all better off? We could make each other feel better. Dr. William Braud discovered a nervous person could be calmed remotely by a person who shared comforting thoughts with them from a distance.
Health benefits are just one positive outcome. Wilcox cites the phenomenon of simultaneous discovery. Scientists may seem to stumble upon a breakthrough idea in multiples. It may come from mind sharing. Wilcox references Dr. Rupert Sheldrake’s experiments which maintain we all access a common databank of information when we try to solve a puzzle, for example. It is believed we can solve problems more quickly when a segment of the population has already thought about the very same problem.
Wilcox references Dr. Paul Pearsall’s work with organ transplants. “Thoughts are apparently being stored within individual organs before they appear in the recipient’s mind.”
All these examples seem to suggest that our thoughts and intelligence is not contained within our brains. It is possible, through the source field, that we may act as antennae and receive information from outside our bodies.
A shared mind makes sense to me personally. I’ve always wondered why ancient civilizations separated by oceans all thought to construct pyramids. If you don’t buy into ancient alien theories, maybe the idea of transmitted thought could solve this conundrum.
It’s very interesting to at least consider the theory. Have you ever experienced sharing the same unspoken thought with a friend? Or have you ever wondered how your dog or cat seems to know when you’re about to arrive home?
I suggest picking up a copy of the Source Field Investigations and make up your own mind – if single-minded thought is at all possible.
I welcome you to peruse my list of science fiction at this link:
http://www.amazon.com/Gary-Starta/e/B...
Please follow me on Twitter at:
https://twitter.com/scifiauthorGary
Visit my SciFi FB fan page:
https://www.facebook.com/GaryStartaSc...
And join my blog at:
http://praisegods.blogspot.com/
November 4, 2012
Psychological Drama is Kindred Killers
A psychological thriller - Kindred Killers by Gary Starta
STANFORD CARTER GETS HIS DUE
When I think about my newest release, KINDRED KILLERS, I can’t help but think about its protagonist, Stanford Carter. I feel maybe a back slap or a handshake is due. Carter’s appearance as the lead character in a full-length novel has been long coming.
Borne from a short story called ANIMAL INSTINCTS, Carter and his colleagues have grown more real for me since that time, some seven years ago. Jill Seacrest, his topnotch CSI, was right along with him for that case which just happened to introduce a feline character named Celeste into my writing universe as well. Every instinct tells Carter and Jill a slew of suicides are really murders. A housing contractor reeks of guilt. Carter goes so far as to suspect an occult influence. It seems the contractor is lulling his victims into a hypnotic state and urging them to take their own lives. Carter’s doggedness pays off when Celeste the cat manages to tape the contractor chanting in satanic verse.
This won’t be the last time Stanford Carter considers extreme possibilities. He will meet Caitlin Diggs, an FBI agent, in the novella, MURDER BY ASSOCIATION. Caitlin’s been affected by an artifact and is developing telepathic abilities. Carter’s open mind cements an instant bond between the two investigators. Carter appears in the Caitlin Diggs’s series: BLOOD WEB, EXTREME LIQUIDATION and DEMON INHIBITIONS. In the latter, Carter’s alternate from a parallel universe is introduced. He also is responsible for introducing Caitlin to her favorite feline, Celeste. I’ve always loved this crossover and Caitlin makes a cameo in KINDRED KILLERS.
Carter is forever the unsung hero. He doesn’t boast about his convictions. He’s placid for the most part, at least until Jill starts making romantic advances toward him. The detective learned a long time ago that ‘the job’ will eat you up unless you find an outlet. Carter’s outlet is Zen meditation.
In KINDRED KILLERS, Carter is tested by not only a frustrating case but by bureaucracy. A departmental policy prohibits colleagues from marrying and Carter has just proposed to Jill. Their union may split them as partners. Each has saved the other’s life. Separation is unimaginable. But allowing killers to run loose is also unacceptable to both the detective and CSI. Carter and Jill fear this may be their last case together.
Before their wedding can become reality, Carter and Jill will risk their lives once again in an attempt to catch what they believe to be a team of serial killers. The murderers may be kindred killers but Carter and Jill are kindred spirits who never allow the perpetrators to walk away from justice.
Buy links, available in e-book and print!
https://ebookpie.com/ebooks/486359-ki...
http://www.amazon.com/Kindred-Killers...
Please see excerpt!
Frustration mounting, PI Jay Fishburne immersed himself in his case. His search for the teen runaway, Cheryl Thomas had produced no results so far. Yet his frustration had nothing to do with his case and everything to do with Detective Carter’s suspicions—about his involvement in the murder of Dan Collins, the possible affair with the widow, Therese—and of course Lucy’s usually characteristic brash behavior.
Last night he visited several strip clubs in the city. He believed Cheryl was working at one of these bars. His lust, rather than his detective skills confirmed this. She had a dancer’s body. The photo the parents gave to him was still etched in his memory. He didn’t even have to consult it. It was a picture taken at a summer family outing. She had super abs, big breasts and well-toned legs. Her blue eyes, high cheekbones and full lips would have left any man dazed. Long raven hair fell in bangs over her forehead and slinked past her shoulders. On this day, she appeared happy, maybe just fooling the camera to get her parents off her back. Jay could picture Lucy manipulating her parents in this same fashion with a lie or perhaps plastering a phony smile on her face just to bask in a glow of her cynicism. In a way, Cheryl Thomas was a younger version of Lucy who ran away from home several times as a teen to take dancing jobs. Lucy confided this to him as a surreptitious cry for help. Perhaps he could reach out to Cheryl and help her as well. If only he could break the emotional veneer they had built around themselves, the protective shell they hid behind to mask their true feelings and vulnerabilities.
It was just a matter of time before Jay found her. The clubs he visited last night were in too close a proximity from Cheryl’s home. She would want to distance herself. The very notion gnawed at him. He envisioned Lucy seeking shelter at strip clubs. What kind of fucking shelter is that? Men ogling you with their eyes—or worse . . . What the hell was happening at home that made this lifestyle more appealing?
A horn beeped from behind. It was a big SUV. Impatient, its driver tailgated Jay as he slowly accelerated into an intersection a full five seconds after the light had turned green. The private eye rolled down his window, a waft of stale warm air penetrated his vehicle’s cabin. Boston was mired in the middle of a heat wave. He crossed the intersection and moved toward the shoulder, waving for the SUV to pass. The driver beeped his horn again hoping to rattle Jay’s cage. But it didn’t because the PI could no longer see the vehicle or the road for that matter. Jay continued thinking and driving, thinking and driving, still undecided where his search would take him. His air conditioning was running full blast and his driver’s side window was still open.
He had already preset the destination of several strip clubs in his GPS. He went to the main menu and pressed Spread Eagle. He knew nothing more about this establishment other than it was most likely another dirty dive, smelling of beer and cigarettes like all the other shit holes, preying upon the willingness of young women to earn a dishonest week’s salary in the span of a night. But there wouldn’t be a happy ending. Eventually it would suck their life force away from them. The graphic readout on the Garmin navigational unit told Jay the club was located in Methuen. A female voice came on and instructed Jay to begin driving the highlighted route. The automated attendant sounded quite confident Cheryl would be working there . . .
He was not surprised by what he found when stepped into the dive. A girl was on a runway, she was sauntering to the left, to the right. Eventually she would find her destination to the pole located center stage. She collected a ‘tip’ from an admirer. She smiled blankly at him as he stuffed it in her g-string. An INXS song boomed over loud speakers:
The devil inside, the devil inside,
Every single one of us, the devil inside . . .
No shit. This is the devil’s lair. Jay nudged the man in a brown T-shirt and dungarees next to him. “Is this the first girl?” he asked.
The man nodded at Jay. “Yeah. I’d like to make her the first of my night.” He paused to squish his left hand into his overly tight jeans and pulled out a fistful of dollars, keeping his eyes on the blond beauty. “I think I’ll have a little ‘dance’ with her later, if you know what I mean.” The man smiled again at Jay as if he was a long lost comrade.
“Sure,” Jay grinned back at him, sickened. He gleaned from the man that the girls also performed lap dances here. They probably made a good chunk of money every night, even after the owner and bouncers took their share.
Jay kept his eyes on the stage and away from his new companion, fearing he might create a high profile. He ordered a beer and settled in for a long night. He took a long draw from the bottle, theorizing it was best to make like he fit into the crowd. Spook the wrong person and they would probably have the girls ushered out the door faster than you can say Jose Cuervo. Underage girls probably danced here and the owner had probably paid off a few Department of Alcohol Beverage Control investigators to keep their mouths shut. But not every investigator is from the ABC.
Twenty minutes later, the dancer finished her routine to the upbeat pop ballad: Do You Believe in Life after Love?
When the music cut out, a DJ spoke.
“Please welcome something young and sweet. The Spread Eagle’s newest flavor . . . the girl who’ll surely cream any man’s jeans . . . ice and hot from Boston . . . Cherry Sorbet!”
Jay was distracted by the man next to him, stumbling off his seat to work his way to the backroom for a lap dance with the previous dancer, the voluptuous blond girl. When Fishburne returned his attention to the stage, he knew he had found her. The woman strutted out to the beat of a Kid Rock song, dressed in a blue cape, dark sunglasses and a tiara on her head. Although all her accessories screamed: ‘ridiculous’ and ‘cliché’; every man’s eyes stared at her with dead seriousness.
In a few minutes, she would remove all clothing and trinkets, revealing all her flesh save for her most private areas, still concealed by an aqua blue g-string. There was now little ‘wonder’ left for the imagination as the near naked ‘Wonder Woman’ before them grinded and thrust to a raunchy rock n’ roll beat.
Jay Fishburne fought to swallow, his mouth was parched. He ordered another beer, keeping his eyes riveted on the raven beauty. It was Cheryl Thomas in the flesh. He continued watching, unaware he had been leering at her like all the men around him and becoming quite aroused in the process. The sudden revelation made him feel revulsion. Patrons whistled and shouted at her, hoping to catch her eye. Hoping she’d take their money and put it next to her dirty spot. They had no conscience. He observed some more, then pushed aside his beer and ordered something stronger. “Give me a gin and tonic,” he told the bartender.
Fighting fatigue, Jay sat in his car waiting after all the dancers had danced, both on stage and in the backroom. Most of the patrons had left the parking lot. A rap on his window startled him. “Hey buddy, time to move it along.” It was one of the badass bouncers, a beefy man in a blond crew cut who looked like his T-shirt was about a size too tight.
“Oh, Jay,” answered demurely. “Just waiting for my buzz to subside, don’t want to drink and drive.” The PI feigned drunkenness sure the bouncer wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer.
The bouncer asked, “Got a cell?”
“Yeah.” Jay heard his voice in his head answer the bouncer, but it sounded different, somewhat muffled. He recalled the last time he heard this kind of voice in his head. He was drunk at his buddy Sid’s 10th wedding anniversary. Lightheaded, Jay realized he was not acting for the burly interrogator.
“Then call a cab,” the bouncer said. His face was dour.
Jay started his car. “Nah, I’ll be okay. Have a good night.”
Fortunately, Cheryl—or Cherry—has just walked out the bar. She was headed to a maroon Chevy. It appeared quite old. Her parents said nothing about a car. She entered it alone.
Jay watched the bouncer walk away. He put his car into neutral and glided across the lot to follow Cheryl’s vehicle.
The bouncer turned around. “Hey, buddy! Your lights,” he yelled to Jay.
Jay waved his arm out the window in mock appreciation and turned them on. He had purposely chosen to keep them out so as not to spook Cheryl. But it didn’t seem to faze Cheryl. She left the lot driving at an even speed.
He crept behind her Chevy Nova, keeping about five car lengths behind and followed a dark and winding wooded road. Steady as she goes, he told himself, his voice still sounded like a stranger’s. He smiled suddenly. Maybe it was the booze talking now. Maybe he was just happy at his luck. Found Cheryl on my second night. He wanted to gloat, throw it in the face of that pompous Detective Carter. Bet he couldn’t find her that fast.
Jay continued following until Cheryl eventually turned off the main road and entered an unpaved driveway. Her tires grumbled over gravel. He stopped his car and killed the lights. He gambled that the barely lit road was traveled by only a few people at such a late hour and his intuition was correct, no lights behind or ahead of him whatsoever. It’s a good hiding place for a runaway. The fuzz of white noise echoed in his head. Loud music always aggravated his tinnitus, a ringing in his ears that may have started from listening to loud music as a youth. It often overpowered even the chirp of crickets in the dead heat of the summer night. He waited for Cheryl to park. Whoever lived in the house was sure to have heard her car. He resisted the urge to tap his fingers on the steering wheel. His eyes scanned. The setting reminded him of a Grimm fairy tale. A porch light eventually flicked on confirming the PI’s hunch. Jay grabbed a pair of binoculars to home in on a man standing on an open porch. He seemed preoccupied, swatting away some moths that had gathered around his porch light. That’s about all he could glean. Maybe he was a boyfriend, maybe she drove his car and maybe he suggested she work at this club since it was in the area. The parents either didn’t know about this boyfriend or were in denial about it. Jay immersed in his thoughts, headed home. He would contact the parents tomorrow about his find. He laughed that he might need to take up drinking more often. He needed to muster some courage for tomorrow. Jay didn’t want Cheryl Thomas to haunt her parents anymore. He thought maybe—with their permission—he could reason with her. Maybe he could change things if he could just garner a little self-esteem and give her a heart-to-heart talk. The irony. If only girls like Lucy and Cheryl might find their self-esteem so they could tell their skuzzy bosses to go fuck off. But as his buzz subsided and he turned onto 93 South, the highway that would take him home, he conceded there might be only one remedy to end this cycle of pain for everybody.
24 hours later . . .
Cheryl Thomas had left Cherry Sorbet behind. A night of dancing for pay once again came to the end, a carbon copy of the night before and the night before that. Cherry—Cheryl’s sexy, mature, overly confident dancing persona—only existed under the spotlights of the Spread Eagle.
When she exited the door, she had become absorbed in the harsh reality of her life. It was as if the truth—which was sometimes equated with probability, or the way things most likely will end up—lived within the stifled air of the very hot and humid July night she walked into. It stuck to you, never giving you true freedom.
The truth—in fact—would not set people like Cheryl Thomas free. The truth, in this case, was often not a nice companion. It was the voice telling Cheryl that she’d never amount to shit in life. It was the voice that warned her not to tell her mother about how inappropriate a family member had acted. It was the voice that sounded an awful lot like Cheryl’s father—the very reason life as a topless dancer beat living rent free in the comfy confines of a two-story home in suburbia. The truth had a bitter ending. The truth was better kept pushed to the back of one’s mind. The truth—for Cheryl Thomas—sucked lemons and she was not about to make lemonade out of them in reference to the old adage.
She drove home wishing her fucking boyfriend’s car had a working air conditioning system. The bastard. He could have had it fixed for her. He could have let her slide on sharing rent. He could have strongly suggested her not to work at a strip club. To Cheryl, her boyfriend Tim was just another asshole. She hoped her true feelings wouldn’t rise to the surface. She was using him. She needed shelter. But she reasoned Tim deserved a phony girlfriend. He was a phony as well. He promised her (when she got enough cash together) she could quit and attend a community college. She nearly laughed the other night when he suggested it. The puppy dog eyes he made at her. The bastard just wanted to get laid. She had told him how exhausted she was from the dancing. She couldn’t explain why she felt her ass was literally dragging on the floor. She was tired because a bunch of assholes had leered at her all night. Their dumb faces, big eyes and hungry mouths made her think of them as animals. The really stupid ones—the ones with beer courage— had foolishly tried to lay their hands on her, inviting a nasty bounce out of the club. But they had to try. They had to behave like ‘men’ in front of their buddies. The more Cheryl thought about it the more she hated every fucking man who walked the fucking face of this fucking earth. She had given in to Tim’s wishes last night. He fucked her hard and mercilessly. He fucked her like she was his object. She didn’t want to hook up with Tim tonight. She began to fantasize an escape scenario. Maybe she would just keep on driving on, head to New Hampshire or something, right on the friggin’ spot. Spontaneous. Just like she had fled her father. Just like one half of Thelma and Louise.
A rumble of distant thunder caught her attention. High humidity had promised a thunderstorm, according to the Weather Channel. She had watched the forecast on the screen in the backroom while she gave a lap dance. The client didn’t give a shit she was watching it either. His eyes were too busy staring at her boobs.
The dark wooded streets she navigated were barely illuminated. She slowed her car. Up ahead she saw something. Her headlights bounced off it. It was a pair of wooden sawhorses. The kind police used to create barricades. But she couldn’t see any kind of police logo on the sawhorses. Suddenly a clap of thunder boomed directly overhead, surprising her. She could hear her heart beat in tandem with a heavy downpour that beat upon her car. It was raining very hard. The water hit the car with an intensity reminding Cheryl when she was five, a time when she still liked her dad. He would take her along when he visited the automated car wash. She recalled it was always on a Sunday. She remembered her father saying something strange one time, like: “God can’t be expected to get everything clean on His own.” He laughed strangely, scaring her. She stared ahead at the windshield, but couldn’t see anything through the shower of water. Nor could she open the door to escape.
Years later Cheryl would come to understand what that strange phrase had meant—physically. He began hating and hitting her, blaming her for his sick impulses. Blaming her for having blossomed into a woman so soon.
She thought she could swerve around the sawhorses. But she also thought if this were a roadblock a cop might write down her license plate number. If that happened, Tim wouldn’t be very happy with her.
A woman in a raincoat approached her. The hood covered the woman’s head, but Cheryl could identify the person as female because long copper colored bangs hung over her forehead.
“Hi, officer,” Cheryl stammered.
The woman shined a flashlight into Cheryl’s car as it idled noisily. No other ID was visible. Cheryl found this strange since police raingear was usually transparent so civilians could see their badges and uniforms.
But she refrained from asking for ID. The female cop squinted as her bangs were dripping with water.
“Where you headed?” the cop asked.
“Home? Uh . . . about a mile and half off the main road.”
“Lived there long?” the woman in the poncho asked.
Why the fuck should that matter?
When Cheryl didn’t respond, the rain soaked woman in the black poncho mumbled something inaudible.
Cheryl began to fish in a duffel bag for her driver’s license. Maybe if I cooperate she’ll let me go. I don’t need my fucking parents to find me. She hadn’t been drinking, but her clients had. Their stink of gin and vodka must have been all over her. And what if they do a car search? Cheryl was panicked. She didn’t want the officer to find her Spread Eagle outfit. She was so panicked she didn’t reason the officer had no probable cause.
“What’cha doing?” the cop asked.
“Getting my license.” Cheryl heard her voice shake, the way it quivered when she talked to her father.
‘Have you been drinking?”
“No.”
She hoped the cop wouldn’t ask her where she’d been.
“I’ll take your license later, Miss. Right now I need you to slowly step out of your vehicle.”
Cheryl hedged, her foot was on the accelerator. The officer shined the flashlight into the car. “Turn the engine off first.”
Cheryl obeyed. She turned the key, twice, cutting the engine but keeping the car on battery power. She still hoped the cop would show mercy. She hadn’t done anything wrong, driving wise that was. And if she tested for alcohol, she’d find her sober.
“I want your hands where I can see them.” Cheryl held them up as the officer maneuvered herself behind her.
“Are you going to make me walk a line? I can do it. I’m as a sober as a nun, officer.”
“You may be sober, but you’re no nun.”
Cheryl couldn’t believe the officer’s rudeness. Her tone was malicious, hateful.
Cheryl stammered. “Do I know you?”
“No, but I know your family. You fucked them over royally, running away once a couple of years ago. Now you’re at it again. Do you even give a rat’s ass about your parents?” The officer waved a fist at air.
Cheryl realized the officer was capable of venting her hostility, not only verbally, but also physically. She had learned some psychology from working at the strip club. She would change tactics and speak with congeniality. She would try to reason with this lunatic if there was still time. She felt the woman’s breath on her from behind. It had a weight to it. Even through the pouring rain.
Lightning flashed. From the corner of Cheryl’s eye, she saw it had illuminated the sawhorses. Again, she couldn’t see a word or symbol on it. She doubted it was police issue. She also began to wonder where this woman’s car was. She had stalked out of the woods like some animal. But in the darkness of the storm, Cheryl couldn’t be sure a vehicle wasn’t concealed somewhere off the roadway, hidden by some brush or overgrowth. She began to plead with the officer. She kept a soft, even tone when pleading. She hoped a demure approach might garner her release. The officer grunted oddly, but Cheryl interpreted this as a confirmation of power. Just keep empowering this fucking bastard. She repeated this to herself.
“Look, officer. Do you want money? I’ll pay you. I just can’t let my parents find me. My father is abusing me.”
The woman behind her only grunted. This time, the grunt didn’t sound approving.
“Look, I love my family. But things are complicated right now . . . ”
“I don’t believe you’re sincere.” Cheryl heard the woman spit some rainwater out of her mouth.
“It’s time to come clean with me.”
Before Cheryl could think, the officer’s arm was wrapped about her neck as if it was a python, hoping to squeeze the life out of her.
“Uh . . . oh God . . . please . . . ” Cheryl heard the words in her head. She couldn’t be sure she was verbalizing them. She felt as if she was somewhere else watching what was happening to her. She felt her feet lift off the ground. She kicked them but her boots flailed harmlessly against the woman’s shins as she was dangling in the air. The officer had Cheryl in a bear hug. One arm wrapped completely about her stomach, the other tightening its vice like grip about her windpipe.
As Cheryl’s face turned blue, she wondered why she didn’t ask for the officer’s badge number. Did she cut the officer some slack because she was female? Did she think this woman would be any less unkind to her? And as the black of night engulfed Cheryl, she thought of this irony. She always thought she might die at the hands of some huge horny guy who thought the ‘no touch’ rule was for mamma’s boys; or perhaps at the hands of Tim, when she finally mustered the courage to betray him. The killer released her grip and Cheryl fell to the ground, lifeless as a marionette whose strings had been severed. The rain began to lighten and the only sound that could be heard was the slapping of windshield wipers on Tim’s beat up old Chevrolet.
Kindred Killers
STANFORD CARTER GETS HIS DUE
When I think about my newest release, KINDRED KILLERS, I can’t help but think about its protagonist, Stanford Carter. I feel maybe a back slap or a handshake is due. Carter’s appearance as the lead character in a full-length novel has been long coming.
Borne from a short story called ANIMAL INSTINCTS, Carter and his colleagues have grown more real for me since that time, some seven years ago. Jill Seacrest, his topnotch CSI, was right along with him for that case which just happened to introduce a feline character named Celeste into my writing universe as well. Every instinct tells Carter and Jill a slew of suicides are really murders. A housing contractor reeks of guilt. Carter goes so far as to suspect an occult influence. It seems the contractor is lulling his victims into a hypnotic state and urging them to take their own lives. Carter’s doggedness pays off when Celeste the cat manages to tape the contractor chanting in satanic verse.
This won’t be the last time Stanford Carter considers extreme possibilities. He will meet Caitlin Diggs, an FBI agent, in the novella, MURDER BY ASSOCIATION. Caitlin’s been affected by an artifact and is developing telepathic abilities. Carter’s open mind cements an instant bond between the two investigators. Carter appears in the Caitlin Diggs’s series: BLOOD WEB, EXTREME LIQUIDATION and DEMON INHIBITIONS. In the latter, Carter’s alternate from a parallel universe is introduced. He also is responsible for introducing Caitlin to her favorite feline, Celeste. I’ve always loved this crossover and Caitlin makes a cameo in KINDRED KILLERS.
Carter is forever the unsung hero. He doesn’t boast about his convictions. He’s placid for the most part, at least until Jill starts making romantic advances toward him. The detective learned a long time ago that ‘the job’ will eat you up unless you find an outlet. Carter’s outlet is Zen meditation.
In KINDRED KILLERS, Carter is tested by not only a frustrating case but by bureaucracy. A departmental policy prohibits colleagues from marrying and Carter has just proposed to Jill. Their union may split them as partners. Each has saved the other’s life. Separation is unimaginable. But allowing killers to run loose is also unacceptable to both the detective and CSI. Carter and Jill fear this may be their last case together.
Before their wedding can become reality, Carter and Jill will risk their lives once again in an attempt to catch what they believe to be a team of serial killers. The murderers may be kindred killers but Carter and Jill are kindred spirits who never allow the perpetrators to walk away from justice.
Buy links, available in e-book and print!
https://ebookpie.com/ebooks/486359-ki...
http://www.amazon.com/Kindred-Killers...
Please see excerpt!
Frustration mounting, PI Jay Fishburne immersed himself in his case. His search for the teen runaway, Cheryl Thomas had produced no results so far. Yet his frustration had nothing to do with his case and everything to do with Detective Carter’s suspicions—about his involvement in the murder of Dan Collins, the possible affair with the widow, Therese—and of course Lucy’s usually characteristic brash behavior.
Last night he visited several strip clubs in the city. He believed Cheryl was working at one of these bars. His lust, rather than his detective skills confirmed this. She had a dancer’s body. The photo the parents gave to him was still etched in his memory. He didn’t even have to consult it. It was a picture taken at a summer family outing. She had super abs, big breasts and well-toned legs. Her blue eyes, high cheekbones and full lips would have left any man dazed. Long raven hair fell in bangs over her forehead and slinked past her shoulders. On this day, she appeared happy, maybe just fooling the camera to get her parents off her back. Jay could picture Lucy manipulating her parents in this same fashion with a lie or perhaps plastering a phony smile on her face just to bask in a glow of her cynicism. In a way, Cheryl Thomas was a younger version of Lucy who ran away from home several times as a teen to take dancing jobs. Lucy confided this to him as a surreptitious cry for help. Perhaps he could reach out to Cheryl and help her as well. If only he could break the emotional veneer they had built around themselves, the protective shell they hid behind to mask their true feelings and vulnerabilities.
It was just a matter of time before Jay found her. The clubs he visited last night were in too close a proximity from Cheryl’s home. She would want to distance herself. The very notion gnawed at him. He envisioned Lucy seeking shelter at strip clubs. What kind of fucking shelter is that? Men ogling you with their eyes—or worse . . . What the hell was happening at home that made this lifestyle more appealing?
A horn beeped from behind. It was a big SUV. Impatient, its driver tailgated Jay as he slowly accelerated into an intersection a full five seconds after the light had turned green. The private eye rolled down his window, a waft of stale warm air penetrated his vehicle’s cabin. Boston was mired in the middle of a heat wave. He crossed the intersection and moved toward the shoulder, waving for the SUV to pass. The driver beeped his horn again hoping to rattle Jay’s cage. But it didn’t because the PI could no longer see the vehicle or the road for that matter. Jay continued thinking and driving, thinking and driving, still undecided where his search would take him. His air conditioning was running full blast and his driver’s side window was still open.
He had already preset the destination of several strip clubs in his GPS. He went to the main menu and pressed Spread Eagle. He knew nothing more about this establishment other than it was most likely another dirty dive, smelling of beer and cigarettes like all the other shit holes, preying upon the willingness of young women to earn a dishonest week’s salary in the span of a night. But there wouldn’t be a happy ending. Eventually it would suck their life force away from them. The graphic readout on the Garmin navigational unit told Jay the club was located in Methuen. A female voice came on and instructed Jay to begin driving the highlighted route. The automated attendant sounded quite confident Cheryl would be working there . . .
He was not surprised by what he found when stepped into the dive. A girl was on a runway, she was sauntering to the left, to the right. Eventually she would find her destination to the pole located center stage. She collected a ‘tip’ from an admirer. She smiled blankly at him as he stuffed it in her g-string. An INXS song boomed over loud speakers:
The devil inside, the devil inside,
Every single one of us, the devil inside . . .
No shit. This is the devil’s lair. Jay nudged the man in a brown T-shirt and dungarees next to him. “Is this the first girl?” he asked.
The man nodded at Jay. “Yeah. I’d like to make her the first of my night.” He paused to squish his left hand into his overly tight jeans and pulled out a fistful of dollars, keeping his eyes on the blond beauty. “I think I’ll have a little ‘dance’ with her later, if you know what I mean.” The man smiled again at Jay as if he was a long lost comrade.
“Sure,” Jay grinned back at him, sickened. He gleaned from the man that the girls also performed lap dances here. They probably made a good chunk of money every night, even after the owner and bouncers took their share.
Jay kept his eyes on the stage and away from his new companion, fearing he might create a high profile. He ordered a beer and settled in for a long night. He took a long draw from the bottle, theorizing it was best to make like he fit into the crowd. Spook the wrong person and they would probably have the girls ushered out the door faster than you can say Jose Cuervo. Underage girls probably danced here and the owner had probably paid off a few Department of Alcohol Beverage Control investigators to keep their mouths shut. But not every investigator is from the ABC.
Twenty minutes later, the dancer finished her routine to the upbeat pop ballad: Do You Believe in Life after Love?
When the music cut out, a DJ spoke.
“Please welcome something young and sweet. The Spread Eagle’s newest flavor . . . the girl who’ll surely cream any man’s jeans . . . ice and hot from Boston . . . Cherry Sorbet!”
Jay was distracted by the man next to him, stumbling off his seat to work his way to the backroom for a lap dance with the previous dancer, the voluptuous blond girl. When Fishburne returned his attention to the stage, he knew he had found her. The woman strutted out to the beat of a Kid Rock song, dressed in a blue cape, dark sunglasses and a tiara on her head. Although all her accessories screamed: ‘ridiculous’ and ‘cliché’; every man’s eyes stared at her with dead seriousness.
In a few minutes, she would remove all clothing and trinkets, revealing all her flesh save for her most private areas, still concealed by an aqua blue g-string. There was now little ‘wonder’ left for the imagination as the near naked ‘Wonder Woman’ before them grinded and thrust to a raunchy rock n’ roll beat.
Jay Fishburne fought to swallow, his mouth was parched. He ordered another beer, keeping his eyes riveted on the raven beauty. It was Cheryl Thomas in the flesh. He continued watching, unaware he had been leering at her like all the men around him and becoming quite aroused in the process. The sudden revelation made him feel revulsion. Patrons whistled and shouted at her, hoping to catch her eye. Hoping she’d take their money and put it next to her dirty spot. They had no conscience. He observed some more, then pushed aside his beer and ordered something stronger. “Give me a gin and tonic,” he told the bartender.
Fighting fatigue, Jay sat in his car waiting after all the dancers had danced, both on stage and in the backroom. Most of the patrons had left the parking lot. A rap on his window startled him. “Hey buddy, time to move it along.” It was one of the badass bouncers, a beefy man in a blond crew cut who looked like his T-shirt was about a size too tight.
“Oh, Jay,” answered demurely. “Just waiting for my buzz to subside, don’t want to drink and drive.” The PI feigned drunkenness sure the bouncer wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer.
The bouncer asked, “Got a cell?”
“Yeah.” Jay heard his voice in his head answer the bouncer, but it sounded different, somewhat muffled. He recalled the last time he heard this kind of voice in his head. He was drunk at his buddy Sid’s 10th wedding anniversary. Lightheaded, Jay realized he was not acting for the burly interrogator.
“Then call a cab,” the bouncer said. His face was dour.
Jay started his car. “Nah, I’ll be okay. Have a good night.”
Fortunately, Cheryl—or Cherry—has just walked out the bar. She was headed to a maroon Chevy. It appeared quite old. Her parents said nothing about a car. She entered it alone.
Jay watched the bouncer walk away. He put his car into neutral and glided across the lot to follow Cheryl’s vehicle.
The bouncer turned around. “Hey, buddy! Your lights,” he yelled to Jay.
Jay waved his arm out the window in mock appreciation and turned them on. He had purposely chosen to keep them out so as not to spook Cheryl. But it didn’t seem to faze Cheryl. She left the lot driving at an even speed.
He crept behind her Chevy Nova, keeping about five car lengths behind and followed a dark and winding wooded road. Steady as she goes, he told himself, his voice still sounded like a stranger’s. He smiled suddenly. Maybe it was the booze talking now. Maybe he was just happy at his luck. Found Cheryl on my second night. He wanted to gloat, throw it in the face of that pompous Detective Carter. Bet he couldn’t find her that fast.
Jay continued following until Cheryl eventually turned off the main road and entered an unpaved driveway. Her tires grumbled over gravel. He stopped his car and killed the lights. He gambled that the barely lit road was traveled by only a few people at such a late hour and his intuition was correct, no lights behind or ahead of him whatsoever. It’s a good hiding place for a runaway. The fuzz of white noise echoed in his head. Loud music always aggravated his tinnitus, a ringing in his ears that may have started from listening to loud music as a youth. It often overpowered even the chirp of crickets in the dead heat of the summer night. He waited for Cheryl to park. Whoever lived in the house was sure to have heard her car. He resisted the urge to tap his fingers on the steering wheel. His eyes scanned. The setting reminded him of a Grimm fairy tale. A porch light eventually flicked on confirming the PI’s hunch. Jay grabbed a pair of binoculars to home in on a man standing on an open porch. He seemed preoccupied, swatting away some moths that had gathered around his porch light. That’s about all he could glean. Maybe he was a boyfriend, maybe she drove his car and maybe he suggested she work at this club since it was in the area. The parents either didn’t know about this boyfriend or were in denial about it. Jay immersed in his thoughts, headed home. He would contact the parents tomorrow about his find. He laughed that he might need to take up drinking more often. He needed to muster some courage for tomorrow. Jay didn’t want Cheryl Thomas to haunt her parents anymore. He thought maybe—with their permission—he could reason with her. Maybe he could change things if he could just garner a little self-esteem and give her a heart-to-heart talk. The irony. If only girls like Lucy and Cheryl might find their self-esteem so they could tell their skuzzy bosses to go fuck off. But as his buzz subsided and he turned onto 93 South, the highway that would take him home, he conceded there might be only one remedy to end this cycle of pain for everybody.
24 hours later . . .
Cheryl Thomas had left Cherry Sorbet behind. A night of dancing for pay once again came to the end, a carbon copy of the night before and the night before that. Cherry—Cheryl’s sexy, mature, overly confident dancing persona—only existed under the spotlights of the Spread Eagle.
When she exited the door, she had become absorbed in the harsh reality of her life. It was as if the truth—which was sometimes equated with probability, or the way things most likely will end up—lived within the stifled air of the very hot and humid July night she walked into. It stuck to you, never giving you true freedom.
The truth—in fact—would not set people like Cheryl Thomas free. The truth, in this case, was often not a nice companion. It was the voice telling Cheryl that she’d never amount to shit in life. It was the voice that warned her not to tell her mother about how inappropriate a family member had acted. It was the voice that sounded an awful lot like Cheryl’s father—the very reason life as a topless dancer beat living rent free in the comfy confines of a two-story home in suburbia. The truth had a bitter ending. The truth was better kept pushed to the back of one’s mind. The truth—for Cheryl Thomas—sucked lemons and she was not about to make lemonade out of them in reference to the old adage.
She drove home wishing her fucking boyfriend’s car had a working air conditioning system. The bastard. He could have had it fixed for her. He could have let her slide on sharing rent. He could have strongly suggested her not to work at a strip club. To Cheryl, her boyfriend Tim was just another asshole. She hoped her true feelings wouldn’t rise to the surface. She was using him. She needed shelter. But she reasoned Tim deserved a phony girlfriend. He was a phony as well. He promised her (when she got enough cash together) she could quit and attend a community college. She nearly laughed the other night when he suggested it. The puppy dog eyes he made at her. The bastard just wanted to get laid. She had told him how exhausted she was from the dancing. She couldn’t explain why she felt her ass was literally dragging on the floor. She was tired because a bunch of assholes had leered at her all night. Their dumb faces, big eyes and hungry mouths made her think of them as animals. The really stupid ones—the ones with beer courage— had foolishly tried to lay their hands on her, inviting a nasty bounce out of the club. But they had to try. They had to behave like ‘men’ in front of their buddies. The more Cheryl thought about it the more she hated every fucking man who walked the fucking face of this fucking earth. She had given in to Tim’s wishes last night. He fucked her hard and mercilessly. He fucked her like she was his object. She didn’t want to hook up with Tim tonight. She began to fantasize an escape scenario. Maybe she would just keep on driving on, head to New Hampshire or something, right on the friggin’ spot. Spontaneous. Just like she had fled her father. Just like one half of Thelma and Louise.
A rumble of distant thunder caught her attention. High humidity had promised a thunderstorm, according to the Weather Channel. She had watched the forecast on the screen in the backroom while she gave a lap dance. The client didn’t give a shit she was watching it either. His eyes were too busy staring at her boobs.
The dark wooded streets she navigated were barely illuminated. She slowed her car. Up ahead she saw something. Her headlights bounced off it. It was a pair of wooden sawhorses. The kind police used to create barricades. But she couldn’t see any kind of police logo on the sawhorses. Suddenly a clap of thunder boomed directly overhead, surprising her. She could hear her heart beat in tandem with a heavy downpour that beat upon her car. It was raining very hard. The water hit the car with an intensity reminding Cheryl when she was five, a time when she still liked her dad. He would take her along when he visited the automated car wash. She recalled it was always on a Sunday. She remembered her father saying something strange one time, like: “God can’t be expected to get everything clean on His own.” He laughed strangely, scaring her. She stared ahead at the windshield, but couldn’t see anything through the shower of water. Nor could she open the door to escape.
Years later Cheryl would come to understand what that strange phrase had meant—physically. He began hating and hitting her, blaming her for his sick impulses. Blaming her for having blossomed into a woman so soon.
She thought she could swerve around the sawhorses. But she also thought if this were a roadblock a cop might write down her license plate number. If that happened, Tim wouldn’t be very happy with her.
A woman in a raincoat approached her. The hood covered the woman’s head, but Cheryl could identify the person as female because long copper colored bangs hung over her forehead.
“Hi, officer,” Cheryl stammered.
The woman shined a flashlight into Cheryl’s car as it idled noisily. No other ID was visible. Cheryl found this strange since police raingear was usually transparent so civilians could see their badges and uniforms.
But she refrained from asking for ID. The female cop squinted as her bangs were dripping with water.
“Where you headed?” the cop asked.
“Home? Uh . . . about a mile and half off the main road.”
“Lived there long?” the woman in the poncho asked.
Why the fuck should that matter?
When Cheryl didn’t respond, the rain soaked woman in the black poncho mumbled something inaudible.
Cheryl began to fish in a duffel bag for her driver’s license. Maybe if I cooperate she’ll let me go. I don’t need my fucking parents to find me. She hadn’t been drinking, but her clients had. Their stink of gin and vodka must have been all over her. And what if they do a car search? Cheryl was panicked. She didn’t want the officer to find her Spread Eagle outfit. She was so panicked she didn’t reason the officer had no probable cause.
“What’cha doing?” the cop asked.
“Getting my license.” Cheryl heard her voice shake, the way it quivered when she talked to her father.
‘Have you been drinking?”
“No.”
She hoped the cop wouldn’t ask her where she’d been.
“I’ll take your license later, Miss. Right now I need you to slowly step out of your vehicle.”
Cheryl hedged, her foot was on the accelerator. The officer shined the flashlight into the car. “Turn the engine off first.”
Cheryl obeyed. She turned the key, twice, cutting the engine but keeping the car on battery power. She still hoped the cop would show mercy. She hadn’t done anything wrong, driving wise that was. And if she tested for alcohol, she’d find her sober.
“I want your hands where I can see them.” Cheryl held them up as the officer maneuvered herself behind her.
“Are you going to make me walk a line? I can do it. I’m as a sober as a nun, officer.”
“You may be sober, but you’re no nun.”
Cheryl couldn’t believe the officer’s rudeness. Her tone was malicious, hateful.
Cheryl stammered. “Do I know you?”
“No, but I know your family. You fucked them over royally, running away once a couple of years ago. Now you’re at it again. Do you even give a rat’s ass about your parents?” The officer waved a fist at air.
Cheryl realized the officer was capable of venting her hostility, not only verbally, but also physically. She had learned some psychology from working at the strip club. She would change tactics and speak with congeniality. She would try to reason with this lunatic if there was still time. She felt the woman’s breath on her from behind. It had a weight to it. Even through the pouring rain.
Lightning flashed. From the corner of Cheryl’s eye, she saw it had illuminated the sawhorses. Again, she couldn’t see a word or symbol on it. She doubted it was police issue. She also began to wonder where this woman’s car was. She had stalked out of the woods like some animal. But in the darkness of the storm, Cheryl couldn’t be sure a vehicle wasn’t concealed somewhere off the roadway, hidden by some brush or overgrowth. She began to plead with the officer. She kept a soft, even tone when pleading. She hoped a demure approach might garner her release. The officer grunted oddly, but Cheryl interpreted this as a confirmation of power. Just keep empowering this fucking bastard. She repeated this to herself.
“Look, officer. Do you want money? I’ll pay you. I just can’t let my parents find me. My father is abusing me.”
The woman behind her only grunted. This time, the grunt didn’t sound approving.
“Look, I love my family. But things are complicated right now . . . ”
“I don’t believe you’re sincere.” Cheryl heard the woman spit some rainwater out of her mouth.
“It’s time to come clean with me.”
Before Cheryl could think, the officer’s arm was wrapped about her neck as if it was a python, hoping to squeeze the life out of her.
“Uh . . . oh God . . . please . . . ” Cheryl heard the words in her head. She couldn’t be sure she was verbalizing them. She felt as if she was somewhere else watching what was happening to her. She felt her feet lift off the ground. She kicked them but her boots flailed harmlessly against the woman’s shins as she was dangling in the air. The officer had Cheryl in a bear hug. One arm wrapped completely about her stomach, the other tightening its vice like grip about her windpipe.
As Cheryl’s face turned blue, she wondered why she didn’t ask for the officer’s badge number. Did she cut the officer some slack because she was female? Did she think this woman would be any less unkind to her? And as the black of night engulfed Cheryl, she thought of this irony. She always thought she might die at the hands of some huge horny guy who thought the ‘no touch’ rule was for mamma’s boys; or perhaps at the hands of Tim, when she finally mustered the courage to betray him. The killer released her grip and Cheryl fell to the ground, lifeless as a marionette whose strings had been severed. The rain began to lighten and the only sound that could be heard was the slapping of windshield wipers on Tim’s beat up old Chevrolet.
Kindred Killers
October 22, 2012
Reverse Engineering a Novel?
Reverse Engineering a Hit Novel or How to Write a Best Seller
I open the forum to all writers of all genres.
How do you go about planning to write the next mega hit novel?
As writers, we all strive to create the best-selling novel. What is a major component of the best-seller? I believe it is the initial idea which will eventually become the plot. There are a number of reasons people pick up books: the cover art or the familiarity of the author. But I surmise it is the idea which is the ultimate hook. It is the concept which allows the novel to endure because reviewers and readers will criticize or applaud the book’s ideas. It is the substance which will bring about additional readers once marketing campaigns, cover art or the catchy title becomes dissected further.
Using this premise, how does one create the hit idea? This is an elusive endeavor because there is no formula. Possibly, an author could borrow on the idea of the latest best seller. This is probably least commendable but has certainly been done.
So, without ‘borrowing’ how do we find the hook which will entice the literary agent to pitch the book to the publisher? This question, if answered, would be an author’s goldmine.
As indie authors we go about the process without much of a clue. We must write our entire manuscript and edit it over the course of months or maybe years to find if it has marketable acceptance. It is not a very efficient way to create art if your intention is to market it on a mass scale. We cannot get inside the heads of literary agents who often send us rejection letters saying ‘this idea doesn’t excite me enough to offer representation’ or some equivalent phrasing that I’m sure we’ve all had the fortune to receive in our inboxes at least one (or possibly hundreds…thousands?) time or another.
It is suggested we test our ideas out on other writers in workshops. This would provide a litmus test but would it be effective? How many different opinions might we receive on our idea? And, if the idea is a sound and marketable one, might we be afraid of having our idea stolen?
I do not have an answer to this dilemma. So I birth a novel through its inception and send out a query microencapsulating it in a paragraph or two, hoping I got my idea through to the literary gatekeeper. Maybe I did – or didn’t. Regardless, more often or not, the agent will respond enigmatically. It’s not the premise they want or can get behind. But we still do not know what it is ‘they can get behind’ do we?
The dilemma continues. Without borrowing an idea or two from the current best seller, what else could we do to find what the publisher and reader wants without resorting to complete guesswork or reverse engineering the best-selling novel?
I open the forum and welcome your ideas on this never ending quest!
Visit me: https://www.facebook.com/twitter/inde...
I open the forum to all writers of all genres.
How do you go about planning to write the next mega hit novel?
As writers, we all strive to create the best-selling novel. What is a major component of the best-seller? I believe it is the initial idea which will eventually become the plot. There are a number of reasons people pick up books: the cover art or the familiarity of the author. But I surmise it is the idea which is the ultimate hook. It is the concept which allows the novel to endure because reviewers and readers will criticize or applaud the book’s ideas. It is the substance which will bring about additional readers once marketing campaigns, cover art or the catchy title becomes dissected further.
Using this premise, how does one create the hit idea? This is an elusive endeavor because there is no formula. Possibly, an author could borrow on the idea of the latest best seller. This is probably least commendable but has certainly been done.
So, without ‘borrowing’ how do we find the hook which will entice the literary agent to pitch the book to the publisher? This question, if answered, would be an author’s goldmine.
As indie authors we go about the process without much of a clue. We must write our entire manuscript and edit it over the course of months or maybe years to find if it has marketable acceptance. It is not a very efficient way to create art if your intention is to market it on a mass scale. We cannot get inside the heads of literary agents who often send us rejection letters saying ‘this idea doesn’t excite me enough to offer representation’ or some equivalent phrasing that I’m sure we’ve all had the fortune to receive in our inboxes at least one (or possibly hundreds…thousands?) time or another.
It is suggested we test our ideas out on other writers in workshops. This would provide a litmus test but would it be effective? How many different opinions might we receive on our idea? And, if the idea is a sound and marketable one, might we be afraid of having our idea stolen?
I do not have an answer to this dilemma. So I birth a novel through its inception and send out a query microencapsulating it in a paragraph or two, hoping I got my idea through to the literary gatekeeper. Maybe I did – or didn’t. Regardless, more often or not, the agent will respond enigmatically. It’s not the premise they want or can get behind. But we still do not know what it is ‘they can get behind’ do we?
The dilemma continues. Without borrowing an idea or two from the current best seller, what else could we do to find what the publisher and reader wants without resorting to complete guesswork or reverse engineering the best-selling novel?
I open the forum and welcome your ideas on this never ending quest!
Visit me: https://www.facebook.com/twitter/inde...
September 14, 2012
Cross Genre Novel: Demon Inhibitions
Demon Inhibitions, a paranormal summer read
I tend to write mix genre, or, what I dub fiction on the fringe of genre.
My new release, Demon Inhibitions, threads sci fi, urban fantasy, suspense, romance, horror and mystery.
I usually anchor my novels in science fiction but find it fascinating and almost impossible not to blend these other genres into the mix. You could compare it to a meal. While there's nothing wrong with eating a piece of fish by itself day after day you might find it more tasty to add broccoli (horror), rice (mystery), salad (romance), bread(fantasy) and dessert (suspense).
To be more precise, Demon Inhibitions consists of:
Sci fi: Agent Caitlin Diggs believes a genetically made soul stealer is responsible for recent murders.
Horror: The soul stealer has escaped custody and crosses a parallel universe dragging Diggs with him via wormhole.
Urban Fantasy: Diggs is assisted by a Wiccan investigator and a succubus. In her parallel universe, demons outnumber humans and a preternatural branch of the FBI deals with their crimes.
Romance: Diggs enters an altered reality and a love triangle emerges. Her new boss Charles Grant is beyond handsome but the other version of her friend Stanford Carter is stirring feelings she never had for his alternate.
Hitches: Grant doesn't know 'his' Diggs has been killed by the soul stealer.
Alternate Carter has been turned into a demon. Would romance with Carter change her as well?
Mystery: Why is the soul stealer hell bent on eradicating a teen whose singing voice inhibits demon violence?
Suspense: Diggs faces the prospect that conventional weapons will not subdue her fugitive. Can her newly acquired paranormal abilities give her a fighting chance?
I'm sure we've all read great stories that brought some or all of these elements together. They usually get boxed under one category for sales purposes. Maybe someday a multiple-genre tag will be born. After all, paranormal romance is still a fairly young genre and is ever growing.
Change does happen.
Please read on for an excerpt
Demon Inhibitions is out in June. Please stop by my FB page for updates! http://www.facebook.com/GaryStartaSci...
I tend to write mix genre, or, what I dub fiction on the fringe of genre.
My new release, Demon Inhibitions, threads sci fi, urban fantasy, suspense, romance, horror and mystery.
I usually anchor my novels in science fiction but find it fascinating and almost impossible not to blend these other genres into the mix. You could compare it to a meal. While there's nothing wrong with eating a piece of fish by itself day after day you might find it more tasty to add broccoli (horror), rice (mystery), salad (romance), bread(fantasy) and dessert (suspense).
To be more precise, Demon Inhibitions consists of:
Sci fi: Agent Caitlin Diggs believes a genetically made soul stealer is responsible for recent murders.
Horror: The soul stealer has escaped custody and crosses a parallel universe dragging Diggs with him via wormhole.
Urban Fantasy: Diggs is assisted by a Wiccan investigator and a succubus. In her parallel universe, demons outnumber humans and a preternatural branch of the FBI deals with their crimes.
Romance: Diggs enters an altered reality and a love triangle emerges. Her new boss Charles Grant is beyond handsome but the other version of her friend Stanford Carter is stirring feelings she never had for his alternate.
Hitches: Grant doesn't know 'his' Diggs has been killed by the soul stealer.
Alternate Carter has been turned into a demon. Would romance with Carter change her as well?
Mystery: Why is the soul stealer hell bent on eradicating a teen whose singing voice inhibits demon violence?
Suspense: Diggs faces the prospect that conventional weapons will not subdue her fugitive. Can her newly acquired paranormal abilities give her a fighting chance?
I'm sure we've all read great stories that brought some or all of these elements together. They usually get boxed under one category for sales purposes. Maybe someday a multiple-genre tag will be born. After all, paranormal romance is still a fairly young genre and is ever growing.
Change does happen.
Please read on for an excerpt
Demon Inhibitions is out in June. Please stop by my FB page for updates! http://www.facebook.com/GaryStartaSci...
June 4, 2012
Demon Inhibitions, a paranormal summer read
I tend to write mix genre, or, what I dub fiction on the fringe of genre.
My new release, Demon Inhibitions, threads sci fi, urban fantasy, suspense, romance, horror and mystery.
I usually anchor my novels in science fiction but find it fascinating and almost impossible not to blend these other genres into the mix. You could compare it to a meal. While there's nothing wrong with eating a piece of fish by itself day after day you might find it more tasty to add broccoli (horror), rice (mystery), salad (romance), bread(fantasy) and dessert (suspense).
To be more precise, Demon Inhibitions consists of:
Sci fi: Agent Caitlin Diggs believes a genetically made soul stealer is responsible for recent murders.
Horror: The soul stealer has escaped custody and crosses a parallel universe dragging Diggs with him via wormhole.
Urban Fantasy: Diggs is assisted by a Wiccan investigator and a succubus. In her parallel universe, demons outnumber humans and a preternatural branch of the FBI deals with their crimes.
Romance: Diggs enters an altered reality and a love triangle emerges. Her new boss Charles Grant is beyond handsome but the other version of her friend Stanford Carter is stirring feelings she never had for his alternate.
Hitches: Grant doesn't know 'his' Diggs has been killed by the soul stealer.
Alternate Carter has been turned into a demon. Would romance with Carter change her as well?
Mystery: Why is the soul stealer hell bent on eradicating a teen whose singing voice inhibits demon violence?
Suspense: Diggs faces the prospect that conventional weapons will not subdue her fugitive. Can her newly acquired paranormal abilities give her a fighting chance?
I'm sure we've all read great stories that brought some or all of these elements together. They usually get boxed under one category for sales purposes. Maybe someday a multiple-genre tag will be born. After all, paranormal romance is still a fairly young genre and is ever growing.
Change does happen.
Please read on for an excerpt
Demon Inhibitions is out in June. Please stop by my FB page for updates! http://www.facebook.com/GaryStartaSci...
Demon Inhibitions Excerpt
When she found I had visited Manners, Briana began scurrying about her house, scooping up a pair of scissors and a red candle. Before I could speak further, she came at me. I backed away from her in fright. Her placid face revealed nothing malevolent. But the shears were headed right for me. I tried to dive away from the contradiction. Who was the real Briana? The sweet woman who made cookies for me--or her shears wielding maniac counterpart now standing before me? She screamed not to worry. I heard a snip. I felt a strange sensation. Not pain. But something was no longer attached to me. It was a piece of my hair. She caught the floating lock in her hands as if it were a runaway feather.
“It is very important we get to work, Caitlin.” Too stunned to process the weird moment, I could barely utter a groan.
Then she explained how she must protect me. “He’ll surely make a visitation now that he has met you.”
I tried to explain it was a good thing. I would probably get a vision of him and then I could determine his part in the slayings.
She interrupted. “A visitation is what he’ll do to you. I don’t know how to break this to you but the cat judge is an incubus. He’ll surely come to you in your dreams. And in case he is our murderer, you’ll need a protection spell, pronto.”
I reminded her I carried a firearm. I had worked in the FBI.
“No earthbound weapons can harm the judge once he joins with you. An incubus enters your dream world.”
“How do you know this?” My tone grew edgy. She had obviously withheld knowledge of Manners. Maybe the two were friends or even lovers. And she just admitted an incubus could have committed these crimes without fear of being harmed or caught.
“I know things because I’m a witch, Caitlin. That explanation will have to suffice for now.”
“If you’re truly a witch, Briana, you must know he’s our best suspect.”
She had me there.
I settled in for the spell.
“I will create a mind shield for you, Caitlin Diggs.”
She began to chant, inviting me to join her.
“I call upon the helpful powers of my ancestors. Please protect and shield me from harm. By the ancient ancestral power, blessed be!”
Briana played soft Celtic music for me as we waited for the spell to take effect. I tried to distract myself with the lovely dulcet tones of harps and violins. It almost worked until my stomach rumbled--again. We never had supper. Briana was too intent on saving my ass. For what seemed hours we held hands waiting for the candle to burn down. I had plenty of time to drink in the ambience of the McFadden household. Floral print furniture and lacy doilies surrounded me. But most disturbing, a poster of Cher is depicting the actress as a witch in the film Witches of Eastwick, hung right before my eyes. When the candle finally expired I yawned and thanked Briana.
“Don’t thank me yet. The night is now upon us. We must return to your house if we hope to engage the judge.”
“Won’t your presence discourage Manners from coming?”
“No.” She paused to smile. “You could have twenty police armed to the hilt and he’d still come. Nothing from the waking world can harm him.”
I muttered something unintelligible even to me.
“I’ll be in the next room to supervise so to speak. When he comes I’ll sense it. I will then cast a binding spell so he can’t attack you – or worse, drain you. Now the spell won’t last indefinitely so you won’t want to waste time with small talk. Hopefully you’ll be able to determine his innocence or guilt in your dream.”
I had once interrogated an evil man named Crowley in a dream state. It didn’t go so well. But at least he didn’t threaten to harm me. Maybe he couldn’t. I still don’t know; but I was sure of one thing if the judge threatened me in any way I would defend myself. I didn’t care what Briana said about the dream and waking worlds. I went to bed packing a handgun.
~ * ~
A full moon bathed my bedroom in bluish haze. It kept my eyes from closing. Normally I would have drawn the curtains on the nocturnal intrusion, but tonight I was hosting so to speak. I felt I was setting a better trap or “invitation” to Manners if I left the light on. Briana would have probably scolded me if she were capable of listening to my silent ranting. She had explained to me several times Manners would not be traveling via car, plane or broom for that matter. His appearance would be completely ethereal to all waking humans. He would meet me via an altered state of mind, in a dream or alpha state, where his thoughts and presence could transcend any physical traps an overly anxious former FBI agent (me) might feel compelled to set. It wouldn’t matter if I shined a lantern in my window or posted Rottweillers on around-the-clock guard duty, Manners would be oblivious to it. Briana stated this very emphatically, employing wild gyrating arm movements that nearly had me fearing she would turn me into a rat if I didn’t give her my undivided attention. So I sat and listened to her for an hour after we completed the spell. When my eyelids began drooping, she ordered me to bed. She took up residence in the adjoining guest room with Celeste. With a click of a doorknob, Briana could be at my bedside in seconds. But when I finally began to absorb the notion that Manners would not be using the front door to meet me, fear began to take hold. How would her presence help me? She could monitor my dreams all she wanted, but ultimately it would be up to me to break free of Manner’s paranormal grip-provided one: he was an incubus and two: he would still deem an appearance necessary to either protest his innocence or quiet my suspicions of him once for and all. My mind finally began to drift into that sleepy state where your thoughts start running into one another. How would I converse with him in the dream world? And would my gun be at my bedside in this dream? My brain felt like rubber. My eyelids finally shut. A faint hint of blue light seeped through them and then the next thing I knew…
“Who, what…what do you want?” I sat straight up and stammered as a presence took shape over my brass four-post bed. At least I determined I could talk, albeit not very intelligently in my dream state. The shape continued to hover over me, within arm’s reach. I twisted in my covers, attempting to lunge towards my dresser drawer where I kept my gun. As my hand continued to fumble for the dresser knob, coldness brushed against my backside. At that instant, I gave up my hunt for the gun and reverted to my backside, hoping confrontation might keep the invading demon at bay. I shouted. “Back off and identify yourself.” I felt silly. I couldn’t very well command this thing to put its hands behind its back--if it had hands--let alone expect it to adhere to laws and protocols devised by those living in the real world.
The thing, best described as a floating transparent body of liquid, actually started to comply. It reversed itself away from me, about a yard or so. Now it hovered over my Victorian vanity chair. I seriously hoped its liquid makeup wouldn’t drip all over my prized antique. It began to glow blue, probably because it was in the direct path of a moonbeam.
“Now tell me who are you.” Hoarse and raspy, my voice no longer sounded like mine. I tried to recall my vision where I had been speaking to the spirit of Alastair Crowley. My voice had sounded like mine then. In fact, I’d felt no different in that dream state whatsoever; I had classified that experience as a vision. But now, as I sat cowering in my bed, I felt more as if in a dream. I willed my legs to move, but like in a dream, they were uncooperative as if an iron vise was keeping them in place. As I struggled to escape my covers, the thing spoke to me in a whispered voice. Whatever it was, it was now inside my head!
See it, buy it here...
http://champagnebooks.com/shop/index....
Demon Inhibitions, a paranormal summer read
I tend to write mix genre, or, what I dub fiction on the fringe of genre.
My new release, Demon Inhibitions, threads sci fi, urban fantasy, suspense, romance, horror and mystery.
I usually anchor my novels in science fiction but find it fascinating and almost impossible not to blend these other genres into the mix. You could compare it to a meal. While there's nothing wrong with eating a piece of fish by itself day after day you might find it more tasty to add broccoli (horror), rice (mystery), salad (romance), bread(fantasy) and dessert (suspense).
To be more precise, Demon Inhibitions consists of:
Sci fi: Agent Caitlin Diggs believes a genetically made soul stealer is responsible for recent murders.
Horror: The soul stealer has escaped custody and crosses a parallel universe dragging Diggs with him via wormhole.
Urban Fantasy: Diggs is assisted by a Wiccan investigator and a succubus. In her parallel universe, demons outnumber humans and a preternatural branch of the FBI deals with their crimes.
Romance: Diggs enters an altered reality and a love triangle emerges. Her new boss Charles Grant is beyond handsome but the other version of her friend Stanford Carter is stirring feelings she never had for his alternate.
Hitches: Grant doesn't know 'his' Diggs has been killed by the soul stealer.
Alternate Carter has been turned into a demon. Would romance with Carter change her as well?
Mystery: Why is the soul stealer hell bent on eradicating a teen whose singing voice inhibits demon violence?
Suspense: Diggs faces the prospect that conventional weapons will not subdue her fugitive. Can her newly acquired paranormal abilities give her a fighting chance?
I'm sure we've all read great stories that brought some or all of these elements together. They usually get boxed under one category for sales purposes. Maybe someday a multiple-genre tag will be born. After all, paranormal romance is still a fairly young genre and is ever growing.
Change does happen.
Please read on for an excerpt
Demon Inhibitions is out in June. Please stop by my FB page for updates! http://www.facebook.com/GaryStartaSci...
Demon Inhibitions Excerpt
When she found I had visited Manners, Briana began scurrying about her house, scooping up a pair of scissors and a red candle. Before I could speak further, she came at me. I backed away from her in fright. Her placid face revealed nothing malevolent. But the shears were headed right for me. I tried to dive away from the contradiction. Who was the real Briana? The sweet woman who made cookies for me--or her shears wielding maniac counterpart now standing before me? She screamed not to worry. I heard a snip. I felt a strange sensation. Not pain. But something was no longer attached to me. It was a piece of my hair. She caught the floating lock in her hands as if it were a runaway feather.
“It is very important we get to work, Caitlin.” Too stunned to process the weird moment, I could barely utter a groan.
Then she explained how she must protect me. “He’ll surely make a visitation now that he has met you.”
I tried to explain it was a good thing. I would probably get a vision of him and then I could determine his part in the slayings.
She interrupted. “A visitation is what he’ll do to you. I don’t know how to break this to you but the cat judge is an incubus. He’ll surely come to you in your dreams. And in case he is our murderer, you’ll need a protection spell, pronto.”
I reminded her I carried a firearm. I had worked in the FBI.
“No earthbound weapons can harm the judge once he joins with you. An incubus enters your dream world.”
“How do you know this?” My tone grew edgy. She had obviously withheld knowledge of Manners. Maybe the two were friends or even lovers. And she just admitted an incubus could have committed these crimes without fear of being harmed or caught.
“I know things because I’m a witch, Caitlin. That explanation will have to suffice for now.”
“If you’re truly a witch, Briana, you must know he’s our best suspect.”
She had me there.
I settled in for the spell.
“I will create a mind shield for you, Caitlin Diggs.”
She began to chant, inviting me to join her.
“I call upon the helpful powers of my ancestors. Please protect and shield me from harm. By the ancient ancestral power, blessed be!”
Briana played soft Celtic music for me as we waited for the spell to take effect. I tried to distract myself with the lovely dulcet tones of harps and violins. It almost worked until my stomach rumbled--again. We never had supper. Briana was too intent on saving my ass. For what seemed hours we held hands waiting for the candle to burn down. I had plenty of time to drink in the ambience of the McFadden household. Floral print furniture and lacy doilies surrounded me. But most disturbing, a poster of Cher is depicting the actress as a witch in the film Witches of Eastwick, hung right before my eyes. When the candle finally expired I yawned and thanked Briana.
“Don’t thank me yet. The night is now upon us. We must return to your house if we hope to engage the judge.”
“Won’t your presence discourage Manners from coming?”
“No.” She paused to smile. “You could have twenty police armed to the hilt and he’d still come. Nothing from the waking world can harm him.”
I muttered something unintelligible even to me.
“I’ll be in the next room to supervise so to speak. When he comes I’ll sense it. I will then cast a binding spell so he can’t attack you – or worse, drain you. Now the spell won’t last indefinitely so you won’t want to waste time with small talk. Hopefully you’ll be able to determine his innocence or guilt in your dream.”
I had once interrogated an evil man named Crowley in a dream state. It didn’t go so well. But at least he didn’t threaten to harm me. Maybe he couldn’t. I still don’t know; but I was sure of one thing if the judge threatened me in any way I would defend myself. I didn’t care what Briana said about the dream and waking worlds. I went to bed packing a handgun.
~ * ~
A full moon bathed my bedroom in bluish haze. It kept my eyes from closing. Normally I would have drawn the curtains on the nocturnal intrusion, but tonight I was hosting so to speak. I felt I was setting a better trap or “invitation” to Manners if I left the light on. Briana would have probably scolded me if she were capable of listening to my silent ranting. She had explained to me several times Manners would not be traveling via car, plane or broom for that matter. His appearance would be completely ethereal to all waking humans. He would meet me via an altered state of mind, in a dream or alpha state, where his thoughts and presence could transcend any physical traps an overly anxious former FBI agent (me) might feel compelled to set. It wouldn’t matter if I shined a lantern in my window or posted Rottweillers on around-the-clock guard duty, Manners would be oblivious to it. Briana stated this very emphatically, employing wild gyrating arm movements that nearly had me fearing she would turn me into a rat if I didn’t give her my undivided attention. So I sat and listened to her for an hour after we completed the spell. When my eyelids began drooping, she ordered me to bed. She took up residence in the adjoining guest room with Celeste. With a click of a doorknob, Briana could be at my bedside in seconds. But when I finally began to absorb the notion that Manners would not be using the front door to meet me, fear began to take hold. How would her presence help me? She could monitor my dreams all she wanted, but ultimately it would be up to me to break free of Manner’s paranormal grip-provided one: he was an incubus and two: he would still deem an appearance necessary to either protest his innocence or quiet my suspicions of him once for and all. My mind finally began to drift into that sleepy state where your thoughts start running into one another. How would I converse with him in the dream world? And would my gun be at my bedside in this dream? My brain felt like rubber. My eyelids finally shut. A faint hint of blue light seeped through them and then the next thing I knew…
“Who, what…what do you want?” I sat straight up and stammered as a presence took shape over my brass four-post bed. At least I determined I could talk, albeit not very intelligently in my dream state. The shape continued to hover over me, within arm’s reach. I twisted in my covers, attempting to lunge towards my dresser drawer where I kept my gun. As my hand continued to fumble for the dresser knob, coldness brushed against my backside. At that instant, I gave up my hunt for the gun and reverted to my backside, hoping confrontation might keep the invading demon at bay. I shouted. “Back off and identify yourself.” I felt silly. I couldn’t very well command this thing to put its hands behind its back--if it had hands--let alone expect it to adhere to laws and protocols devised by those living in the real world.
The thing, best described as a floating transparent body of liquid, actually started to comply. It reversed itself away from me, about a yard or so. Now it hovered over my Victorian vanity chair. I seriously hoped its liquid makeup wouldn’t drip all over my prized antique. It began to glow blue, probably because it was in the direct path of a moonbeam.
“Now tell me who are you.” Hoarse and raspy, my voice no longer sounded like mine. I tried to recall my vision where I had been speaking to the spirit of Alastair Crowley. My voice had sounded like mine then. In fact, I’d felt no different in that dream state whatsoever; I had classified that experience as a vision. But now, as I sat cowering in my bed, I felt more as if in a dream. I willed my legs to move, but like in a dream, they were uncooperative as if an iron vise was keeping them in place. As I struggled to escape my covers, the thing spoke to me in a whispered voice. Whatever it was, it was now inside my head!
See it, buy it here...
http://champagnebooks.com/shop/index....
Gary Starta's Blog
- Gary Starta's profile
- 192 followers
Gary Starta isn't a Goodreads Author
(yet),
but they
do have a blog,
so here are some recent posts imported from
their feed.
