PAPERBACK $12.95Most of us come into this world with an inborn need for religion, a higher power to believe in. However, when fear and misunderstanding are the driving forces behind that desire, the result is rarely a good thing.
Eight years ago, Laura Bradford mysteriously disappeared off campus, causing quite a disturbance in the lives of Kenny Elliot and Gerald Reynolds, a journalism student with a fascination for Mesoamerican artifacts. When Gerald calls unexpectedly to tell Elliot he’s recently seen Laura then sets up a meeting only to be a no-show, Elliot tracks him down to get some answers. Instead he finds his old friend murdered in a ritualistic fashion.
Elliot takes a leave of absence from his job as a Tulsa police detective and launches an unofficial investigation, which leads him into the world of an Aztec deity with an appetite for blood.
PAPERBACK $15Porter, Oklahoma holds a dark secret, and troublesome dreams plague Tulsa Police Detective, Kenny Elliot, who grew up in the small town. When a bizarre murder catapults Elliot into his past, he's brought face to face with the fabric of his nightmares. A shiny necklace dangles from the rearview mirror of the vehicle where Lagayle Zimmerman, the victim, is discovered. Nine years earlier, in Porter, a similar necklace swung from the mirror of a Mustang that harbored the mutilated bodies of Elliot's friends, Jonathan Alexander (Johnnie Boy), and Marcia Barnes. Most of the town believed Elliot killed his classmates. But the Chief of Police, Charlie Johnson, didn't share the town's convictions. No arrest was made. Elliot didn't stick around to find out what was going on. He left town, never to look back - until now. Risking his job and his sanity, Elliot digs into his past and faces his demons to expose the truth.
PAPERBACK $15Things aren't always what they seem. Tulsa Police Detective, Kenny Elliot's quest to uncover the truth behind the death of a transient makes him a target - from whom or what he isn't sure. When he brushes the dirt from the surface of an apparent John Doe overdose case, he finds a labyrinth of misdirection and deception beneath, and a trail, which leads him to an encounter with an aberration in human nature, the likes of which he's not prepared to deal with. Drawing on his strength of character, and a sense of right and wrong, he wrestles with deep personal feelings to solve the case.
And now for something completely different:
Typically, I tend to bury the business side of things near the bottom of the newsletter. My lovely wife, Kathi, often comments on this, subtly suggesting better luck might be had by exercising a different approach. I’ve decided to try it.
I have what I believe to be some great news. Twisted Perception, the 1st Elliot novel in the now (I wish) infamous series, is now available in Audiobook format. Yea!!! I can practically hear the squeals of delight, coming from my adoring fans as the momentousness of this epic event dawns on them. And now, here is the link:
Please follow the link and check it out. Once you’re at the site, there’s a button you can click to hear a free sample. Charles Bice, the reader we chose, did an excellent job of portraying the characters as he tells the story. I believe you can even get the audiobook of Twisted Perception for free, if you join Audible.com. And who wouldn’t want to do that?
And now for the rest of the story:
And there I was, (I’m using a lot of Ands in this newsletter) strolling the isles of some mega-mart when I drop to my knees to explore the bargain-brand (Hyphens too) section in an area of the store dedicated to the killing of bugs.
A collection of dust, and spider web covered cans occupies that particular spot on the bottom shelving.
I begin to reach for one of the cans, though further reflection upon the condition of the product causes me to pause. (Hmm… something poetic about that) Should there be spider webs on a can of bug spray? I realize the ultimate purpose of the metallic packaging is to maintain the contents within the confines, but there’s something about spiders congregating upon that which should repel them that just isn’t right.
As I remain there in the crouching-tiger position, still undecided upon the potential possession of non-lethal bug paraphernalia, I overhear someone in the next isle excitedly exclaiming: “Did I tell you we found grandma?”
Grandma, I wonder? Is she okay? How long has she been missing? Could I be one isle away from a tearful, family reunion, years in the making?
Seconds later, a man, propelling his wheelchair precariously balanced on two wheels, speeds around the corner. A crazed look covers his face. “Did I tell you we found grandma?” He asks.
I smile. “I’m so happy for you.”
I rise to me feet then, while projecting the best nonchalant attitude I could muster, I continue to pretend I’m shopping, while in reality I’m beating the hastiest retreat that doesn’t look like one in the history of mankind.
I’ve now lost all interest in bug spray. All I want is to get out of the store. However, my fall through the wormhole, or rabbit hole, or whatever isn’t exactly over.
I mount an evasive maneuver down another isle, but as I approach a man in Bermuda shorts – who has the audacity to wear with the atrocity, dress shoes with white socks rolled down over his ankles – reaching for a jar of olives, he suddenly turns and grabs my arm. He’s also smoking a pipe. Gripping the stem with his teeth, he grins around it, a bizarre Hugh Hefner from… Well you get the point.
Wait a minute, I think. You can’t smoke in stores anymore.
“You just never know about people,” bizarre Hugh says. He points to a lady perusing the pickles. “She’s soccer mom nine to five, but jams as a base player for some punk, rock band, making the nightclub scene by night.”
“How do you know this?”
“It’s my job,” he says. “Did you happen to notice the slender, black man in the cereal, isle?”
“Not that I recall?”
Hugh shakes his head. “You’re going to have to pay better attention. Later in the week, Mr. Cereal will put his all into gambling, energetically high-fiving plastic and steel, while he prays to the electronic circuitry of a slot machine, harbored in a dark corner of a small casino outside the limits of some dusty, Oklahoma, town.”
I roll over in bed and remind myself not to eat pizza so late at night.
I want to thank everyone who has signed up for my newsletter. I hope you enjoy reading it. If you know of someone who might enjoy it, too, please email it to them.
I also give programs for writing groups, reading groups, or any group that’s interested. If you belong to a club, which needs program speakers, keep me in mind.
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This article was written by Bob Avey, author of, Twisted Perception, Beneath a Buried House, and Footprints of a Dancer. http://www.bobavey.com.
Brother Bob’s Newsletter
1st Quarter, 2015
I’ve worked on my share of cars, performing some fairly difficult procedures in the process, mostly out of necessity. When the repair costs exceed your bank balance, you have to do something. However, I do not, even in the farthest reaches of imagination, consider myself a mechanic. With me, it’s take off the old part and put on a new one. If that doesn’t work, I’m lost.
It’s different with the BMW. I’m not sure why. I’ve owned cars produced outside the United States before, and I have worked on them. Not the case with the Bimmer. I’ve had the car for nearly a year now and I’ve only raised the hood a couple of times, even then approaching the intrusion with a mixture of trepidation and respect, a bit like visiting an antique shop where you fall into a state, which closely resembles reverence, speaking softly and keeping your hands to yourself.
My Bavarian fugue has not come without cost. Upon bringing the 328i home, and realizing my lack of knowledge, I immediately began an internet search for an independent BMW automotive specialist. I intentionally avoided the dealerships. It’s what I’ve always done with other cars.
Of course, I quickly found what I thought I was looking for. Answering the phone with, Hello, uh, yeah this is blank and blank auto, the guy convinced me to bring the car to his shop, an out-of-the-way, backstreet building with a garage in the back. Finding the place locked and having to bang on the door to get the guy’s attention should have given me a clue, and to be honest it had, but in my eagerness for things to work out like they should, I pushed the warning aside. I even let the big, grumpy, bearded proprietor’s gruff attitude slide. What kind of BMW mechanic insults his customers for owning the kind of car he repairs? Well, after researching the subject on the internet, apparently a lot of them. Taking it all in stride, I kept the mechanic on board for a few months, going along with his recommended repairs. And then it happened. During my last visit, which was right before the Thanksgiving holiday, the guy changed the oil and in addition ordered some parts for the car, which he charged me for with instructions to bring the car back in a few days for installation.
Well you’ve probably guessed where I’m going with this. After the allotted time had expired, I called the shop but received no answer. I repeated the process for about a week, leaving messages that were never returned. Finally, I drove to the location but found the building locked up. This time no one answered my door banging.
Not all was lost. I disputed the charges for the parts, and the credit card company refunded me. However, it was then that I began to wonder what exactly had been done for the car. If the mechanic had been dishonest about the parts, what else had he done, or not done?
I began to search for another shop. Having jumped the gun on my previous attempt at procuring affordable but effective European auto care, I increased my efforts and widened the scope of the search. I do sometimes learn from my mistakes. I even sought online referrals and perused available comments associated with the shops. A few days later, after narrowing my list of prospective automotive gurus down to three, I sent emails, inquiring about the cost of possible service. Two of the prospects proved to exceed what I considered my price range. However the third shop on the list began to look like a possibly viable option. Their prices seemed appropriate and their website offered further encouragement. In addition, the return email contained language urging me to call a provided phone number.
“I’m glad you called,” the voice coming over the phone said. “My name is blank, and we’re all about long-term relationships. Why don’t you come by the shop and let me show you around?”
I told the mechanic I’d get back with him but I had no intentions of doing that. I hung up the phone and took a hot shower. After that, I gave up and called the dealership.
I don’t wish to leave you with the wrong impression. I love the BMW. It’s an absolute thrill to drive and it has never failed me. The only thing I’ve taken the car to the shop for is oil changes. The minor repairs were for things recommended by the first mechanic. I’m not sure if any of it was necessary, or if any of the work was actually done.
I want to thank everyone who has signed up for my newsletter. I hope you enjoy reading it. If you know of someone who might enjoy it, too, please email it to them. Thanks.
Beneath a Buried House has recently won an Indie Book Award from IBD Awards. Beneath a Buried House was selected as the Indie Book of the Day Award winner for 27th of October, 2012.As a result, the book is currently featured on our homepage for the entire day today until 7-9 am US CDT the next day. The book has also been added to our winners database (http://indiebookoftheday.com/past-winners/) and a 'for life' feature post has been created, which can be viewed here: http://indiebookoftheday.com/beneath-a-buried-house-by-bob-avey/
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