Thursday, May 8, 2014
Hell-Bent Wade
My name is Bent Wade. Some have called me Hell-Bent but I could argue that Hell comes to me; I never go looking for it. This isnt about my name. Its about the future. I've always had dreams that come true. No lottery numbers. No lucky scratch tickets. Just dreams about a fence along a highway or a jet crashing into a skyscraper and many others but no details. Nothing to identify when or where they might happen but happen they did. All my life. At 17 years old I visited a psychic on a lark, hoping for confirmation about a dreamhouse in the mountains. She told me of the desert and lots of horses. Then she grew extremely frightened and refused to tell me any more. Idk. Maybe she saw my first wife! I'd have appreciated the heads-up on that one! Even my first wife had nightmares about our divorce a year before I asked for one. Lol! The psychic annoyed me and I wanted my money back, departing with a feeling of being ripped off. Ten years later I bought a horse. Two years after that I moved from Boston, across the country, to Nevada. On the drive, hauling a trailer and my horse, I saw that fence in the Shenandoah valley. In Tennessee I crossed a bridge over a bend in a river to reach a barn for the night. I'd dreamed the barn stood on an island but everything else appeared the same, from the steep river banks to the trees and the stableyard. In Vegas I owned a boarding stable and rode and trained horses as a hobby. In 2001 I saw a jet and skyscraper on tv. In the last 30 plus years I've dreamed and seen things come true more than I can recount. Why do I tell you this? Because last month I felt a premonition that I will be dead in three months: June 2014... My name is Hell-Bent Wade and I hope Hell isnt waiting but rather I know it won't.
Write What You Know
Write what you know.
Write what you know. That's what they told him, but how? Simon thought. How does one write about love and loss and psychosis and suicide when the cuts run too deep and the edge of the knife scrapes a razor-edge against bone? A filet of his flesh, red and juicy, a prime cut made its daily, no, hourly slice and fall to the floor. Write what you know... Love as euphoric as morphine with fuzzy brain-numbing loss of intelligence hidden by a false veil masquerading as clear thought. The mask removed when his wife's infatuation mutated into insecurity, raising loneliness from the dead like a pheonix, with talons gripping psychological damage dug from the depths of some cranial malfunction. The damage itself, perhaps, caused by a childhood of incest or too much high fructose corn syrup in her baby formula.
This he might pen. Write the words but to what feeling? What effect? To bring the reader to the brink of suicide? If one could write such words he would possess the power of the gods but even to lesser effect, for the sake of drama or enlightenment of the dark corners of life.
What part did the man play in causing the problems? Is he an intelligent imbecile? A functional idiot? An innocent rube suckered by great sex and too many compliments? Would the reader believe such a man could be so dumb to miss all the signs and ignore the advice of his best friends?
The story might sell. Simon wondered aloud and to himself as he sat at his desk. It could make him rich, but does wealth bring happiness after all? Yet another concern built a wall between the thought and the deed... Should he do it? Would it free him from the poorly crafted plot point of the protagonist committing suicide? How else besides murder could this fairytale conclude? There is always murder-suicide but-not to misuse a cliche-the horse that cliche rode died of fatigue. And suicide itself is a problem. A story told in first person might be formulated with the protagonist's ghost as the storyteller but he rides a similar problem-horse. Could our flawed but redeemable yet unredeemed hero become a villain filled with hate for all forever? Might he instead pick up the shattered parts of his life, sweep them into the dustbin and go merrily onward?
The wall becomes too high, too wide and its foundation runs too very deep to reach the other side. This is what holds Simon back. This Shakespearian tragedy is his opus, his swan-song and his nemesis.
He opened a new document in Word and began to type as the never ending tears flowed once more.
Write what you know. That's what they told him, but how? Simon thought. How does one write about love and loss and psychosis and suicide when the cuts run too deep and the edge of the knife scrapes a razor-edge against bone? A filet of his flesh, red and juicy, a prime cut made its daily, no, hourly slice and fall to the floor. Write what you know... Love as euphoric as morphine with fuzzy brain-numbing loss of intelligence hidden by a false veil masquerading as clear thought. The mask removed when his wife's infatuation mutated into insecurity, raising loneliness from the dead like a pheonix, with talons gripping psychological damage dug from the depths of some cranial malfunction. The damage itself, perhaps, caused by a childhood of incest or too much high fructose corn syrup in her baby formula.
This he might pen. Write the words but to what feeling? What effect? To bring the reader to the brink of suicide? If one could write such words he would possess the power of the gods but even to lesser effect, for the sake of drama or enlightenment of the dark corners of life.
What part did the man play in causing the problems? Is he an intelligent imbecile? A functional idiot? An innocent rube suckered by great sex and too many compliments? Would the reader believe such a man could be so dumb to miss all the signs and ignore the advice of his best friends?
The story might sell. Simon wondered aloud and to himself as he sat at his desk. It could make him rich, but does wealth bring happiness after all? Yet another concern built a wall between the thought and the deed... Should he do it? Would it free him from the poorly crafted plot point of the protagonist committing suicide? How else besides murder could this fairytale conclude? There is always murder-suicide but-not to misuse a cliche-the horse that cliche rode died of fatigue. And suicide itself is a problem. A story told in first person might be formulated with the protagonist's ghost as the storyteller but he rides a similar problem-horse. Could our flawed but redeemable yet unredeemed hero become a villain filled with hate for all forever? Might he instead pick up the shattered parts of his life, sweep them into the dustbin and go merrily onward?
The wall becomes too high, too wide and its foundation runs too very deep to reach the other side. This is what holds Simon back. This Shakespearian tragedy is his opus, his swan-song and his nemesis.
He opened a new document in Word and began to type as the never ending tears flowed once more.
Going to Hell
Ten years old in the fourth grade, on a snowy slushy day when the catholic school let out, I lined up with the others to walk by the church and reach Main Street in a near freezing rain. The Sister walks out into the street to stop traffic and then tells us to walk across the street and no running allowed. I walk fast like everyone else and the Sister grabs me by the coat and tells me I'm not supposed to run and that I have to walk back across the street and then cross the street a third time and no running. I think to myself, "How stupid is that!". Streets are dangerous but I walk across the street, reach the sidewalk and turn around. Walking back towards the sister but she moved to the far side of the roadway, as I approach I spot a large pothole filled with icy water. Beside the pothole stands my nemisis dressed in a knee length skirt, stockings, and flat-sole shoes. I accelerate. Walking faster. By the time I reach the pothole, I'm running. (Punished for the crime I didn't commit I figure I might as well do the deed and add a little more.) I leap into the air. Both feet coming together I descend rapidly, school shoes landing side by side in that pothole. Water flies, legs are instantly soaked! My felony committed I bolt across the forbidden convent lawn, comitting a third or fourth crime added to the list. My escape is made, running, racing towards home as I hear my name called,"Richard Howes! Get back here right now!" I don't stop. It's a mile to home and I'm free until mom returns from work. She knows what happened. I explain my side. She agrees that making a kid walk across a street several times for punishment is stupid. And... I should not have splashed the sister. Oh well. Life is interesting and I'm going to hell anyways!
Wednesday, May 7, 2014
Sullyland ~ A Sully Las Vegas Mystery is out now!!! Special promo!!!!
Do you enjoy mysteries? Hard-boiled Detective tales? Big cities? Mountain views? Do you want your villains mean and deadly and your heroes strong and reserved? http://amzn.to/1kH9SpG
Sullyland is out... The publisher is running a promo to offer all my other novels on kindle for 99 cents now until Sunday May 11th 2014
Sully appreciates divorce cases. Paid to stalk client's spouses, he makes easy money but when his client dies it becomes a mystery. When several people die, it becomes a trend... A trend he would rather not be a part of.
As he discovers who did the killing he learns secrets about the Russians and the Italians. When a street-gang and a drug dealer join in, Sully's old combat skills become a survival tool.
Richard Howes produces another heart-pounding thriller. Filled with intrigue and suspense, a host of suspects keeps the killer a mystery until the end.
Available in ebook and paperback http://amzn.to/1kH9SpG
Sullyland is out... The publisher is running a promo to offer all my other novels on kindle for 99 cents now until Sunday May 11th 2014
Sully appreciates divorce cases. Paid to stalk client's spouses, he makes easy money but when his client dies it becomes a mystery. When several people die, it becomes a trend... A trend he would rather not be a part of.
As he discovers who did the killing he learns secrets about the Russians and the Italians. When a street-gang and a drug dealer join in, Sully's old combat skills become a survival tool.
Richard Howes produces another heart-pounding thriller. Filled with intrigue and suspense, a host of suspects keeps the killer a mystery until the end.
Available in ebook and paperback http://amzn.to/1kH9SpG
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