So Much For That New Year's Resolution

They come and go faster than the wind...or so it seems. I promised to post a new blog consistently in 2013.
Blew that one.
Oh, well, there is always next year.

The new year has started off at a blazing pace. I can't say I have been writing as much as I would have liked. I can't say I have been traveling as much as I would have liked (not at all). I can't even say I have had as much down time as I would have liked. All I can say is that I have been busy. Sometimes, that's all we can be. Sometimes, life gets in the way of what we want to do and all we have left is what we must do. As frustrating as that can be for all of us, it still be brings a sense of satisfaction. The satisifaction that whatever was needed to be done, we accomplished and whoever needed us to perform those tasks were able to accomplish their's because of us.
Wow, I'm babbling...

Okay, now for something different.

I am excited to tell you that "Cornerstone," the next book in the Phantom Squad saga is in editing and will be released in early summer. I am very excited about this book. It has a some new characters in it that I really enjoyed writing as well as most of the old ones. Soon, I will start posting exerpts for your to check out.
I have also been writing another book, "SIN," with all new characters and a much harder 'feel' to it. The characters, the language, and the plot line are much darker. The more of it I write, the more I'm feeling uncomfortable. I hope it's just a feeling of being out of my comfort zone, but I'm not sure. I'm still trying to figure it out.

Here's a new resolution. Don't give in to feelings of discomfort. Widen your comfort zone and start living in a bigger box.
I will have to give it a try.

Until next time,
J.M.

Is God to blame?

The nation and the world were devastated this week when a gunman opened fire and randomly killed adults and children at an elementary school in Connecticut. Since that day, we have all gone through and continue to go through our own mourning. In the last few days, I have heard many people ask, "Why would God let this happen?" and "If there was a God, this wouldn't happen," and "God did this as punishment."

This all made me think about God, the role He plays in our lives and more importantly it made me think of those who state that there is no God and who use situations like this as an example of why they believe the way they do. I hope you will indulge me as I try put into words my answer to these people.

I think we can all agree that every person has choices. I prefer to call this 'free will.' Everyday, every moment of every day, we make choices that change our lives in one way or another. These choices alter the rest of our lives in tiny ways or in grand ways, but each choice has its consequences. For those of us who believe in God and know Him to be a loving, forgiving God, we believe that He gave us free will: the right to choose between good and/or bad. Each decision we make can be catagorized as good or bad and alters our walk through this life.

Good brings with it love, truth, freedom, happiness, comfort, and ultimately--life.
Bad brings with it hate, lies, captivity, sadness, pain, and ultimately--death.

The choices that the young man who was responsible for this heinous act chose veered him away from the good, away from the Light, away from God and led him towards the bad, towards the Dark, towards Satan.

God never said that we would not have sadness, that there would not be death, but He did say that if we put our trust and our lives in His hands that He would walk us through the sadness and through death to happier times and ultimately to Eternal Life.

I don't have any answers to why this or any other tragedy happens. In the same way that I don't know why war must occur and that our soldiers must die, but I do believe that God cries harder than we do when tragedy and death strike. I do believe that God's heart breaks when He watches his creation make choices that cause them to walk down a path that leads them further from Him. And, I do believe that He waits with open arms to welcome us back when we ask for forgiveness, when we change the path we are walking on, and when we cry out to Him for mercy and grace and love and forgiveness.

I'm not trying to stand on a soapbox and preach. Trust me, I have as many faults as anyone and probably more than most, but I also have faith in a loving, forgiving God who forgives me of my indiscretions when I ask with sincerity and welcomes me into His arms when I have strayed like the prodigal son. We all, regardless of faith or religion, need to learn to not put our ultimate trust in ourselves or in others, but to put it in something, someone who is greater than we are. We need to put it in God.

My thoughts and prayers are with all those whose lives were touched by this and every other senseless death. I pray that those involved and those of us who look on in disbelief look towards God for comfort and that we all find a way to continue to see the good in people. I pray for the souls of the departed and that they are all in their heavenly home with God.
Amen

Holiday Season or Twilight Zone. Maybe both

We have entered that time of the year called the holiday season. I can picture Rod Sirling standing in his suit, hands folded in front of him with a dead pan expression saying, "Welcome to the holiday season." In the background, the theme from the Twilight Zone can be heard. For those of you too young to remember, the Twilight Zone was a weekly horror series on TV where there was always a twist at the end that you never expected (it had nothing to do with vampires or Team Edward). The holiday season is a twilight zone unto itself. How? Let's see. . .

From some time in the middle of November to just after the beginning of the following year, people change. Their normal hectic lives become even more hectic, yet their easily frustrated, grumpy personalities somehow become more tolerant.
As the weather becomes colder, people who are not "people persons" begin to smile and their frosty personalities start to thaw.
Those who are not generous during other times spend countless hours searching for just the right gift to buy people who they only see once a year. They may even give money to the homeless person on the corner who they swore at (under their breath) just a few weeks ago.

Why the change? I'm sure there are as many theories as there are people, but I like to think that during the time we call the holiday season, we become more human. We take a step back and realize how blessed we are. Starting with Thanksgiving, we give thanks for what we have. This enables us to want to help those less fortunate and somehow changes us. This thankfulness changes us and makes us want to reconnect with those people in our lives that we haven't had the time to see or talk to in the past year.
This feeling seems to grow as the December religious holidays draw near. We remember our values and that in turn makes us think about our parents and grandparents. Thoughts of how they conducted their lives makes us want to be a little bit better than we have been.
This seems to culminate with the celebration of the new year. But as the ball drops, the bubble bursts. We start to think about how we want to better ourselves in the coming year and we set New Year's resolutions. The problem is, no matter how noble these resolutions are, we usually choose those that are unreachable. As soon as we break the first resolution, the air squeezes out of the balloon and it, like our lives, flies about at breakneck speeds on a collision course with anything that gets in its way.

I love the holiday season. The time between Thanksgiving and New Year's Day, which in my life reaches its pinnacle at Christmas is a time of reflection, a time of thanks, a time of love and a time of blessed birth. This holiday season let's do what we have done in past seasons, but this year, when the ball drops, instead of resolutions, let's just try to keep the spirit alive.
Happy Thanksgiving,
J.M.

What Would You Do, If I Sang Out Of Tune. . .

I heard something the other day that made me think of a Beatles tune. You remember the song. It was on the Sergeant Pepper album and sung by Ringo. I think it was the first song after the intro.
The lyric went something like this:
"What would you do, If I sang out of tune, would you stand up and walk out on me?"
The song popped into my head when I read that some big name authors, including someone I had admired (notice the past tense), were writing their own reviews under false names. When this was first brought to my attention, I was dismayed. Why would good writers sink to such practices? Then, I went through denial. Maybe the person who broke the news got it wrong or was talking about the wrong person. Finally, I became angry. As an author, I know the highs and lows of the writing industry. One of the greatest highs is when someone reads your work, the work you have spent months (years) pouring your heart, soul, and sweat into and tells you and the world how much they liked it. In my frame of reference, to fake a review is similar to stealing someone's work. I don't care what excuse these writers gave for doing it; none would suffice.
So, we're they punished? Good question. I don't know the answer. I do know that they are still being asked to speak at prestigious writers' conferences. I do know that they are still being tauted as "best selling authors."
I know I am about to go off topic, but stick with me . . .Why is it that Lance Armstrong can pass over five hundred drug tests (he was even made to take one while his wife was in labor) and when he is found guilty of taking performance enhancing drugs by a shady board who used partial witnesses, he is stripped of every title he had ever won and was forced to give back his winnings, but these authors are not asked to give back their awards or give back their royalties.
Just a thought.
(New lyric)
"What would you do, if I faked my review, would you still read my books?"
I, for one, will no longer be reading these authors.
Until next time,
J.M.

Starting Fresh

I have often wondered why so many authors continue to write about the same characters with each new book. Truth be told, the characters become like family. You have so much to tell about them and you want to continue to share their stories with your readers. So it has been for me, I have written four books about the Phantom Squad: three novels and one novella. I am approximately half way finished with the rough draft of the squad's next adventure. I am passionate about it and feel it may be my best story line yet, but . . . new characters keep knocking at the door of my imagination. I have tried to ignore them, but they won't go away. I had to finally open the the door and let them in.
I have put the Phantom Squad aside for awhile and have begun to write a new story with all new characters.
It is with great excitement and some anxiety that I have begun to put pen to paper and fingers to key board to write their story. As with all my stories, I know where I want their story to begin and I have some idea of where I would like it to end, but I have no idea of how to get there. Only time will tell.
It is only a matter of time before Brent and Seven come banging on the door of my imagination and insist that I finish their story. I can only hope that all of the characters, new and old, can live synergistically in my imagination until I have a chance to finish both novels.
I will update you from time to time on the new characters and ask for your opinion.
Until then, keep reading and keep the door to your imagination open. You never know who might walk in.
J.M.

CURSED DAYS, chapter two

CHAPTER 2

 

Brent Venturi, the Ambassador and the deciding factor in a possible holy war was thirty-five thousand feet in the air. Having left the Vatican a mere three hours ago, Colonel Venturi, the Phantom Squad and the directorate of the SIA, (Strategic Intelligence Alliance), the world’s most covert intelligence agency, were on their way home for some well needed rest.

Only two weeks ago, Brent had almost lost his life while defeating The Omega Butcher indwelled with Satan’s spirit in a battle which had been predicted since the first century of our Lord.

The light above his seat glowed an incandescence that could only mean one thing—insomnia. The cabin of the SIA’s 707 was dark except for the one light. All others on the flight had found the peace that accompanied sleep. Too many thoughts buzzed Brent’s brain for him to relax. His eyelids grew heavy, but he fought the urge to close them. There was too much to think about, too many decisions to be made, too many lives depending on his decisions.

I used to think putting my life in God’s hands would make things simpler, he thought.

 

A slight grin materialized on his face. A face etched with lines not normally found on a 36 year-old. Then again, he was no normal 36 year-old. Brent was this generation’s Ambassador, the heir to a secret that had been kept since the time of Noah. Brent was also God’s chosen, the one who had to go up against Satan in a battle for man’s free will. . . and now this. Rubbing his eyes, he could almost feel the dark circles that rode the top of his cheek bones. His eyes ached with a dryness that came with lack of sleep and more stress than he knew what to do with.

From the outside, his life was one to be admired, one that others would want to emulate. But from where he sat—things were different.

 He looked about the cabin at those who were the closest to him, his family, some blood born, others love born, all God sent. Brent blindly reached beside him for his coffee cup. A sip of cold coffee made his facial expressions twist in pain. Why do we let Seven make the coffee? he thought. We hope that somehow, someday it will turn out different, but. . .  

He swallowed as he grandfather’s words came to mind. “The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again expecting a different result.”

Brent looked down at the dossier on his lap. He inhaled a deep breath, a breath that brought with it answers. Closing the folder, he reached up, shut off the light and tried not to think about the arguments to come. Twenty minutes later, exhaustion won the battle over consciousness and he fell into a fitful slumber.

 I will post chapter three next Friday, August 31st.

Please help spread the word' "Cursed Days" is being released on Tuesday, August 4th.

 

Until next week, keep reading and never give up on your dreams,

J.M.

 

 

 

Video Trailer for "Cursed Days"

Below is the video book trailer for "Cursed Days." I am speechless on how amazed I am on how it turned out. Please check it out and share the link.
J.M.
http://youtu.be/Avgf-ZlNRcs

"Cursed Days" chapter one

"Cursed Days," Book three of the Trilogy of The Chosen will be released on September 4th, 2012.
In honor of its release, I have decided to post the first few chapters of the book on the blog starting with chapter one.
Enjoy and please let me know what you think. If you like it, tell everyone you know, if you don't, tell me.

CHAPTER 1

Red walked at a brisk pace. Head pointed straight ahead, chin tilted downward. This was neither the time nor place to be looking people in the eye. With purposeful strides he never wavered from his intended destination.

Traditional Palestinian clothing; an ankle length robe, a throbe and a kaffiyeh, a black and white turban adorned his body. He kept his hair covered so not to look out of place. Everyone he passed seemed angry. It didn’t matter which side of this narrow strip of land you were on, all the people wore the same expression. It had been years since he’d been home, since he walked the streets of Khan Younis. The city was now the second largest along the Gaza Strip. A Palestinian stronghold.

His eyes darted back and forth with the urgency of a medic after a suicide bombing. Never relaxed. Always alert to his surroundings. Years of training made these movements instinctive. Though his posture was tense, his mind was free. Free to think how he truly felt.

“Fools,” he mumbled under his breath. Simple minded fools. Whether their messiah is Mohammad, Jesus, or someone else, they are all limited in their thinking. The time has come for all of them to bow to a new messiah.

An evil grin crossed his thin parched lips. Thoughts of grandeur trounced about his head. Red’s pace slowed as he entered the ruins of a once grand structure. Inside al-Qal or the Khan as outsiders called it, his pulse slowed and his sweat cooled. The building, once the centerpiece of a thriving trade route during the Ottoman Empire was now more ceremonial than functional. Much of it was in disrepair.

It was here that Red would meet with Omar. A meeting that would change the world. The lower he descended into the bowels of al-Qal the more anxious he became. He took a deep breath, inhaling centuries of dust. The dust of wars fought. Wars won and wars lost. His chest extended, shoulders back, he walked with a confident air.  His mind always funneling thoughts.

The Khan, this building, it is like the Brotherhood of Gaza. Once it was great, but time and circumstance have not been kind to either. Red’s upper lip rose on the left side in a sly smile as his next thoughts raced through his head. But unlike this building, the Brotherhood has begun its resurrection. In the next few days all the world will know of us and they will bow to our magnitude.

Entering the final passage, he took on a new persona. One of servitude. One that would acquiesce to his superior.

Red stood in the domain of the one who led the Brotherhood. He was silent and looked at the ground. Omar would speak first. He had been his trainer for eleven years, from age seven to eighteen. Red’s head bowed, his eyes rotated upward, glued to the man walking around the room. The feeling was electric.

“Are you sure of your Intel?” Omar asked. He spoke with a coarseness that sounded like his throat had been scarred or he had spent too many years in this dust filled underground grotto.

Once spoken to, Red was free to raise his head and speak to his mentor as an equal. “I stake my life on it,” he answered in a heavy Irish brogue.

Omar stopped—stared. One look from his steel-grey eyes made Red weak. Daggers pierced his soul. It took every bit of fortitude to remain stoic and not cower like a child.  

The old man waited to see how his protégée would react, how he would answer.

“All prophesy is in place,” Red said. “The Brotherhood knows the Ark of the Endowment has been recovered and now ‘The Enlightenment’, the time written by John the Revelator has passed.”

Omar’s bushy brow elevated in response. He paced about the chamber, hands clenched behind his back. In his eighties, he still moved like a young man.  “They say the new Keeper of the Keys—The Ambassador, is a gifted man. A man like David. A man after God’s own heart.”

The left side of Red’s mouth quivered with hate. “He is still a man. All men bleed. . . and die,” he replied.

The old man shook his head.  “This one’s different. He defeated Satan in battle. He is no ordinary man.”

Red licked his cracked lips, biting his lower lip to help him remain calm. He had to choose his words wisely. “I’ve heard him speak, watched him breathe, saw his wounds. He is only flesh and blood.”

Omar ran his branch-like fingers through his scraggly grey beard, nodding in slight agreement.

“How confident are you of our man on the inside?” he asked. “The Brotherhood has waited centuries for this day. We will only get one chance.” He took a step closer to Red. Eyes fixed on his chosen one. The one chosen at the age of seven to one day recover the Ark of the Covenant. He stood so close that Red could smell the Turkish coffee on the old man’s breath. “You know what failure means?” Omar said.

Lip quivering, almost spasmodic in movement, Red inhaled through flared nostrils. Teeth gnashed as the words spilled forth. “Death to me, my team and our destiny.”

“My faith in you is strong,” Omar said, stepping back, “but your emotions run high.”

“I’ve managed to keep them in check for the past five years in that hellhole,” Red shot back.

“Mmm,” Omar groaned. “That hellhole is why we know that the time is right to reunite the Trilogy of the Arks.” He stopped stoking his beard and continued to pace. “This man on the inside, he has been there for a long time.”

“Sixteen years,” Red said.

“You have no doubt of his loyalty?”

“He is loyal to the Brotherhood.”

Omar again responded with a flick of an eyebrow. “Your team, where are they?”

“We know from the scrolls translated by our scribes that the search begins near Jerusalem. They are there. Waiting on me.”

“When will the hunt begin?”

“As soon as the name of the first messenger is revealed,” Red said. Omar opened his mouth to speak, but the younger man didn’t give him a chance. “We believe in the next twenty-four hours.”

Omar returned to his seat. He stared at his desk. The scrolls appeared to stare back at him. “Join them. The time to lift the curse has begun. The time for world domination has arrived.”

Inside Saint Peter’s Basilica a similar conversation was ongoing.

“Has there been any word from The Ambassador?” the pontiff asked.

“Not yet, but Brent will not fail us,” Cardinal Bullini answered.

The Pope rose from his knees and sat back in the pew. “I wish my faith was as great as yours.”

“It’s not faith, your eminence.”

“Oh.”

The cardinal blessed himself and he too sat back in the pew. “The scroll of Enlightenment, both of the lost Arks in his possession, the words of Arch-angel Gabriel: this is why I know he will take on the quest.”

The pontiff stood and looked down at his faithful servant. “I only hope he makes his decision soon. Time is not on our side.” Cane in hand, he walked toward the exit without looking back. “Evil finds a way,” he said. His final words echoed about the vast basilica. “Evil finds a way.”

Until next week,
J.M.

PHANTOM SQUAD

Phantom Squad, the prequel to the Trilogy of The Chosen has been released as a free e-book. You can find it at the following sites with more to soon follow.
Wattpad: http://www.wattpad.com/story/1802501-phantom-squad
Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/210393
Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/story/show/311072-phantom-squad
Again, I wouls like to thank my publisher, Suspense Publishing, for releasing a free book.
Happy reading.

J.M.

PHANTOM QUAD

On Tuesday, August 1st, 2012, "Phantom Squad," prequel to The Trilogy of The Chosen will be released as a free e-book from Suspense Publishing. I would like to thank Suspense for their generosity.
Enjoy and let me know what you think.

Until next week,
J.M.

Finding the Right Fit

How many of the writers out there have tried participating in a critique group, but have found that it wasn't for them. You didn't feel comfortable so you decided not to go back. Well, finding the right critique group is a lot like finding a great pair of shoes. You know you have found the right pair when you slip your feet in them and they feel great. If you have to shoehorn your foot in and you start thinking, hopefully they will stretch, then it is probably time to try on another pair.

I have had the privilege in participating in many critique  groups over the past eight or so years. I belonged to one that I loved a couple of years ago, but my schedule changed and I wasn't able to continue to go. In the past year or two, I have 'tried on' many others, but I always felt as if I was shoehorning my way in. Don't get me wrong, the writers in these groups were excellent, but the fit just wasn't right.

Last night my schedule was such that I had the opportunity to go to the group that I had once been a part of. As I was gathering my materials to go, apprehension started to grow. What if the group had changed? What if it was not as I remembered? I had to shake off a lot of nerves in order to put myself in the car and drive to the meeting. When I walked into the Wellington Writers Critique Group I was happy to see familiar faces as well as many new ones. The group has flourished under Caryn's leadership.

I sat and listened to a variety of writers. I was surrounded by humorists, memoirists, novelists, and poets. I had the privilege to hear the work of two young writers, between the ages of thirteen and fifteen, who left me slack jawed and amazed. These young ladies have a huge future ahead of them. I will find out their names and post them next week. They were that good.

What I loved about the group was their honesty and humility as well as their purpose. They are writers helping writers. I learned more about my writing in those two hours than I had in the past year. The honest and constructive critiques were eye opening.

If you have never read your writing out loud to a group . . . do it! You will pick up mistakes as you read and the unbiased ear of those around you will pick up even more.

So, what is the moral of this little story? There are a couple. One: all writers regardless of skill or success can benefit from joining a critique group, and two: if the group doesn't fit, if you feel as if you are shoehorning yourself in, try on another and another until you find the perfect fit. You will be happy you didn't give up and your writing will improve dramatically.

Until next week, go try on some shoes.
J.M.

Summer: A time of deadlines and deadends

The official start to summer has begun. The signs are everywhere, from temperatures over one hundred degrees in the northeast to Hurricane Debby in the gulf of Mexico. The sweltering heat isn't the only thing that makes me sweat during the summer months. The excitement of manuscript deadlines and deadends cause me to perspire faster than ninety degree afternoons coupled with ninety percent humidity.

To be honest, I love deadlines. They force me to amp up my writing and stir my imagination. I just finished the edits and emailed the third book in the Trilogy of The Chosen, "Cursed Days," to my publisher. It will be released in the beginning of September.

My deepest thanks to my editor, Starr Reina, who is also an incredible writer. Look for her new suspense thriller, "One Major Mistake," to be released this summer. I have had the honor of reading it in pre-release and it was so good, I stayed up all night in order to finish it. It is an amazing book.

Where was I? Oh yeah, deadlines. Now that the edits to "Cursed Days" are finished, it is on to the next deadline. I was very excited when my publisher asked me to write a prequel to "Cursed Blessing," the first book of the trilogy. It is to be a novella on how the Phantom Squad was formed and will be released one month before "Cursed Days." It will be available as an e-book and it will be free! Needless to say, I am busy writing in order to have it finished in time for edit and publication. Did I say I loved deadlines?

Now for the deadends. I started a new novel a while back and wrote about half (200 pages) when I realized I was cornered. I had come to a deadend. In order to get to where I wanted the story to go, I needed to backtrack at least one hundred pages and rewrite the plot. Even though this can be a frustrating experience, it is also invigorating. It's like a puzzle. It seems so daunting when you first spill the pieces from the box, but as you begin to put the framework together, you start to visualize where other pieces may go. Before you know it, you can see the finished picture in your head and it spurs you on to the completion of the puzzle. Deadlines lead to new undiscovered roads and to new adventures.

So, as summer commences, so do the deadlines and deadends, but more importantly, the adventures brought on by both begin anew.

One more thing: thank you to everyone who commented on the covers for "Cursed Presence." The new cover, available now is shown below.
Until next week,
J.M.

Help Me Choose a New Cover for "Cursed Presence."

It has been too long since I posted to my blog. Sorry. I promise to be more consistent (I'm aiming for once a week). "Cursed Presence, book two in the Trilogy of the Chosen" is about to be released in Europe. The publisher and creative designer are down to two options for a new cover. I would love your input on which cover you prefer. There are tight time constraints due to the release date so please let me know which one you would pick by Monday, June 18th.
Thank you.
Next week, I will have some exciting news on the upcoming release of "Cursed Days, book three and a sneak peak.

J.M.

A huge thank you

It has been a very exciting week. As most of you know, Cursed Presence was released on Tuesday, January 31st. Please help spread the word. The book had a great first day push and I have received a lot of wonderful comments. Thank you to everyone. I'm curious what you think of the spiritual content of the book. Do you like the inspirational content or do you find it a turn off? I understand that everyone is different and whether you like it or not, I would love your feedback. This goes for either Cursed Blessing or Cursed Presence. If you respond and let me know your thoughts, I'll randomly draw two names and send the winners a signed copy of both novels. Please include your e-mail address so I can  contact you and get some information if you win. Please sendyour comments to jm_leduc@yahoo.com.
Winners will be announced on Saturday, February 11th, and for the next three Saturdays.


Now for a totally different subject. This Sunday is the Super Bowl. Having  grown up in Boston, I admit to being a big New England fan. Being a Patriots fan can be very polarizing. People seem to either love them or hate them. The same goes for the Giants. I don't know if it's the personnel or the areas they represent, but either way it makes for a fun rivalry and hopefully a great game. So whether you are a New England or a New York fan, forget the diet for the day and enjoy Super Bowl Sunday.


Until next week,
J. M.

Cursed Presence: Chapter Two

There really isn't much to say. You will find chapter two of Cursed Presence below. It will be published on January 31, 2012 in both e-book and print. Look for it everywhere. As a special promotion for the upcoming launch the publisher had discounted Cursed Blessing. It is now available in all e-book formats for only $.99. It will only stay that low for a short time so please take advantage of it.

Chapter TWO

      Later that evening, long after lights out, he heard his ‘father’s’ voice. Deep and guttural.

Tonight is the night, my son. It is the night you begin your ascent to the seat of honor. Prepare yourself.

     Still asleep, his muscles began to involuntarily contract. First, a slight tremor coursed through his body. Then his limbs twitched. His hands and feet followed, jerking up and down in quick, sudden movements. Fully awake, the twitching grew more exaggerated. Soon the spasmodic movement contained itself to his torso, it quaked with such force the security officers were afraid he would injure himself. Soon, he convulsed to such an extent that his entire body rose above the bed before crashing back down.
      An officer grabbed the in-house phone and dialed #001. “Doc, you better come see this.” No response. He pushed the panic button that rang in Dr. Osgood’s residence and summoned the guards.
      “Doc,” security screamed, “there’s something wrong with 54112. Looks like he’s having seizures.”
      Dr. Osgood threw off his bed covers and grabbed the phone. “On my way. Nobody is to enter the cell until I get there, understood?”
      “Yes, sir, I’ll relay that message.” He turned his attention to the intercom. “All personnel are to stand down, I repeat, stand down. No one is to enter cell 54112 without Dr. Osgood’s permission. This is a direct order.”
     The thrashing settled into a rhythmic movement, the muscle twitching took on a certain cadence. Standing in his cell, he stared directly at the security camera. Following each contraction or thrust, a non-intelligible noise emanated from his throat. The more he screamed and convulsed, the more non-human he appeared. His mouth foamed and his eyes rolled. His mouth and eyes were as white as the rest of his room.
     Dr. Osgood stormed into the observation room. Without addressing the security guard, his eyes locked on the screen.
      “What’s going on, Doc?”
      He looked away from the live feed long enough to answer. “I can’t be sure. I think he may be having some sort of physiological reaction to the major breakthrough that occurred in yesterday’s treatment session. He must be restrained before he self-mutilates.” Osgood  bit the corner of his lower lip in concern. He may be having an adverse reaction to the drastic increase in the psychotropic drug dosage I administered.
     The guard took immediate action and depressed the intercom button. “Attention, we have a Code One in cell 54112. Restrain the inmate and wait for further orders from Dr. Osgood.”
     Osgood left the observation room, and ran down the hall toward the incarceration wing. By the time he arrived, the inmate had already been placed in a straightjacket. The restraint however, did nothing to stop the convulsions, nor did it stop the screaming.
     When the doctor looked at the inmate, he swore the man was telling him something, but all he heard was verbal chant that was neither intelligible nor communicative. The doctor was so concerned with the quality of the voice, he didn’t pay attention to the words or utterances. He was accustomed to the man’s non-emotional, high-pitched, effeminate voice. This voice was base and guttural. It was though someone else’s voice was coming from his patient’s mouth.
     “We’ll have to sedate him,” Doctor Osgood said, pulling a syringe from his lab coat pocket. “Hold him down.”
      The guards grabbed the inmate. With every ounce of their strength, they pinned the already-restrained inmate to his bed. Dr. Osgood injected a fast-acting sedative. The effect was almost immediate.
     “Get a gurney and transport him to the medical wing. There, I’ll be able to run some tests.”
     The prisoner was lifted from bed to gurney where he was strapped down and shackled for safety. The guards wheeled him to the psych ward, or ‘laboratory,’ as they called it, the same area they had retrieved a calm, well-mannered prisoner seven hours earlier.
     The doctor, the only person with keys to this area of Dreamland, ran ahead to unlock the doors to the medical facility. By the time the guards arrived with the inmate, he was busy filling another syringe with two more medications.
     “What’s that, Doc?”
     “A long-lasting sedative. Roll him on his side, please.”
     As they followed the doctor’s orders, 54112 awoke and immediately began screaming and thrashing. Angrier and harsher than before.
     “My God, hold him down before he hurts himself!”
     “We’re trying,” the first guard yelled. “It’s not him we’re worried about.”
     Struggling to hold him still, the other guard yelled, “You’d better be quick with that needle.”
     Dr. Osgood drove the two-inch needle deep into 54112’s hip.
     “Argh,” the inmate screamed as the needle penetrated his muscle. Doctor Osgood depressed the plunger, releasing the medication into the man’s bloodstream. Within seconds the fight left him. He lay still and quiet as a corpse.
     “Is he dead?”
     “No, but he’ll be dead to the world for about twelve hours. You can let go of him.”
     With hesitation, the guards released prisoner #54112, half expecting him to wake up and start his wild movements again. They stepped back and took a deep breath, relieved their fears hadn’t come to fruition.
     “Excuse me, Doc,” Mickey said, “but if you don’t need us anymore, we need to report back to our posts.”
     “Hmm?” Dr. Osgood’s mind was elsewhere.
     “Doc?”
     “Hmm, yes, I apologize. You’re dismissed. Thank you both for your quick response.”
     “That’s what you pay us for,” Mickey said. He looked at the unconscious inmate, “Are you sure he’s not gonna wake up soon?”
     “Highly unlikely. Jonas…” his voice trailed, knowing he had made a mistake. Dr. Osgood hesitated for a second, waiting to see if either guard reacted to what he had let slip. When they didn’t, he continued, “Inmate 54112 will be out for at least twelve hours because of the sedatives he just received.”
     As the guards turned to leave, the doctor said, “One more thing. Please remove the restraints so that I’m able to perform the medical tests I need.”
     They looked at each other, disbelief on their faces, then at Dr. Osgood. “Doc, that’s not a good idea,” the second guard said. “You saw how violent he became, even after you gave him that first shot.”
     “Jim, I appreciate your concern, but I know what I’m doing. Please remove the inmate’s restraints.”
     Jim looked at his partner and shrugged. “The Doc’s in charge, Mickey. Let’s do as he says.”
     “Whatever. Let’s just get it over with and get out of here. This place gives me the creeps.”
     Once they’d removed the straightjacket, Jim said, “I’m gonna leave the jacket here, just in case. If he stirs, hit the panic button. We’ll be right back.”
     “Thank you. You’re dismissed.”
     On the walk back to their posts, Jim said, “Hey, Mickey, did you hear what he called him?”
     “Yeah, sure did,” Mickey replied in a muffled tone. “He called him Jonas. That psycho really is the Omega Butcher. I never would have believed it.”
     “Me neither. He’s so small. He looks almost like a boy, ya know?”
      “Yup, I was thinking the same thing. Where the heck did all his strength come from?”
      “I don’t know, but we now know how he was able to overpower those poor girls.”

Welocome to 2012: The year of new beginnings

Hi everyone,

It was a crazy ending of 2011 and for that matter the beginning of 2012. For those of you who don't know, I have had multiple hip prosthesis' in both hips. I developed a massive bone infection in my left hip and had to have emergency radical surgery on December 20th. They removed my left hip implant and all other hardware that had been implanted over the past ten years and left me without a hip. Yep, no hip. Who ever thought a person could actually walk and get around without the top part of the femur and a hip. It has been a tough recovery; one I'm still struggling with, but each day is better than the one before. I would like to thank everyone for your prayers, emails and get well wishes. I don't think I could have endured this past three weeks without them...God bless all of you.

Enough melancholy. It is time to celebrate the new year. And what better way to celebrate than with a new book. The long awaited sequel to "Cursed Blessing" is being released on January 31, 2012. I loved writing Cursed Presence and I'm very proud of the final edit. It took a while. We carved the original 600 plus pages down to a tight, spellbinding 400ish. I don't mean to sound conceited, but I think this one is much better than the first.

We received great critical acclaim for Cursed Blessing, so I am hoping for the same for Cursed Presence.
Since I didn't want everyone to have to wait until the 31st to get a glimpse of the sequel, I am going to start to put the first few chapters on the blog site to help wet your appetite. PLEASE let me know what you think. Your opinion means everything! Enjoy chapter one.

God bless and until next week,

J. M.

Chapter One

     “On the count of three, you’ll awaken. You’ll have no memory of anything that  has happened. You’ll feel tranquil, as though you’ve taken a long peaceful nap. One, two,
three…”
      Though the words were distant, he heard them deep in the recesses of his mind. Cognizant of their meaning.
      On “three” the inmate awoke and scanned. His gaze sharp enough to cut glass. He knew where he was. The room brought an awkward peace.
      When he spoke, his voice was feminine and sounding preadolescent. “How did I do, Doc? Was I able to tell you anything new? Did I remember anything about my childhood?”
      Two feet away, sat Dr. Osgood. Amazing, he thought, nothing like the psychopathic serial killer who first appeared at Dreamland seven years ago.
      The prisoner had arrived shortly after Dr. Osgood opened the Dreamland penitentiary and research center. It could be argued that the facility was built because of him.
      “That’s not important,” the doctor answered, “You’re doing great, you’re getting healthier and your mind is healing. I’m proud of you.”
      The young man sat up, his eyes darted about the room at all times. The greenery of the plants and the pastel walls helped him focus.
     “How do you feel?” Dr. Osgood asked.
      Hands on his knees, kicking his feet back and forth like a child, his eyes fixed on the doctor’s. “Kind of like I took a long nap. But I’m not groggy or nothing. Know what I mean?”
     The doctor’s mouth turned upward in a friendly, relaxed manner. “I do,” he answered, “that’s the way you should feel.”
     Inmate 54112 bit the inside of his upper lip. His thoughts cut deeper. I’ve grown to like the guy, it’s too bad I have to…a knock on the door interrupted his thoughts.
     A cold, abrupt voice rang out, “Time’s up, doc. I have to take the inmate back to his cell.”
     “Sorry, son, but we’re out of time for today. We’ll pick back up tomorrow in our next session.”
     Two heavily-muscled men walked in. As they moved towards him, the inmate instinctively stood up and held his hands straight out in front of his body, as he’d been taught. The first guard cuffed his wrists and tightly held onto him while the second guard bent down to shackle his ankles.
      A chain fastened to the leg irons was brought up between his legs and attached to a waist chain. It was drawn through an extended link on the handcuffs and pulled down, drawing his hands into his body, and again fastened to the shackles.
      “Let’s move,” the guard said. The prisoner shuffled his feet and moved towards the open door.
      Dr. Osgood looked up from his notes, “Until tomorrow.” 
      Not allowed to speak, 54112 nodded an affirmative and kept walking. The distance from the doctor’s office to the inmate’s cell was a short one, but it took several minutes to navigate because of the confining chains.
      The guards, posted on either side of the prisoner, continued down the hall. “Are you sure this is the guy?” Jim, the guard on the left asked.
      “That’s the scuttlebutt. Hard to believe, isn’t it?” Mickey, the other guard replied.
      “I’d say. This guy’s what, five-foot-five, maybe six? And weighs about a buck forty. I’m surprised he’d have enough strength to overpower those girls, not to mention what he did to them.”
      The first guard turned and looked at the inmate. Goosebumps covered his forearms, as if in warning. “I don’t know, Jim, if you think about it, the timing’s right. He got here at the end of 2001, just about the same time the Omega Butcher was convicted.”
      Jim shook his head. “I know, but it’s still hard to believe.”
      “Yeah, well—if it’s him, he’s gonna fry for those atrocities as soon as Dr. Frankenstein finishes playing with him.”
      The inmate sucked his lower lip and bit down trying to abate his aggression. I’ll show you how I did it, he silently promised. I’ll tear the two of you to shreds before you ever have a chance to pull your weapons.
      Seething with anger, he heard a calming voice somewhere in the recesses of his mind.
      Easy, my son. It’s not yet your time.
      His heartbeat slowed as he listened to the voice. The voice he now considered a friend. A friend who’d kept him from going crazy shortly after he arrived at Dreamland.
      Seven years ago he had questioned the voice’s identity, and was told, I am the one; the ruler of all that is of this world and all that will ever be, and you are my chosen, my son.
      If I’m asked who sent me, whom shall I say? the inmate pressed.
     Tell them the Dark One sent you. The one who lurks from within the shadows of men’s souls sent you and that you are my chosen.
     One of the guards walked ahead as they approached the prisoner’s cell and unlocked the door. Mickey, the second guard walked 54112 straight through without delay. Once inside the small cell, the guards removed the chain, shackles and cuffs in reverse order. The prisoner put his hands down by his sides and remained at attention until he heard the door shut and the tumblers lock.
     His shoulders dropped as he expelled a relaxing breath. Here, in his nine-by-nine square foot home, he felt secure. He looked around. Everything was white: white walls, white linoleum floor, white metal-framed twin-sized bed, and crisp, white linens. A commode and sink, also white, sat in the back left corner opposite his bed.
     He, like other Dreamland inmates, had running water twice a day, between six and six-ten in the morning, and again between eight-fifty and nine in the evening. During that time, inmates brushed their teeth and took a quick sponge bath. There were no showers.
     Truth be told, the cell reminded him of the only other place he had ever felt secure, his bedroom where he grew up.
     If he was nothing else, the prisoner was a man of patterns. He kept a mental schedule of how and when things were to be done and he followed the schedule to a tee. He permitted himself no variations, a system familiar to him from earliest memories.
     A cold sweat began to form as he thought back to that fateful day. He could still hear his mother screaming in pain as she lay in the fetal position on the kitchen floor. The salty sweat burned his eyes as he remembered waiting outside the operating room. Bile bubbled in his throat at the memory of the surgeon walking down the hall, head down, not wanting to make eye contact with him.
     His last memory of that day was throwing up on the shoes of the woman from Child Services.
     His mother passed away from a burst appendix and subsequent infection. He had no father, at least none he knew of. He was sent to live with his Aunt Peg. She was his mother’s older sister, his only living relative. She had agreed to take him in only when she learned the state would pay her to keep him.
     Following his mother’s funeral, Aunt Peg took him by the hand and they walked silently to her car.
     When they arrived home, she grabbed the visibly distraught boy by the shouldersand shook him. Fear swept over him as he looked into eyes that held no love. Evil was all he saw. Evil eyes set in a sharp, angular face. The boy often wondered if her face would crack if she smiled. It was a theory he was never able to prove or disprove in the thirteen years he lived with her.
     “There will be no more crying, boy,” she shrieked.
      She shoved him into her three-story Beacon Hill walk up, as she continued her ‘get to know you’ rant. “Things are done differently around here. Everything is done on a schedule. If you’re late, you’ll be punished. If you’re late for a meal, you don’t eat until the next scheduled meal and you’ll be punished. There will be no sparing the rod in this house.”
     The mere thought of Aunt Peg caused the inmate to shake uncontrollably. Time and schedule had been burned into his being, figuratively and literally.
     The clock above the door of his cell read 4:29 p.m. Dinnertime was 5:00.  It was time to pray, a rigid practice he’d held to since the day he moved in with his aunt. 54112 knelt in the middle of the floor. He knew he was being watched by security officers. They assumed the inmate was praying to God.

Ho, Ho, Ho

I walked into Barnes and Noble the other day and on their "featured" table was the new novel by the Kardashian sisters. The bile started to peculate, but with great concentration and a strong constitution I was able to hold it down. I turned around and walked out of the store. I promised myself I wouldn't write this blog until my emotions calmed down, although I don't think time has changed my opinion at all.

I didn't think the publishing industry could sink any lower than when Snooky "wrote" a book, but I guess I was wrong. We, all of us who are somehow connected to the publishing industry should be ashamed.

We can look at this in two ways. The first is that money and greed have overtaken the industry. The other is that publishers put out this garbage knowing that there are people foolish enough to buy it in order to have the funding to support new, lesser known writers who might not get a chance otherwise. I hope their reasoning is the latter, but...

I think what amazes me the most is that people will pay good money to buy this junk and worse, they actually think these airheads write these books. Think again. You need to be able to spell and put a sentence together in order to be able to write. Not to mention, having talent. Believe it or not, whining and showing cleavage is not a talent.

Purchasing a book for a loved one is a great gift to give during the holidays. It is something they will always cherish. If you do, please look at the new and upcoming authors and give them a chance. I know you'll be happy for that choice. Whatever your choice, even if it is trash written by trash, at least someone is reading, and that is always a good thing.

Merry Christmas,

J. M.

Seasons

     In the past week, I have sensed the change of seasons starting to happen. Living in South Florida, this can sometimes be a subtle change. There is no changing of the color of the leaves. The mornings aren't brisk. Clothing doesn't change; well not for most of us. More on that in a moment. No, the changes aren't that overt. I wish they were. As a male member of our species, I don't do well with subtle. It takes us a while to catch on.
     That being said, I have sensed the changes that go along with summer morphing into fall. The temperature has dropped from 90 to a cool 85. The meteorologists have lost some of their zeal for putting the word tropical in front of every breeze that blows or rain drop that falls. We used to have showers or thunder storms, now we have tropical disturbances. Sorry about that. Where was I? Oh yeah...changes in the seasons. Other signs that fall is here can be seen in the stores. The Halloween costumes are on display next to the Christmas decorations. Is there really any doubt why more 'sane' people seem to go postal as the holidays approach? By the time December 25th has finally arrived, the sensationalism and commercialism of Christmas has been shoved down our throats for so long, that one more version of "I Wish You a Merry Christmas" or "My Grandma Got Ran Over By a Reindeer" could turn anyone into a raging wacko.
     Sorry, there I go again. Back to the signs of fall. One of the biggest signs that the seasons have changed is that the humidity is no longer 90 percent or above and finally the biggest sign in South Florida that the fall has arrived...the elderly have multiplied and they are wearing jackets, hats and gloves because the temperatures have dipped below 90... brrr!
     Now that I have gotten that off my chest, I have some exciting news. On this coming Wednesday, you will find a guest blog from a very talented young author on "Phantom Phrases." So please check the blog on the 19th or soon after to learn more about Stephanie Campbell.

New Beginnings, Great Endings, and What Comes In Between

     As some of you may know, I am a professor at a nursing school as well as being a full time writer. This past week a new class entered the school and one graduated.
It is always exciting to see new students arrive. They show up full of positive emotions and excitement. They haven't yet been throttled by the immense amount of work that they will putting forth. They see the eventual outcome through rose colored glasses...and this is good! It's great to see people who are only able to see the adventure and hold their desires close to their heart.
     It's even more exciting to see a class graduate. I have watched them go through the process of working toward their degree and even more importantly, their nursing license. The look on the faces of those who have been through the battle, didn't give up, stayed true to themselves, and found victory in the end is a wonderful thing.
     This sounds a lot like the writing process. When the idea for a new plot line or new character is first established, writers become very excited. They see the beginning and they can envision the end and it all looks amazing. Putting the first words to paper and knowing they are good is thrilling, but soon comes the hard work. A writer must find a way to engage the reader in the first few sentences or most will look elsewhere. They must make the plot flow seamlessly and have the characters connect to the reader. Sometimes, on very special days, this can be endless, joyful bliss, but on most days the process is hard work.
     In the end, when you have a final manuscript that you are proud of, you find that all the emotional and physical toil was worthwhile.
     Both of these scenarios could relate to anybody starting out on a new adventure, whether it be a new career, home or relationship. As we all know, the beginning is always exciting and full of promise, but to get to the best part...the end, we must work hard and keep our vision on the reason we started it to begin with.
So when you wake up tomorrow, try and see it as a new adventure, one with the promise of new beginnings. With hard work it will bring the satisfaction of a great ending.
Until next week,
J. M.

Cursed Blessing; Book One of the Trilogy of the Chosen is published by Suspense Publishing and can be found where ever e-books are sold.
Your reviews are always welcome. You may find yourself and your comments written in the Reviews section of the next book, Cursed Presence.