I haven't forgotten the purpose of this blog. I'm just trying to get my footing. I promise more good and unusual stories to come. In the meantime, let me relate an unusual dream to you. I have quite a few of those.
My wife and I are walking along a dirt road in the country. There is no one else around and no cars or other traffic, just the two of us. A few minutes into our journey, I see a dead bear cub lying in the ditch. I show my wife and we both feel very sad. As we continue our journey, it begins to get dark and I tell my wife that we need to find a place to sleep for the night. We come to an old abandoned house and decide to go inside and stay the night there. As we walk into the yard, we start to see dead baby bears everywhere. The grief we feel is great but it is soon replaced by fear of the mother bear. I know that when the mama bear shows up she will think that my wife and I had something to do with the devestation, which we did not. At this point I wake up.
Please feel free to comment about your own dreams. Or send me your dream in an email to bob@bobavey.com and I'll publish it in the blog.
I'm also offering a free paperback copy of either Twisted Perception, or Beneath a Buried House. All I ask in return is a review of the book posted on amazon.com or Barnes&Noble.com. If interested, please email me at bob@bobavey.com
Hurry this is a short limited time offer.
Thanks
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Twisted Perception - First serialized post.
Chapter One
A car horn interrupted the driver’s thoughts, and he realized his mind had been elsewhere, reliving a despairing moment, an ugly slice of time in which he’d killed a friend. A tear formed in his eye and rolled down his cheek.
He hoped the night would not hold any more surprises. Enough had already gone wrong. He hesitated, and when he pulled onto the road the reflection of the street lamps off the wet pavement reminded him of a carnival midway, and he fancied being transported to another world where things would not be as they were: life dependent on death.
He tightened his grip on the steering wheel and cursed the troublesome mist that swirled through the air. He could discern no rain falling, though the moisture seemed to be everywhere, a monsoon of molecular proportions emanating from the fabric of the world it coated. His lack of concentration didn’t surprise him. He didn’t want to be there, driving around town on such a night. The windshield wipers cleared his field of vision, and when he saw the place where he’d found her before, some bar along 31st Street
He heard a rattling noise and realized it was his ring clattering against the steering wheel as his hands shook. He wanted to blame it on the wine, but he knew better. The drinking had not intoxicated him to the point of being even remotely prepared for the task ahead of him. Beads of sweat ran down his back at the thought of it. There was no getting around what he had to do. She’d come back. And people ought to stay dead when they’re put that way.
He thought of Papa. Times like this perpetuated his essence, and he imagined his name—though he didn’t speak it, and he did not for a moment pretend to assume his presence. That would be tantamount to disrespect, and disrespecting Papa was not a good idea. He rolled down the car window, letting the cold mist pepper his face as he leaned back in the seat, and waited.
I'll post more next week. To purchase novel visit:
http://www.amazon.com/Twisted-Perception-Detective-Mystery-ebook/dp/B004C43H32/ref=ntt_at_ep_edition_2_1?ie=UTF8&m=AG56TWVU5XWC2
I'll post more next week. To purchase novel visit:
Monday, June 20, 2011
Histories Mysteries
During the vernal equinox, as well as the autumnal, the sun sets in the middle of twelve earthen mounds that stretch across the grassy plains a few miles northeast of Spiro, Oklahoma. Similar events transpire during the summer and winter solstices, which leaves the sun casting its evening light along the northern and southern areas of the mounds, respectively. Like most Native American cultures, the people who occupied the area were heavily influenced by the movements of celestial bodies across the sky. It has even been suggested that the Spiro people were the remnants of the Mayan civilization, which seems to have crumbled around 900 AD.
It is believed that the Spiro Mounds grouping was a part of the Southeastern Ceremonial Complex, also known as the Southern Death Cult, an empire that stretched from the Gulf Coast to the Great Lakes and from the Rocky Mountains to the East Coast, encompassing sixty tribes and thirty language groups. Popular theory has it that the Death Cult social organization developed independently of Mesoamerican cultures, such as the Aztec. However, artifacts unearthed from Spiro and other sites suggest the Spiro people were in contact with cultures from Mexico. It’s no stretch of the imagination to suspect that something more than trade goods was exchanged. Afterall, the term Southern Death Cult came about due to the multitude of bones and skulls associated with the sites. Could they have been the victims of human sacrifice?
An obsidian blade, which has been well documented as having come from Mexico was recovered from Craig Mound in 1935, and a mysterious character named Walter Guinn Cooper, who, when asked about the artifact during an interview by Dr. James Cherry, had this to say about it: “There was this fellow. I can’t recall his name, but he was a professor and he was interested in this stuff. He bought one of those, long, thin, well you’d probably call it a knife. It wasn’t flint. I don’t know what it was.”
The professor was probably Dr. Robert Bell, and it sounds as if Mr. Cooper was referring to more than one obsidian knife. Add this together, and throw in a seven-hundred year old curse and you get the inspiration for my third novel, Footprints of a Dancer, which I hope to have released soon.
The mounds in Spiro, which are visited by thousands of tourists, are not real, in a manner of speaking. The destruction of the mounds began in 1933 when the Pocola Mining Company obtained a lease and began digging to recover salable artifacts. Later, from 1936 to 1941 the mounds were completely leveled during excavations by the University of Oklahoma. The complex was reconstructed in the 1970’s.
The Pocola diggers reported that they heard a hissing sound when the cedar tomb walls of the King’s Chamber were breached. It was probably the air rushing in to fill the 700 year old vacuum. But who knows? Perhaps it was the cry of Quetzalcoatl, the plumed serpent, or even worse, that of his brother, the god of sin and misery.
It is believed that the Spiro Mounds grouping was a part of the Southeastern Ceremonial Complex, also known as the Southern Death Cult, an empire that stretched from the Gulf Coast to the Great Lakes and from the Rocky Mountains to the East Coast, encompassing sixty tribes and thirty language groups. Popular theory has it that the Death Cult social organization developed independently of Mesoamerican cultures, such as the Aztec. However, artifacts unearthed from Spiro and other sites suggest the Spiro people were in contact with cultures from Mexico. It’s no stretch of the imagination to suspect that something more than trade goods was exchanged. Afterall, the term Southern Death Cult came about due to the multitude of bones and skulls associated with the sites. Could they have been the victims of human sacrifice?
An obsidian blade, which has been well documented as having come from Mexico was recovered from Craig Mound in 1935, and a mysterious character named Walter Guinn Cooper, who, when asked about the artifact during an interview by Dr. James Cherry, had this to say about it: “There was this fellow. I can’t recall his name, but he was a professor and he was interested in this stuff. He bought one of those, long, thin, well you’d probably call it a knife. It wasn’t flint. I don’t know what it was.”
The professor was probably Dr. Robert Bell, and it sounds as if Mr. Cooper was referring to more than one obsidian knife. Add this together, and throw in a seven-hundred year old curse and you get the inspiration for my third novel, Footprints of a Dancer, which I hope to have released soon.
The mounds in Spiro, which are visited by thousands of tourists, are not real, in a manner of speaking. The destruction of the mounds began in 1933 when the Pocola Mining Company obtained a lease and began digging to recover salable artifacts. Later, from 1936 to 1941 the mounds were completely leveled during excavations by the University of Oklahoma. The complex was reconstructed in the 1970’s.
The Pocola diggers reported that they heard a hissing sound when the cedar tomb walls of the King’s Chamber were breached. It was probably the air rushing in to fill the 700 year old vacuum. But who knows? Perhaps it was the cry of Quetzalcoatl, the plumed serpent, or even worse, that of his brother, the god of sin and misery.
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Getting Personal
Welcome to my new blog and to what could be called the first real blog post of my career. I say this because I did have a blog once, a publication – and I use the term loosely being that publication means to Make Public and I have no knowledge of anyone ever actually having read the work – that I’ve long since abandoned because it turned out to be nothing more than a rehash of my newsletters, a lighthearted account of life on the road for an author. I can promise you with utmost sincerity that this blog will not follow in the footsteps of its predecessor. As to which path it might take, I am certain only that it will not be the most likely, the most traveled. I desire to learn about, and to explore that which is unusual. I hope you will join me on the journey.
Let me explain the twofold impetus behind this new endeavor. The joy of reading bloomed inside of me at an early age. However, the book, which captivated my imagination, causing me not only to want to read but to write as well, was a book of fantasy, titled A Wrinkle in Time, written by Madeleine L’Engle. After that, if the book didn’t have an element of fantasy about it, or something extraordinary, it just couldn’t hold my attention. Not surprisingly, the genre heavily influenced my early writing efforts. My reading preferences still lean in that direction. However, my two published novels, Twisted Perception and Beneath a Buried House, while no one has described either as being ordinary, contain no elements of fantasy. With my third book, I hope to change that.
As indicated, the inspiration for change involves more than getting back to my literary roots. The balance of the formula is better demonstrated through the relation of a personal experience. This should also reveal what I hope to be an important component of the blog, the sharing of personal stories and experiences.
When I was young, around the age of nine or ten, I dreamed of being in a forest where a comforting, golden hue enveloped the landscape, including the sky and the trees and everything that could be seen. The peace and contentment that I felt there, something that escapes description, convinced me, even as a child that I was caught up in something, which was on a deeper level than an ordinary dream. But it didn’t end there. Soon, I emerged from the forest where I began walking along a roadway. I was completely alone on the roadway, but as I continued the journey I encountered pockets of people, whom I recognized as friends and family. Each group seemed to be having a good time and without exception they called to me, trying to convince me to join them. I knew that I should not do that. My mission was to stay on the road, and that’s what I did. The last group of people included my mom and dad. They, too, tried to convince me to step off of the roadway. I found this very disturbing, and it was at this point that I woke up.
Please keep in mind that I did not come from a religious family. We went to church maybe three or four times during my entire childhood. Sadly, this unfortunate condition was also the norm for my aunts and uncles on both sides. I had a few friends who went to church, but none talked of it. In short, At least in my young mind, I had no one to turn to. I carried the dream around with me for a few weeks, and when I finally decided that I had to tell someone, I settled on my sister. After listening to my experience, she stared at me for a few seconds and then said, “You’re going to die.”
My sister is a story in herself, but I won’t go into that. She wasn’t being silly or sarcastic. Looking back, I’m pretty sure that hearing such words come from her little brother’s mouth probably caused her a few sleepless nights.
I finally decided to pray about it. I don’t recommend making demands of the Lord, but remember I was just a child. In the prayer, I asked God if He was trying to speak to me and that if He was to please give me a sign. I even gave Him the sign to use. You see, there was this girl who rode the same school bus as I. I was deeply in love with her, but I knew she hadn’t a clue that I even existed. I asked God to make her my girlfriend because I knew that only a miracle could do that.
The next day, I’d actually forgotten about it, so I bounded onto the bus as usual. However, when she called out to me and asked me to sit beside her, the smile that stretched across my face could have reached into the next county. Here’s the kicker: That girl had never spoken to me before that day, and she never spoke to me again afterward. The next day was business as usual, like nothing had ever happened.
I’ll let you draw your own conclusions. For me, it was pretty rock-solid. As fate would have it, though, as I grew older and life called out to me, I stepped off that roadway. I will forever regret taking those wayward steps, but all is not lost. It never is. Recently, life’s journey has caused me to rethink my position. I’ve asked Jesus to come back into my life.
Well there you have it. Before this, only a handful of people had ever heard that story. Now back to my fiction. What I hope to do with it from this point forward is to season the plot with thoughtful fantasy and weave into the fabric the power of faith. I hope I can successfully pull it off.
Most importantly, I hope that reader participation will become an important part of this blog. Please feel free to leave a comment, send an email, or forward a guest blog post. I want to hear your stories. I’m intrigued by stories of faith, but all things interest me, especially the unusual, the unexplained and the bizarre.
Next week I’ll touch on The Southern Death Cult of the Spiro Mounds, some of the inspiration behind, Footprints of a Dancer, the third book in the Detective Elliot series.
Please check out the link: http://www.amazon.com/Beneath-Buried-House-Detective-ebook/dp/B003SE7J6I/ref=pd_sim_kinc_1?ie=UTF8&m=AG56TWVU5XWC2
Let me explain the twofold impetus behind this new endeavor. The joy of reading bloomed inside of me at an early age. However, the book, which captivated my imagination, causing me not only to want to read but to write as well, was a book of fantasy, titled A Wrinkle in Time, written by Madeleine L’Engle. After that, if the book didn’t have an element of fantasy about it, or something extraordinary, it just couldn’t hold my attention. Not surprisingly, the genre heavily influenced my early writing efforts. My reading preferences still lean in that direction. However, my two published novels, Twisted Perception and Beneath a Buried House, while no one has described either as being ordinary, contain no elements of fantasy. With my third book, I hope to change that.
As indicated, the inspiration for change involves more than getting back to my literary roots. The balance of the formula is better demonstrated through the relation of a personal experience. This should also reveal what I hope to be an important component of the blog, the sharing of personal stories and experiences.
When I was young, around the age of nine or ten, I dreamed of being in a forest where a comforting, golden hue enveloped the landscape, including the sky and the trees and everything that could be seen. The peace and contentment that I felt there, something that escapes description, convinced me, even as a child that I was caught up in something, which was on a deeper level than an ordinary dream. But it didn’t end there. Soon, I emerged from the forest where I began walking along a roadway. I was completely alone on the roadway, but as I continued the journey I encountered pockets of people, whom I recognized as friends and family. Each group seemed to be having a good time and without exception they called to me, trying to convince me to join them. I knew that I should not do that. My mission was to stay on the road, and that’s what I did. The last group of people included my mom and dad. They, too, tried to convince me to step off of the roadway. I found this very disturbing, and it was at this point that I woke up.
Please keep in mind that I did not come from a religious family. We went to church maybe three or four times during my entire childhood. Sadly, this unfortunate condition was also the norm for my aunts and uncles on both sides. I had a few friends who went to church, but none talked of it. In short, At least in my young mind, I had no one to turn to. I carried the dream around with me for a few weeks, and when I finally decided that I had to tell someone, I settled on my sister. After listening to my experience, she stared at me for a few seconds and then said, “You’re going to die.”
My sister is a story in herself, but I won’t go into that. She wasn’t being silly or sarcastic. Looking back, I’m pretty sure that hearing such words come from her little brother’s mouth probably caused her a few sleepless nights.
I finally decided to pray about it. I don’t recommend making demands of the Lord, but remember I was just a child. In the prayer, I asked God if He was trying to speak to me and that if He was to please give me a sign. I even gave Him the sign to use. You see, there was this girl who rode the same school bus as I. I was deeply in love with her, but I knew she hadn’t a clue that I even existed. I asked God to make her my girlfriend because I knew that only a miracle could do that.
The next day, I’d actually forgotten about it, so I bounded onto the bus as usual. However, when she called out to me and asked me to sit beside her, the smile that stretched across my face could have reached into the next county. Here’s the kicker: That girl had never spoken to me before that day, and she never spoke to me again afterward. The next day was business as usual, like nothing had ever happened.
I’ll let you draw your own conclusions. For me, it was pretty rock-solid. As fate would have it, though, as I grew older and life called out to me, I stepped off that roadway. I will forever regret taking those wayward steps, but all is not lost. It never is. Recently, life’s journey has caused me to rethink my position. I’ve asked Jesus to come back into my life.
Well there you have it. Before this, only a handful of people had ever heard that story. Now back to my fiction. What I hope to do with it from this point forward is to season the plot with thoughtful fantasy and weave into the fabric the power of faith. I hope I can successfully pull it off.
Most importantly, I hope that reader participation will become an important part of this blog. Please feel free to leave a comment, send an email, or forward a guest blog post. I want to hear your stories. I’m intrigued by stories of faith, but all things interest me, especially the unusual, the unexplained and the bizarre.
Next week I’ll touch on The Southern Death Cult of the Spiro Mounds, some of the inspiration behind, Footprints of a Dancer, the third book in the Detective Elliot series.
Please check out the link: http://www.amazon.com/Beneath-Buried-House-Detective-ebook/dp/B003SE7J6I/ref=pd_sim_kinc_1?ie=UTF8&m=AG56TWVU5XWC2
Trying to get this blog going again
Hello, everyone. I have a real post to enter once I get this blog working.
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