Twisted Perception - Second serialized post - Ch 1, continued

Twisted Perception

Michelle Baker stepped off the stage and tried to ignore the remnants of the night’s audience, the leering faces, each sharing a fantasy they thought their own, and it went through her again, one of those black-hole feelings that sucks you in and tells you you’re not getting out, no matter what you do. The doctors called it depression. Michelle called it life, because it had always been that way for her. But there were moments, like that time in Florida, early in the season before the heat set in. A stiff breeze had come off the sea and rolled back the clouds, leaving the moon and stars contrasting against the black sky. Then the dark haired man with rope sandals in his hand slid his arm around her, just as natural as that, and they walked along the beach talking of life as if it were theirs. There had been no darkness then.

Her shift was over. She was going home. She could have her mother pack some clothes and together they could drive down to South Texas, spend a few days at Padre Island.

Lisa, another dancer, a soft little brunette who’d only been there about a month, intentionally brushed against Michelle as she walked past.

“Hey, sweetie,” she whispered.

Michelle smiled but said nothing. It came with the territory in these places, the girls loving each other. You learn to hate men so you turn lesbian. The problem with that is after a few weeks, or months, or however long it takes you, you start to hate women too. And where does that leave you? In hell, she guessed.

She didn’t even rehearse anymore, worrying over the steps and the music. None of that really mattered. She was a stripper, beginning her act with suggestive clothing and ending with nothing but an idea. It was, though, the boring monotony—the same faces, the same looks and catcalls—that allowed one to detach from it all and exist in such a world. But there were exceptions, those nights when someone would stand out from the crowd, their eyes searching deeper than her nakedness, and that scared her, for she knew the thoughts of such people went beyond fantasy, and they would make them real, given half a chance. She had not seen anyone like that tonight, but the fearful feelings that surrounded those encounters wrapped around her thoughts, and lingered heavy as she said good-bye to the other dancers and stepped outside into the rain.

The Guardian of Route 66

A few years ago -- quite a few actually -- while attending classes at what was then called Central State university, located in Edmond, Oklahoma, I had an unusual experience.

Actually it happened after class during the drive home. I was married and had a fulltime job, which left me attending night classes to continue my education. The duration of class was three hours, starting at 6:00 PM and letting out at 9:00. Since I was already out of class and on the way, the incident occurred between 9:20 and 9:30 PM. At the time, I was driving an old MG, which had a few annoying if not dangerous idiosyncrasies. One of the treacherous traits was a faulty light switch, which, on occasion, would cause the lights to go out.Toggling the switch in rapid succession brought them back on.

The trip home consisted of an eighteen mile drive, originating on East Second Street in Edmond. It was there, at the point where Second Street curves into Highway 66 that it happened. Just as I was about to enter the curve, I saw a man dressed in a robe, like that of an ancient Greek or Roman, and he was walking alongside the highway. That's when the lights went out. At the time, there were no houses, buildings or even streetlights located in the area, so when the lights went out, they went out. I was plunged into total darkness. My immediate concern was that, without being able to see where I was going, I ran the risk of running over the unusual pedestrian. I began to jab the dashboard until I found the light switch then continued to toggle the switch. Seconds later, when the lights came back on, I'd traveled a distance of about 300 feet, somehow successfully maneuvering the curve.

Fear shot through me as I brought the MG to a stop. No other cars were on the road and I saw no one in front of me. I quickly turned the car around. I had neither heard nor felt anything hit the vehicle, but I wanted to make sure that I had not hurt or possibly even killed the pedestrian. I saw no one. I went past the curve then turned around and drove through again. After that, I parked on the shoulder where the incident had occurred and got out of the car and searched the area. I found nothing. Later I would examine the car and find no damage.

As I continued the drive home, details of the event played through my head, and I began to wonder if perhaps I'd seen an angel, who'd brought me to an alert status, helping me to make the curve on Route 66 when the lights went out.

This is a true story. I'd love to hear about your experiences. If you have something you'd like to share, please leave a comment, or email me at bob@bobavey.com. You can remain anonymous if you wish.

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 31^st Street, he slowed the car and pulled in. His actions were not prescient, or even fantastic. He knew where to look. She frequented such places.

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:

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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.

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

Trying to get this blog going again

Hello, everyone. I have a real post to enter once I get this blog working.

Even more Twisted

Hello, everyone.

As a result of my hobbies, I’m familiar with many Oklahoma towns, but lately, being busy with this and occupied with that, I’d almost forgotten how special these national treasures are. However, with many of the book signings and speaking engagements I’ve experienced lately being situated in rural communities, my appreciation for small-town life has been reignited. How could you not love library meetings where the main topics, shying away from things like drugs, terrorism, and drive-by shootings, lean more toward more pleasant undertakings like frog jumping contests, turtle races, and ice cream socials: Things for the children.

Getting back to a more serious note, let me share with you some of what I’ve experienced while manning booths at some of the craft fairs across Oklahoma. It seems that wherever I go people who share an interest in writing stop by to talk about such. Normally this is an enjoyable affair. However, depending on the individuals involved, things like this can get uncomfortable. On one of my outings, a young man strolled up and asked me if I wrote poetry. I had, I told him, in my early years, but had since abandoned such notions, having fallen in love with fiction. I can only speculate that, being filled with excitement, he only heard the first part of my sentence – that portion leaning toward the affirmative – for he produced a spiral notebook, which seemed to appear from nowhere, sort of like Felix the Cat’s bag of tricks, from which he commenced reading various verses he had penned. I listened politely, however, while this was going down, potential business walked on, passing me by – a man wearing blue denim overalls with no shirt beneath, a lady with a tattoo on her leg that seriously resembled an open wound, a girl carrying a rock in one hand and a corn dog in the other, a boy with a monkey on his back that was clutching a large potato, and finally a lady, who actually ignored my guest and stopped. She’d just purchased a turkey leg, and she wanted to trade it for a book. I was hungry. I almost went for it. I could go on, but I won’t.

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