Twisted Perception - 9th Seralized Post

“Why do you suppose seeing you would bother him?”

            “Well for heavens sake, hon, I don’t know. But I can tell you this, when he started toward me, I near lost myself. He scared the wits out of me. I don’t know why I showed him my cell phone. I guess I was trying to let him know that I could call for help if I needed to. But that didn’t scare him. It seemed to be what he wanted. He started nodding his head and yelling through the glass that someone was inside that car, he thought she might be dead, and would I mind calling the police. Well, let me tell you, I was more than happy to do just that.”

            “Do you remember what time you made the call?”

            “It was before six. That’s about the time I usually get here, and I was running a little early.”

            Elliot closed his notepad and tucked it inside his jacket pocket. “Thank you, Mrs. Smith. That’ll be all for now.” He stood on the sidewalk for a moment then walked over to the Mercedes, where Beaumont was standing. “You about through here?”

            “It’s all yours,” Beaumont said. Then he surprised Elliot. He put a hand on his shoulder, and with an expression that looked almost personable he said, “You look a little rough around the edges, Elliot. What’s bothering you?”

            As if on cue, a wind kicked up, a cool and swirling breeze that carried the faint smell of pear blossoms coming from some of the few blooms that had managed to survive the up-and-down temperatures. “It’s nothing,” Elliot said, “Just a bad case of déjà vu.”

            Beaumont raised an eyebrow and cocked his head, putting his hands on his hips, an imitation John Wayne in a Park Avenue suit. “Probably not the words you were looking for, but I think I know what you’re getting at. The Stillwater murders right? The victims had their throats cut, and as I recall, at least one of them was found like this, in the passenger seat of her car.” He paused and rubbed his chin. “That was before your time, too. I must say I’m impressed, old boy.”

            Elliot wondered how Beaumont knew so much. The Stillwater murders had happened a long time ago, seven years at least, and with no apparent connection to Tulsa. It was a stretch even for a fanatic like Beaumont. Yet he’d brought it up immediately. But Elliot’s knowledge of the events hadn’t been acquired by studying old case files, as he suspected Beaumont’s had. He’d been a little closer to the source, attending classes at Oklahoma State during the murders and reading about them in the Stillwater Gazette. “Before your time, as well,” he added.

            “That it was. Seems there was more to it though, some sort of messages. ”

            “Written in blood,” Elliot said. “And the slitting of the throats wasn’t like this, a simple cut. They had a pattern, a definite design.” Elliot’s own words sent a chill through him, but he said nothing more. How could he tell Beaumont the memory that had nearly brought him to his knees hadn’t come from Stillwater, but from a time period when he was a high school senior in Porter, Oklahoma?

“Morning, gentlemen.”

A team from the medical examiner’s office had arrived, and one of them, Donald Carter, had made his way over to them. “Hey, Donnie,” Elliot said.

            Beaumont gave a curt nod.

            Donald Carter slipped on a pair of half-moon glasses and said, “Some crazy weather we’re having, huh?”

            Elliot smiled and started walking toward the Mercedes while Donald Carter and Detective Beaumont followed. Less than a week ago temperatures had hovered around the high eighties, spawning a tornado that had ripped through the outskirts of town. This morning most thermometers would have to struggle to get above forty: Springtime in Oklahoma. Elliot stopped beside the open passenger door of the vehicle. “How long would you say she’s been dead?”

            Donnie stepped forward and ducked his head inside the car, for a closer look. He already had his gloves on. He pushed the skin with his finger, observing its elasticity then lifted one of her arms “Several hours. Seven or eight, if I had to guess.” He pulled his head back and stood straight. “Looks like she was killed in the driver’s seat then somehow maneuvered over to this side.”

            Elliot nodded. “A hurried attempt to throw us off. The victim was dragged over the console. I think she was killed somewhere else and brought here.” He paused, intending to stop there, but before he knew it he was verbalizing his thoughts. “I’ve got a tip-of-the-iceberg feeling about all this.”

            The look on Donald Carter’s face said he was interested, but one of his team members had called out to him. He turned and walked away.

Beaumont muttered something that Elliot couldn’t quite make out, and then he said, “You might be onto something. There are a lot of similarities here, perhaps a little too many. You don’t suppose we have a copycat on our hands, do you?”

            “Maybe,” Elliot said. And again, what he’d only intended to think came out. “Worse yet, maybe not.”

            Beaumont arched an eyebrow. “Surely you don’t think…” He shook his head. “Christ, Elliot, some psycho could’ve run across it in an old newspaper or something.”

            Don’t do this, Kenny. We can work it out.

            “Yeah,” Elliot said. “You’re probably right.” He got some plastic bags from his car and went back to the Mercedes, where he picked up the cell phone and gathered some fibers that looked to be from duct tape. In the glove compartment, he found a book of matches from some bar. For the first time, he hoped Beaumont was right. However, when he slid the necklace off the mirror and dropped it into the bag, he again thought of Marcia Barnes, her blonde hair caked with blood, her petite body riddled with stab wounds.

            “You going to be all right?” Beaumont asked.

            “Why wouldn’t I be?”

             Beaumont shrugged. “What’s up with that fellow Sergeant Conley took in?”

 “His name’s Bill Morton. He found the body.”

            “You think he had something to do with it?”

            “I don’t know. He’s got a record, everything from petty burglary to exposing himself to the sisters at the cathedral over on Boulder, but nothing like this.”

            “The real cream of society,” Beaumont remarked.

            Elliot watched the medical examiner’s people remove the body.

            “How’s Molly?” Beaumont asked.

            Elliot found that curious as well. Molly worked at the district attorney’s office and she and Elliot had been dating, but he hadn’t been aware that Beaumont knew that. “She’s doing better.”

            Beaumont nodded. “I know what she’s going through. It’s tough to lose someone, especially when they’re family.”

            “Not much more we can do here,” Elliot said.

Let me know what you think. Feel free to comment or email me at bob@bobavey.com

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Book Review -- Abundant Life - Day Book

With, Abundant Life, Day Book, Nancy Guthrie creates scripture based blessings for each day of the year. A prayer, drawn from the content and nature of the blessing, accompanies each entry, offering praise to God for his gifts and favor.

I admit to a lack of confidence with this review. Prior to reading Abundant Life, my experience rested exclusively upon fiction. However, I enjoyed reading the book. The structure, with the narrative being framed by scripture and prayer, proved quite effective, and I found the content both informative and inspiring.

I would recommend, Abundant Life, Day Book, to Christian adults and teens, especially those who, through a busy schedule of work or school, interact heavily with the secular world. The little book has a way of reminding us that we are all God’s people.

For purposes of this review, I received a complimentary copy of Abundant Life from the publisher, Tyndale House

                                                                                 – Bob Avey, author of Beneath a Buried House

Moving is for the Birds

Hello, everyone. For the past several weeks, I’ve been in the process of moving. After 12 years in the house I’d worked like crazy to pay off, my wife decided she wanted a new house. We sold our house in 8 days, had to move 41 years of married life in 2 days, then, after renting for six months, we had to do it again. Now we’re in the new house, which looks like a furniture-and-other-items bomb just went off. Needless to say, for the past few weeks my life has been thrown into total chaos. Anyway, I promise to be back soon with more exciting posts. I’m also working on the third book in the Detective Elliot series. I’m way behind. It’s taken me a little over two years to complete it. Well, it’s almost complete.

I've gotten a few emails, telling me that someone has made a comment to one of my posts, but when I go to the blog, I see no comments. I'm not sure why, but please keep reading and commenting. Feel free to leave a comment or email me at bob@bobavey.com

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Twisted Perception -- 8th Serialized Post

The nervous man, who looked about forty, had long, graying hair pulled back in a ponytail. A tattoo of a snake ran up his left arm. The lady reminded Elliot of his second grade school teacher. “I apologize for the wait,” he said. “My name’s Detective Elliot. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

            Conley introduced Bill Morton as the man who discovered the body and Ella Mae Smith as the woman who had called the police. Elliot pulled the man aside first, and after a few steps, he flipped open his notepad. “Mr. Morton, how did you happen to discover the deceased?”

            Morton gestured toward the scene. “I was coming up through here, going to the park. The Mercedes was sitting by the dumpster, all crooked-like, so I noticed it right off. When I went past, I saw someone was in the car. She didn’t look right, wasn’t moving or anything, so I thought I’d better have a look.” Morton paused and cleared his throat. “Knew she was dead when I saw all the blood.”

            Elliot made a notation. “Do you recall what time that was?”

            “I don’t know, about five thirty, I guess.”

            “Do you work around here, Mr. Morton?”

            “Nah, nothing like that, I was just out getting a little exercise.”

            Elliot tapped his notepad. Morton was wearing athletic shoes, but the rest of his attire, blue denim jeans and a western shirt, didn’t seem to confirm his explanation. “Did you see anyone else nearby?”

            “No, but I wasn’t really looking.”

            “Any other cars in the area?”

            “Not that I noticed. Except for Mrs. Smith. She pulled in across the way and stopped. She used her phone to call you guys, after I asked her to.”

            “Why do you suppose she stopped?”

            Morton shrugged and reached into his shirt pocket for a pack of cigarettes. He lit up then tossed the match onto the tarmac. “I don’t know, Mr. Elliot. Maybe she saw something she didn’t like.”

            Elliot weighed the response. Morton wasn’t dressed for a night on the town any more than he was for jogging, but his clothes were free of bloodstains and had no rips or tears. He had no weapons on him, and none were found at the crime scene. It would be nearly impossible to inflict that kind of wound on someone without getting dirty. Of course he could have gotten rid of the weapon, but if he were the killer, why would he leave to ditch the weapon and change clothes, only to return to the scene and call the cops? It didn’t seem likely, but Elliot still got the impression Morton wasn’t being entirely truthful. “I’d like to ask you to come down to the station with us, Mr. Morton. You’re not under arrest. We just want to ask you a few more questions.”

            A streetwise look of understanding crossed Morton’s face. Elliot had seen the look before; Morton had a bit of experience with the police, knew something about their procedures. The last thing he wanted was to go downtown with a bunch of cops, but he figured he had no choice. If he refused it would indicate guilt. If he tried to turn and run, that would be probable cause. He took a draw on his cigarette. “This is exactly why people don’t want to get involved. I try to do a good deed and the first thing you know, I’m a suspect.”

            “Everyone’s a suspect, Mr. Morton.”

            “Yeah? Well, I bet you don’t take Mrs. Prissy over there.”

            “Don’t bet on it,” Elliot said. “I’d haul the Pope in if I thought he was connected to the case.”

            Morton shook his head. “You probably would, at that. Yeah, sure, I’ll go answer your questions. Not like I got much choice anyway.”

            After thanking Mr. Morton, Elliot went to the other witness. “Would you mind telling me why you were in the area this morning, Mrs. Smith?”

            Ella Mae Smith smiled, and began to speak. “It’s Monday. I come down on Mondays and Wednesdays to look after Edna Jones. She gets up with the chickens, if you know what I mean. We’re both members of the Presbyterian Church. I’ve been looking in on older folks who need it for ten years now, not that I wouldn’t mind taking a break from it for awhile…taking care of this and worrying about that…but just try and get someone else to do it. Everyone wants to help, so long as they don’t have to take responsibility for it. If you want to quiet down a congregation, just ask for volunteers. And Pastor Schaffer can be quite demanding.” She paused and shook her head, then continued, “It’s not like I didn’t know what I was getting myself into. Patricia Letterman, God rest her soul, tried to warn me. She did it for years, you know, until her health started to fail.”

             “I see,” Elliot said. “Could you tell me what caused you to pull up here?”

            “Well, it was that car.”

            “The Mercedes?”

            “Yes, sir. Pastor Schaffer has one just like it. Not that he’d park it there. I guess that’s what caught my attention. And that strange man lurking about, glancing up and down the sidewalk, all nervous and jittery, like a cat in a room full of dogs.”

            “You mean Mr. Morton?”

            “Yes, sir. I would’ve just driven on, because I’d figured out by then that it wasn’t Pastor Schaffer’s car. And that Morton man looked like he was about to leave, too. But then he stopped and pressed his face against the window of that car, like he was trying to get a better look at what was inside. Well, that didn’t last long. He backed away from there like he’d touched a hot stove, and I just figured he was going to take off running cause that’s what it looked like he wanted to do, but then he saw me.”

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The Alchemy of Potter -- Part III

The Alchemy of Potter – Part III

Flamel’s Transmutation

After arranging for and overseeing the burial of Maestro Canches, Nicolas Flamel returned to his home in Paris where he resumed his work as a scribe and a seller of books. However, as you might have suspected, the story does not end there.

According to Flamel, during his brief association with Canches, he’d gained enough knowledge from the Maestro to allow him to interpret the mysterious book he’d come into the possession of. As a result of his study, he achieved, approximately three years later, the holy grail of alchemy, the art of transmutation. If Flamel is to be believed, he successfully created the substance, in the form of a dry powder, which is known as the philosopher’s stone, and used it to change one half pound of mercury into pure gold.

It’s important to note here that some claim the stone is actually a metaphor for an inner potential of the spirit to evolve from a lower state of imperfection and vice, symbolized by the base metals, to a higher state of enlightenment and perfection, symbolized by gold. In Flamel’s words, due to his understanding of the book of Abraham the Jew, he had risen above the satisfaction of the senses and the turmoil of passions. It’s also important to remember that Nicolas Flamel was a Christian, who devoted much of his life to working out his personal salvation. In addition, Flamel was informed in a dream, by an angel of the Lord, that he would be receiving the book of Abraham the Jew.

As to what, exactly, Nicolas Flamel actually created or achieved is open to speculation. However, historical records bear testimony to some remarkable things he accomplished after having interpreted the book of Abraham the Jew. Flamel, and his wife Pernelle, continued to live a modest life. However, during this period of their lives, they began to act as wealthy benefactors. They established low-income housing for the poor, founded free hospitals, donated heavily to area churches, repaired cemeteries, and endowed the Quinze-Vingts, an institution for the blind. No small feat for a seller of books.

Flamel’s gifts were so generous that they aroused curiosity and even jealousy among his peers, enough so that King Charles VI eventually heard of it and ordered an investigation of the matter. Due to Flamel’s prudence and reticence, though, nothing much came of it.

Nicolas Flamel reached the age of eighty before he passed away. With his wife, Pernelle, having preceded him in death, Flamel carefully settled his affairs and planned how he was to be buried at the end of the nave of Saint-Jacques Boucherie. His gravesite, at the Musee de Cluny in Paris, can still be visited. As might be expected, though, his death was as circumspect as his life. Flamel was not long buried when news of his death and, due to his alchemical prowess, suspicions of enormous quantities of gold concealed within his property, spread throughout the area. Would be Alchemists and fortune hunters came in droves to search for his treasures. Sculptures and inscribed stones at Saint-Jacques Boucherie, and the Cemetery of the Innocents were broken and carried away under the cover of darkness. Flamel’s houses were ransacked and nearly destroyed. However, other than alleged reports of a few vials containing a reddish powder, nothing was ever found.

What happened to the book of Abraham the Jew?

Nicolas Flamel bequeathed his papers and library to a nephew named Perrier, who was also interested in alchemy. For two centuries, the book was handed down from father to son without much being heard of it. During the reign of King Louis XIII, news of the book resurfaced. A descendant of Flamel, named Dubois, who supposedly had a supply of the reddish powder, ignored the wise reserve of his ancestors and used the powder to gain attention. Reportedly, in the presence of the King, he changed lead balls into gold. It is known that during this time Dubois had many interviews with Cardinal de Richelieu, who no doubt wished to learn the secret. Not long after the interviews, Dubois was imprisoned at Vincennes where he was later condemned to death. It is believed that Cardinal de Richelieu took possession of the book of Abraham the Jew. He built a laboratory at the Chateau of Rueil, which he often visited to study the manuscript. With the death of the cardinal, all traces of the original book disappeared.

What about Nicolas Flamel?

When news of the book of Abraham the Jew resurfaced during Dubois’ incarceration, robbers made their way during the night to the church of Saint-Jacques la Boucherie where they lifted Flamel’s tombstone and broke into his coffin. After this, rumors quickly spread that the coffin had been found empty, and that it had never contained the body of Flamel, who was believed to still be alive. If that were true, since Louis XIII reigned from 1610-1643, and Flamel was born somewhere around 1330, that would have put Flamel around 300 years old at the time.

Is it possible that a 680 year old alchemist still roams the streets of Paris? Perhaps we should ask Harry Potter.

If you like this post, or if you have any information you would like to add, please let me know, or leave a comment.

 

7th Serialized post -- Twisted Perception

Elliot turned back to Sergeant Conley. “Yeah,” Elliot said. “I’m fine.”

Conley’s expression said he wasn’t buying it and Elliot wasn’t surprised. He was sure he looked as pale and lifeless as the corpse sitting in the car. He backed off a bit then began working his way around the scene, taking pictures to review later. When he came to the passenger side of the car, he lowered the camera and worked his hand into a latex glove, wincing as he opened the door, causing the air inside the car, thick with the scents of urine and blood, to flood his senses.

The victim, a female that Elliot guessed to be about thirty years of age, was in the passenger seat with her head tilted back and her hands in her lap. The deep gash across her throat still looked fresh. The expensive necklace had been removed to keep it from being damaged. Everything about her said money, but through the lens of the camera, the massive diamond on her left hand looked as cold and detached as a severed limb. The necklace that dangled from the rearview mirror matched her earrings.

Johnnie Boy was here.

“Sure is dressed nice,” Conley said.

Elliot nodded, noting that her handbag lay undisturbed on the seat beside her, near a smear of blood where it looked like the killer had wiped the knife clean. On the floorboard beneath the brake pedal was a cell phone. Elliot picked it up. It was still on, so he hit redial. The display showed the last call was to the Tulsa Police Department. He started to comment when the sound of an approaching car caught his attention. He knew it would be Beaumont, but he confirmed it, watching the detective pull up. How anyone could keep a car as clean as Beaumont did was a mystery to Elliot. Then again, he suspected that, much like its owner, the car’s highly maintained exterior merely masked an embarrassing need for dirty lubricants.

Beaumont climbed out of his car and started toward them, habitually straightening his already perfect tie while he walked around the Mercedes, surveying the scene before he joined Elliot and Conley. “I hope you haven’t touched anything,” he said.

Elliot shook his head.

He glanced at Conley.

“Not me,” Conley said.

Beaumont looked Elliot over, a thin smile crossing his lips.

“What do you think?” He asked. “Do we have a homicide?”

“Looks like it.”

Beaumont moved closer to the vehicle, observing the victim. “Looks pretty affluent. By the way, Elliot, where were you last night?”

A wave of regret went through Elliot. He was to have met Beaumont for a beer after work and he’d completely forgotten about it. “Sorry, I guess I fell asleep.”

“You must have been dead to the world. I called your house, but you didn’t answer.”

Conley had walked back to his squad car, where he held the door open, the radio microphone in his hand. When Elliot came over, he tilted his head toward the scene and lowered the mike. “Why’d the captain have to send that jerk?”

Elliot tried to hide his smile. Beaumont, who was already busy dusting for prints, wasn’t exactly popular with the patrol officers. He was sharp—real sharp—and he had an impressive way of remembering case details, but he didn’t mind letting you know it. “He’s pretty good at what he does,” Elliot said. “Got an ID on the victim yet?”

            Conley nodded. “Name’s Lagayle Zimmerman.”

            Elliot ran the name through his memory, but it didn’t register. As he scanned the crime scene, the sounds of traffic on Peoria Avenue wafting through his senses, he noticed two people standing beside another uniformed officer. To Conley, he said, “Any of these people see anything?”

            “None that will admit to it,” Conley said.

            “You question everybody?”

            “Yes, sir.”

            “Who found the body?”

            “Some wino,” Conley said. “Hang on. I’ll get him for you.” He signaled for the officer to bring the witnesses over.

More to come. Please leave a comment and let me know what you think of the book.

Book Review -- Courageous, by Randy Alcorn

In Courageous, a novel which appears to be a police procedural becomes much more as the story follows the lives of four police officers who struggle to reconcile their profession with their private lives. The heroes, Adam Mitchell and Nathan Hayes, deal with personal loss as well as drugs and gang members, which, and perhaps for the first time, have leaked from their cop worlds to infiltrate their personal lives.

The strong and vivid characters carried the book for me. I also found it refreshing – perhaps my being new to Christian fiction was a factor – to read a novel where the good guys with good values win out in the end. However, I found parts of the story unrealistic, with characters acting out of character. While the characters hold the story together, the constant and often abrupt point of view changes worked to disconnect the reader. Deeper into the story, this happened less often and at that point the book became a better read.

All things considered, I enjoyed the book. I would recommend Courageous, by Randy Alcorn to Christian adults, at which the book seems to be aimed.

For purposes of this review, I received a complimentary copy of Courageous from the publisher, Tyndale House.

–        Bob Avey, author of Beneath a Buried House

The Alchemy of Potter II

Flamel’s Journey

It is written that Nicolas Flamel spent some twenty plus years trying to interpret the manuscript of Abraham the Jew, and thus unlock the secrets that he had become certain were contained within its pages. With much of the text being written in ancient Hebrew, Flamel realized he needed the help of someone who could read the text. Knowing that some of the people of Jewish faith, having been driven out of France, had settled in Spain, he decided to travel there. Flamel made a vow to St James of Compostela, the patron saint of his parish, to make a pilgrimage to the area where the Jews had settled.

According to Flamel, he first fulfilled his vow to St James then travelled about Spain in search of someone with the knowledge to help him interpret the manuscript of Abraham the Jew. However, and quite understandably, he found the Jewish people suspicious of him and therefore uncooperative, since he was French and his countrymen had expelled the Jews from their country.

It’s not certain how much time Flamel spent in Spain, but eventually he gave up and began his journey home. However, fate again caught up with him at an inn, located in the town of Leon, when he stopped for the night. There he met a French merchant, travelling on business. As the Frenchmen dined together, the conversation eventually turned to part of the reason Flamel was there – to find a Jewish scholar. As it turned out, the merchant was friends with, or at least knew of such a man, who happened to live in Leon. Flamel convinced the merchant to take him to the home of Maestro Canches, and introduce him to the Jewish scholar.

It is here, at the home of Maestro Canches, where everything starts to fall into place for Flamel. Being a wise man, and not wanting to lose his life, his money or the precious manuscript, he had traveled to Spain as a pilgrim, dressed in simple attire, with just enough money to make the trip, and bringing only a few pages of the manuscript, even those being only copies. After the merchant had made the introductions and left Flamel and Canches alone, Flamel pulls the hidden manuscript pages from his cloak and shows them to the scholar. One can only imagine what must have gone through Canches mind when he saw those pages. Not only did Maestro Canches know of Abraham the Jew, a great master of the wandering race, a sage who had studied the mysteries of the Cabala, but he had spent his life searching for the manuscript Abraham had written. He told Flamel that it was said that the book still existed and that it had passed through the years from person to person, always reaching the one whose destiny it was to receive it. Canches translated the pages, which were written in Hebrew from the time of Moses. He interpreted symbols that had originated in ancient Chaldea. The pages were enough for Canches to recognize them as authentic, but not enough to reveal the secret of the Philosopher’s Stone.

At some point, Canches must have asked Flamel how he had obtained the pages, and Flamel eventually told Canches that he was indeed in possession of the original manuscript. When this meeting occurred, Maestro Canches was an old man, which would make traveling difficult, but he asked Flamel to allow him to accompany Flamel on his journey back to Paris. In addition, since Jews were not allowed in France, Canches went so far as to convert to Christianity in order to make the trip to see the manuscript of Abraham the Jew.

Flamel agreed and the two men began their journey to Paris. They made it as far as Orleans, but it was there that Maestro Canches passed away. Being that Canches had converted to Christianity, Flamel had him piously buried in the church of Sante-Croix.

More to come.

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Twisted Perception

Sixth Serialized Blog Post -- Twisted Perception -- Chapter Two

Blood-smeared words flashed through his memory.

Johnnie Boy was here.

Johnnie Alexander and Marcia Barnes were inside the car, both covered in blood, both dead. Then he saw the class ring. The one he’d given to Marcia. She’d worn it suspended from a gold chain around her neck, though it now hung from the rearview mirror of Johnnie’s Mustang, where it twisted mockingly in the darkness, catching the light of the moon and sparkling like some distant star.

“Pretty fancy jewelry, huh, Elliot? Hey, man, you okay?”

Snapping back to the present, Elliot looked across the top of the Mercedes to see Sergeant Conley, his forehead wrinkled with concern. Elliot surveyed the condominiums. Several blocks of houses had been torn down to accommodate the construction of the two-story brick villas designed with wrought-iron railings and small balconies to emulate something from the New Orleans French Quarter. To the north was a park. A sign proclaimed it to be Centennial Park, though it was still thought of as Central Park by those who knew the place. It’d been nice once, playing host to family barbecues and games of badminton on the grass, but the area had deteriorated over the years and had fallen into disrepair, eventually being frequented by those who hid in its uncut bushes and eased their pain with wine and drugs. Recently, for the benefit of the condominiums, the bushes had been trimmed and the grass mowed. They even renamed it. But the shadowy homeless people could still be seen there, sitting in groups around picnic tables, clutching bottles of wine wrapped in brown paper bags.

A small crowd of neighbors had gathered to gawk at the taped-off crime scene. For the homeless

it was more of a curiosity, another constant reminder of their own mortality; but for those

unaccustomed to such things, like the fresh residents of the newly constructed condos, it was more

like a chapter torn from the pages of a horror novel.Twisted Perception $2.99 on Kindle

The Alchemy of Harry Potter

As mentioned in my last blog post, the story behind J.K. Rowling’s first Potter book, Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone, (also known as Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone) was based, in part, on the life of a real person.

In the fictional world of the Harry Potter stories, Albus Dumbledore, the headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, gained much of his wizardly knowledge through his association with his partner, Nicolas Flamel. Most of the official documents relating to the life of Nicolas Flamel have been found – His marriage license, his deeds of gift, and even his will. Flamel’s history rests solidly on substantial material proofs. Unlike his fictional counterparts in the Potter books, Flamel was a real person. What then, other than being Dumbledore’s buddy, does Flamel have to do with Harry Potter? Let me explain.

 Nicolas Flamel was born in France in, or around 1330, which would have made him about 665 years old at the time The Philosopher’s Stone was published.  Not much is known about Flamel’s early life, but during his adult life he was engaged in business, operating a small shop in Paris, where he sold books. He married a woman named Perenelle and together they led a quiet and modest life.

However, Flamel’s life changed when an unknown man walked into his shop, carrying a manuscript that he wanted to sell. Flamel might have dismissed the man, had he not recognized the manuscript as being identical to one given to him in a dream.

In the dream, an angel had stood before Flamel, holding a book with bindings of copper engraved with strange diagrams and symbols. The angel gave the book to Flamel and said, “At first you will understand nothing, but one day you will see and understand that which no other man will be able to.”

Not surprisingly, Flamel paid the man his asking price without bargaining. The first page of the manuscript declared the author to be: Abraham the Jew, prince, priest, Levite, astrologer, and philosopher, sprung from the root of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob.

Flamel, being a scribe and seller of books, was well-read and had acquired knowledge of alchemy, an art which aims to discover a magical substance, sometimes referred to as the Philosopher’s Stone, which could turn ordinary metals into gold, but more importantly could perfect any situation.  The theory being that anyone, having reached such a high level of learning, would attain immortality through the victory of spirit over matter. However, Flamel’s extensive knowledge was not enough to help him understand the strange book he’d come into the possession of. He spent years trying to decipher the book without success. He did not give up. Since much of the text was written in ancient Hebrew, he realized that he needed the help of a well-read Jewish person. Unfortunately, the people of Jewish faith had been driven out of France. Flamel knew that some of these people had migrated to Spain. He decided to journey there in search of someone to help him with the book.

I’ll continue the story of Flamel in the next post.

Christian Fiction and Twisted Perception

I’ve read several interesting and well thought posts, concerning the boundaries and purposes of Christian fiction. The posts and comments that follow invariably divide, for the most part, into two schools of thought on the subject:  1) those who believe Christian fiction should follow strict guidelines and be very family oriented and safe, and 2) those who feel the parameters should be relaxed to include stories written from a Christian point of view that might expand the envelope by delving into areas of fantasy.

As a relatively recent born-again Christian, and, therefore, a new arrival in the Christian fiction market, I’ve found myself a bit confused by it all. I empathize with the reasoning behind both points of view. However, I must confess to leaning more toward the expanded envelope crowd. I’ve been a published author in the secular market since 2006, and I didn’t just wake up one morning and decide to switch over to Christian fiction. I’ve always felt that I should use my skills, such as they are, in a positive way, but after my awakening the urge to take the writing further toward this goal increased dramatically. I’ve spent numerous hours praying about it. The message I keep receiving is that I should try to reach people, including those who have lost their faith, or never had it to begin with, and, the way I see it, in order to do that I would have to write outside the currently defined Christian market.

With this discussion, names such as C.S. Lewis, Madeleine L ‘ Engle, and J.R.R. Tolkien often come up as writers who are considered by some as Christian authors whose work falls outside the current guidelines of the genre, if that term can be appropriately applied here. I love Tolkien’s work, but I must admit it’s a stretch for me to think of it as Christian fiction. In his writing, good does triumph over evil. However, the same could be said about J.K. Rowling with her Harry Potter series, which leads to some interesting things I’ve run across.

Rowling’s first Potter book, Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone, was based in part on the life of a real person.

More on this in the next post.  

Twisted Perception Blog Post number 5

Chapter Two

As soon as Detective Kenny Elliot stepped out of his car, he knew he’d slowed, stumbled somewhere along the way, for it had finally caught up with him, and like a twenty-nine-year-old boxer who grows old in the third round of a title fight, he would never be the same. It was what he saw in the vehicle, a late model Mercedes left beside a trash dumpster. It was in the parking lot of the Village at Central Park, a bunch of upscale, newly constructed condominiums just off Peoria Avenue.

Elliot silently cursed Captain Dombrowski for dragging him into this on his day off. It’d been 6:00 a.m. when the phone rang, and Elliot had come out of his sleep in a fit, fighting to rid himself of the bed sheets that trapped his legs and torso like some kind of malignant ivy. He hadn’t been sleeping well. It was the dreams; they’d started again. They’d become intense, occurring more frequently and leaving in their wake unsettling thoughts that rambled through his head—burdensome notions that something wasn’t quite right in his world, a problem just below the surface that he couldn’t quite drag into consciousness.

Elliot had a pretty good idea why Dombrowski had called. Cunningham was on vacation somewhere in Montana and Mendez was out with the flu, but there were other detectives. Obviously, Dombrowski knew there would be more to it than a simple homicide, if “simple” can be used when talking about deliberate death. An informal understanding had begun to develop inside the department. Dombrowski had an instinct about unusual cases, knowing which ones would deviate from the norm, and Elliot had a knack for solving them.

Elliot approached the Mercedes, a knot forming in his gut, his usual calm behavior displaced by his progress like the smooth surface of a pond disrupted by gas bubbles escaping from something vile hidden beneath its depths. An image of Carmen Garcia blossomed in his mind.

Don’t do this, Kenny. We can work it out.

He thought about the report. He couldn’t write it up indicating the suspect was a ghost, an unseen demon, but as he approached the Mercedes that thought vibrated through his head. Then, as he drew near and confirmed that it was indeed a necklace dangling from the inside mirror, his legs nearly gave way and for a moment his thoughts were in another time and place.

Exciting Book Review for Twisted Perception

I just got a great review for Twisted Perception, the book I've been posting here on the blog, that I wanted to share.

Hello Bob.....I'm now an avid fan of Detective Kenny Elliot. Thoroughly enjoyed both of your books! Here's my review for Twisted Perception, Thanks for the chance to read your brilliant stories, Annie.

Review for Twisted Perception by Bob Avey.

Anyone who loves a good detective story with plenty twists and turns needs to buy a copy of Twisted Perception. Bob Avey grips you from the start. Main man Detective Kenny Elliot is called in to investigate the brutal murder of an upper-crust woman. (all isn't as it seems) Gut instincts lead him on a journey back in time that he isn't comfortable with for a number of reason (have to read it to find out!) More murders come and deepen the investigation that Elliot can't seem to leave to another. Not only is this story a great murder/mystery it is also one that will broaden your mind and open you up to Twisted Perception......

Annie Frame. Author of Imprint and TQR.  

Vivid Dreams and Twisted Perception

In this post, I’ll relate an unusual dreams, and include another installment of Twisted Perception. I believe the dreams that linger beyond our sleep are more than just a release of emotions or feelings. I call this one, The Devastated Conference.

I’m in a large hotel, attending a writers’ conference, and several of my friends and I have gathered in an atrium-like area near the lobby where a canopy of windows arches out from the main building. We are sitting in wicker chairs, watching the sky, which is becoming turbulent due to a thunderstorm, and the others are commenting on this, but laughing and having a good time. I seem to be the only one who is worried about the storm and my concern increases as I notice rotation of the clouds. I suspect the storm has escalated into a tornado, which will hit the hotel, so I stand and tell everyone that we should move away from the windows and go to the center of the lobby.

As soon as we reconvene in the lobby, the doors and windows of the hotel begin to shake and chaos breaks loose, with people screaming and running for their rooms. I see a brick alcove near the restaurant kitchen and, figuring this to be a place that would offer protection from falling debris, I take cover there.

A few minutes later, the winds calm and I step out of the alcove to find the hotel in utter devastation. All of the windows and doors have been blown away and large portions of the roof ripped off. Rain is pouring into the lobby. As I try to make my way to my room, I’m forced to climb over tree limbs and debris that block the stairway. At this point, I wake up.

Twisted Perception – Chapter One – Fourth serialized post

Michelle Baker felt the man’s warm breath fall across her face, and she thought it like the stale air that might be in a dark room where an electric chair was kept. He was going to kill her. She knew that. But it was not the details of her death that went through her head. She thought of her son, Michael. She could see him in the dirty little yard where he played, and she wondered if his diaper had been changed, and if he was hungry. She was not a good mother. She closed her eyes and prayed for God to forgive her for that, something she did quite often, though it did not show in her life. She regretted that now.

I realize this is a short post for the novel, but it’s the end of Chapter One. Next time I will begin with Chapter Two.

Thanks for reading. If you like my blog, please join as a follower. If you have any dreams, or anything else you’d like to talk about, send me an email at bob@bobavey.com

Book Review for Beneath a Buried House

Beneath a Buried House, my second novel, received a great review and I just had to share it with you.

 

Hello Bob, just to congratulate you on your fantastic book. Thoroughly enjoyed it from start to finish. Here's your review, will put it on Amazon and goodreads and any other sights I'm on. Please feel free to share it whenever you feel it might help boost sales. (Ready to start on Twisted Perception). Annie.

Beneath a Buried House is a read you will not put down, in fact it's one that will keep you turning page after page until the end. Bob Avery hooks you from the start with characters that can only grow in your mind, he wastes no time in weaving a tale of murder mystery and suspense. Main man Elliot is determined to crack a case even though it looks impossible to others. His gut instincts serve him well as he finds himself up against some strange folk in weird situations. Can't spoil it for anyone out there, and can only advise them to grab a copy, stick their nose in it and get lost in the read.

Annie Frame. Author of Imprint and TQR.

The Shape Shifting Rifle

Last month, my friend, Christine B, asked me to write an article for her newsletter, Paranormal Musings. Christine always has quite a bit of interesting content. You should check out her newsletter at: http://www.edparanormal.com.

Since the article below ran in Christine’s newsletter last month, I decided to post it on my blog this month.

The Shape Shifting Rifle:

Years ago, when I was thirteen, my mother and I lived in a small house. She and my father had been through a divorce, and my sister had already left home, so it was just the two of us. When she remarried, one of the things my stepfather brought with him was a leather rifle case, which he stored in a long, narrow cabinet in the kitchen.

Often, my mother and stepfather would go out for the evening, and I would stay home. On one occasion, I had a frightening experience, with someone rattling the doors as if trying to gain entry. Mom blew it off as one of my friends, playing a prank, but I wasn’t so sure. I asked her if I could have a friend over the next time.

That day having arrived, my friend, Rick, and I were watching television when I became curious about what might be in the leather case. I told Rick that I had something to show him, and I led him into the kitchen where I climbed upon the counter and removed the leather case from its hiding place. When the case was opened, it revealed an exquisite rifle, its stock worked from a rich, black material, from which protruded a glistening barrel of chrome. The engraving showed the manufacturer to be Marlin. My friend and I both held the weapon, admiring and examining it in detail. A few minutes later, I put the rifle back where I’d found it.

When my parents arrived, I did something unexpected. I asked my stepfather about the rifle, and if my friend and I could see it. I don’t know why I did that. Perhaps I’d felt guilty and thought that asking late was better than not asking at all. I will never forget what happened next. My stepfather unzipped the case and pulled out a black-barreled rifle with a brown stock. It was not the same weapon, not even close. I know because I took it and examined it, reading the name Winchester. I stared in disbelief then shot a glance at my wide-eyed friend, who stood there, shaking his head.

There had been no other rifles or rifle cases inside that cabinet. I had looked. And the leather case, which was the same two-tone leather case I’d opened, was designed to hold only one rifle, which it had.

Needless to say, after that day, I rechecked the rifle case many times. In fact, on several occasions, I searched the entire house. I never saw the black and chrome Marlin again.

 This is a true story. I do not attest to how it happened, just that it did. I will offer this. My friend and I were the only ones in the house until my parents came home. And since I hit my stepfather up about the weapon as soon as he walked into the door, he could not have switched it.

Well, there it is. Please feel free to comment. If you have stories you would like to share, send them to me at bob@bobavey.com

Dreams and another Episode of Twisted Perception

Are dreams nothing more than twisted reruns of the day’s events, built in safety valves to relieve pressure from our minds, or is it possible that God uses these mental holidays to communicate with us?

Not all dreams lend themselves to this concept, but I believe that some do. Please refer to Getting Personal, a prior post archived on this site for a good example. The majority of these brain-related information dumps trickle through our consciousness as vague, fuzzy images that are easily forgotten. However, occasionally a gem comes along, one with enough substance, if you will, to stick with us. Here is one that I had recently.

I’m walking through an antique shop, though it more resembles a warehouse, an expansive building with isles that disappear into the darkness and are lined with metal shelves, crammed to near capacity with miscellaneous items. I’m searching for kitchen utensils, such as pots and pans, when I come upon what appears to be a tiny teakettle. It’s made of metal and obviously quite old, an antique in fact. However, a closer examination reveals the object to be a tiny 35 millimeter camera, designed to look like a tea kettle. Pleased to have uncovered such a treasure, I discontinue shopping and head for the front of the store to check out.

As I am preparing to leave the store, I see an acquaintance, of mine, who in reality has passed away. This seems to be the case in the dream as well. However, my feelings are not of shock but of happiness to once again see my old friend. He’s sitting in a chair, which is part of a display of lawn furniture, and I quickly run over to join him.

I hand him the camera and say, “Isn’t that the cutest thing?”

Cute is a word that I rarely use, and it strikes me as odd that I would describe the camera that way.

My friend seems unimpressed and this bothers me. He hands the camera back and says, “You’ll never find film for it.”

That’s when I wake up. I have no idea what the dream means, if anything. However, when I have one as vivid as this, I always feel that it should.

Twisted Perception - Chapter One continued -

He sat forward in the car seat and stared in disbelief. She was there all right. There had been no mistake. And when she crossed the parking lot, she saw him as well, her lovely blue eyes piercing the night as if they carried their own source of illumination. She seemed to look right through him, but he knew that was just an act. A smile played across his lips. The parking lot was empty except for the two of them. He’d planned on following her, but it wouldn’t be necessary. He did have a bit of luck now and then. He worked his hands into surgical gloves and grabbed the roll of duct tape. He tore off a six- inch piece then ran his hand through the roll, wearing it like a bracelet. Next he retrieved the sock from the floorboard. It was lined with plastic and filled with wet sand.

Opening the car door, he stepped quietly onto the asphalt, sliding the black-handled knife into his back pocket. He did not intend to use it just yet, but he would if he had to. With the torn piece of tape readied in his hand, he came up behind her. She was completely unaware of his presence, and he paused as the sweet scent coming from her hair filled his senses. He wanted to touch her, to take her in his arms and love her, the way he had always loved her. It was then that he saw her the way she had been, lying on her bed, wearing only the top half of her see-through pajamas while she pulled the covers back and shifted ever so slightly. It was not unusual. She often stayed that way after it was over, even getting out of bed on occasion to walk around the room, stopping close where he could see her, watch her through the cracks in the door.

He thought about the small room that had been his prison, where dust particles would dance in the sunlight that showed through the broken window shade, giving an impression of substance to the beams, making it appear as if he could reach out and grab them. But that, like so much else, had been nothing more than an illusion. The dust was not only in the light. It had filled the room. He’d eaten mouthfuls of it with every breath. They were casualties of their own fates, and he thought she must surely understand what he had to do.

He raised the sock, swinging in a high arc to give it more velocity, and when he brought it down against the back of her head, he remembered how the light would catch her pretty necklace as she walked about the room. It was an enlightening moment, for she dropped quite readily to her knees, not unconscious, but dazed to the point of incoherence. He pressed the piece of tape over her mouth then slid the roll from his arm. He pulled her hands behind her and bound them with several revolutions, then tore off another piece and slapped it across her eyes as he brought her to her feet. She offered little resistance and a delightful urge to take her now ran through him, testing his resolve. He pushed the thoughts away and guided her across the parking lot toward the car. Once there, he shoved her into the backseat. The lot was still empty. He started the car and drove away, pulling onto 31^st Street.

When he reached Yale Avenue, he turned south, traveling until he found a suitable location, an old house that had lost the fight for survival. It stood in a neighborhood that had been suburban but was now a mixture of banks, retail outlets, and, ironically enough, real estate offices. Acting as a reminder of the house’s fate, an industrial trash bin sat in the front yard, boasting the name of some construction company on its side. He thought that a ridiculous notion. What they were up to was anything but constructive.

He pulled her from the car and walked her to the front of the house, pausing briefly to check the door. It wasn’t locked. They seldom were. He pushed her inside, his heart pounding with anticipation as he switched on the flashlight he’d doctored for just such occasions. Its dim red glow revealed an old mattress on the floor. Some things were just meant to be. She had begun to struggle, even as he’d pulled her from the car, and he had no choice but to use the sock again. With a small shove she fell onto the mattress.

Kneeling beside her, he removed the tape from her eyes and studied her face, so pretty and yet so lined with fear he hardly recognized it. She could not speak. He’d left the tape on her mouth, but she shook her head and pleaded with every expression she had available. It had been cold in that room, a chilling dampness understood only by those left alone, not for moments, but for eternities in an unforgiving and infinite darkness. He would not go back. She would die first.

Grandpa Luke's Final Visit

Is it possible for relatives, or friends who have passed on to communicate with us?

This is a rather sad account with a broad timespan, but it ends well and I’ll be judicious with the exposition.

The story starts in Ardmore, Oklahoma, where my family and I were living at the time. Actually, I need to back up a bit further.  We’d been working and living near Houston, Texas when the landslide or avalanche began. The economy, especially the Oil & Gas sector, in which I work, had taken a nosedive and the company I worked for, a place that I had planned on retiring from, was gobbled up by another petroleum giant. This kind of thing was widespread. Thousands of people were losing jobs. I still had mine, but had been told it was being phased out. Out of the blue, I got a job offer in Ardmore, and we put our house up for sale and moved.  Things went well at first, but quickly began to turn sour. I was transferred from auditing, a job that I loved, into a supervisory position in revenue, a branch of the Oil & Gas industry in which I had little to no experience. It quickly turned into a nightmare.

To make matters worse, I received a letter from the Veterans Administration – I’d purchased the Houston house with a VA loan – advising me that the buyers had defaulted and that I owed the $12,000.00 difference between what they sold it for and the original loan amount.  I began paying them $200.00 a month, but they said this was not enough. I forgot to mention that our daughter had just started college, which further increased our financial demands. When a friend of mine, who worked for a rival firm, told me of an opening in her company with a much more attractive salary package, I applied for it and got it. At the time, it seemed like a blessing. It was not. The company went bankrupt and I was left without a job. A few months later, after exhausting my options, I, too, was forced into bankruptcy.

Not long after that, I received a phone call from my uncle, telling me that my grandfather, Luke Padgett, had passed away. I loved my grandfather. However, as a child, I was afraid of him. He was big, stern and didn’t speak much. My memories were of him sitting in a chair outside, smoking a corncob pipe. Occasionally, he’d lean down and stroke my head then say, “You’re a good boy, bus.” That’s what he called me. I dropped everything and went to the funeral.

After that, my wife, Kathi, and I decided to leave Ardmore and return to our home town of Tulsa, Oklahoma. We had family there, and we figured the job market would be better. I sent out hundreds of resumes without success. Then, at what we thought to be the apex of our misery, our daughter, Karen, whom we love and adore, gave us some news. It was almost Christmas and I’d left some ornaments for her to hang on the tree. Instead, she told us she was getting married. My wife and I were completely unprepared for this, so we took it kind of hard.

In an effort to shorten this, here is what happened next:

Our 13 year old Wiemaraner, Ginger passed away. Two weeks later, the cat, Mittens, left us as well. The vet said she’d died from a broken heart. I knew how she felt. A few days after that, I was sitting at my writing desk – yes I was attempting to write even then – when I heard a thump. I turned around to see that our final pet, the parakeet had just died as well.

This might sound comical to some people, but it did not seem that way to me. At that point I just gave up. I put down my pencil and stopped writing. My wife and son both had jobs so I was alone each day. I just sat in the living room, no television, no radio or anything. I could not find a job and I was getting nowhere with my writing. Each day I sat in silence, wondering what would happen next. Needless to say, I fell into a deep depression.

Then one day, as I sat alone, I heard a strange sound, as if someone was behind me. When I got up from the chair, I saw no one, but I was surrounded by an old, familiar aroma: The distinctive smell of my grandfather Luke’s corncob pipe. He spoke to me, not through a physical auditory sound, but his words formed inside my head. “Time to move on, bus, time to get on past this.”

I told Grandpa Luke that I would do as he said. I went into the bathroom, shaved and took a shower then went down and applied for work with yet another temporary employment agency. This time I got hired.

I often wonder if Grandpa Luke asked the angels if he could take a leave of absence so he could come down to help his grandson. Thanks, Grandpa. I’ll see you in Heaven.

Please feel free to comment, or, if you have stories of your own that you would like to share, please email them to me at bob@bobavey.com

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.

Here's a great book to check out

http://tinyurl.com/43a5mt8

 Beyond The Surgeon's Touch

By Gloria Teague

Ami was three years old when her mother’s killer attempted to murder her, too. Man, alone, couldn’t have saved her. It was a battle fought by doctors, nurses and miraculous intervention. Beyond the Surgeon's Touch is filled with stories based on actual events that have been witnessed and recorded by the staff of emergency rooms and surgical suites, even in their own lives. These accounts prove that medical personnel are, after all, just human and they pray for divine assistance, too, when trying to save a life. Sometimes those pleas are answered. These stories illustrate that miracles can, and do, happen to average people more often than you may realize.

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.