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.

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 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.

Strange Dreams and Free Books

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

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.

Twisted Writing

A few Saturdays back, I was sitting in the middle of a shopping mall, behind a skirted table, which had been positioned beside the mall’s showcase attraction: a beautiful but rather noisy fountain. I practically had to shout at potential book buyers, which would have been uncomfortable, had there been any.

However, I did manage to convince – perhaps coerce would be more descriptive – a few passers by to break their stride and pause momentarily at my table, even if more than a few of them stopped only for the free candy with which I tempted them. Never offer chocolate to a mall walker. They’ll take it every time. At least a half dozen or so succumbed to my pleadings, however, only a few of them should be mentioned: a man who wore a hooded sweatshirt that was the color of tomato juice, and a grease-stained ball cap, a lady who’d just started a diet program, and an unusual gentleman dressed in a southern Civil War military uniform. Now this guy was unnerving. Sporting a three-day growth of beard and a big grey mustache, he never spoke, just nodded, and with the realistic uniform, complete with boots, hat and suspenders, he really looked the part. When he finally walked away, I could have sworn dust, puffed around his footfalls. But let’s get back to the lady. Being in the business of selling my books for more than a year now, I’ve heard a plethora of excuses, or reasons as to why one could not, at the time, buy one. However this lady’s originality must be commended. She kindly picked up one of the books, flipped it over and read the back cover, then placed it softly back on the table. Afterward she smiled and told me that she’d love to have one of my books, but she’d been to a doctor who had put her on a diet, and the medicine he’d given her had left her allergic to many things with which she’d never before had a problem, and one of them was the pages of books.

If you would like to own an autographed copy of my mystery novel, Twisted Perception, send me an email at bob@bobavey.com and let me know how to personalize it and where to ship it. Oh, yeah, include a check for $17.00. I'll pay the shipping. If you would like to read a sample of the book, go to my website at http://www.bobavey.com where you can read chapter one.


http://www.bobavey.com

bob@bobavey.com

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.

http://www.bobavey.com
bob@bobavey.com

Just Twisted

While attending the OWFI conference at the Embassy Suites in Oklahoma City, I went to the vending machine on my floor to get a soft drink. In a dark corner, I found a Pepsi machine, but as I fed my dollar into the slot, I noticed the machine was filled with Coke products: I could tell this by the selection labels. I stabbed the button designated for regular Coke and a twenty-ounce bottle fell into the tray below. There was only one problem. I couldn’t get the bottle out of the slot: It was too large. I don’t know what the other customers did. Perhaps I was the first to try the cross-genre cola experiment. You know what they say: you can’t roller skate in a buffalo heard, and you can’t put a Coke in a Pepsi machine.

Again in Oklahoma City, I was attending the Oklahoma Book Festival where I met an old friend. I also saw something unusual… perhaps bizarre would be more descriptive. It was a dog that only had two legs, the back ones, which it walked on quite handily. The dog didn’t hop like one might expect in such a situation, but it actually walked, like some forgotten humanoid species, or an alien from another world.

Back in Tulsa, I saw an old Camaro parked alongside the road. It had two flat tires and an inscription written across the rear window. It read: Just married. Off to a bad start I’d say.

My family and I had heard of this new restaurant called – I better not put the real name here – so we decided to give it a try. I knew something wasn’t quite right when I saw the décor. I’m not sure how to describe it. Let’s just say they were trying for the mix-and-match look and overachieved their efforts with stellar proportions. Being led into a dining area that might have been better suited for an automobile repair shop, we were seated beside a large white-painted buffet. The doors of the buffet were open, showing not only bottles of catsup and mustard, but also blue signs taped inside the doors that read: Please keep doors closed. But the fun was just beginning. We had just ordered from a one-page, plastic-coated menu when one of the employees began to walk through the area. If you can imagine a vendor at a baseball game, hawking his wares, only with a lot less enthusiasm – I mean a lot less; we’re talking just this side of manic depressive – then you’ll get a pretty good idea of how it went. I can’t say that I blame the poor guy. He had to walk around the restaurant announcing “fried okra” to the backdrop of Country music, Merle Haggard no less, wailing, “We don’t smoke marijuana in Muskogee.” I still have nightmares about it.

Twisted Book Tour

Hello, everyone. Beginning October 14th I start my Hastings tour, signing books across Oklahoma, Arkansas, Missouri, and Kansas. Please check my website at http://www.bobavey.com for details.

Later that day, I saw an old car with its headliner hanging loose. There was a child in the backseat, having to hold the material with his hands to keep it from covering his head. The car had a bumper sticker on it that read: If you’re not appalled, you’re not paying attention. Pretty appropriate, wouldn’t you say?

Two weeks earlier, I was aboard a giant cigar with wings, flying to Tucson Arizona for a book fair in Sierra Vista. About halfway into the flight, a man fought his way through the narrow isle to the front of the aircraft where he began to struggle with the bathroom door. I was beginning to feel embarrassed for the poor soul before he finally got it open. To make matters worse, a sign, positioned so that everyone in the cabin could see it, announced in bright red letters that the necessary room was occupied.

Quite a bit of time passed, but then strange noises ensued, and the light began to blink, phasing between dormant and occupied. I figured, being that the guy had trouble getting in, that he was likewise experiencing a difficult go at getting out. I could actually hear him thrashing around in there. The guy finally busted out, his hair sticking up, a frazzled look on his face as he approached a flight attendant. Seconds later, the flight attendant keyed the intercom and announced that the light in the lavatory was malfunctioning. She asked that we refrain from using the facility, but added that if it got to the point to where you had to go, to please see her and she would loan you a flashlight.

More to come.

Here we go again

Hello Everyone.

Early in the month of April, I pulled to the curbside and parked along Sixth Street in Muskogee, Oklahoma, checking the map to see if I was in the right location, number thirty-eight of eighty-nine entrants, right behind Miss Keetoowah. I’d discovered a couple days earlier that my sister-in-law had signed me up for the annual Azalea Festival and Parade, and my wife, Kathi, and I hastily put together some pretty decent signs and taped them to the sides of my already somewhat decorated little car.

I stowed the map in its manila folder then climbed out of the car and leaned against it, waiting for parade time. I was starting to relax when I saw two men dressed as old-west marshals, guns slung low on their hips, walking toward me, and a burning sensation ran through my stomach. I didn’t know if a person could be shot for using a parade for personal gain, but I suspected I was about to find out.

As it turned out, the parade marshals were friendly – just curious about the signs on my car. I handed each of them a bookmark. With the ice broken, we began to talk and a few minutes later one of them said, “You’re not going to believe this, but I just saw the craziest thing. A few moments ago, a lady came driving up in a grey car with no decorations. I told her she couldn’t park on the parade route, but she jumped out of her car holding a handmade sign in one hand and a bottle of glue in the other.” He paused and nodded, as if I’d already ascertained the punch line. “That’s right,” he continued, “she glued that sign to her car right there in front of me. Just squirted that stuff all over the door and smashed the paper sign onto it. She was entry number twenty-one.”

After that, he said good-bye and walked away, laughing. He didn’t have to tell me who had done such a thing. I already knew, even before I saw my sister-in-law, driving her grey Saturn with number twenty-one proudly displayed in the windshield.

Please visit my website at http://www.bobavey.com. There you can read chapter one of my mystery novel, Twisted Pereption, and register for a free autographed copy. Talk to you later.

Bob Avey

Pagan Research

For my next mystery novel, Beneath a Buried House, the second in the Kenny Elliot series, I plan to have the killer try to hang the murders on a pagan religious group. The killer is not religious, one way or the other. It's just a diversion he uses to throw the cops off his trail. I do, however, want to get the facts dealing with pagan religion right. So if anyone out there has any info, or could direct me to some good info, I would greatly appreciate it. I might even name a character after the one who gives me the best source. Thanks.

Bob

http://www.bobavey.com

bob@bobavey.com


When the appointed time finally arrived – after I’d waited in the bookstore parking lot, checked out the few shops in the area, and helped a struggling shopkeeper put up a canvass sign in near hurricane winds – I proudly waltzed into the bookstore and announced my presence. “Yes,” the lady in the store said. “We kind of figured the person in the car with a four-foot picture of his book on it must have been you.”

Well, with my near-celebrity status, I was kindly shown to my author’s quarters, a table, and I use the term loosely, in the back of the store where I pre-empted the coffee urns, both regular and decaf, for their spot; a strategic placement, located before the rear exit along a narrow hallway created by a bookshelf that housed books on alien abduction and the coffee table itself. In such a confined area, one had to put forth effort not to see the coffee on their way out of the store.

It might have been amusing, had it not been me sitting there, watching the customers raise the art of overachievement to unprecedented levels as they invented ways of getting through the narrow space between my table and the exit while pretending to peruse the UFO shelf, edging by in a near crablike manner, trying to avoid making eye contact with that strange man sitting where the coffee used to be; that being me.

And those were the customers that did show up. Never have I been in a library as quiet and bereft of human spirit as this, the patrons floating through like disembodied ghosts, completely unable to interact with the living. Even the stoic store employees, who, out of shear boredom, had resorted to dusting the shelves, commented on the store’s lack of traffic.

Paul Phillips from North London won the autographed book giveaway for the first quarter of 2006. Congratulations Paul.

Stay tuned. There’s more to come.

You have permission to reprint, forward, or use the contents of this newsletter in your newsletter or e-zine. The only requirement is the inclusion of the following footer:

This article was written by Bob Avey, author of, Twisted Perception. http://www.bobavey.com.

Resistance is futile, but what the heck

Hello, everyone... or no one as it seems to be. Anyway still looking for Pagan Info.

email bob@bobavey.com
http://www.bobavey.com

During another episode of book-signing wars, not knowing how long it would take to get to this particular city, I arrived somewhat early. Luckily a shopping mall was just across the street, so I whipped into the parking lot – because that is what one has to do to make the tight turn and avoid being rear-ended – and began to search for a parking spot. The traffic was atrocious. Finding an empty parking spot proved to be a challenge, but after several revolutions around the colossal lot I managed to grab one, receiving a through-the-glass lecture from an angry shopper in a Honda as payment.

I entered the mall intending to grab lunch, but found the food court even busier than the parking lot, so I walked around the mall until I felt conspicuous – I was really early – then went back to the car to pass the time. This was not a good idea. Other cars, which were looking for a spot, kept hovering around me, like buzzards circling a fresh kill. Finally, when the cars had stacked up three-deep on both sides, the drivers having given up circling, deciding there chances of getting a spot were better by participating in the intimidation ritual of the only guy in the lot still sitting in his car, I gave up and backed out. Why didn’t I just walk across the street to the bookstore? Let’s just say the street wasn’t designed for speeds under fifty miles per hour, let alone pedestrian traffic.

TwistedMystery

TwistedMystery

Pagan Research

Hello, everyone. For my new book, I'm looking for information related to pagan gods and goddesses. If anyone has any information, I'd appreciate hearing from you. Just email me at bob@bobavey.com

http://www.bobavey.com

I have some exciting news. I’ve renegotiated the rights to Twisted Perception, and I now have a new publisher. The book is being re-released by Deadly Niche Press, an imprint of AWOC Books, http://www.awocbooks.com and should be available under the new imprint by the time you receive this newsletter. Several people contacted me, saying they had tried to get the book, but found that it was unavailable. The distribution problems that caused this have now been resolved. The book can now be found in, or ordered from any bookstore, both on and offline. (ISBN: 0-937660-31-0) http://www.bobavey.com

On one of my recent excursions, I found myself driving along an old two-lane highway. Somehow I managed to get between a massive truck, carrying what looked like the next space shuttle, and it’s escort, which was complete with flapping flags, flashing lights, and a sign proclaiming; wide load. Okay, so I passed the big truck but couldn’t muster enough power from my mighty Neon to get around the escort in time to beat the oncoming traffic. There has to be a law against this, driving in the forbidden zone, violating the symbiotic relationship of tiny, flashing trucks and their slow-moving hosts. This situation lasted much longer than it should have. To make matters worse, the ostentatious escort slowly began to pick up speed. I guess my being on his tail made him nervous. I couldn’t help it. I was late for an appointment. You can probably guess what happened next. Soon my escort and I had left the wide-loaded behemoth behind. I was now the wide load. I got a lot of funny looks before I finally managed to get around that silly little truck.