tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-87663892354301244992024-02-19T07:38:59.932-05:00Tony Bowman's Page on Redbud RevueTony Bowman's contributions to the (fictitious) Redbud Revue Magazine of the Paranormal.
This is the blog of Horror writer Tony Bowman.Tony Bowmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04825854888072493289noreply@blogger.comBlogger47125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8766389235430124499.post-45322991027644380902022-01-20T13:35:00.000-05:002022-01-20T13:35:07.656-05:00On Writing Nine Fingers: The Good Wolves<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhWwm4hEOeb3BmhDIN75w0RgUC9E1dgNcKuWRekXCnoy23hB-dGFPhhAB8zXlBGn1pXDIL-5TWw2D9MqB-fOX-5PaUPkxJNrfb5goYnYfgny_IQsDAxO9Zh2hmLNqMY9BFX8YrHIP1f_HQUeArxqgVFClzVTn8fkyptvdFP2NAUQwpZuwIDQwd7phi1=s1307" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="735" data-original-width="1307" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhWwm4hEOeb3BmhDIN75w0RgUC9E1dgNcKuWRekXCnoy23hB-dGFPhhAB8zXlBGn1pXDIL-5TWw2D9MqB-fOX-5PaUPkxJNrfb5goYnYfgny_IQsDAxO9Zh2hmLNqMY9BFX8YrHIP1f_HQUeArxqgVFClzVTn8fkyptvdFP2NAUQwpZuwIDQwd7phi1=w400-h225" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-indent: 18px;"><span style="font-family: Palatino-Roman;">I’m on the downhill run toward finishing Nine Fingers: The Good Wolves, the third book of four in the Nine Fingers series, my eighth book writing as Tony Bowman, and my twenty-first book overall. I started planning out Good Wolves right after finishing the original Nine Fingers. </span></p><p style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-indent: 18px;"><span style="font-family: Palatino-Roman;">As happens quite often, another story moved into my head between book one and The Good Wolves. That book was Nine Fingers: The Beast of Bray Road.</span></p><p style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-indent: 18px;"><span style="font-family: Palatino-Roman;">So, the basic story of The Good Wolves has been percolating in my mind since 2015. Specifically, the beginning of Good Wolves and the end have been clearly defined for almost seven years. I ‘see’ the scenes from my books in my head and they run on a continuous loop, sometimes for a decade.</span></p><p style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-indent: 18px;"><span style="font-family: Palatino-Roman;">Little details get added with each run through. How does it feel when a werewolf is engulfed in flame? Is there panic before they emerge from the fire and begin to heal? What does burning werewolf fur smell like?</span></p><p style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-indent: 18px;"><span style="font-family: Palatino-Roman;">Each bit of detail requires a rewind of the scene and a replay with the new detail. How does a werewolf save a small child from a burning building without terrifying them? By not appearing to be a werewolf, of course. How do you calm a child who is frightened when the only sound you can make in wolf form is a growl? That solution requires another rewind, and so on.</span></p><p style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-indent: 18px;"><span style="font-family: Palatino-Roman;">That is how I plot each scene.</span></p><p style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-indent: 18px;"><span style="font-family: Palatino-Roman;">But, there is an equally important part to writing that also needs to be addressed: characterization. Many would argue characterization is more important, and I don’t disagree.</span></p><p style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-indent: 18px;"><span style="font-family: Palatino-Roman;">There are many ways to kill a book. A sloppy plot, bad sentence structure, all can lead to disaster.</span></p><p style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-indent: 18px;"><span style="font-family: Palatino-Roman;">But, poor characterization will kill a story in a heartbeat.</span></p><p style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-indent: 18px;"><span style="font-family: Palatino-Roman;">There are writers out there who meticulously plan everything about a character, from their appearance to their motivations to the arc of their personal growth. My hat’s off to people who can do that - I certainly can’t. Many of my characters are chaotic in nature. If you ‘plot’ their arc, they come off two-dimensional - at least for me, they do.</span></p><p style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-indent: 18px;"><span style="font-family: Palatino-Roman;">I’m a software engineer by trade. In particular, I’m someone who writes ‘object oriented’ software. In layman’s terms, I create programs that react organically to input. My algorithms ‘evolve’ over time given the requirements. They’re like little mathematical models that simulate how a person would perform some task if it were assigned to them.</span></p><p style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-indent: 18px;"><span style="font-family: Palatino-Roman;">As it turns out, I can do the same thing in my head with book characters. I start off with some idea of who I want the character to ‘be’. What are their motivations, their drives? Do they have narrow focus? Are they self-centered, altruistic, or something in between?</span></p><p style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-indent: 18px;"><span style="font-family: Palatino-Roman;">More importantly, how do they ‘evolve’ as they are exposed to new stimuli? They can go down interesting paths that I never actually ‘plotted’. In Valkyrie: The Road, I have two characters trapped on top of a mausoleum surrounded by zombie-like ghouls. One of them is Rat, a woman who is 100% chaotic in her actions. I never know what she is going to do from one scene to the next.</span></p><p style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-indent: 18px;"><span style="font-family: Palatino-Roman;">So, she’s trapped on top of this mausoleum with her lover, Monkey, and they are about to die. Rat immediately pulls out a gun and prepares to shoot Monkey in the head - if I remember correctly, she says something to the effect of “I’ll shoot you, then you shoot me… wait, no, that won’t work.” Is she serious? Who knows? Monkey certainly doesn’t know, but he manages to talk her down.</span></p><p style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-indent: 18px;"><span style="font-family: Palatino-Roman;">It’s a fun scene, and it alleviates the extreme tension that led up to that instant. I couldn’t have planned that scene - Rat did. Rat saw they were about to die horribly, and she did something so outlandish that it broke that tension. </span></p><p style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-indent: 18px;"><span style="font-family: Palatino-Roman;">The readers laughed - I even laughed. It was just Rat being Rat - the Rat algorithm finding a way to add some levity to what looks like their demise.</span></p><p style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-indent: 18px;"><span style="font-family: Palatino-Roman;">Characters grow the same way. They change over the course of their arc. You could plan this growth, I suppose. I never have.</span></p><p style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-indent: 18px;"><span style="font-family: Palatino-Roman;">In Lawman, Nolan Ryan Dolan doesn’t start out wanting to be a father figure. He becomes one through his reactions to the world around him.</span></p><p style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-indent: 18px;"><span style="font-family: Palatino-Roman;">Karen Arthur in Nine Fingers has an even more dramatic change. Under Hayden Oswald’s ‘guidance’, she participated in the killing of her ex and her ex’s lover. We’ve now gone through two books of her coming to terms with what she did and finding a way to redeem herself.</span></p><p style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-indent: 18px;"><span style="font-family: Palatino-Roman;">Again, this isn’t something you can force. You can’t plot this. You have to let Karen work through it, and, even if she can’t ever really forgive herself, at least learn to accept it.</span></p><p style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 13px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-indent: 18px;"><span style="font-family: Palatino-Roman;">Nine Fingers: The Good Wolves picks up sometime after The Beast of Bray Road. Karen’s pack is doing what they believe to be right. They are flawed creatures, as are we all, and they have enemies they didn’t even know existed…</span></p>Tony Bowmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04825854888072493289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8766389235430124499.post-13047454878480947282017-08-07T10:51:00.002-04:002022-01-20T13:35:44.054-05:00Lawman<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">Lawman</span></div>
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Available now on Kindle! The print version will be available through Amazon by the end of the week.<br />
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Twenty years after a biological and nuclear war, the remnants of humanity live in a narrow corridor between Colorado and South Carolina. Nolan Ryan Dolan, a drifter from east Colorado, wanders into the town of Pig, Arkansas, looking for supplies.<br />
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Nolan is only looking to trade on his way to the ocean, but eleven-year-old Trudy Francis Ross sees him as something more than just another survivor. In her mind, he is a mythical Lawman...<br />
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<a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B074LWPX8C">https://www.amazon.com/dp/B074LWPX8C</a>Tony Bowmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04825854888072493289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8766389235430124499.post-25281984068241522582017-07-10T17:31:00.001-04:002017-07-10T17:31:36.377-04:00Tentative Writing Schedule 10-July-2017<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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With The House on the Hill now available on Amazon, and Lawman getting ready to go to editing, what's next from Tony Bowman?<br />
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First up will be an official sequel to Nine Fingers. Nine Fingers: Bray Road will be released in early November of 2017.<br />
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After that, I'll be doing a mystery novel collaboration with Laurie Ann Spivey which will come out sometime in 2018.<br />
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Next up will be the second book in the Valkyrie series. Valkyrie: The Three Witches will hit Amazon in Summer 2018.<br />
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After that, it will be a toss up between two novels I'm itching to write: Nine Fingers: The Good Wolves or The Zombie Chronicles.<br />
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Stay tuned!Tony Bowmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04825854888072493289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8766389235430124499.post-54665189735168859762017-06-22T17:58:00.000-04:002017-06-22T17:58:05.960-04:00For Love of the Intangible<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I think about horror novels as I drive to work in the morning.<br />
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Not other people's books - my books. Books I haven't written yet.<br />
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This is something I've done most of my life, although I really didn't sit down and start writing them out until about three years ago. I'm an engineer by trade, and before that, I was a student. I was convinced my future would lie in science and engineering. If you had told me a few decades ago I would be up to five novels with about thirty-seven more planned out at the age of fifty-two, I would have laughed at the notion.<br />
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Engineers like tangible things and known quantities. Cell phones, slot machines, cruise missiles - those are all tangible things. They have weight and inherent value.<br />
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Books, especially e-books, are intangible. They aren't known quantities. They aren't objective, they're subjective. Some people are going to like them, some people are going to hate them. What is the inherent value of a book? It depends on a delicate dance between the writer and the reader that makes the engineer in me cringe.<br />
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So, why do we do it? Why do we embrace the intangible when the tangible is so much more comfortable?<br />
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I read a story a few years ago about someone who was faced with a personal dilemma: they wanted to write, but they wondered if they should. This was about fifty years ago, and they just so happened to be at a party where Truman Capote made an appearance.<br />
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The neophyte approached Capote and asked, "Mr. Capote, should I write a book?"<br />
Capote looked at them through his thick lenses and asked, "Are you educated?"<br />
"Yes."<br />
"Well, you have no choice but to write."<br />
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And, I believe this is true. All people are, to a certain extent, creative. For some, it's music. For others, art.<br />
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If you're reading this, writing is most likely your creative outlet, or you want it to be.<br />
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For writers, that creative voice doesn't shut off, no matter how much the logical side of our brain tries to silence it. In my case, I was able to confine the muse to forty-five minutes, twice a day while traveling to and from work.<br />
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One day while driving, I had an image of a man who spoke with Truman Capote's voice having a conversation with a little girl beside a pond. The man was a killer - a werewolf actually, only standing beside that pond he was just an odd looking bald man wearing a safari outfit and perspiring under the hot Virginia sun. They were talking about the book "To Kill a Mockingbird" while the little girl's dog ate earthworms to the child's horror.<br />
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From that single scene imagined on a drive down Cary Parkway in central North Carolina, my book Nine Fingers was born. Every day, I would drive back and forth to work and imagine more of the scenes.<br />
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Now, in years past, that was the extent of what I would do with a story. It would play over and over in my head but never leave the realm of my imagination. It gave me pleasure, but it was the very definition of intangible.<br />
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The true joy came when I sat down and started writing. Characters introduced themselves and told me their life stories. A stream of simple scenes in my head suddenly had depth - characters I had imagined as only bit players stepped to the forefront and said, "Hey, take a look over here. I have something to add to this." I worked as their biographer, and, more often than not, I acted as their torturer. In some cases, I was their executioner. I lamented their deaths and cheered their triumphs.<br />
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Eighty-thousand words later I typed the final line. The epilogs were complete, the denouement was satisfying to me.<br />
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The Buddhists say there is no greater joy than to begin. Obviously, they haven't written a book.<br />
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To write the end, to finally take the idea that has plagued your imagination for months and translate it to words is joyous. No matter what happens after that, whether the book is enjoyed by thousands or universally panned, there is joy in that ending.<br />
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I'm deliriously happy for days after finishing a book. My blood pressure, which often climbs to heights that would make a full grown giraffe proud, drops to the level of a Yoga master. It's the equivalent of a runner's high, and, once you get a taste of it, you want to experience it over and over again.<br />
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More importantly, the muse is satiated. She goes away for awhile, though hopefully not too long. She stops playing the same movie over and over in your head. If you're fortunate, she goes off somewhere and invents a new story to tell you. My muse is an especially chatty Cathy, and she likes to show me double and triple features. She's exhausting sometimes, but I'm glad she hangs around.<br />
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For many of us, that's what writing is about. The joy of writing down the bones of the story - the contentment that comes when the scenes stop playing over and over in your head because they are finally recorded. There is no better therapy than to set the imagination free and create something intangible.<br />
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email: thattonybowman@gmail.com<br />
facebook: https://www.facebook.com/thattonybowman/<br />
blog: http://thattonybowman.blogspot.comTony Bowmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04825854888072493289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8766389235430124499.post-61985780870117182672017-06-13T13:16:00.002-04:002017-06-13T13:16:46.450-04:00Bowman-Palooza!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">Bowman-Palooza! </span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">Effective later on today, three of my books:</span></b></div>
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<li>Turning the Darkness</li>
<li>Vales Hollow</li>
<li>Morgue Dreams and Curiouser Things</li>
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are going on sale for <b>99 cents in the Kindle store!</b></div>
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<li>The short story Nine Fingers: The Tucson Ripper will be <span style="font-size: large;"><b>FREE</b></span> on Amazon from June 15 - 19!</li>
<li>The novel Nine Fingers will be on a countdown deal starting at <span style="font-size: large;"><b>99 cents</b></span> on June 15!</li>
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This is all in celebration of the release of <b>The House on the Hill</b>.</div>
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Get your copies now at <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Tony-Bowman/e/B00IVVQ63U">Bowman - Palooza!</a>!</div>
Tony Bowmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04825854888072493289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8766389235430124499.post-59972403541673204432017-06-10T22:31:00.001-04:002017-06-10T22:31:59.324-04:00The Lasso<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>The Lasso</b></span></div>
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Copyright 2017 by Tony Bowman</div>
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All Rights Reserved</div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">The old man sat in his chair under the apple tree
and listened to the cattle wail. The sound was monotonous and loud, though only
two of the herd were actually calling:
the cow standing at the foot of the steep mountain calling for the newborn
calf, and the calf standing in a meadow high above, calling for its mother.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">The old man sighed. He took a deep breath, which
after they had cut away most of his left lung the summer before, was more of a
half breath.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">The cicadas sang in the Appalachian afternoon with the sun
beating down. It was cool under the apple tree, the smell of rotten apples
wafted up from the grass – the tree never birthed anything bigger than a crab
apple, and these tiny apples formed a spongy mat of rot underneath the
spreading green canopy, carrion for yellow jackets and ants.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">He stood up and walked across the damp yard, feeling
the apples turn to mush under his feet.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">The boy lay on the concrete carport, a fleet of
Matchbox cars arrayed in front of him. He
looked up as his grandfather passed by on his way to the side yard.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">A transistor radio sat beside the boy. “The Night
the Lights Went Out in Georgia” droned on endlessly from WRIC AM as it seemed
to do that entire summer of 1973, adding the singer’s voice to the cacophony of insect jubilation and bovine lamentation.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-no-proof: yes;">“That how you solve a problem?” the
old man asked. “You just turn up the radio loud and drown it out?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“I don’t know.” The boy got up and followed the old
man. His eldest daughter’s boy was tall for an eight-year-old
but pudgy. “Where we goin’?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“Away from that racket,” the old man said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">The silver leaf maple at the edge of the yard kept
the silver side of its leaves pointed toward the ground, a sign there would be
no rain to cool the heat of the day.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">The old man reached up and plucked a fat green
caterpillar from a leaf. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">The boy watched mesmerized
as the old man took out his pocket knife and cut the caterpillar in two.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“Why’d you do that?” the boy asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“’Cause he’s eatin’ my maple.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">He held one of the caterpillar halves in front of
the boy’s eyes. “What’s that look like?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">The boy stared
at the gooey center of the former caterpillar. “Lime Jell-O.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“Reckon it tastes like lime Jell-O?” the old man
asked with a grin.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">The boy laughed. “No, sir.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“Naah, I expect it tastes like leaves.” He took
another half breath. It was infuriating to have to gulp for air after walking
twenty yards.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">The old man dropped the caterpillar halves on the
ground and turned back toward the mountain. The cow and calf continued their
harmonizing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“How come they do that?” the boy asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“Newborn calf’s legs work just fine going uphill,
not so much coming back down. Followed its mama up the mountain, but couldn’t
follow her down.” The old man looked into the backyard of the farmhouse at the
empty clothesline. Three long strands of green plastic-coated, wire-core line
ran the length of the yard.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">The cicadas buzzed and the cattle complained, and
the old man formed a plan. He walked to the clothesline and began untying one
of the strands from the T-shaped steel post.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“What are you doin’, Pa?” the boy asked as he ran to
keep up.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“You’ll see,” he said. The boy called him Pa and the
old man’s wife was Ma.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“I don’t think you oughtta be messin’ with Ma’s clothesline…”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“Reckon she’ll be ill about it?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“Reckon so.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“Well, I won’t tell if you won’t.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">The boy smiled. “I suppose we can just string it
back up once we’re done…”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Pa smiled, took out his pocket knife, and cut the
line in half about midway down the yard.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“Now she’s going to be ill,” the boy said<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Pa laughed. He started to cough.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">The boy looked concerned.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Pa held up his hand. “I’m all right.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">The boy stayed worried. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">A few weeks before, the old man had fallen asleep in
the house while he and the boy watched television.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">He awoke to find the boy
holding a mirror under his nose to make sure he was breathing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“I ain’t dead,” Pa had said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">The boy had put the mirror away quickly. “Sorry. You
were breathing awful shallow.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">They took the length of clothesline back to Pa’s
chair under the apple tree. He sat down and took some deep breaths.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">The boy watched as Pa’s weathered fingers made a knot in the end of the green plastic line and
fed the other end through it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“You makin’ a lasso?” the boy asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“Yep.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“What for?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">He paused and caught his breath. “Because you are
going to go up that mountain, lasso that little bull and lead it down to its
mama.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">The boy’s eyes grew wide. “I’m going to what?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“You heard me. Can’t leave that calf up there like
that. Pack of dogs might come along.” He put the loops of the lasso in the
boy’s hands.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“But, Dad will be home in a couple of hours. He can
bring it down.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“No sense in botherin’ your dad with such a thing.
Ain’t nothin’ to it.” He held his arm over his head and swung it in a circular
motion. “You just get the loop a goin’ and throw it on the calf’s head. Then
pull the rope tight.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">The boy looked at the rope in his hand with a look of awe and terror. “What if he don’t want to come down?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“You’re a big boy – make him.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">* * *<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Growing up on a cattle farm, the boy learned all the
dangers at an early age. Angry bulls were
at the top of the list, though the only bull on the farm at the time was the
forty pound, howling Black Angus standing
in the flat spot halfway up the mountain.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Snakes came next, though he had only seen the
non-venomous variety on the mountain.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">However, the boy’s bane
were cow pies. They were like landmines planted throughout the pasture. Most
were out in plain sight, but quite a few could hide in high grass and strike
when you least expected it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">There were two types of these excremental dangers:
dry and fresh. Dry were of little concern, sort of like stepping on a dud mine.
They were little more than processed grass.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Fresh was a different matter altogether. These
destroyed sneakers. Worse, if you happened to be walking barefoot through the
field, as the boy often did, ‘Fresh’ would engulf your feet and encase your
toes requiring a shower with the garden hose and a healthy supply of Joy
dishwashing detergent.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">On top of that, ‘Fresh’ stunk worse than any skunk
ever dreamed. At least, in the boy’s opinion,
it did.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">So, the boy kept his eyes on the ground as he
entered the pasture through the handmade gate. He instinctively found the path
made by the cattle that wound up the mountain.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Cattle were natural born engineers, laying out an
intricate network of paths with the shallowest grade as sure as any railroad
planner.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">The mama cow eyed
him suspiciously as he walked past. He paid her no mind. Flies buzzed around
her in a cloud. After he passed, she
returned to her now hoarse cries to the calf above.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">The boy climbed the mountain.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">The middle flat where the little bull stood was the boy’s favorite place on the farm. A flat meadow
that seemed perfectly suited to a small
house with a picture window that would look out on the green valley beyond.
This spot was filed away in his mind as the place for his home and family at
some point in the future before work and
necessity would take him elsewhere.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">There was a Beech tree there, a massive, gnarled old
thing that had limestone boulders under its roots. It looked like a giant’s
hand gathering rocks from the mountainside.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Beyond the clearing was a thick cedar forest,
another forest of big pines, and yet a third of tall
locusts. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">The boy reached the flat to find the little bull
waiting for him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Its broad head was lowered, shiny black nose dripping from the bawling it had done for hours.
It looked at him with a look of distrust.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">He heard Pa’s voice call up from his grandparents’
house. “Go on, lasso him!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">The boy sighed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">At the foot of the mountain, the mama cow began to
cry louder, but she made no move to climb up to them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">He held the lasso above his head and started it
swinging.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">The calf watched with the general expression all
cattle shared: mild curiosity coupled with utter incomprehension.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">The boy aimed for the black dripping nose and let
the lasso fly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">It snapped against the bull’s nose with a wet slap
and fell on the ground.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">The little bull
leaped into the air, turned on its hooves, and charged away into the high
weeds.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“Damn,” the boy said. He regretted the word
instantly. It would be another eight years before he realized God did not
strike you dead for uttering curse words, but at the time he was sure God was
taking aim at him with a lightning bolt for the transgression.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“Get after him!” his grandfather yelled from below.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">His prayer to not be struck dead by a vengeful God
interrupted, the boy chased the bull,
swinging the lasso over his head and letting it fly when he thought he had a
good shot. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">The bull
continued to run in circles, unhindered by boy
or makeshift lasso.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">The boy’s legs were on fire, and he realized he was
following the calf through a miasma of one of the other farm dangers: stinging
nettles.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">The jagged
leaves raked at his bare legs and raised blisters wherever they touched.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“Damn!” the boy yelled. But, he did not stop or slow
down, he pursued the bull through the
biting weeds, the lasso above his head singing in the hot summer sun.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">And, below him was the sound of laughter, far louder
than lungs ravaged by cancer should have been capable.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">When the boy’s father came home, he found his son
and the calf on the mountainside, two young kids,
hot and tired and well exercised.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“He’s tricky,” the boy wheezed as his father walked
past him. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Dad simply
reached down and picked the bull up in
his arms and carried him down the mountainside.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">The boy followed, regaling his father with tales of
stinging nettles and near misses with the lasso.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Back home, he told the stories again to his
grandfather, who laughed and nodded as Ma admonished Pa for setting the boy on
such a fool’s errand. The boy required Mercurochrome for the briar scratches
and Calamine lotion for the stinging nettle blisters on his legs.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">But, to the boy,
these were battle scars received fighting the good fight. In reality, it was only an afternoon’s amusement for an old
man and his grandson.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">Author's Note: This is based on true events. I was the eight-year-old boy, and Pa was my grandfather, Glen Bowman. He died in 1975 at the age of fifty-seven. I believe it is a common trait among people of Appalachia that the passing of a family member sticks with us and causes us to continue to mourn after forty years.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">The picture at the top of the page is Pa with one of his horses. The mountain behind him is the mountain I climbed to lasso the Black Angus calf. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">"The Lasso" won second place in the adult short story competition at the Appalachian Heritage Writers Symposium in June, 2017.</span></div>
Tony Bowmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04825854888072493289noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8766389235430124499.post-61671895059309912152017-06-02T16:26:00.002-04:002017-06-02T16:26:43.680-04:00"The Caretakers of Forever" in Creepy Campfire Quarterly #5: Science Fiction EditionMy Science Fiction / Horror short story "The Caretakers of Forever" is in the anthology Creepy Campfire Quarterly #5: Science Fiction Edition.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS-EIry78cV9YBzYwqs6_S4mwbENtN1zohisFZqtQSrlmoGW8wl-ky4GF7iUtrkfFwJ2gvBxdk4Bb0Yf3a5I9aKKbGB-eqlnfZQDXkNXIVxcWs5P8l5mVyxzJ4iRxqGG-cDcCNp5pbVss/s1600/CCQ5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="346" data-original-width="242" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS-EIry78cV9YBzYwqs6_S4mwbENtN1zohisFZqtQSrlmoGW8wl-ky4GF7iUtrkfFwJ2gvBxdk4Bb0Yf3a5I9aKKbGB-eqlnfZQDXkNXIVxcWs5P8l5mVyxzJ4iRxqGG-cDcCNp5pbVss/s320/CCQ5.jpg" width="223" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B06X9KL8MT" target="_blank">Creepy Campfire Quarterly #5 (Kindle)</a><br />Tony Bowmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04825854888072493289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8766389235430124499.post-34932042860312220372017-06-02T16:18:00.002-04:002017-06-02T16:18:50.232-04:00Coming in Early July - Lawman by Tony Bowman<span abp="17024" aria-live="polite" class="fbPhotosPhotoCaption" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id="fbPhotoSnowliftCaption" tabindex="0"><span abp="17025" class="hasCaption"></span></span><br />
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Coming in early July: <br abp="17027" /><br abp="17028" /><div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #bf9000; font-size: x-large;">Lawman</span></div>
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<div abp="17026" class="text_exposed_root text_exposed" id="id_5931c7926fe286989966344">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: red; font-size: large;">by Tony Bowman</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmJWsLQEh8Br9YulTRVOdbNet7ly0SwGLkkIbnXmYmvT1TVjFVR8nUNNhgAp9ftVerH8C8jOPp5EMIvH49nnDEAdY8LaJj4lULigo-I2Ilrczt9gT54WjwF1uuCuIzSg20GgoCwWbvQQc/s1600/Lawman.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="551" data-original-width="410" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmJWsLQEh8Br9YulTRVOdbNet7ly0SwGLkkIbnXmYmvT1TVjFVR8nUNNhgAp9ftVerH8C8jOPp5EMIvH49nnDEAdY8LaJj4lULigo-I2Ilrczt9gT54WjwF1uuCuIzSg20GgoCwWbvQQc/s320/Lawman.png" width="238" /></a></div>
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A biological attack by terrorists turns into full-scale nuclear war. Twenty years later, the remnants of humanity huddle together in walled towns for safety from the mutated humanity that besieges them. Young Nolan Ryan Dolan drifts into the town of Pig, Arkansas looking for food and supplies.<span abp="17031" class="text_exposed_hide">...</span><span abp="17032" class="text_exposed_show"><br abp="17033" /><br abp="17034" />But, eleven-year-old orphaned Trudy Ross believes Nolan is more than just a drifter. She believes he is a beacon of hope in a world gone insane: a Lawman.<br abp="17035" /><br abp="17036" />Sometimes, belief is enough.</span></div>
Tony Bowmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04825854888072493289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8766389235430124499.post-10348320265952164192017-06-02T16:05:00.004-04:002017-06-02T16:05:49.480-04:00The House on the Hill - a novel by Tony BowmanJust Released on Kindle and Paperback:<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="color: #e69138; font-size: x-large;">The House on the Hill </span></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: red; font-size: large;">by Tony Bowman</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggCA7r_e3ynZWP8VQ_P50YQva_NUtWkOLC7WsfrBggehyphenhyphenvAFKV3TK2w27rlxJMYOsdZ75hbfKxouL3SUXNz40mDBSA1SQxTh87p43rSrSuj9cEDOkpi6ZW8LklDXViRmWGA_yftt3AZPE/s1600/The+House+on+the+Hill.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1067" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggCA7r_e3ynZWP8VQ_P50YQva_NUtWkOLC7WsfrBggehyphenhyphenvAFKV3TK2w27rlxJMYOsdZ75hbfKxouL3SUXNz40mDBSA1SQxTh87p43rSrSuj9cEDOkpi6ZW8LklDXViRmWGA_yftt3AZPE/s320/The+House+on+the+Hill.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B072PZT566" target="_blank">The House on the Hill (Kindle)</a><br />
<a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/1521414599" target="_blank">The House on the Hill (Paperback)</a><br />
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For forty years, Gene Stinson has followed an ancient evil across the United States. The Family is an infection that destroys lives by invading the mind and transforming the bodies of some while it slaughters others. The town of Rural Retreat, Virginia is the Family's next home. Enter The House on the Hill, where family can be hell...<br />
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<br />Tony Bowmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04825854888072493289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8766389235430124499.post-68926888691841015292017-06-02T15:55:00.000-04:002017-06-02T15:55:31.057-04:00Triangle Radio Reading Service Produces an Audio Recording of "Homesick" by Tony BowmanThe Triangle Radio Reading Service has produced a recording of my science fiction short story "Homesick" featuring the voice talents of R. Freeman Sykes and Anthony Spivey.<br />
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<a href="http://ibiblio.org/trrs/ScienceFiction/SCIFI040417.MP3" target="_blank">Science Fiction Shorts 04/04/2017</a><br />
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"Homesick" appears at the 12:09 mark.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy9b3qfBptzPcRS-7ZAZdoBnw6lhyphenhyphennut_QFje4AFpdQm-zdQSAZCf1f-JFxjS5QQ128orb4aalrXGijtf5u20ZENoXVhTs2rYh5Kp6wRuKK6gnt6SikFk4r6rLD-b2Ada612IVnyYf1SI/s1600/Homesick.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="218" data-original-width="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy9b3qfBptzPcRS-7ZAZdoBnw6lhyphenhyphennut_QFje4AFpdQm-zdQSAZCf1f-JFxjS5QQ128orb4aalrXGijtf5u20ZENoXVhTs2rYh5Kp6wRuKK6gnt6SikFk4r6rLD-b2Ada612IVnyYf1SI/s1600/Homesick.jpg" /></a></div>
Tony Bowmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04825854888072493289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8766389235430124499.post-78556024413762766012017-06-02T15:47:00.001-04:002017-06-02T15:47:19.349-04:00Triangle Radio Reading Service Produces an Audio Recording of "All Our Hopes Go With You" by Tony BowmanThe Triangle Radio Reading Service has created an online audio recording of my short story, "All Our Hopes Go With You" utilizing the voice talents of Jackie Wrobel, Kurt Benrud, and Anthony Spivey.<br />
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<a href="http://ibiblio.org/trrs/ScienceFiction/SCIFI030717.MP3" target="_blank">Science Fiction for 03/07/2017</a><br />
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"All Our Hopes Go With You" appears at the 6:30 mark.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBWIORMeJvno4fyC9HAR_WziSTbcn7neKOsS7dTiaRtMw8C_zWSSg6xtEX6zvhyAm8MB7PxVaaXyzORcY9eneI2Lu7TQEIPXSUcEWnnBrG0LqgsZZuESROUJjyF37g3SzteEABfmj7crs/s1600/TRRSLogoTransparent80h.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="80" data-original-width="195" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBWIORMeJvno4fyC9HAR_WziSTbcn7neKOsS7dTiaRtMw8C_zWSSg6xtEX6zvhyAm8MB7PxVaaXyzORcY9eneI2Lu7TQEIPXSUcEWnnBrG0LqgsZZuESROUJjyF37g3SzteEABfmj7crs/s1600/TRRSLogoTransparent80h.gif" /></a></div>
Tony Bowmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04825854888072493289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8766389235430124499.post-71081411018227720902016-02-15T13:25:00.001-05:002016-02-15T13:25:30.124-05:00Autism<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsHEhMJx8QOn4dvuC4KzbKboMNdsFdbA8PKOrhIQfbUXyhScVpnbMvbEoTop4gWGW6Qf2elvqzBPhGdsunVOO4USAP1qceWShdO_lA9-SG3FRIzvhCBZZ026xDxaYwphVLdpt-e7rLtGQ/s1600/dog.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsHEhMJx8QOn4dvuC4KzbKboMNdsFdbA8PKOrhIQfbUXyhScVpnbMvbEoTop4gWGW6Qf2elvqzBPhGdsunVOO4USAP1qceWShdO_lA9-SG3FRIzvhCBZZ026xDxaYwphVLdpt-e7rLtGQ/s320/dog.png" width="240" /></a></div>
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My wife called me on my way to work this morning. In the background, I could hear my fourteen-year-old daughter complaining, quite loudly, because I had left the house. Our conversation was punctuated by my daughter screaming, "Daddy!" from the living room.</div>
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Now, most of you with teenagers who read this won't be able to relate. Most teens would prefer their parents not be at home. In fact, most would prefer not to have contact with their parents at all until they are in their twenties. To use the vernacular of my generation: we're a drag.</div>
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However, our daughter Sara's teenage years are flipped one-hundred-eighty degrees. We live in bizarro land also known as opposite world.</div>
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Sara has autism.</div>
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Now, there are varying degrees of autism ranging from difficulty with social interactions all the way up to a complete detachment from the physical world and an inability to communicate. Our daughter falls somewhere past the middle of the spectrum: she can speak in simple sentences and she is well grounded in reality 90% of the time.</div>
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Occasionally, she goes off into a cartoon land. We will hear her carrying on conversations with Caillou, Winnie the Pooh, or Dorothy the Dinosaur. It's a world where we might recognize the landscape, but where we cannot follow. When she ventures into cartoon land, our job is to act as a beacon, a lighthouse to guide her back home.</div>
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"Sara, snap out of it. Come back to Mommy and Daddy," we will say. Her eyes will focus on us, and her expression will either be one of happiness or annoyance depending on how pleasant her conversation had been with Pooh.</div>
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In the back of our minds, there is always the fear she will be too far away to hear us calling her, and she will lose her way, never to return. It's an irrational fear, of course: she always comes back. But, the fear is always there.</div>
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For parents living day to day with an autistic child, fear is a constant. Will she decide to venture outside into the street when we're not looking? She escaped from a preschool when she was two years old. She stopped to play in the snow just outside the door which is the only thing that saved her.</div>
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Our house is Fort Knox with a smart Catahoula Leopard dog who somehow knows instinctively Sara can't leave the house without Mom and Dad. She stopped her from leaving through the backdoor once with a pitiful howl alerting my wife.</div>
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Sara's issue is with cause and effect. Water is fun and fire is pretty, the fact they are also dangerous doesn't enter into her thinking. It's not a lack of intelligence - she can master any electronic device within minutes and has picked up the piano quickly.</div>
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Cause and effect are the issue. She either fails to see the correlation between fire and burn, water and drown, cars in the street and being squished - or, she simply chooses to ignore those correlations.</div>
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Take for instance, the correlation between lying down and getting choked on something she is eating. We've become adept at recognizing the sound of her choking. Over the last fourteen years, we've had at least two close calls with blocked airways - the most memorable being a strawberry getting lodged in her throat which ended with her biting my fingers followed by impressive projectile vomiting.</div>
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Fear and worry are the daily norm.</div>
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And, then there is the big fear we rarely speak of: what happens to her when we are gone? When I'm seventy-six, Sara will be forty. I will be nearing the end of my life while Sara will be less than half way through her own. She has no siblings and the likelihood she will be alone for several decades is very high. This is the worry that will keep you up at night, more terrifying than lodged strawberries and escape attempts.</div>
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I write horror novels, and the thought of her being alone is more terrifying than anything I can imagine.</div>
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You might ask why I'm writing this? It isn't to garner sympathy - fear aside, we have a very nice life. A normal teenager doesn't give their parents the time of day, but Sara wants three stories at bedtime and a few verses of "Baby Mine" from Dumbo before she goes to sleep. She complains when I go to work. We dance in grocery stores - try that with your typical teenager and they'll die of embarrassment.</div>
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No, I'm writing this because there are multitudes of families going through the same fears whether it </div>
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be from autism, cerebral palsy, or downs. Many of these families don't talk about it because they're too busy *living* it. But, talking about it is how we explore it. It's how we learn from it and show others what these conditions mean for the families experiencing them.</div>
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I'm an optimist by nature. I believe one day autism will be treated by some science fiction means like stem cell therapy, nanotechnology repair of neural pathways, heck, maybe even a symbiotic relationship between artificial intelligence and the autistic mind - somebody will figure it out. Maybe during my lifetime, but I hope and pray during hers.</div>
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Or, maybe she's just laughing at us. She watches us worry while she actually knows she will be okay, she just can't be bothered to come out of her mind long enough to tell us.</div>
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Before she was born, I had a dream. I'm from Appalachia, dreams have meaning, they're not random. We place a lot of weight on dreams.</div>
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The pregnancy was rough and one night I dreamt I was standing in a house. The wind was blowing outside, and I could see a nightmare landscape of storms and tornadoes outside the windows. The maelstrom was bearing down on me.</div>
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There was a small hand in mine, a little girl with long blonde hair and my wife's green eyes. She looked up at me and smiled. "It's going to be okay, Daddy."</div>
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Those were the only words she said. The dream ended, but to this day I can still see the image of her face, Sara's face a decade before that face would become her own.</div>
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Letting go of fear is hard, but I've learned to do it. Somebody once told me God only puts on you what you can withstand. I think this is true.</div>
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I can't control Sara's future. I can do my best to guide it, but I can't control it.</div>
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Sometimes I feel she has been cheated. She will have adventures, but maybe not the adventures most of us experience.</div>
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So, I write adventures for her in the hope someday she will read them and understand they were for her. She is Sinead Landry trained to fight by her crazy step-grandmother. She is Melissa Ames sitting beside a pond discussing "To Kill a Mockingbird" with a werewolf. She is a girl named Rat with pink hair wisecracking her way through the Apocalypse.</div>
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She is all these and a hundred others I haven't written yet.</div>
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A small repayment for the little girl in a dream who told me everything is going to be okay.</div>
Tony Bowmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04825854888072493289noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8766389235430124499.post-63883456709952372862015-07-13T21:12:00.001-04:002015-07-13T21:12:27.900-04:00Valkyrie: The Road now available on Amazon!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh90_GAv2g0fFwej6aAb0l2qcRjf9pZ_l-klj4CIP0okYM_B24JnknOiJ392xi10TlStGTukekiq2NsZ26x0VYoDgj1oNCdWgMr-uUVBNdwVjnTz45KmtCAzrMzXMlt-VDzFefSsEeivMo/s320/Valkyrie+the+Road.png" width="221" /></div>
<br />
My latest novel, Valkyrie: The Road is now available from Amazon. Just click <a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B011J894EE" target="_blank">here.</a><br />
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Valkyrie is two-hundred thousand pounds of armor plate, a rolling fortress travelling the road from Chicago to New Orleans in a post-apocalyptic future. Trading goods between vampire controlled Chicago and a New Orleans dominated by Vodou, the human crew of Valkyrie face werewolves, ghouls, and cannibals in the ruins of the Midwest. <br /><br />Hidden beneath the steel deck of the trailer is Valkyrie's true purpose: a desperate underground railroad ferrying the innocent to freedom. <br /><br />The crew of Valkyrie have a plan. <br /><br />But, the rulers of Chicago have a plan as well: a powerful vampire has been added to the crew...Tony Bowmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04825854888072493289noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8766389235430124499.post-81334076530330963392015-07-06T10:20:00.001-04:002015-07-06T10:20:11.343-04:00My free works are now on Wattpad!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKEZzqabzkkUCn_V9jm2sOUv5lnBIsFKxj9KYUHdmBMzcV1I_2bRH6ZTc6l51xYZHxv8RZHCf3bz_qmpF2URuCEGcPoSsuXQCy2C4GqgQxCLB2nfDyPvQ61-yWkSUvseH1uC93Yeg2xuQ/s1600/wattpad.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="169" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKEZzqabzkkUCn_V9jm2sOUv5lnBIsFKxj9KYUHdmBMzcV1I_2bRH6ZTc6l51xYZHxv8RZHCf3bz_qmpF2URuCEGcPoSsuXQCy2C4GqgQxCLB2nfDyPvQ61-yWkSUvseH1uC93Yeg2xuQ/s320/wattpad.png" width="320" /></a></div>
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Wattpad is the place to go to read free fiction on the web. Check out my page to read the lead-in short story to Nine Fingers, Nine Fingers: The Tucson Ripper.<br />
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You'll also find my short story, Anaphylaxis.<br />
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Soon, you'll also be able to read the free lead-in to Valkyrie: The Road, Valkyrie: Rat in the Dumpster.<br />
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<a href="http://www.wattpad.com/user/TonyBowman" target="_blank">Tony Bowman's works on Wattpad...</a>Tony Bowmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04825854888072493289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8766389235430124499.post-62118963143861164112015-06-20T12:24:00.000-04:002015-06-20T12:24:14.054-04:00Surgeries<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2VyWlZuLvUCDiNPYnif2dImwEcUY89WUPz4IxVzrjQvWVJ0vZIziWtNYe8vyueEkSLBST3Z5SFwLQGE9KMtL2Gfm4JZ7rgMUQXV4mKyxK66cpB_1q34fa2bMKsLThsYP9i8qIzTu4FzU/s1600/1649_1404149459862063_8976114110774202989_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2VyWlZuLvUCDiNPYnif2dImwEcUY89WUPz4IxVzrjQvWVJ0vZIziWtNYe8vyueEkSLBST3Z5SFwLQGE9KMtL2Gfm4JZ7rgMUQXV4mKyxK66cpB_1q34fa2bMKsLThsYP9i8qIzTu4FzU/s320/1649_1404149459862063_8976114110774202989_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My grandfather, Glenn Bowman, along with my cousin Brian Bowman seated to my right. I'm the chunky kid with the bad haircut.</td></tr>
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Over the past two weeks, I’ve had two emergency surgeries. This marks the first time I’ve ever been admitted to a hospital, the first time I’ve had surgery, the first time I’ve been under anesthesia – heck, the first time I’ve had an IV. At fifty, you might say my time was past due.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Both my Mother and my Aunt worked for our small town hospital during my youth. During summer breaks from college, I worked there as well. So, I’m no stranger to hospitals. I just managed to avoid going under the knife myself for as long as possible.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I only have one phobia – an irrational fear of hypodermic needles. I’ve had it since I was a child. </div>
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Now, let me just tell you I cannot remember a time when I was actually hurt by a needle – it’s simply the thought of a needle entering my skin that makes me want to run away screaming. In the last two weeks, I hope I’ve become desensitized to this. I lost count of the number of blood draws and IV’s I’ve had inserted.<o:p></o:p></div>
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However, that irrational fear has lingered in the back of my mind during the entire ordeal.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The one thing that kept me going, the one thing that kept me signing those surgery permissions, was my grandfather, Glen Bowman.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I grew up in the Appalachian Mountains in a wide, bowl shaped valley surrounded by steep mountains and rolling hills. Glen Bowman bought a good deal of that valley before I was born and divided it among his children. He was a coal miner, specifically he drove the small train called a “motor” that ferried miners into the depths of the drift mine at Harman. I can remember sitting in a seat on that motor as my grandfather explained how it worked. I remember peering into the windows of equipment sheds, marveling at the machinery inside. I can remember the coal dust that clung to everything.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Around 1973, my grandfather was diagnosed with lung cancer. He had always smoked, and he had spent many years breathing in coal dust. The doctor told him he must give up cigarettes immediately.<o:p></o:p></div>
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My understanding is he dropped his cigarettes in a trashcan and never lit up again, even though he had been smoking since childhood. The doctor was impressed. He could have stopped at any time. He simply never had a reason to quit.<o:p></o:p></div>
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My grandfather confided later he did not believe the cancer had been from cigarettes or coal dust. He told us about an incident in which a steel cable had caught fire in the mine a few years before. He had breathed in the smoke, and, in his words, “I haven’t breathed right since.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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I’ve never doubted he was correct.<o:p></o:p></div>
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We spent that summer in Charlottesville, Virginia at the University of Virginia Medical Center. Surgeons there removed three quarters of one of my grandfather’s lungs in an attempt to save his life. I saw this through a seven year old’s eyes. I can remember the waiting rooms, and the stifling heat of a central Virginia summer. I can remember my Mother putting me in a chair in a medical student’s lounge where live operation video was being fed in through closed circuit television – she still had the dream I might someday become a doctor.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I can remember sitting in a Howard Johnson’s restaurant drinking Pepsi and lime sherbet floats with my Aunt Susie.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I cannot remember being afraid for my grandfather. You see, to me, he was a figure bigger than life. No disease would stop him. This was a man who had once been trapped in a barn stall with an angry bull. It had pressed him against the wall, threatening to crush him. He had wrapped a massive right arm around the bull’s neck and squeezed until the animal had passed out. A man like that doesn’t succumb to a disease.<o:p></o:p></div>
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And, he did not. He survived his surgeries and went on to the Woodrow Wilson Rehabilitation Center where he spent his days walking through the surrounding woods. When I visited him there, he showed me a collection of Prohibition era liquor bottles he had found throughout the forest. “I think they did some serious drinking around here,” he told me.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Tony, as long as a man can get up and walk, he can keep going through anything,” he confided in me. I’ve never forgotten that.<o:p></o:p></div>
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My grandfather died in 1975. He was only fifty-seven years old. But, in those fifty-seven years he provided a better life for his children, and a lifetime of stories and wisdom for his grandchildren. You see, it turns out such a man cannot be killed by a disease – he lives on through our memories of him that have not faded forty years after his passing.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Two weeks ago, a surgeon here in Raleigh told me I needed to go under the knife. I was terrified. I have not wrestled bulls to the ground. But, I told myself if Glen Bowman could have three quarters of a lung removed, I could manage an incision in my stomach.<o:p></o:p></div>
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And, when the doctor told me a few days later it would be good for me to walk around a little, I did just that.<o:p></o:p></div>
Tony Bowmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04825854888072493289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8766389235430124499.post-45081328794678580542015-05-06T15:57:00.001-04:002015-05-06T15:58:53.903-04:00Oh, Good Grief...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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This week, we've been witness to one of the strangest, most surrealistic Internet broohaha's to date: rabid fans attacking Avengers: Age of Ultron, and, in particular, director Joss Whedon, for the on-screen romance between comic book characters Black Widow and the Hulk. When I first heard there was a war going on over this, I thought it was a joke - oh, I was so wrong.<br />
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Joss Whedon has now officially left Twitter, presumably because of the neo-quasi-sortof-feminist venom being spit in his direction because - horror of horrors - a strong female character was shown to have *gasp* a love interest.<br />
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And, I mean, I completely see their point: it's ridiculous to give comic book heroes and heroines the capacity to care for one another. Right?<br />
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Good grief.<br />
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At the heart of their argument appears to be the idea that Black Widow doesn't need a man in her life.<br />
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What exactly is wrong with a highly skilled assassin (who regularly rides motorcycles out of airplanes and performs bone jarring acrobatics to deliver knock-out blows to bad guys) falling in love with a mad scientist (who occasionally turns mean and green)? Nothing. Hulk and Black Widow can do things people can't do, so why is it some sort of attack on women when they do something people have been doing since the dawn of time, i.e. falling in love?<br />
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Now, I feel a little silly taking comic book romance serious enough to write a blog post, but there's something deeper here. Somehow these wackos are trying to say there is something wrong with relationships in general. As a writer, that pisses me off.<br />
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I've written three books with a fourth on the way, and one thing that binds those books together is strong female characters. I draw from experience. I'm from the Appalachian Mountains: my Mom is a crack shot with a pistol, although her weapon of choice is the business end of a high heel, and my Grandmother regularly killed poisonous snakes with a hoe - always took the head off clean, never missed. She would've made a ninja proud.<br />
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All my strong female characters have a love interest, so do my strong male characters, because I believe that there is a love story at the heart of everything we write.<br />
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There are good relationships, and there are bad relationships. I've had both. The bad relationships weaken you, the good relationships make you stronger than you've ever been. Today, I have a partner in life, love, and crime, and, although I might not look like a comic book superhero, I sure feel like I'm dancing on air.<br />
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So, why wouldn't I want to write about that in a book? Granted, I write horror, so quite often it doesn't end well but, c'est la vie. It's the emotion that counts.<br />
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In any event, the people who objected so strongly to the Avengers romance missed the point. It's all about demographics. Why does Black Widow fall in love with Bruce Banner? Simple, kiddies - look at us comic book nerds.<br />
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Are we billionaire playboy Tony Stark with meticulously styled facial hair? No.<br />
Are we demigod's with long flowing blond hair? Um, no.<br />
Are we genetically enhanced super soldiers and natural born leaders? Nope.<br />
Could we see ourselves as clumsy nerds who might accidentally turn ourselves into monsters, although we would still find ourselves socially awkward EVEN when we get mean and green? Yep.<br />
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The movie was making a statement, but not the one the narrative nazis want you to believe. The message is there's someone out there for you, even if you see yourself as a socially inept monster - although, there's no guarantee (or promise) that they won't be a sociopath or a knucklehead who will fly off in a quinjet in Act IV.<br />
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If there's somehow something wrong with that sentiment, please keep it to yourselves. The rest of us get it.Tony Bowmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04825854888072493289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8766389235430124499.post-28361205166075044382015-03-05T14:05:00.001-05:002015-03-05T14:07:03.509-05:00On Immortality<div class="text_exposed_root text_exposed" style="text-align: left;">
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I've read it is impossible for a human being to imagine their own death for more than a few seconds - something about the more primitive parts of your brain flipping a switch that says, "Forget it, dude. You're gonna live forever, man." The primitive part of my brain always sounds like Tommy Chong after a pound of weed, not sure why.<br />
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We can't think in detail about our own demise.<span class="text_exposed_hide">...</span><span class="text_exposed_show"> It's a survival mechanism: quit worrying about dying and get on with living. Like most adults with the mind of a juvenile, I've always figured the game is rigged in my favor - in short, I'm immortal.<br /><br />A couple of weeks ago, I started getting dizzy. I mean really, really dizzy. As in, you're six years old, just ate five chili dogs and rode the Tilt-A-Whirl at the county fair ten times. That kind of dizzy.<br /><br />Now, I've had this before, and I just figured I had an inner ear infection. A round of antibiotics would perk me right up, so I went to the Urgent Care. My least favorite Nurse Practitioner, we'll call her Nurse Sourpuss, was on duty. She doesn't like me and I don't like her - mainly because I wouldn't get blood work when she asked for it years ago. I don't like needles, she doesn't like sniveling man-children.<br /><br />Nurse Sourpuss looked in my ears and then grumbled, "They're fine."<br /><br />Then she listened to my heart, "You need an EKG."<br /><br /><i>What is it with Sourpuss and tests?</i> I wondered. But, I agreed to it because there's no needle involved. There is sticky tape that hurts when they rip out your over-abundance of chest hair, but I'm only needle-phobic.<br /><br />The EKG technician came in and wired me up. He was cheerful, talking about this and that. Then he ran the test.<br /><br />So, let me clue you in on something. I have Asperger's Syndrome, which means I have a hard time interacting with people in a social setting. Over the years, I've learned to talk to normal people, trained myself to read visual cues in their facial expressions and actions. It's sort of like learning a foreign language.<br /><br />The technician was reading the EKG chart, and he went silent. He quickly left the room. A few minutes later, he came back and ran it again. He read the new chart. Then he started dropping stuff, ripped the tape off in a hurry, managed to tangle the leads trying to get them back on the EKG cart. He beat a hasty retreat out of the room.<br /><br />You didn't have to be a mind reader to know something was amiss.<br /><br />Nurse Sourpuss came back in, only now she wasn't sour. She was smiling, and not her normal velociraptor smile either. Sometime in the last ten minutes, Nurse Sourpuss had found her bedside manner.<br /><br /><i>Oh, crap,</i> I thought. <i>This ain't good, Bubba.</i><br /><br />"I was afraid we might have a coronary issue, and it turns out we do. I'm getting you in to see a cardiologist immediately - either that or you can go directly to the hospital, your choice."<br /><br />"Uh, so this is serious?"<br /><br />"Life threatening."<br /><br />Whoa. Those are two of the heaviest words someone can drop on you: life threatening. The imaginative part of my brain kicked into overdrive: death, funeral, will they play AC/DC on bagpipes like I've always wanted? Then the switch got flipped and I'm hearing Tommy Chong's voice, "Hey, man, she like didn't get the memo, man. We're immortal, man."<br /><br />"Shut up, Tommy, this is important. It's life threatening."<br /><br />Turns out I have something called Atrial Fibrillation. Without being too technical, the bottom two chambers of my heart are beating normally, while the top two chambers are beating like a frightened rabbit on crank. I didn't feel it till it got so bad it started affecting my balance. The problem is this can cause a blood clot, which in turn causes a stroke.<br /><br />Now, I always figured it would be my weight that did me in, and it certainly isn't helping matters, but it turns out this is inherited. My aunt has the same thing, and she runs about two miles a day.<br /><br />Lots of things can trigger an episode of AFIB. For me, it was Valentine's Day chocolate - I put away a large Hershey bar for breakfast one morning, then had two more before lunch. Caffeine can do it as well.<br /><br />Alcohol can also trigger it, which made me remember the last time I had a dizzy spell. It was the morning after I put away a double martini in Long Island.<br /><br />I'm getting better through medication. I now abstain from caffeine, alcohol, and chocolate. I even went for blood work. They got a thimble full of blood out of me before I passed out, and I call that progress.<br /><br />Turns out I'm not immortal. I have an expiration date, but through modern medicine it may be extended a bit. Please, somebody remember AC/DC on bagpipes. I don't ask for much, just a little Back in Black and Dirty Deeds with a highland flair.<br /><br />And, if worse comes to worse, I've told my wife to have my head cryogenically frozen. A thousand years from now, they'll thaw me out and put my head on a robot. It's gonna be cool, man.</span><br />
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Tony Bowmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04825854888072493289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8766389235430124499.post-33376761203291283292015-02-09T13:23:00.000-05:002015-02-09T13:23:05.958-05:00Thoughts on Winter Hiatus<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Forty years ago when I was in elementary school, there was a wonderful time of year that stretched from early December through early March. Growing up in Swords Creek, Virginia, on a dirt road meant the first December snows gave us a nice, two-inch thick ice layer above the gravel and red clay. If we were fortunate, and in the mid to late seventies we often were, this ice layer would remain in place for the better part of four months.<br />
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Ice meant no school. And, no school, even for a kid who loved school, was a wonderful thing.<br />
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Russell County had numerous dirt roads such as the one I lived on, many of them narrow twisting things that were hard to navigate even on a good day. A school bus had no hope of delivering cargo in ice, so the students stayed home, sometimes for six weeks at a time.<br />
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Snow days were filled with sledding, sometimes down mountainsides and into ravines that make the adult in me doubt the sanity of the nine-year-old. There was the time when I hit a mogul with my aluminum bowl sleigh, flew about six feet into the air inverted and landed on my head. I remember a crunching sound, after which I lay on my back for a few minutes in the deep powder.<br />
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My mother wanted me to be a doctor someday, so I was bombarded by biology texts from an early age. I understood the spinal chord ran down through the vertebrae, and crunching noises were not a good thing. I did a quick inventory: still breathing, that was good. Heart beating. Yep. Wiggle the fingers. Very nice. Wiggle the toes. Yep.<br />
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I survived, needless to say. Although forty years later if I bend my neck back it makes a very disconcerting popping sound.<br />
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The rest of the time was filled with reading, playing, listening to the radio (1973-1983 had better music than today, sorry millennials), and watching TV. In short, it was fun, it was restful, and I miss it.<br />
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Nowadays, I can't stay home on six-week long snow vacations. There are obligations. But, I still feel that call to hibernate through the winter months.<br />
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This year, I took a break from writing until mid-January. Sinead is on hold. Writing about nineteen-year-old assassins is challenging. Instead, I'm about 25% through Valkyrie: The Road. It's post-apocalyptic fiction set in the world I created in Turning the Darkness. It's almost writing itself.<br />
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Afterward, I will return to Sinead, but I have a feeling there's going to be a detour. I woke up one morning with a story about this man named Garrett in southwest Virginia who decides to become a bounty hunter. He doesn't talk a lot, but there's a whole slew of other characters around him who talk a great deal. I think I'll write down their story and see where it goes.<br />
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After a nap. It's cold outside.<br />
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<br />Tony Bowmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04825854888072493289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8766389235430124499.post-17379029725553670212014-12-05T11:33:00.002-05:002014-12-05T11:36:47.484-05:00Hope in Perilous Times<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;"><br /></span>
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<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/6Hn8qnsucwo?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;">So often these days, I find myself troubled over the course of our nation. Then we do something like this: an American rocket liftoff delivering a space capsule, capable of carrying a crew, to an altitude of 3,600 miles above the earth. We haven't sent a crew capsule into that high an orbit since Apollo. I am reminded of Apollo 8, which launched 46 years ago this month. It was the first manned flight to leave earth orbit, enter lunar orbit, and return. The year was 1968, a ye</span><span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #141823; display: inline; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;">ar that had seen the Tet Offensive in Viet Nam, the murder of Martin Luther King in Memphis, the murder of Robert Kennedy in San Francisco, the Soviet Union's invasion of Czechoslovakia, and rioting at the 1968 Democratic Convention. It was a year of hardship and strife, but, as it came to a close, Apollo 8 gave us something else: a view of the earth from lunar orbit along with a recitation from the book of Genesis on Christmas Eve, 1968 televised to the entire world, and, along with that, hope.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihwZU-GcqZVKzBJ1TKNKVVYwhr8N2Q0YhDXCln-6oVD6wKWyqmCcoEX6rtC7cWHpmIFZ_z27JfYO_1Wv6yXwmXAwpriSsJVWYAWJ87hOovZWprLRcrDkZdTy13F2LK5Su4eoM3BTipDAQ/s1600/NASA-Apollo8-Dec24-Earthrise.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihwZU-GcqZVKzBJ1TKNKVVYwhr8N2Q0YhDXCln-6oVD6wKWyqmCcoEX6rtC7cWHpmIFZ_z27JfYO_1Wv6yXwmXAwpriSsJVWYAWJ87hOovZWprLRcrDkZdTy13F2LK5Su4eoM3BTipDAQ/s1600/NASA-Apollo8-Dec24-Earthrise.jpg" height="400" width="400" /></a></div>
<span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #141823; display: inline; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;"><br /></span>Tony Bowmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04825854888072493289noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8766389235430124499.post-76300762524589812472014-11-20T16:10:00.003-05:002014-11-20T16:12:18.322-05:00Smashwords is the Devil<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQiCY9AxriKcfcIh3HjIb4IyG6QcvGtEKeU9G6Bby3Ib0i0-gCwK8s3db1wZ8tmndzM8Pme9XUS44eXc3pky6bdGwWTZHt2MB4dS0ob-35bpu7sCUCle02ILaYBhaV3fiv8myzRL9MWIk/s1600/download.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQiCY9AxriKcfcIh3HjIb4IyG6QcvGtEKeU9G6Bby3Ib0i0-gCwK8s3db1wZ8tmndzM8Pme9XUS44eXc3pky6bdGwWTZHt2MB4dS0ob-35bpu7sCUCle02ILaYBhaV3fiv8myzRL9MWIk/s1600/download.jpg" height="85" width="320" /></a></div>
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Smashwords is the devil.</div>
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Okay, maybe that's a bit harsh. Let me rephrase that statement: Smashwords can be darned difficult to work with. Let me explain.</div>
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Like most indie authors, Amazon is my friend. It's a huge company, and they throw a massive amount of money and talent at the web software used to create Kindle books from word processor documents. My typical pattern is to write my book directly in Createspace format in Microsoft Word. When the final edits are done, I simply upload my Word document to Createspace and let it churn out the print version.</div>
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I then take the same Word file, tear out the fancy formatting I sometimes do, drop caps for example, and upload the file to Amazon.</div>
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Churn, churn, churn - Kindle edition ready for the masses.</div>
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Life is good, life is serene, and I can go watch The Walking Dead in peace.</div>
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Recently, I decided to venture beyond the safety of Amazon and offer my books on Smashwords. Why? Amazon is great for print versions and Kindle, but they only support their own e-book format. There are many other systems out there: Barnes and Noble Nook, Sony, and Apple to name a few. Admittedly, there are Kindle apps available for many of the other e-readers that will allow you to read Kindle files; however, what I really want is exposure in as many e-book stores as possible.</div>
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Going through Smashwords gets me listed in their library, as well as Barnes and Noble, Apple, and many others.</div>
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Sounds like a plan, right? Oh, if only it was that simple.</div>
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Smashwords has put, shall we say, a little less money and effort into their document to e-book converter than Amazon. This isn't surprising, Amazon could buy Smashwords with pocket change. It usually takes me about four tries to finally get everything right on a Smashwords submission. Here are a few gotchas to watch out for:</div>
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<li>Smashwords hates your Table of Contents. Delete it before you upload.</li>
<li>Smashwords hates page numbers. Delete them.</li>
<li>Smashwords hates your name and the book's name in the header. Delete them.</li>
<li>Smashwords hates to flow text around images. Put them in line with the text... or delete them.</li>
<li>Smashwords hates links to your Amazon page. Delete them.</li>
<li>Smashwords hates .DOCX files. Make like it's 2003 and save it in .DOC format.</li>
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Once you do all this, you will probably get through the first machine scan of your file and the book will go live... but, you're not done yet. Now, the humans get involved.</div>
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Before your book can go to Premium Status where it is offered on other publishers' sites, a human being actually goes through it. And, they find stuff.</div>
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Worse yet, the results you get from the conversion sometimes looks terrible.</div>
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After putting Nine Fingers through the grinder for the fourth time, I saw something that caught my eye: I could upload my file in .EPUB format.</div>
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Now, .EPUB is the format used by Sony and several other e-reader makers. And, it just so happens there is a wonderful free program called <a href="http://calibre-ebook.com/" target="_blank">Calibre</a> which will take your Microsoft Word file and convert it to .EPUB. There are tons of features and settings allowing you to fine tune the finished product.</div>
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The best part? You don't have to wait for Smashwords to churn your file over the web. Calibre can generate an .EPUB in seconds.</div>
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I tried this out with Nine Fingers, and it was fantastic! I fixed all my formatting errors in just a few minutes.</div>
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I then uploaded the .EPUB file to Smashwords and... it failed.</div>
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Huh? Smashwords's site put up this incredibly cryptic error message about manifest files and strict requirements from Apple, and then barfed.</div>
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No! It was perfect. </div>
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After a web search, I found the problem. When I opened my .EPUB on my computer, Calibre tried to add some sort of manifest file to the document. Smashwords doesn't like that file.</div>
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The solution? After you check the .EPUB and make sure it looks right, generate it again, but, this time, don't open it. Just upload it.</div>
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Ahh, bliss.</div>
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Once your book is approved for Premium Status, life is good. You will find yourself in all the e-book libraries.</div>
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Smashwords needs work on their publishing process. Little things like Table of Contents and page numbers should be handled by their software and ignored. As they mature, I think you will see the entire process become easier and more streamlined.</div>
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One other thing about Smashwords you might want to know: the formats they publish are unencrypted. As a matter of fact, by default, Smashwords will offer your book in all the e-book formats as well as PDF and plain text.</div>
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That means your book could be easily pirated by a chimpanzee with a See and Say.</div>
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Now, if I'm Stephen King and one of my grocery lists could pull in a seven figure advance, I wouldn't publish on Smashwords, because I would lose a lot of money to piracy. Indeed, you will not find Mr. King on Smashwords.</div>
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However, I am not Stephen King, and my advances couldn't buy a bag of groceries. If little Vladimir in Tashkent manages to score himself a free copy of Nine Fingers... well, I hope he enjoys it and gives me a nice review.</div>
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Smashwords can be a real test of your sanity; however, the satisfaction of being able to triple or quadruple your market exposure more than makes up for the struggle.</div>
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My fellow authors, when you are ready to swim in the deep water without the safety of those Amazon water wings, just remember you might have to work at treading water.</div>
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<br />Tony Bowmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04825854888072493289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8766389235430124499.post-60224690289832725172014-11-06T16:33:00.003-05:002014-11-06T16:33:55.172-05:00Common Core Math, or Yeah! Let's Make Math HARDER!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I stink at math. Always have.</div>
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In elementary school, I did fine until division. Addition, subtraction, multiplication - that was all good, but division and I were like oil and water. My Mom worked with me for hours after school trying to help me with it.</div>
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What got me over the hump with division was when I was finally able to visualize the actual operation of division in my head: seeing the top value divided into parts by the lower value.</div>
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What I didn't understand at the time was that I am a 'Visual Thinker', one of the myriad fun possibilities of falling on the Autism Spectrum. I don't think in words, symbols, or sounds, I think in pictures.</div>
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I learned at an early age to form words to describe the moving pictures in my mind, which has served me well over the years. When it came to math, division became a visualization of a machine. Put the bottom number in slot A, top number in slot B, and keep turning the crank for the proper number of decimal places. Simple.</div>
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Of course, this all fell apart for me when it came to Algebra. It was all symbolic, and I couldn't visualize it. Luckily, there were steps to solving these problems I could memorize which got me through high school with a 4.0.</div>
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Geometry and Trigonometry were child's play - I could visualize it all.</div>
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So, I graduated high school looking like a math whiz, when in reality I understood nothing about Algebra.</div>
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Little did I know on the first day of engineering school at the University of Virginia I was going to come face to face with the demonic overlord father of Algebra: Calculus.</div>
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We didn't get along well.</div>
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What followed was five years of wailing, whining, skipped classes, dropped classes, and embarrassment. Looking back on it now, many of my professors had the patience of saints. Honestly, if I hadn't been a gifted programmer, I think they would have happily sent me home, and I wouldn't have blamed them.</div>
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I can still remember the day sometime in 1988 when everything suddenly clicked. I was staring at my Calc II book literally not understanding anything on the page when I looked at a derivative and suddenly saw graph lines converging and three dimensional solids casting shadows on two dimensional planes below them. The visualization engine had finally made sense of what the symbolic math was trying to say.</div>
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I laughed out loud. After five years, I had finally seen what my first year professor was trying to explain to me. </div>
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The Common Core Math debate brought all this back to me. I've looked at the methods being used to teach simple addition and subtraction - they're arcane. I don't think it will work for kids on the autism spectrum at all.</div>
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This appears to be yet another attempt by 'education experts' to 'level the field'.</div>
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It means 'enforcing mediocrity'.</div>
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Kids excel at different things. Some kids are math whizzes, some are great at history, some are great at art.</div>
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But just because some of us were really bad at math, doesn't mean you have to attempt to force everyone to be merely adequate at it. Make sure that all kids get to an acceptable level, but don't hold back the kids who are really good by forcing them to follow ridiculous rules that won't help them should they meet the Calculus demon.</div>
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I don't understand why this is such a difficult concept to grasp.</div>
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I've had a successful career as an engineer. Given my questionable math skills, I probably should have chosen a different field. However, I was a stubborn techno-geek who wouldn't quit even when I probably should have.</div>
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I succeeded in the end not because my teachers dumbed things down, but because they actually taught me something. Maybe we should get back to that.</div>
Tony Bowmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04825854888072493289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8766389235430124499.post-52711715870298344232014-10-17T15:11:00.001-04:002014-10-17T15:11:14.404-04:00Nine Fingers<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidZbCrFEYwaBhr3qOXRgZxx9TvKwQLKpjTY_s-GYQC6T4Lk85Zp6BNWycCM0Z83UkekfseIkPQltcv1GnexjdF_B6GFQySYTgo1MUHgVR87rFz99mtCuSrUoC_SN8yDDnZxM8a-rc8xlY/s1600/NineFingersCover2.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidZbCrFEYwaBhr3qOXRgZxx9TvKwQLKpjTY_s-GYQC6T4Lk85Zp6BNWycCM0Z83UkekfseIkPQltcv1GnexjdF_B6GFQySYTgo1MUHgVR87rFz99mtCuSrUoC_SN8yDDnZxM8a-rc8xlY/s1600/NineFingersCover2.png" height="400" title="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00OKHDDXU" width="271" /></a></div>
My latest novel, Nine Fingers, is now available on <a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00OKHDDXU" target="_blank">Amazon.com</a>. The Kindle version can be ordered <a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00OKHDDXU" target="_blank">here</a>, or you can order the paperback <a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/1502861860" target="_blank">here</a>.<br />
<br />
Something horrible is killing people on central Virginia's Blue Ridge Parkway. Is it a rogue bear? Or, is there a serial killer on the loose in the small town of Bedford?<br />
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Ward Rickman has come to town looking for an old friend. When he finds him, he hopes to kill him before more innocent people die.<br />
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Because, Ward knows the parkway killer isn't a crazed animal or a serial killer. He knows his nemesis is a mixture of both.<br />
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And, he knows something else: only a werewolf can stop another werewolf...<br />
<br />
Only $3.99 for Kindle, $12.99 for paperback.<br />
<br />
<br />
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Also, for the next five days, the prequel short story, Nine Fingers: The Tucson Ripper, is available for *FREE* on the Amazon Kindle - get your copy <a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00OK04ARK" target="_blank">here</a>.<br />
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<br />Tony Bowmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04825854888072493289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8766389235430124499.post-8091955801397194682014-09-23T15:22:00.000-04:002014-09-23T15:27:28.845-04:00Walking Through Charlottesville<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Once while walking, I came face to face with a tiger.<br />
<br />
No, seriously, I did.<br />
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And, no, I wasn't in Asia. I was on the north end of Charlottesville, Virginia. <br />
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I attended Engineering School at the University of Virginia back in the 80s and, on weekends, I liked to walk. I would usually start out in the morning and walk five miles to the mall (it was the 80s, man). I'd hang out at the mall till evening, then walk halfway back to take in a movie at one of the theaters off Hydraulic Road.<br />
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I'd usually get back to my dorm after midnight.<br />
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If you saw me back then, you would have thought I was a hippy. I had long curly hair down to my shoulders and a beard almost to my chest. And, there was a very good possibility I was barefoot on the sidewalk.<br />
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I remember walking up route 29 toward the mall one day in 1984. I guess I was pretty dishevelled looking. A guy was walking on my side in the opposite direction, and he looked like a thirty year older version of me.<br />
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He said, "Hey, man, can you spare any cash?"<br />
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Let me explain something about nineteen year old me: I didn't like to talk to people. They freaked me out. A hobo who looked like me freaked me out even more.<br />
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I opened my mouth, and what came out was an echo of his voice, "No, man, I'm flat busted myself."<br />
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He smiled, nodded, "Ain't it the truth all over, man? Peace, bro."<br />
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"Peace," I said.<br />
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That's when I learned the value of at least washing my clothes. Hobo dude probably couldn't afford the laundromat, but I had no excuse.<br />
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Anyway, about that tiger.<br />
<br />
I had spent the day at the mall. I probably left the record store with a cassette tape or two. I'd like to say I was one of the cool kids listening to pop - but, it was probably something nerdy like Alan Parsons.<br />
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It was after dark when I left, and I usually followed the old 'walk on the left facing traffic' rule, which means I was walking on the opposite side of the four lane than I had been that morning.<br />
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When I walk, I normally disappear into my own head. I pay attention to the traffic, but not much else.<br />
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It was dark and there was the ever present smell of car exhaust.<br />
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I was walking up a small hill when I heard a growl.<br />
<br />
I looked up to see a Bengal Tiger, about eleven feet long from its nose to the tip of its tail. It was lying on the ground about five feet in front of me. It's eyes were sort of a dull yellow. The tiger's paws were enormous, about the size of a dinner plate. You don't really appreciate the size of a tiger until you almost step on it.<br />
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Did you ever wonder what you would do if you came upon a tiger in the dark? Would you run, scream, wet yourself? I didn't do any of the above - trust me, I'd tell you if I had soaked the old BVDs. I've already told you I was an occasionally smelly hippy, a little incontinence wouldn't embarrass me.<br />
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I simply froze, which is probably the smartest thing one can do when faced with a tiger. Can't outrun one - at least I can't. <br />
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I looked at the tiger, and it looked at me. It gave me another growl, I think to show off those pearly white fangs.<br />
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Right about then, I heard hysterical laughter coming from a gas station a few yards up. Turns out the tiger had been at this Exxon all day as a publicity stunt. The tiger handler and the owner were busting a gut. I then saw the thin metal chain attached to a collar on the tiger's neck. The other end was anchored in rebar driven into the ground. At that point, the tiger rolled over - I think it wanted a belly rub.<br />
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I didn't oblige.<br />
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Another night, I was walking back to the dorms. There was a shopping center on Barracks Road, and I had almost reached it about 2:30 AM one morning. There was an overpass there where route 250 crossed route 29.<br />
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I heard crying as I walked under the overpass. A girl about my age walked by. She was wearing jeans and a white t-shirt, and she turned left onto the bypass after she passed me.<br />
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What was a teenage girl doing walking alone at 2:30 in the morning? And, why on earth would she walk up to route 250? At the time, there wasn't much in that direction. It certainly wasn't the way you went back to the university. I watched her walk up the entrance ramp until she went out of sight.<br />
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I often wonder about that night. I wish I could go back and ask that kid if she needed help. Of course, I probably scared her half to death - I looked like what most people were afraid of running into under an overpass at 2:30 AM.<br />
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I thought about these experiences this past week with the disappearance of Hannah Graham from downtown Charlottesville. As the father of a teenage daughter, I pray for her safe return. <br />
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I only ventured into downtown on foot a few times. There was little to interest me there.<br />
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I do remember being cautioned first year to avoid the area east of UVA hospital. Unless you were going to the Trailways bus station or Amtrak, there was little reason for students to venture there. <br />
<br />
Hannah Graham was apparently confused after leaving a party and ended up walking in that direction when she thought she was headed back toward the university. At this point, no one knows what happened to her.<br />
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The part that haunts me was the security camera footage that showed her running after passing under the railway bridge - it reminded me of the crying girl I passed in 1985.<br />
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There are no coincidences. The people and things we encounter even in passing are there for a reason. An unfortunate we encounter who needs a helping hand, a tiger that shows us the wonder in the unexpected, a lost person who needs our help - these are not coincidences from blind chance. They are opportunities to learn from and to help others.<br />
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It's a pity we often don't see this until years after the fact.Tony Bowmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04825854888072493289noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8766389235430124499.post-27961868524805687712014-09-12T16:39:00.000-04:002014-09-12T16:39:31.632-04:00Memories from Buchanan CountyA lot of people hate Facebook. I have to say, I have days when I don't want to look at it. People fight and argue - and, I'm just as guilty as anyone else.<br />
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But, then, there are days like today.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7pZ34AGTVpeUyMRsrcE7j3QrpW-Zwzq1QKe242F9A9x0CKtT0IUh3vMJA59WyhnjMstHI5QF3G8-IZqpdkhb8lb9r8QoTpTGG16bCJxWQTU83ilS1eUtmwQEMnD-hqLxdhNCvCeEv1SU/s1600/461460_4836297713037_1521934478_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7pZ34AGTVpeUyMRsrcE7j3QrpW-Zwzq1QKe242F9A9x0CKtT0IUh3vMJA59WyhnjMstHI5QF3G8-IZqpdkhb8lb9r8QoTpTGG16bCJxWQTU83ilS1eUtmwQEMnD-hqLxdhNCvCeEv1SU/s1600/461460_4836297713037_1521934478_o.jpg" height="218" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Baptism in Bull Creek circa 1919. Bull Creek Old Regular Baptist Church, Buchanan County, Virginia. Courtesy of Forest Stiltner.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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My cousin, Forest Stiltner, posted a picture of a baptism on Bull Creek in Buchanan County, Virginia, from around 1919. The church was the Bull Creek Old Regular Baptist Church, and, when I saw the name, I was transported back in time.<br />
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Not to 1919 - I'm not that old. But sometime in the 1960s. You see, I used to go to that church with my mother and grandmother. I've been to many churches since those days: Southern Baptist, Methodist, Episcopal, Lutheran - but, the experience of that church when I was a child has stuck with me my entire life.<br />
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The building was small and simple. And, I was never there when it wasn't full. You'd arrive early in the morning, take a seat if you got there early enough, stand if you didn't. The preaching would start, and it wasn't just one preacher - it would be several. They would take turns. The message among them might be the same or different, but the one thing I can remember was they always seemed to be happy.<br />
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There was no band, no multimedia experience. The preachers were not professional theologians; they were coal miners, carpenters, and shopkeepers. The only time I remember seeing a collection plate was when someone needed help, or when they raised money to build a shelter so the elderly people could sit in the shade when they had "dinner on the ground".<br />
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There was no air conditioning - imagine being four years old in 1969 inside the church on a summer day, a couple of hundred people packed into it. I can remember lying with my head on my grandmother's, Ressie Bowman's, lap. The ladies all had simple fans: a wooden stick with a piece of cardboard stapled to it. The cardboard would have a Bible scene on the front, and perhaps Psalms 23 on the back.<br />
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My grandmother, or "Ma" as my cousins and I called her, would fan my face. I can still feel the cool breeze drying the sweat on my forehead.<br />
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The singing in an Old Regular Baptist Church is hauntingly beautiful. They sing many of the same hymns you know, but they sing them in a very different way. It's called "Lining Out" or "Hymn Lining". The song leader will chant a line of the song, and then the congregation will sing the line back in a long, drawn out, drone. It goes back to our roots in Scotland.<br />
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<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EMABVIMHPkc&feature=player_embedded">An example of and Old Regular Baptist "Lined Out" Hymn</a><br />
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I can remember hearing words in the songs I couldn't identify. Many years later, I discovered many of the words to the hymns were being sung from memory, and passed down from previous generations. These words were old Gaelic words, Welsh words, sometimes German words.<br />
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A hymn can tell the history of the people who sing it.<br />
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After church, we would drive to my great aunt Flowerny's or Uransa's house in nearby Convict Holler (at one point, there had been a convict camp there, and the name stuck). Sometimes, we would go to my great grandmother's house, which you reached by crossing a swinging bridge of steel cables and wooden planks over a creek. The bridge was narrow and went up at a steep angle from the road to the hillside.<br />
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After visiting, we would drive back to our home in Russell County. On the way back, there was hamburger steak at the Rainbow Drive In, or, in later years, a roast beef sandwich at Hardee's.<br />
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Today, my work involves 'ones' and 'zeroes', flashing by in digital creeks. The world is more complex now. There are work projects and publishing deadlines. But, what I wouldn't give to sit beside my grandmother in that church once more. <br />
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One day, I'll set one of my novels in Buchanan County. I have one in mind about the nearby town of Harman. It's a horror novel, and it terrifies my wife to the point she can't listen to me read aloud the few chapters I've written. That may seem strange to you now, knowing how much I love the area. But, you see, horror novels aren't about death, they're about good versus evil and an appreciation for life - and those are things I learned from my grandmother and a little church on Bull Creek.Tony Bowmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04825854888072493289noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8766389235430124499.post-6211633874944108662014-09-09T13:49:00.000-04:002014-09-09T13:49:07.369-04:00I Finally Understand the Whole Ghost Writing Thing<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgak9QAT7aNwDW3OG0YfceASM0WU4-fuOzu_Udwv4wLSIkY1WdC37hC6G_by-1HrUeQtV1SN1YVvm1f_qj2A8f2onubY3gYK0d-HezUiu_h_5M8PmHkU_96oOx7M_oezFGVrPgTSotpiZk/s1600/ghostwriter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgak9QAT7aNwDW3OG0YfceASM0WU4-fuOzu_Udwv4wLSIkY1WdC37hC6G_by-1HrUeQtV1SN1YVvm1f_qj2A8f2onubY3gYK0d-HezUiu_h_5M8PmHkU_96oOx7M_oezFGVrPgTSotpiZk/s1600/ghostwriter.jpg" height="200" width="166" /></a>I love independent authors. There are a great many undiscovered Kings, Bradburys, and Faulkners in the world. I'm proud to be on a first name basis with several of them. <br />
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These folks will be legends if they get about five minutes of attention from a publishing house. You can find them on Facebook hocking their wares and/or selling their books on Amazon at the obligatory $0.99 or $2.99.<br />
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Take a chance - you might become a fan.<br />
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I keep an eye on the author groups on Facebook, and I've found some real gems.<br />
<br />
Over the weekend, I stumbled across the synopsis of a book with the associated ad copy that really caught my eye. The premise was phenomenal! A little fantasy, a little horror, a little alternate history - it was a great idea, and I rushed to Amazon to get the book.<br />
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Five pages in, I understood why there is a need for ghost writers. <br />
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Five pages... of narrative. An action scene, related in narrative. The action scene was told in a single paragraph ten lines long - a single, ten line, *sentence*. I almost wept.<br />
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The characters were flat - literally identifiable only by name. We didn't see the character's point of view, only the narrator's flat relation of events.<br />
<br />
Now, this wasn't some opportunist who thought he would throw a few lines down on the page and see how much cash he could rake in. It was obvious he had a story he desperately wanted to tell - he just had no clue how to tell it.<br />
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This is an example of someone who needed a ghost writer: someone who could take a great idea and mix it with great writing. I think we sometimes look down on ghost writers and those with great ideas but lacking in ability. Why doesn't the ghost writer come up with his own ideas? Why can't the idea person learn to write?<br />
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I think most ghost writers do have their own ideas, but maybe those ideas are not mainstream enough to be commercially viable.<br />
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And, I do think it is possible for someone to develop their skills as a writer. However, it's sometimes a long and difficult road.<br />
<br />
I was approached to ghost write about twenty-five years ago. The idea man was a co-worker, and he had come up with a great idea: an autistic child with a gift for puzzles cracks a government cypher, and the protagonist must protect him from evil forces in the government that either want to kill the kid to protect their secrets or use him as a weapon.<br />
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I turned it down, although I thought it was a wonderful concept. At the time, I had enough ideas rattling around in my own head. I didn't want to take on someone else's project.<br />
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I encouraged him to write it himself, but he gave up in frustration.<br />
<br />
Several years later, I saw the idea on the big screen almost to the letter in the movie "Mercury Rising." My first thought was that my former co-worker had somehow sold the idea. Unfortunately, he hadn't - someone else had come up with the same plot line.<br />
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I've seen this several times over the years. I met a guy in a writers group who slipped into a deep depression after he had written three unpublished books in a series about a boy who goes to a magic school to become a wizard. He was just beginning to look for an agent when J. K. Rowling introduced us to Harry Potter.<br />
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Ideas are great, but execution is everything. If you have an idea for the next great American novel: write it. It's not easy, and it will take time. If you don't have the skills, take a class, join a writers group, write everyday (even if it's just meandering blog posts like this).<br />
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If that doesn't work, find a ghost writer. Just make sure they can write more than narrative and can make a character step off the page. <br />
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And, please, have both your names on the book as co-authors. Unless you're a multimillionaire who's going to pay an obscene amount of money, share the credit.<br />
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If you are a multimillionaire with a great idea and an obscene amount of money for a ghost writer, call me.Tony Bowmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04825854888072493289noreply@blogger.com0