It has been quite some time since this site has been active.
I have been working on the four books of the Martyrs’ Path series for three years. They are now all complete. If you are interested in beta reading any one or all of them I would be happy to arrange for you to do so.
For those who have read them in the past they are quite different now. The storylines are the same but there have more content and hopefully a more captivating read.
A lot has happened since I began writing these books. Much of it makes the dystopian setting of the books much more plausible. I will cover these changes in a future blog post.
For now, I would like to leave you with the prolog of Christmas in Shadowlands’ Edge.
Prologue
In a rundown part of an otherwise thriving metropolis, on a street lined with buildings long since abandoned because of economic collapse and urban decay, sits a little café. A sign proclaiming its presence dangles precariously by a single hook. The flickering neon bulbs that still work cast a strobe-like effect on the street below at night, and the once bold red words Greasy Spoon Café have turned putrid pink.
Greasy Spoon Café indeed! Why couldn’t that squat little man, who thinks he owns the place, have given me a more dignified name? A Parisian name would have been more appropriate. One like Lex Deus Magots. Alas, it does not look like that will happen. The original owner dubbed me Ned’s Diner. He named me after himself. I mean, how selfish is that, right?!
Had they used a French nomenclature, perhaps famous writers, poets and artists would have frequented me. Heck, I’m in Nashville, after all. Maybe a few country music artists would have dropped by and left me autographed pictures of themselves. But nooooo… they used stupid names. Tell me, who wants to eat somewhere called The Greasy Spoon?
I may not have a prestigious name, but I have something no other café has. I have a secret.
And… here he comes.
Only during a biting wind and blowing snow event will he visit me. Even then, he doesn’t do it every time that happens. He always stops outside my door to check his pockets for two quarters. Then he enters with a kind of trepidation. As with everyone else who comes and goes, the little bell on the back of my door tickles when it tinkles. The squat little man always greets him with a dirty look and usually calls him an old babbler. For the life of me, I can’t figure out why. He never babbles during his visits, whatever that means. The old man has tried to tell him his real name, but he can’t seem to grasp it.
He’s old, and his movements are slow, sort of like he might have stiff joints. They installed only one heat register in me. He always makes a snail-paced beeline for that. Before he sits down, he goes around to all the nearby chairs, looking for something until he finds one that suits him. He brings it back to his table. Oh, did I mention that the squat man keeps the table he sits at and the three tables around it empty until he passes by here on his way home from work for the day?
One day he asked the little runt why he called me The Greasy Spoon Café. He told him he might as well call me at the outset what everybody was going to call me behind his back anyway. How stupid is that?
The old man must be an important person. That’s part of the secret. So why don’t they replace the pukey yellow cracked wallpaper Ned put up or the rickety chairs cheapskate there hauled in? After all, I still have a little pride left. You’d think they could have a service come in and clean my dingy black and white diamond tiled floors and send the dirty tablecloths off to the cleaners once in a while. He’s even too cheap to spring for a few air fresheners to mask the stale odors. You can blame Ned for most of those. Oh, and they could wash the windows. On second thought… the street view might be too depressing for that.
So, the old man comes in, like I said before. Then, as regular as clockwork, they come in again.
Yep, it happens every time he’s here. People from all walks of life pack the place. The bell tickles so much it makes me want to sneeze. Well, okay, maybe that’s exaggerating it a little, but it rings a lot. They order their food or drink and just sit there. Most of the time, there is standing room only. So, the ones standing around consume their food or drinks. But… they never say a word.
The short guy’s wife has mousy gray hair, a careworn face and a pleasant smile. She is kind to the old man, though she never talks to him either. The squat guy treats him with contempt just because he only orders a cup of coffee. But he’s as nice as he can be to anyone else who only orders it. Go figure! Even if the squat man has hired help—he runs his help off all the time—they don’t speak to the old man either.
You can tell the old man is freezing. He shivers most of the time and covets his cup as much for its warmth as its contents. He drinks cup after cup of it. That’s no surprise though, because my coffee is the best around. The pastries, on the other hand… well, the less said about those, the better.
I get the impression from the longing in his eyes that he is waiting for someone he knows will never come. That’s sad. I also get the impression that we are all the family he has. But nobody here ever talks to him, much less shakes his hand or pats him on the back. He seems to be easygoing, though. He never gets riled when the bossy runt insults him. And when the kind lady smiles at him, he lights up like a firefly.
There is a strange family that comes here when he’s here, but not for the food or coffee. One or the other stands just outside the kitchen door, looking at him for a while. They always come and go through the kitchen. There’s this one girl… she looks so… pathetic. But they also seem to be important and part of the secret.
Once the place fills up, no one leaves until after he does. Sometimes their lips move, but nothing comes out. You would think the people having to stand up would be ticked off with him because he has three empty tables around him. But no… if anything, they look at him with an admiration that borders on adoration. I’ll bet Betty’s Beanery’s customers a few blocks uptown from here wouldn’t act that way.
Ugh! There it goes again. The snow is blowing through the cracks between the wall and the roof. You’d think they’d fix that too.
Anyway… When he has his fill of coffee, he leaves. He seems to have a hard time standing. The amiable lady sometimes starts toward him to help but then stops dead in her tracks. Why? I don’t know. He never gets a check either. He puts his two bits down on the table and leaves. No one’s ever told him a cup of coffee here costs twenty times that. That’s another mystery. Or perhaps that is why the squat man treats him the way he does. He always looks so sad when he goes. Nobody talks to him then either. Not even so much as a goodbye, so long or a see ya.
But… as soon as he gets a block or so down the street, they start chattering like magpies. About five minutes later, they all rise to leave. They shake hands, slap each other on the back and sometimes even hug one another. Then they all file out of here. Have you ever heard the like?
Yes-sir-ee-bob, those highbrow restaurants uptown might have fancy names, flashy signs, shiny, well-kept furnishings and well-dressed clientele, but they can’t hold a candle to this place. It has a secret!
Now… if I only knew what it was…
Please leave comments regarding the site as it exists so far and the prolog.
Leave a Reply