Wrath of the Falcon

A prince's ransom – his weight in gold!
It is the deceptive promise of easy riches to those who would stoop to villainy at its worst. But to kidnap a prince alive does not happen without fierce resistance.

When evil becomes brutal and the heir is at risk, the king sheds all restraint. Amidst the turmoil, allegiances are betrayed, blood is spilled, and unimaginable sacrifices are made to protect the child of the king.

Wrath of the Falcon is set in the 15th century. It is a fast-paced action adventure where no one is safe and the only thing predictable is the unexpected.

Kingdom of the Falcon Book 4

Available June 1st

An Allegorical Tale

No one ever messed with the old man behind door 749. It was the sparse little room at the end of the hall. And when the door was ajar, it was revealed to be poorly lit by a single dim bulb.

Most of the residents in that squalid corner of harsh reality kept to themselves, and they certainly stayed clear of the end room. Everyone knew the guy who resided there was a hermit, a loner, with no friends and no known connections to anyone. That could only mean one of two things. Either he was alone because he wanted to leave something drastic in the past, or … they all shuddered when considering the alternative. No one dared to ask.

As fate would have it, the alternative was the truth. No one actually asked. It just sort of leaked out. The rumor mills of the underbelly of society have a way of doing that. The dreaded hermit was a writer. And making matters worse, he was a fiction writer.

When the neighboring residents demanded to be moved, the slumlord refused. He knew no one was safe. So he tried to put a positive spin on it. But secretly he harbored the same dread.

Any time a writer takes up a pen and makes a story appear on paper, someone dies, someone becomes a fool, and someone emerges as a hero. And most of those characters get a name. And no one wants to be the name inspiration for the fool!

It was only natural that the inhabitants would try to make themselves scarce when the writer was around. The problem was, they never knew when that door would open and the old man would step through, settle his hat just so on his head, lock his door, and stroll down the hall with a manuscript tucked neatly under his arm. And it seemed the title was only ever barely visible …

On this fateful day, it is: Wrath of the Falcon!  

But When I Do

I don't always do reviews of other people's books,
But when I do,
They're likely to be written by my mom.

I really enjoyed the book Rosie: Sheriff Rose at Piker Ridge.
In the interest of full disclosure, I didn't actually read the book. My dear wife read it aloud as I drove.

No spoilers, so here is all I can tell you about the book: It is set in 1869. It has bad guys and good guys and quite a few twists to figure out which are which.

The town council of Piker Ridge figured that they had simply hired Rosie and his Colt Revolving shotgun; but they found that they had hired a man who was full of surprises.
 

Rosie figured that Piker Ridge was just another lawless town that needed a tough sheriff. What he discovered was a lawless town riddled with dark secrets and deadly surprises.

What Takes Twenty-three Years to Happen?

Well, twenty-three years, of course. In that amount of time, sixteen-year-olds become thirty-nine. A thirty-two-year-old becomes … never mind that part. A lot happens in that many years. And for those of us who wander about like some sort of lost Gypsies, a lot of ground gets covered as well.

Which leads me to share about an unlikely reunion.

It was 1993 when we left Alaska. My growing family, two cats, and all of our worldly possessions were bundled into the Warthog and the Getwangefargen, and we headed for America.

Some people don't get it that Alaskans feel isolated from the mainland, and we probably will never be able to explain it, so just take that at face value. As for the funny names, the Warthog was our '75 Dodge Power Wagon, full time 4x4, which was seemingly indestructible. It was ugly, with more rust than steel, but it never quit. The Getwangefargen was our boat. Trust me on this one, there's a long story to the name. And all of our worldly possessions really amounted to a bunch of junk we held on to. Some things never change.

It was a sad departure in many ways, not the least of which was leaving behind friends whom we had acquired and grown to love during those years. But, after many years, twenty-three actually, and unimaginable circumstances, we were able to reconnect with some of those old friends in Memphis, Tennessee, of all places.

It was our son's senior recital at Visible Music College, just a week ago. Our friends saw the information on Facebook. Yes, I know it's fashionable to hate on Facebook, but we have had a number of good things come about from the popular social media site.

Meanwhile, our friends had relocated to a southern state. And since they were within striking distance of Memphis, they decided to meet us there. It was a fabulous time which brought forth a flash flood of memories. I'm sure I shed a few tears during the weekend.

So I present this nostalgic little tidbit as a peek into my world. Kay and daughter Grace are pictured here with us. Often, in Alaska, we did our laundry at Kay's house. And Grace used to babysit our kids. There are so many more stories to this story, so stay tuned.

As an odd piece of trivia, the room we were in was called the Green Room because it is the prep room for the musicians before they go on stage. The name apparently has nothing to do with its actual color.

Poorly Timed Genius

There is nothing like a fifteen-hour drive to feed the internal invention machine. For the record, I would never classify myself as genius. I have known a couple of bona fide geniuses, and I'm not in that club.

Occasionally, however, I feel like I have had an ingenious idea. And this is one of those days.

So, let's cut the small talk and get straight to the invention. I don't dress in shirts that button all the way, all that often. I'm a much more casual creature than that. My wife might even say I dress like an unkempt hobo. I prefer to think of it as Alaskan Formal. But every great once in a while I do put on a shirt that buttons all the way up.

Of recent I have noticed that those shirts have a few extra buttons sewn on the inside seam, so when a button gets lost, voilà, said shirt can be redeemed with a matching button. But those clever little clothing designers in their French Rivera bungalows have missed a strategic trick.

Now I want to take a moment to revel in my victory. Those shirts have extra buttons, but no extra buttonholes!

What if a buttonhole wears out just minutes before a speaker is scheduled to make an important public presentation? Is there an emergency tailor line one could call? I don't think so!

If you had a few spare buttonholes already sewn into the shirt, even a nincompoop-level sewing novice, such as myself, could simply relocate the hole!

Talk about saving the day. Wow!

There is only one drawback to my invention. Unfortunately that problem is as old as time itself, and even Solomon, the wise king of ancient times, acknowledged it. Everything has a season, and this just probably is not the right season for my brilliance to be recognized.

Maybe if I had shared this on the first day of March, or the first day of May, people would have taken it seriously. But I bow to the whimsy of public opinion and say, Happy April, my friends.