*****
 |
| Cypriot Village Girls Circa 1950's |
***
As the days advanced, Lucky feared he would
never solve the mystery of the feathered banana. The matter was becoming
critical - his family had a found a new home in the village of Pallouriotissa,
a few miles outside of Nicosia. Once they moved from the hotel he might never
learn the answer to the Colonel’s strange behavior.
His father teased him. When in his cups he’d sing,
"Yes, we have no bananas. We have no bananas today."
Lucky’s mother was worse. She’d do a little Carmen
Miranda dance, bumping her hips as she sang… "I’m Chiquita Banana and I’ve
come to say… Bananas have to ripen in a certain way… You can put them in a
salad – you can put them in a pie-aye – anyway you want to eat them – It’s
impossible to beat them…" and so on.
Lucky didn’t find his parents jokes amusing. He’d
snort in disgust and go off to sit in some quiet corner of the garden to brood
over the mystery of the banana with the green feather in it. He was almost
grateful to put all speculation on hold when they day came to inspect their new
house. His mother had made quite a few demands on the landlord and was
determined that all would be done before she moved her family in.
They traveled by taxi to the village and when they
exited Nicosia and headed out into the countryside Lucky, who was sitting next
to the driver, craned his head to see all the exotic sights. It was the first
time that he’d been out of the city.
Pallouriotissa was about three miles from Nicosia. It
sat at ancient Roman crossroads and was named for Greek heroes of old. The
approach to the village was via a fairly well kept two-lane blacktop highway -
once a dusty, rutted cart track that had been vastly improved by the British.
On either side of the road were broad fields, brown and dry under the intense
summer sun. Aqueducts, lined with slate gray stone, carried precious water to
those fields and other farms beyond. The aqueducts, Lucky later learned, had
been constructed by the Romans more than two thousand years ago. They were
seven or eight feet deep and had slanted sides leading up from the floor of the
main channels. During the dry season the water was rarely more than a trickle,
but when the monsoons came the rains filled them to the overflowing. The
aqueduct system had been improved and extended by the British, who were great
believers in carrying on such Roman practices as building roads and aqueducts
in their colonies - the possession of which was another ancient Roman tradition
they continued. After all, hadn’t the British Isles been a Roman colony for
several hundred years?
Besides the farms and fields, the aqueducts irrigated
the citrus, olives, figs and cactus fruit orchards that lined the channels. In
the summer these orchards provided the only green to relieve the parched
landscape of the broad Nicosia plain. Flocks of goats and sheep grazed along
the edges of the highway, tended by old men or young boys, who sprawled beneath
dusty olive trees with their dogs, whistling or waving switches to keep the
flocks in order. There were oxen, camels, donkeys and a few horses crouched
here and there in whatever shade they could find.
On that first day he traveled to Pallouriotissa Lucky
saw both humans and animals stretched out at the bottom of the channels,
letting the cooling water flow around them. The camels’ necks were so long that
when they heard Lucky’s taxi rumble up, they lifted their heads so high that
their heads extended above the stone rim of the aqueduct. It was a very strange
sight, indeed. All those disembodied heads hovering at ground level - with
long, sniffing noses, chewing cuds, pricked ears and flat, knowing eyes
following their progress.
Just before the taxi reached the village proper -
marked by the steeple of a small Geek Orthodox church - Lucky saw a large field
that had been carefully leveled and stripped of all vegetation. Big wooden
forms were laid out, with paths running between them. At one end of the field
was a large pit of red clay. Next to the pit was an immense pile of straw. The
cabbie, whose name was Nikos, told Lucky that this was the village’s adobe
farm. Twice a year the men and women would all gather in the field in a
communal effort to produce adobe bricks for new homes, or repair or add to their
current homes. They’d mix water and straw - laced with manure - into the clay
dug from the pit, which would then be shoveled into the rectangular forms to
dry under the sun. Nikos said the clay of Pallouriotissa was famous all over
Cyprus for its excellent qualities. But that the village was so prosperous and
constantly expanding that it refused to sell the clay to other villages. This
was a great controversy, he said, that had gone on for many years. Some people
said the villagers of Pallouriotissa were mean-spirited and not willing to help
others.
This, however, was not the opinion of Nikos. He said
some of the best festivals in all of Cyprus were sponsored by Pallouriotissa,
with many good things given freely to the poor. Nikos confessed that he was a native
of Pallouriotissa - and proud of it. The truth was, he said, they barely had
enough clay for themselves. And so they had come up with other means – such as
the festivals - to make up for their miserly image.
A well-tended gravel road led up from the highway to
the village. On one corner was a large open air taverna. A trellised grape
arbor served as a sort of leafy roof and Lucky could see men sitting
comfortably in the shade, sipping coffee and nibbling on nuts and sweets. One
table had a houkah – a tall water pipe – with three men passing the long,
slender tube back and forth.
A huge wagon - with wheels as tall as a man - was
making its way up the gravel road. Pulled by a team of slow-moving oxen, the
wagon bore an immense rusty water tank. The tank was so old and battered that
water spurted from its seams in several places. As the water fell, the summer
heat quickly sucked it up so that the wet spots on the gravel disappeared in
the blink of an eye. An old man wearing black baggy pants plodded beside the
wagon, lazily flicking a cow-tail whip at the oxen.
Suddenly a swarm of village boys appeared. In sharp
contrast to the slow moving wagon and the old Turk, they were full of energy,
racing around the water wagon and shouting insults at the driver. Lucky noticed
they were all brandishing tin cans, glass jars and clay jugs. The old man cried
out at them as they darted close to the wagon, catching streams of water in
their containers. Cursing, he slashed at the boys with his whip. Although he
missed, the force of his blows were such that they would have cut the boys’
skin like razor blades.
Lucky was shocked at the violence. "What’s he
doing that for?" he asked. "The water’s spilling all over the ground
anyway!"
Nikos muttered something about "damn
Turks.".
Then, to Lucky’s delight, two of the older boys
started teasing the driver, darting in to pinch him, or snatch at his beard. He
shouted and lashed at them, missing every time. Meanwhile, the other boys were
getting all the water they wanted. Including two small kids who dashed in with
a large bucket that they filled to the brim. Then, laughing, they staggered
away with their loot. The whole group raced off, shouting and laughing, while
the old man cursed and spat in the dust. He became so angry that he gave the
oxen an especially vicious lash, the whip cracking loudly on their backs. The
poor creatures were apparently used to such treatment, because they ignored him
and kept clomping steadily along, chewing their cud.
Finally, the Turk calmed down. He halted the oxen,
set the wagon’s brake, then pulled on a rope tied to a large bell that was
perched above the wagon on crossed poles. The sound of the ringing bell rolled
across the dusty fields and soon dozens of women and young girls came running
across the fields carrying clay pots and buckets.
Beeping his horn, the taxi driver edged around the
crowd of women - all in bright dresses and colorful scarves - quarreling loudly
with the old man as they bargained for water. Coins exchanged hands and the
Turk started filling the various vessels, arguing with the women, all of whom
were apparently insisting that he was cheating them.
Lucky was astonished at this scene. "Don’t they
have water in their houses?" he asked the taxi driver.
Nikos, shook his head, frowning. "Only the rich
have water in their homes," he said. "Water is very precious in
Cyprus, because we suffer from the drought. A few men - like that water driver,
who all know is a thief and a Turk of the worst sort - own wells. And every village
has a well and a fountain, but there’s not enough for everyone. So we are
forced to buy from Turks!"
Nikos sighed heavily. "Damned English," he
said, spitting out the window.
Lucky nodded wisely. "Damned English," he
said and then he too spit out the window.
Nikos chuckled. "They are going to like you in
Pallouriotissa," he said.
The village consisted of a hundred or more small
adobe homes with white-washed walls, red tile roofs and wooden doors and
windows that were painted in bright blue, or red or green. Large, beehive ovens
made of fired adobe sat behind each house. This was where bread, pastries and
delicious slow-cooked meats and vegetables were baked over hot coals. All the
homes had kitchen gardens and a variety of clay pots and vases of every shape
and size sitting along ledges.
Later, Lucky learned the fields surrounding the
village were tended communally, as were the herds. There was a complicated
system of ownership of what was produced that he never really did figure it
out. Women mostly tended the fields, while the men worked in construction or in
the trades in Nicosia.
Lucky’s first view of his new home took his breath
away. Set on the edge of the village, it was a sprawling Mediterranean villa,
contained in large yellow stone walls with white iron rails set into the stone.
The main entrance was through a white iron gate with green trim. A leafy arbor
with fat gourds hanging down led from the gate to the front entrance – two wide
doors with speckled yellow glass. Roofed in red tile, the house was made of the
same hand-hewn yellow sandstone blocks as the walls enclosing the villa and all
the doors and shutters were painted dark green. A deep verandah with a sloping
roof ran completely around the main house, with shuttered entrances leading
into four of the five bedrooms, as well as into the main living room. The floor
of the verandah was paved with pale yellow marble.
The grounds in front of the villa were landscaped
with roses and carefully trimmed spice gardens. To the left was a fragrant
citrus orchard, with oranges, lemons and limes. To the right was a garage,
which Lucky later learned hid a woodshed and a chicken coop that contained
several active, egg-laying chickens, a turkey and a fat goose. Running along
the back edge of the large property was an ancient grape arbor with vines as
thick as a man’s forearm and heavy purple grapes drooping down just at the
right height for picking.
The air with filled with the scent of blossoming
flowers and ripe fruits and exotic spices and Lucky thought he’d never seen
such a lovely place and he certainly hadn’t breathed in such perfumed air. It
wouldn’t have surprised him if Adam and Eve had stepped from behind the rose
bushes to greet them.
Inside, the house was filled with light from scores
of big windows, all shielded at the flick of a wrist by heavy green shutters.
And with the thick stone walls and high ceilings the interior was cool against
the summer’s heat. Besides the five bedrooms, there were two living rooms: a
smaller one with white marble floors and an immense second living room with
gleaming hardwood floors and a huge fire place large enough to take half a
tree.
Off the main living room was a spacious dining area
with windows on three sides that let in the light and gave the diners a view of
the rose garden. Running down the length of it was a dining table big enough to
seat ten people. The kitchen was larger than the whole apartment Lucky and his
family had occupied in Langley Park, Maryland. There was also a maid’s suite,
two bathrooms and an immense cellar with a second kitchen and pantry. The
bathrooms had large claw-footed tubs, toilets served by chain pull tanks that
sat high off the ground. And the hot water for the tubs was provided by big
kerosene heaters that had to be fired up a half an hour or more before taking a
bath.
Lucky toured the villa as if in a dream. His mother
said she’d hired a gardener and two maids – a live-in servant and a part time
woman to help her. Even more astounding - the entire place was furnished - all
five bedrooms, two living rooms and the maid’s suite – with heavy, expensive
chairs, tables, couches and beds.
He couldn’t understand how his father and mother
could afford all these things. His family had been forced to pinch pennies all
his young life. First, when his father was completing college in Florida under
the GI Bill. Then, just after his dad had landed his first real civilian job
since the end of WWII with a decent starting salary, the Korean War had broken
out and his father was called back into the submarine service. Recruited by the
CIA just before his sub sailed to the Korean theater, Lucky’s father had very
little time in grade when they’d left for Cyprus. The Agency itself was brand
new when his father joined, meaning it didn’t have much favor with its Congressional
pay masters. It was less than a year and a half old when Lucky’s dad was
recruited and no one was sure of its future. Despite this insecurity, the
overseas pay was generous. The entire Middle East was considered a dangerous
assignment, which meant bonuses galore. Still, how could that possibly be
enough for a house like the veritable mansion Lucky was touring?
As it turned out his family could well afford its new
life – despite the insecurities. Compared to the States, things were extremely
cheap in Cyprus. The full-time time maid would earn about $25 a month, while
the gardener and maid’s helper would make about $15 each. Moreover, his father
received a generous per diem to offset the cost of living abroad. The rent for
the villa was $150 a month - but the government paid for all but $25 of that.
They also had a handsome food and clothing allowance, as well as bargain prices
on liquor, cigarettes and canned goods shipped from U.S. government PX’s to
employees living abroad. It was like being rich, Lucky thought. Heck, he was
rich! What else do you call two maids, a gardener and a Mediterranean villa?
His mother reminded him that it would all end the moment they returned to the
States - but Lucky wasn’t worried about that. His father’s tour of duty was four
years: a veritable lifetime for a boy of twelve.
As he passed from the living room into the marble
entrance area he heard the roar of an unmuffled engine pull up front. Lucky
looked through the main window and saw a heavyset Greek coasting up to the gate
on a motorbike. Sitting sidesaddle behind him was a girl in a Cypriot school
uniform. Lucky’s mother hurried to let them in. She said they were the landlord
and his daughter.
The landlord’s name was Yorgo Glafkos and he was a
big man with thick curly hair, a barrel chest, dark features and large, liquid
eyes set beneath arced brows that curved to meet his classically Greek nose.
His face seemed to be one immense shining smile - gold teeth glinting from
beneath a handsome mustache. Yorgo was full to the bursting with good humor and
energy.
When he was introduced to Lucky as Mr. Glafkos, the
big man immediately took his hand - his immense paw engulfing Lucky’s - and he
boomed, "Call me Yorgo, my American friend! And I shall call you Lucky.
Otherwise I must call you Mr. Cole and you must call me Mr. Glafkos and with so
many misters between us how can we ever become proper friends, yes?"
Lucky gulped and bobbed his head. "That’s fine,
Mr. - I mean - Yorgo," he said "Thanks."
But he wasn’t gulping because of his introduction to
the dramatic Yorgo. It was the girl hiding shyly behind the great bulk of her
Greek papa who was making Lucky’s heart race. Yorgo saw where Lucky was looking
and laughed. He said something to the girl in Cypriot, then gently coaxed her
into full view.
"This is Athena," he said. "My most
beautiful daughter. And the wisest of all my children as well." He tapped
his forehead. "Like the goddess she is wise," he said. "I think
she may be a famous professor someday – if she does not let some undeserving
man steal her heart first."
Lucky noticed that Athena was blushing furiously.
Apparently she understood English.
She made a slight curtsy. "How do you do,
Lucky," she said. Then, very formally, she stretched out her hand.
Lucky was thunderstruck. Standing there in her school
uniform - white blouse, patterned blue skirt, knee-high white stockings,
polished black Mary-Janes - he thought he’d never seen a girl so beautiful in
his whole life. He gulped as he drank in the view: black hair tumbling in waves
to her shoulders, partially hiding one side of her heart-shaped face; olive complexion,
smooth and translucent as rare polished wood; Almond eyes right out of some
temple fresco - dark and glittering with mystery, framed by thick, upswept
lashes; graceful limbs and the slender willowy body of someone born to the
dance.
"It’s a pleasure to meet you, Athena,"
Lucky said in return, feeling like the worst kind of rube. He took her hand,
which seemed as fragile and trembling as a nestling bird.
As their hands touched a shock ran between them and
Athena lifted her head to look directly at Lucky. Her eyes were wide and seemed
to be full of deep meaning. Lucky suddenly found it hard to breathe and he
heard the girl gasp slightly as if she felt the same the way. Then she withdrew
her hand, ducked her head and sidled closer to her papa.
Yorgo and Lucky’s parents were discussing the repairs
and additions the landlord had made since they’d last seen the house and no one
was paying attention to the two young people. Lucky half heard them talking
about the new screens Yorgo had installed over the windows. During rental
negotiations this had been a subject of controversy. In the Fifties, the Middle
East was as infested with flies as the time of the Pharaohs. Any item of food
left out was immediately covered by a moving black carpet of flies. In the
summer they hung over every bit of moisture, crawling over people’s faces if
they let them. Everyone carried some sort of object to brush them away – fans,
horse and donkey tails, anything.
Lucky’s mother came from a family that considered
dirt a thing of the devil and flies and roaches creatures who did the devil’s
handiwork. At her parents’ home on Tasker Street in Philadelphia, everyone
cleaned their house from top to bottom, then scoured the front porch, the
steps, and then the pavement and street in front of their brownstone. Saturdays
on Tasker was a day when the gutters ran with strong suds and Satan was washed
out to sea, via the Schuylkill River. So when
Helen had first toured the villa she was charmed, until she walked into the
main house and saw flies buzzing everywhere, flitting in and out the open –
screenless – windows.
"I must have screens," she told Yorgo.
"I don’t want flies walking all over our food making us sick."
At first, Yorgo was stunned by the request and a
little insulted. "Scweens," he said, in his confusion turning the
"r" into a "w." "This is not a butcher’s market, Mrs.
Cole, but a home. A lovely home. You do not need scweens."
His puzzling response was later cleared up when Lucky
learned that the only places normally screened in Cyprus were butcher shops –
and that was by British law. Naturally, everyone thought the British were being
contrary for no good reason. So although they had to comply with the law – and
put up screens – all the doors were left open and the flies went in and out as
before.
But Yorgo soon realized this was different. This was
an American woman telling him that flies were dirty disease carriers. And
Americans were known the world over for being up to the mark on anything
dealing with science, medicine and technology. So, although he argued, he
listened. It was an unusual experience for a Middle Eastern man to listen to a
woman and take actual note of what he increasingly realized were logical
demands. Even so, he had other objections. He pointed out that all the windows
had heavy shutters that must be secured from the inside each night – and
especially during the monsoon when the winds could wreck havoc on his expensive
floors and furniture.
Helen wasn’t so easily thwarted. "But you’re so
clever, Yorgo," she said, playing to his vanity. "I saw your factory.
You do all sorts of marvelous things there. Can’t you get around something so
simple as shutters and screens?"
Yorgo had taken Lucky’s parents on a tour of his
lumber yard and adjoining workshops. He was unique among the contractors of
Cyprus – when he built a home, he supplied the materials from his own yards and
shops. He also supplied many of the other contractors, so he always held an
advantage over them in a bidding situation. As it turned out, Yorgo was one of
those legendary Cypriot eccentrics. A supreme Capitalist, who controlled his
labor and market with an iron fist, Yorgo was also a fervent Communist who
yearned for the day when the Revolution would set things right.
"I am a man with a scientific mind," he
told Lucky’s mother and father. He indicated Athena, still blushing and
exchanging moon-begotten looks with Lucky. "And my daughter, Athena, is
more like me than all my children. I told her about the flies and the scweens.
And do you know what she said to me?"
He leaned close, underscoring the drama of the
moment.
"No," Helen said. "What did she
say?"
"She said put in a little window," Yorgo
roared. And he slapped his thigh for emphasis. "A little window to close
the shutters."
And now he demonstrated, escorting them to one of the
windows. A sturdy screen, framed in wood that was painted green like the
shutters, was set into the window. Scores of anxious flies were settled on the
outside, buzzing their frustration that they couldn’t get in.
"You must look," Yorgo said. "See how
it works."
He indicated a small screen door set within the
screen. It had a latch and if you opened that lash you could push the little
door open, close and lock the sturdy shutters, then refasten the little door.
All without letting the flies in.
Yorgo demonstrated. A single fly slipped past his
hand but Lucky quickly swatted it down so as not to spoil Yorgo’s big moment.
"You see, no flies!" the big man exclaimed.
He caressed the wooden frame of the little door.
"Yes," Helen murmured. "No flies.
You’re marvelous, Yorgo. A genius."
Yorgo blushed with pleasure, then began to
demonstrate the other refinements he’d made. Lucky paid no attention. He was
fixed on Athena. She wouldn’t look at him directly, but only from the side of
her eyes. She kept turning her face toward her father, then peeking out at him
again. And it wasn’t a game. She was trembling all over, making Lucky ache to
be alone with her so he could comfort her and tell her there was nothing to
fear.
Finally, it was time to go and Yorgo and Athena
exited the house. Yorgo straddled the bike and Athena climbed on behind him.
She tugged at her father’s sleeve and whispered something into his ear. Yorgo
chuckled and turned to Lucky.
"She asks if you like the cinema," he said.
Lucky frowned a moment. Then he remembered that
"cinema" was the word Europeans used for movies.
"Yes, the cinema," he said. "I love
the cinema."
Then Athena made so bold to address Lucky herself.
"Casablanca?" she asked.
Lucky immediately remembered the wonderful movie with
Bogart and Ingrid Bergman. He nodded vigorously. "It’s my favorite!"
he said with as much emphasis as he could put into those three words.
Athena rewarded him with a fabulous smile, then her
father kick-started the motorbike and thundered down the hill. The girl turned,
gazing at Lucky with those huge eyes. She wriggled her fingers in a shy
goodbye, then buried her face in her father’s back.
* * *
2
A few days
later, as Lucky helped his mother pack for the move, his father entered the
hotel room, flushed with pleasure and drink.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he said with great
ceremony. "The mystery has been solved."
Helen puzzled at him. "What mystery?" she
asked.
But Lucky knew very well what he was talking about
and jumped to his feet. "The banana with the feather in it!" he
cried.
Helen brightened. "Finally," she said.
"After all this time."
"What happened?" Lucky urged his father.
"Tell us."
"It was like this," Allan began. "I
was getting a nightcap in the bar when the Colonel came in."
"He never comes in at this time," Lucky
protested. "It’s always in the afternoon!"
Allan shrugged. "I think he was a little short
of money and was looking for a way to make the price of a few drinks," he
said.
"Did he have the banana and the green feather?"
Lucky demanded. He wanted details, man, details.
"Yep," his father replied.
"Go on," Helen prodded.
"Patience, patience," Lucky’s father said
with a smile. "All will soon be revealed." He got himself a beer from
the ice chest, opened it and settled into a chair. The he said, "The
Colonel sat next to me at the bar, reached into his pocket and started counting
his change. After awhile he called the bartender over and ordered a single gin
and tonic."
"He always gets a double," Lucky said.
His father nodded. "That’s why I guessed he was
a little hard up tonight. So I introduced myself, saying I’d seen him come into
the Empire Room nearly every day and wanted to make his acquaintance."
"You bought him a double!" Lucky crowed
His father chuckled. "It seemed like the best
way to smooth the way," he said. "After our formal introduction, that
is. The Colonel is a very proper man. We both drank our original drinks then I
told him - ‘my shout’ - and he ordered his usual double."
Lucky chortled. "And he always says, ‘heavy on
the bitters, old man. A touch of malaria, you know.’"
His father grinned. "He ordered the same thing
tonight," he said. "And then, after we talked for awhile, I pretended
to suddenly notice the banana with the feather in his breast pocket. I begged
his pardon for prying and asked him why he had a banana with a feather in it
stuck in his breast pocket."
"What did he say?" Lucky asked impatiently.
Enjoying the moment immensely, Allan took a long pull
off his beer, nearly draining the bottle. Then he put it down firmly on the end
table.
"I’ll tell you exactly what he said," he
replied. "The Colonel was very amused that I’d asked. He said: ‘That’s a
very good question, old man. Although it’s easily answered, you know. You see,
at first, I only put the banana in my pocket. It seemed to me that this would
work well enough. But then I studied the situation further and it came to me
that with only a banana in my pocket, no one would ever ask me what it means.
It was for this reason that I determined to put a feather into the banana.
Surely, I thought, with a feather in the banana someone was bound to ask its
purpose. But no one ever did. I was beginning to despair, until this very
evening when I met you.’
"Then he offered me his hand. We shook. And he
said, ‘Congratulations, old man. You were the only one with the courage to ask.
Most satisfying, my dear chap. Most satisfying.’ He finished his drink, got up
and left the bar."
Lucky gaped at his father. What in the world? Was
this some sort of reverse joke being pulled on him by his father? At that
moment, his father reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a bright yellow
banana with a green feather in it.
He handed it to Lucky. "Here," he said.
"The Colonel said this was for the boy who has been staring at him the
whole summer."
*****
NEXT: 'JUST A LITTLE BIT RED'
*****
NEW STEN SHORT STORY!!!!
STEN AND THE STAR WANDERERS
NEW STEN SHORT STORY!!!!
STEN AND THE STAR WANDERERS
BASED ON THE CLASSIC STEN SERIES by Allan Cole & Chris Bunch: Fresh from their mission to pacify the Wolf Worlds, Sten and his Mantis Team encounter a mysterious ship that has been lost among the stars for thousands of years. At first, everyone aboard appears to be long dead. Then a strange Being beckons, pleading for help. More disturbing: the presence of AM2, a strategically vital fuel tightly controlled by their boss - The Eternal Emperor. They are ordered to retrieve the remaining AM2 "at all costs." But once Sten and his heavy worlder sidekick, Alex Kilgour, board the ship they must dare an out of control defense system that attacks without warning as they move through dark warrens filled with unimaginable horrors. When they reach their goal they find that in the midst of all that death are the "seeds" of a lost civilization.
*****
LUCKY IN CYPRUS: IT'S A BOOK!
Here's where to get the paperback & Kindle editions worldwide:
Here's what readers say about Lucky In Cyprus:
- "Bravo, Allan! When I finished Lucky In Cyprus I wept." - Julie Mitchell, Hot Springs, Texas
- "Lucky In Cyprus brought back many memories... A wonderful book. So many shadows blown away!" - Freddy & Maureen Smart, Episkopi,Cyprus.
- "... (Reading) Lucky In Cyprus has been a humbling, haunting, sobering and enlightening experience..." - J.A. Locke, Bookloons.com
*****
MY HOLLYWOOD MISADVENTURES
Here's where you can buy it worldwide in both paperback and Kindle editions:
United Kingdom ...........................Spain
Also: NOOK BOOK. Plus ALL E-BOOK FLAVORS.
*****
TALES OF THE BLUE MEANIE
 |
Venice Boardwalk Circa 1969
|
In the depths of the Sixties and The Days Of Rage, a young newsman, accompanied by his pregnant wife and orphaned teenage brother, creates a Paradise of sorts in a sprawling Venice Beach community of apartments, populated by students, artists, budding scientists and engineers lifeguards, poets, bikers with a few junkies thrown in for good measure. The inhabitants come to call the place “Pepperland,” after the Beatles movie, “Yellow Submarine.” Threatening this paradise is "The Blue Meanie," a crazy giant of a man so frightening that he eventually even scares himself. Here's where to buy the book.
*****
*****
STEN #1: NOW IN SPANISH!
Diaspar Magazine - the best SF magazine in South America - is publishing the first novel in the Sten series in four episodes. Here are the links:
REMEMBER - IT'S FREE!
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