*****
***
Lucky was in
terrible pain – his abdomen was swollen. The whole right side was badly
bruised where Simms had hit him with the "equalizer." He couldn’t
stop throwing up, spending the whole night crouched before the toilet, or
clutching a pail his mother put next to his bed.
Lucky kept the Simms incident to himself, saying it
was only an accident on the athletic field. A Cypriot doctor was sent for –
there were no American doctors on the island and all the British doctors were with
the military, and were unavailable to civilians.
The Cypriot doctor examined Lucky thoroughly,
checking his reflexes, listening to his chest and peering at his tongue and
into his eyes and ears. He said the bruises were just bruises and nothing to be
worried about. His diagnosis: a chill, or perhaps something the boy ate,
although the high fever indicated it was more likely a chill. In either case,
the cure was the same. He’d given the boy a heavy dose of Epsom salts to purge
him, he said.
Lucky wanted to point out that he was already purging
himself, but by now he was in sheer agony, spitting up only bitter green bile,
his abdominal muscles in a constant – almost automatic – state of clenching and
unclenching. Another day and night passed and Lucky learned what it meant when
they said an event seemed like an eternity. Surely this illness was one of
those endless times. He kept throwing up and his mother dutifully administered
the Epsom Salts until his throat became so raw and swollen from the bile that he
could barely swallow his own saliva.
The doctor advised that the crisis typically lasted
three days, so they must be patient and continue the treatment and that the
pain would soon be gone and the fever would break. And so eternity was
stretched even more and Lucky got weaker and weaker, so that he could barely
move in bed. When his mother offered the Epsom Fruit Salts, he clenched his
teeth and refused to drink.
He was at the point now that he could barely rise from his bed. And his stomach was a throbbing drum of fiery pain, so he was unable to even slump over on his belly to expel the salts into the bucket. The pain was so intense that he couldn’t think, or even weep or moan.
He just rocked his head back and forth, wishing he could end it, like his Grandpop Sullivan. If someone gave Lucky a shotgun then he would not have hesitated to use it. The longer the agony lasted, the more he fixated on the idea of taking his own life.
He was at the point now that he could barely rise from his bed. And his stomach was a throbbing drum of fiery pain, so he was unable to even slump over on his belly to expel the salts into the bucket. The pain was so intense that he couldn’t think, or even weep or moan.
He just rocked his head back and forth, wishing he could end it, like his Grandpop Sullivan. If someone gave Lucky a shotgun then he would not have hesitated to use it. The longer the agony lasted, the more he fixated on the idea of taking his own life.
Thoughts of suicide were not new to him. He’d
considered it many times – the first when he was five and recovering from a
beating. His father had broken a thick razor strap over his back, then hurled
him into the rear of the trailer. Lucky found a closet and snuck into it,
hiding behind a basket of ironing. He heard his father stomp around, the
trailer floor rocking under his weight.
Lucky peered through a crack and saw him get beer from the little fridge and make himself a boilermaker – beer and whiskey. Then he sat down, muttering under his breath. He continued drinking until he passed out. The radio was playing during all this, but so low that it was almost a whisper.
Lucky peered through a crack and saw him get beer from the little fridge and make himself a boilermaker – beer and whiskey. Then he sat down, muttering under his breath. He continued drinking until he passed out. The radio was playing during all this, but so low that it was almost a whisper.
Lucky heard one of his favorite songs playing,
"Lucky Old Sun." Vaughn Monroe, Old Muscle Mouth, they called him,
was singing in his deep baritone voice:
"…Up
in the mornin', out on the job
I
work like the devil for my pay…
I
know that Lucky Old Sun
Has
nothin' to do
But
to roll around heaven all day..
The words rang through the heart of the boy. While
his father slept, he listened until the last sad note was played and then ran
the song through his mind repeatedly, thinking there must be an answer in there
somewhere. There must be! The song was about him, wasn’t it? Lucky Old Sun!
That was him, wasn’t it? That was his name: Lucky.
He waited in that broom closet a long time – experience had taught him that sometimes his father was testing the boy, waiting to see if he’d creep out. Then he’d get him again, mocking him for being such a baby.
He waited in that broom closet a long time – experience had taught him that sometimes his father was testing the boy, waiting to see if he’d creep out. Then he’d get him again, mocking him for being such a baby.
While he was waiting to be absolutely sure his father
was asleep, Lucky rummaged around the closet until he found a souvenier Japanese
bayonet his father kept in the back. When he thought it was safe, he crept out,
clutching the bayonet to him, then fled the trailer and dove into the field of
tall grass behind his home. Lucky wriggled out into the middle of the field,
hugging the wet ground in case his father took it in his head to search for
him.
Finally, he sat up and reconsidered the idea that had been in his mind when he’d started looking for the bayonet. He could stop all this misery right now. With a simple act, he could be transformed into that lucky old sun and be lifted to paradise. Once and for all, it would be over. Nobody wanted him anyway. His father certainly didn’t want him. And if his mother wanted him, why didn’t she stop his father from hurting him?
He looked at the bayonet. Touched his belly. Soft and giving. It would be easy. The solution seemed simple. Lucky visualized the deed, pressing the point of the bayonet against his stomach, conjuring up the strength to drive it through. But at five, his arms were too short to get a good grip on the handle. So he dug a hole in the sandy Florida ground and buried the bayonet – packing the sand real good - leaving as much steel as he could protruding from the ground.
Finally, he sat up and reconsidered the idea that had been in his mind when he’d started looking for the bayonet. He could stop all this misery right now. With a simple act, he could be transformed into that lucky old sun and be lifted to paradise. Once and for all, it would be over. Nobody wanted him anyway. His father certainly didn’t want him. And if his mother wanted him, why didn’t she stop his father from hurting him?
He looked at the bayonet. Touched his belly. Soft and giving. It would be easy. The solution seemed simple. Lucky visualized the deed, pressing the point of the bayonet against his stomach, conjuring up the strength to drive it through. But at five, his arms were too short to get a good grip on the handle. So he dug a hole in the sandy Florida ground and buried the bayonet – packing the sand real good - leaving as much steel as he could protruding from the ground.
Lucky crouched over the blade, letting the weight of
his body push against the sharp tip. It didn’t hurt that much and when he fell,
he figured it would be over so fast that the pain would be momentary.
Certainly, it wouldn’t be as bad as being beaten with a thick leather strap
until it was broken. And he hadn’t cried the whole time. He’d taken it, gritted
his teeth and taken it. This pain couldn’t be as bad as that.
He considered again: All he had to do was pull his
hands away and he’d fall forward and the sword go right through.
Good.
He just had to get himself ready.
Lucky leaned back and measured the blade with parted
hands, which he compared to his five-year-old torso. He nodded in satisfaction,
it would go right through and come out the other side. Surely he would be dead
in an instant and this misery would be over.
He made up his mind.
Yes, he’d do it.
It’d be like shutting off a switch to make the lights
go out. One second he’d be there and in the split second that it took to close
the switch… he’d be gone. Safe. No more pain. No more worries. He’d be like
that Lucky Old Sun that everybody was always so glad to see.
Lucky knelt over the bayonet point again. But now a
good deal of water was oozing out of the hole he’d made and the blade was loose
– it wobbled back and forth and then fell to one side. This was no good. He’d
have to fix it. He was in a swampy area, so if you dug a few inches in the
ground more often than not water would rise to the surface. What he needed to
do was dig out enough sand to make a big mound and bury the bayonet in the
mound, making sure the weapon would be perfectly firm and straight when he
threw himself on it.
He started work, scooping up handfuls and stacking
them on the side. Then he used the bayonet to enlarge the hole and gather more
material for his mound. Water filled the hole as he dug, getting deeper and
deeper until it was almost a small pond. A cloud passed overhead, obscuring the
sun and his work for a minute, but when it moved on the water leaped up clear
and sparkling in the renewed sunlight. He saw flashes of color in the pool.
Bright colors, orange and red and green. Moving colors, flicking this way and
that.
What in the world?
Lucky put the bayonet down and bent low to see. To his
amazement he saw tiny little creatures moving around in the pool. There were
strange translucent fishes so sheer that you could see their insides and they
had little dots for brains. Bands of color ran down their sides. Others looked
like pale pink shrimp that were also translucent. Scuttling about the bottom
were transparent crabs, pale green and blue in color, with tiny claws and dots
on the end of stalks for eyes.
Where had they come from? They certainly weren’t there when he started digging. Was it magic? Like Jack And The Beanstalk’s magic seeds, except Lucky got tiny marine creatures instead of a beanstalk with a giant living on top.
Where had they come from? They certainly weren’t there when he started digging. Was it magic? Like Jack And The Beanstalk’s magic seeds, except Lucky got tiny marine creatures instead of a beanstalk with a giant living on top.
He shifted his weight, but he was too close to the
edge of the pool and the sides collapsed. Lucky tried to stop the avalanche of
sand pouring down on the little creatures, but it was no use. In a moment, the
hole was gone and there nothing to mark it but a circle of goopy sand. He tried
to dig the hole again – to duplicate his small miracle, but nothing like that
magical moment occurred again.
The boy remembered his original purpose - which was
to take his own life with the bayonet. But now it seemed like a stupid, even
childish idea. Why, if he had succeeded he never would have seen those
wonderful animals. And for the first time in his short life he considered all
the marvelous things that surely would present themselves in the future. And so
he made a bargain with himself: he’d stick around a little longer and see what
he could see. If things got too bad, he could always find a way to end it, to
shut off the switch.
When Grandpop Sullivan had died by his own hand Lucky
took special note of the fact that the reason for his grandfather’s despondency
– his ailing wife – vanished within a month when Grandmom Sullivan had recovered.
So the whole exercise - the whole terrible thing of putting a shotgun in his
mouth and pulling the trigger - had been pointless. If his grandfather had
waited a bit, everything would have righted itself.
But now, groaning in his bed in Cyprus, Lucky had
reason to regret his long ago decision. Caught in the grip of an unceasing
agony that seemed to get worse – with no relief of any kind in sight – he
desperately wished he had that bayonet so he could cut out whatever it was that
was tormenting him.
And then there a came time when he realized that even
if he had the bayonet, he didn’t possess the strength to use it.
Finally, one night his father’s boss came - Mr.
Sisco, David Sisco’s dad. The Cypriot doctor was there and he spoke to Lucky’s
parents and Mr. Sisco in hushed tones. Lucky gritted his teeth and fought back
the pain, straining to hear what was being said.
The doctor’s diagnosis had changed. Now he said Lucky most probably suffered from yellow jaundice – he mentioned the yellow pallor of the boy’s skin and pointed out that the whites of his eyes were tinged strongly yellow. And there was the fever of course, which continued unabated. It was even more important to continue his Epsom Salts treatment, he said. That was the only cure for jaundice – a good purging.
The doctor’s diagnosis had changed. Now he said Lucky most probably suffered from yellow jaundice – he mentioned the yellow pallor of the boy’s skin and pointed out that the whites of his eyes were tinged strongly yellow. And there was the fever of course, which continued unabated. It was even more important to continue his Epsom Salts treatment, he said. That was the only cure for jaundice – a good purging.
Mr. Sisco had brought a CIA corpsman with him – not a
doctor – more of a combat nurse. The corpsman said the doctor could be right
about the jaundice, but that Lucky was gravely ill and needed hospital care.
Mr. Sisco told Lucky’s parents that he could make arrangements to airlift Lucky
to Beirut, Lebanon, where they had a modern American-style hospital. But the
doctor protested that the boy was too weak, that he’d never survive the flight.
The CIA corpsman examined Lucky, shook his head and firmly agreed with the
doctor.
That was the first time – but not the last - that Lucky heard his imminent demise being discussed. The idea didn’t upset him, he just wished he could control it himself. Bring it to an end with a wave of his hand, instead of awaiting the decisions of others.
That was the first time – but not the last - that Lucky heard his imminent demise being discussed. The idea didn’t upset him, he just wished he could control it himself. Bring it to an end with a wave of his hand, instead of awaiting the decisions of others.
Finally, it was decided that Lucky was to be
transported to a Cypriot hospital in Nicosia. The doctor, the corpsman and Mr.
Sisco promised Lucky’s parents that it was an excellent hospital – brand new,
in fact, with all the latest equipment. Everything would be done for the boy
that could possibly be done.
If Lucky thought it was bad curled up on his bed, the
sheets wet and twisted from constant movement, the trip to the hospital was an
even greater agony. He’d lost so much weight that his pajama bottoms wouldn’t
stay on and he couldn’t tie the string tighter because the slightest pressure
on his stomach was unbearable. He didn’t think he’d survive getting dressed in
his robe - the pain was terrible when Brosina gently turned him this way and
that while his mother worked the robe on. Brosina wept the whole time, sobbing
and making strange hooting noises of sorrow. His mother was stern-faced and so
pale – her eyes buried deep in dark hollows – that Lucky had the giddy feeling
maybe she was sick and not him.
It hurt too much to walk and besides he was too weak,
so the CIA corpsman and the doctor carried him outside where a cab was waiting.
They put him in the back and Lucky heard someone say, "Hello, Mr. Lucky.
What is happening to you, my friend? Did the English boys do this?
It was Nikos, his favorite cab driver. But sick as
Lucky was, the last thing he wanted was to raise the subject of Simms.
"No, no, nothing like that, Nikos," he said. "I’m just sick,
that’s all."
The cab driver started to say more but Lucky cut in
quickly – "Parakalo, Nikos," he said in Cypriot. "Yiah
mena." Meaning, "Please, Nikos. For me."
Nikos fell silent. But Lucky’s mother had heard part
of the exchange. "What’s this with the English boys?" she demanded.
She leaned over Lucky. "Did they hurt you? Did they do this?"
"It was nothing, mom," he said. "Just
a game, I told you. I ran into the goal post."
The doctor was getting in on the other side.
"The lad has jaundice, madam," he said. "Jaundice."
His mother nodded, but sick as he was, Lucky saw the
look in her eye. Helen’s Irish suspicions had been aroused. The cab started
forward, crunching and rocking over the rough gravel road and it felt like
somebody had shoved a white hot poker into his belly.
"Ah!" he said. "Ah!"
Then he got himself together again and bit back a
moan. Sure it hurt, but yelling about it didn’t help and only made him look
weak in front of everybody else.
"Oh, Lucky," his mother said, and he didn’t
have to open his eyes to know that she was crying. The last thing he wanted was
to make his mother cry.
By the time they got him to the hospital everything
was a blur of pain and confused motion. He had a sensation of being lifted up
and then being set down on a hard surface. His body started moving forward – on
wheels, he guessed. Not that it mattered, as long as he didn’t have to walk, or
bend, or put weight on his body in any way.
He got his eyes open a slit and saw a young Cypriot
nurse hovering over him. She had beautiful dark eyes like Athena’s. For a
moment he thought, maybe she was. Maybe they had called Athena and she rushed
to his side while he was being taken to the hospital.
"Athena?" he whispered. "Athena?"
The pretty face hovering over him smiled the sweetest
smile. "My name is Tina," those soft, wonderfully feminine lips said.
Then, "Is Athena your girlfriend?" The smile grew brighter. "You
have a Cypriot girlfriend?"
Lucky nodded. "Ney," he said, meaning yes
in Greek. Then worried she might mistake that for an English negative, he
elaborated. "Mahleesta," he said. "Feelee dheeko mou
Athena."
He gripped the nurse’s hand, wanting to make sure she
understood. It was very important that she knew that Athena was a Cypriot. He
wracked his brains for the words. He couldn’t think of them. Then he remembered
Paul on the plane. "Kypria," he said. "Feelee Kypria."
He wondered if maybe grammatically the sentence
should have gone the other way around and surely there were words in between –
necessary modifiers.
Then the nurse said in English, "Well, now we
know all about you Mr. Cole."
"Lucky," he corrected. "My name is
Lucky."
She laughed. It was a lovely laugh. So musical.
"Mr. Lucky," she said. Then, "Your
girlfriend is a Cypriot and her name is Athena, isn’t that what you were telling
me?"
Lucky nodded. The pain was starting to come back
again and he was afraid to speak because he might cry out if he did. The nurse
must have noticed the change, because she gripped his hand harder.
"Don’t worry, Mr. Lucky," she said in a low
voice. "In a minute I’ll give you something and make the pain go
away."
That promise lit up his heart. He hurt so much, but
now he could bear it just a little longer because the nurse – his new friend,
Tina – said she would make it stop.
They put him in a room – a private room and surely
the most luxurious room in the hospital because with the CIA everything was
always first class. Then Tina was gone and people were fussing over him and
only making him hurt more. Rolling him around to take off his clothes and put
on a hospital gown. But he held on, thinking, any minute now Tina will return
and make it stop hurting.
She didn’t come back.
The pain did not cease.
Then his mother and father came and stood over him
and told him he was a brave young man.
And still the pain did not cease.
The doctor appeared and reassured Lucky and his
parents that everything would be just fine. Then he shooed Lucky’s folks away
and nurses drew the curtain and drained his blood into needles and told him to
pee in a bottle but he couldn’t, he didn’t have any water in him.
He pointed at his mouth and said, "I don’t have
any spit, how can I pee?"
Lucky thought his joke was pretty funny and wanted to
laugh but a wave of pain crashed over him and took him down and down and down
to the places the nun’s promise you will be condemned to if you continue to
give way to your sinful boyish impulses. Then people were lifting up his head
and making him drink more glasses of Epsom Fruit Salts and it hit his belly
like liquid fire and up it came again and he choked on it and growled and spit
and heaved into the pail until only thin green slime ran out of him. And then
they did it all over again.
Meanwhile, his whole right side throbbed along with
his heartbeat, pushing and pushing - a hot fist wanting to get out. He became
so weak he fell unconscious, but even there the pain persisted. It followed him
into his dreams and made ghastly nightmare movies of people torturing him,
plunging hot irons into his right side and laughing, laughing, laughing. While all
the while, Tina stood over him promising him his release.
In his delirium he wondered, did Tina have the
bayonet? Was she hiding it until everyone was gone and then she’d slip into the
room and help him kneel over it. Help him dig the hole in the sand – never mind
the magic fishes – and she’d steady him while he crouched over the blade.
Then he’d just throw himself forward.
The blade would pierce that hot knot in his right
side. It would hurt, sure it would hurt. But it already hurt. How could it be
worse?
Besides, then it would be over.
But Tina never came, with or without the bayonet.
And the pain didn’t cease.
NEXT: A Soldier Named George
***
The pain
didn’t cease and he got weaker and weaker, until he felt more like a ghost
than a person. The only reason he knew he was alive was because he hurt so
much. Lucky was pretty certain he was dying and only wondered why it was taking
so long. It was also becoming more difficult to breathe. It took so much effort
to suck air in and the pain would hit, gripping his abdomen so hard that he
couldn’t get his breath out again.
Well, he thought, now I know how I will solve it. I’ll
just quit breathing. That should be easy enough, because it hurt so much to get
the air in and out. So, he held his breath. But after awhile, no matter how
hard he fought, his reflexes took over and he had to breathe. He tried it the
other way – drawing in breath, but holding it. But a sudden wave of the
familiar pain crushed the air out of him and made him gasp for more.
And so he remained there, condemned to a unreal world
of pain and strange consciousness. He couldn’t have told you what was happening
around him. But he knew every small, painful object that surrounded his body.
The touch of the sheets beneath him, the weight of the thin blankets upon him,
the rasp of the uncut hair on the back of his neck, each was a separate misery.
The male nurses came and forced him to sit on a pot
to void his bowels, but he had nothing to void. So they gave him enemas and he
voided what they had forced into him. They filled him with water and then gave
him emetics and he vomited. He came to think of himself as a helpless vomiting
and shitting machine.
Meanwhile, he grew so thin he frightened himself when –
propped up by the nurse - he looked at himself in the mirror one day and saw a
skeleton with sunken eyes, cheeks and ribs that stood out like his
grandmother’s old washboard. He glanced to either side to see if it was someone
else reflected in the mirror instead of this skinny fugitive from a "Tales
Of The Crypt" comic book horror story.
Then the time came when he thought that this was
finally it. He hurt so badly, was in such torment, but his mind was sailing
clear and glorious above the pain. He was going to die. Today was the last day
he would have to suffer, because he was going to die. He was certain in his
heart of hearts that it was over and in a few hours Tina would finally redeem
her promise and bring the bayonet and the pain would finally cease.
Suddenly, he heard loud voices beyond the closed door
of his room. His father’s voice. And mother’s. They were quarreling with
someone. His interest was stirred enough that some strength returned. The door
came thundering open and his father entered, followed by his mother and the
Cypriot doctor.
"You can’t remove him," the doctor was
saying. "I refuse to release the boy. It’s too dangerous."
"Just watch me," his father said. He leaned
over and scooped Lucky off the bed, blankets and all.
Lucky gaped at his dad and noted the surprise in his
face that his son’s body was so light. Then he saw his father’s jaw firm.
Christ, did his dad love him after all? Then his mother rushed over and tucked
the blankets around Lucky as his father turned and strode for the door. The
doctor tried to bar his passage. Behind him, there were white uniformed nurses
and orderlies.
"Get out of our way," Lucky’s mother said
and when the doctor hesitated, she flew at him, making claws of her hands.
Alarmed, the doctor leaped aside, as the did the nurses and orderlies.
Everything became very hazy after that. Lucky saw
things in snatches of woozy reality. They went down a long winding staircase, the
doctor and the nurses alternately pleading and shouting threats. There were men
at the bottom of the stairs, one or two might have been in uniform, although
Lucky wasn’t sure. Part of him thought he was back at the Athens airport and
they were making a break for it. His father carried him down swiftly and
surely, brushing the men aside and Lucky’s mother rushed ahead and opened the
big glass doors that led out into the street.
Lucky wasn’t certain if was night or day, but he
stirred a little, forcing his eyes open. To his weak surprise a caravan of
military vehicles, painted British Army green, waited outside. Two jeeps,
engines running, sat before and after a military ambulance. Behind the rear
Jeep was a long black limousine and Lucky thought he saw someone who looked
like Mr. Sisco standing nearby. Then he knew it was Mr. Sisco because the man
rushed over and he heard him ask how Lucky was.
"I don’t know, chief," Lucky’s father
replied.
And David Sisco Sr., head of the CIA operations in
all the Middle East, ran to the ambulance where the rear door was open and two
British orderlies were waiting and he spoke swiftly and surely to them, making
certain they understood their instructions.
Then Lucky was carried into their presence and one of
the orderlies made a joke to Lucky as they took him from his father and gently
passed him inside to someone else, who placed him on a gurney and strapped him
in. He didn’t know what the man said and if he had laughed from politeness it
would have been an agony, so all he did was force a smile then stretch his head
back to look for his father and mother. They weren’t allowed in the ambulance
and were shouting that they would follow with Mr. Sisco.
Then the British corpsmen were telling Lucky that he
was going to get an oxygen mask "Just like a test pilot, mate" – and
a mask was put over his nose and mouth and they were telling him to breathe and
it became so much easier. Breathe, breathe – pure oxygen flowing. And maybe
something else – the tang of laughing gas like the dentist gives you. He
started to relax, but it still hurt like hell.
One of the corpsmen leaned over him and whispered,
"You’ll feel fine straightaway, mate."
Lucky felt the sting of a needle and suddenly…
amazingly…
The pain ceased.
*****
THE SPYMASTER'S DAUGHTER:
THE SPYMASTER'S DAUGHTER:
A new novel by Allan and his daughter, Susan
CLICK HERE FOR THE KINDLE EDITION
After laboring as a Doctors Without Borders physician in the teaming refugee camps and minefields of South Asia, Dr. Ann Donovan thought she'd seen Hell as close up as you can get. And as a fifth generation CIA brat, she thought she knew all there was to know about corruption and betrayal. But then her father - a legendary spymaster - shows up, with a ten-year-old boy in tow. A brother she never knew existed. Then in a few violent hours, her whole world is shattered, her father killed and she and her kid brother are one the run with hell hounds on their heels. They finally corner her in a clinic in Hawaii and then all the lies and treachery are revealed on one terrible, bloody storm ravaged night.
*****
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
*****
Here's where you can buy it worldwide in both paperback and Kindle editions:
NEW STEN SHORT STORY!!!!
STEN AND THE STAR WANDERERS
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.
*****
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
TALES OF THE BLUE MEANIE
Audiobook Version Coming Soon!
 |
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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