Thursday, December 29, 2011
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
Monday, December 12, 2011
Thursday, December 8, 2011
A writer's life - This showed up in my mind at 4 in the morning:
The Witch with 500 Hats - Prologue
The half-drunk man untied the scull and pushed it away from the shore. It was just before midnight - the start of a new witching hour. As steaming fog frothed along the calm riverbank, the man rowed. The lanky boy in the bow cradled his arms to bring warmth to his shivering body, listening to the hurried slap of wooden oars against water. The man was running late and that made him tense.
“Won't be long now, boy. Just a few hundred yards out there - in the river.”
“What if he don't like me?”
“Shaddup, boy! He better like you or you'll get yourself another whipping! Are we clear?”
“Yessir. Perfectly.”
“And no smart-ass talk!”
“Yessir.”
There was no traffic on the wide river now. Captains of bigger ships didn't want to risk navigating between the drifting sandbars without moon or daylight or tugs at the high end of the mighty Mississippi. The scull made good time out to the thin tree-lined island standing midstream and approached the old paddle steamer tied off on the shoreline. The scull drifted past the stern’s stilled paddlewheel along the port side to a hanging ladder. The man tossed a rope to the boy and looked nervously about.
“Tie us up, Buddy, and be quick about it. He’s an important man. We don't want to rile him.”
“We are just a little late,” said the boy as he tied the small craft to a gunwale.
The man reached over and grabbed the boy by the scruff of his neck. “Don't be the fool like your father,” the man whispered desperately. “This is an opportunity for the both of us! Do you hear me?” He studied the decks for signs of life and returned his gaze to the boy. “I told him you were smart. Don't say too much. Don't smile. And try not to wiggle.”
“But you still haven't told me why I am here,” the boy reasoned.
“He’ll tell you,” said the boy's father. “This is just your introduction. He has to like you first.”
“Introduction to what?”
“The ways of men, the path to a new life.”
A man in shadows bellowed from above with a deep baritone voice. “Who's down there?”
The father released his grip and called back. “It's Bill Dempsey. I brought out my son as promised.”
The beam from a flashlight raced across father and son.
“You're late,” said the voice. “Bring him up, then. Let's have a look.”
Dempsey lifted his boy to the ladder and handed him up towards the man. Buddy was yanked on deck.
“You can stay behind in the boat,” said the man. “I’ll take it from here.”
“Yes, of course. I knew that. Thank you,” said Bill Dempsey.
“Let me see your hands,” he heard the man say. “Good. Long, strong fingers as promised… Follow me.”
Bill Dempsey sat back down in the scull. After the fall of retreating footsteps faded away, he reached inside his coat pocket for the bottle of rye whiskey. Dempsey smiled and drank to his future.
“The kid’ll be alright,” he convinced himself. “Just has to play dumb, is all.”
As he lay back in the scull, he noticed an opened portal window above the waterline. He pulled the small craft within hearing distance. The man was leading the boy down a set of stairs to the boat’s small dining hall.
The man’s voice continued. “Have you ever seen a violin boy?”
“Not up close, sir,” Buddy replied.
“Think you can learn to play it?”
“I can do pretty much anything if I put my mind to it.”
“Just one caprice. That’s all I ask.”
“I’m sorry, sir?”
“A musical piece written and played by a man named Pavorini a long time ago.”
“Pavo?”
“Pavorini. He was the greatest violinist who ever lived. This is one of his original bows. But there was a price to pay for his gift.”
“Sir?”
The man smiled, speaking softly. “He sold his soul to the devil.”
"Just to play music?"
"In time, you'll understand."
“Why do you want me to learn this caprice?”
“In due time, all will be revealed.”
“My father said there is money involved.”
“There is - some now, more as we go and plenty more when we’re finished. All that you learn must be in the strictest confidence. Am I understood?”
“Yessir.”
“After all, Buddy, we wouldn’t something bad to happen to your family, now would we?”
“No sir.”
There was a light clatter as the violin was pulled from its case. “Hand me the bow, young man,”
Bill Dempsey took another drink in the scull and listened as the violin was played. It was the music of a haunted virtuoso played with unrivaled technical artistry. But there was something in the emotional notes that made Dempsey’s hair stand up and his blood curdle. “What have I done?” he pondered.
The music stopped.
Young Buddy’s voice dripped with awe. “I have never heard such music!”
“You shall learn to paint with music like me,” said the voice, “with emotion, voracity and perfect leaps through every draw of the bow, painting musical sounds! The four strings of the violin are capable of lightning, singing, thunderstorms, even birds singing! This is the instrument of kings!”
“May I pluck the violin?”
“That is the reason you are here. Pluck away.”
Bill Dempsey listened as his son scratched the bow across the strings of the violin. It was an awful high-pitched tumble of sounds. Now there was a long pull of the bow. It sadly hummed along a string in one long perfect note.
The man laughed loudly. “Bravo, Buddy! Your first words spoken with music.”
Bill Dempsey relaxed. His useless kid had passed the audition.
The Witch with 500 Hats - Prologue
The half-drunk man untied the scull and pushed it away from the shore. It was just before midnight - the start of a new witching hour. As steaming fog frothed along the calm riverbank, the man rowed. The lanky boy in the bow cradled his arms to bring warmth to his shivering body, listening to the hurried slap of wooden oars against water. The man was running late and that made him tense.
“Won't be long now, boy. Just a few hundred yards out there - in the river.”
“What if he don't like me?”
“Shaddup, boy! He better like you or you'll get yourself another whipping! Are we clear?”
“Yessir. Perfectly.”
“And no smart-ass talk!”
“Yessir.”
There was no traffic on the wide river now. Captains of bigger ships didn't want to risk navigating between the drifting sandbars without moon or daylight or tugs at the high end of the mighty Mississippi. The scull made good time out to the thin tree-lined island standing midstream and approached the old paddle steamer tied off on the shoreline. The scull drifted past the stern’s stilled paddlewheel along the port side to a hanging ladder. The man tossed a rope to the boy and looked nervously about.
“Tie us up, Buddy, and be quick about it. He’s an important man. We don't want to rile him.”
“We are just a little late,” said the boy as he tied the small craft to a gunwale.
The man reached over and grabbed the boy by the scruff of his neck. “Don't be the fool like your father,” the man whispered desperately. “This is an opportunity for the both of us! Do you hear me?” He studied the decks for signs of life and returned his gaze to the boy. “I told him you were smart. Don't say too much. Don't smile. And try not to wiggle.”
“But you still haven't told me why I am here,” the boy reasoned.
“He’ll tell you,” said the boy's father. “This is just your introduction. He has to like you first.”
“Introduction to what?”
“The ways of men, the path to a new life.”
A man in shadows bellowed from above with a deep baritone voice. “Who's down there?”
The father released his grip and called back. “It's Bill Dempsey. I brought out my son as promised.”
The beam from a flashlight raced across father and son.
“You're late,” said the voice. “Bring him up, then. Let's have a look.”
Dempsey lifted his boy to the ladder and handed him up towards the man. Buddy was yanked on deck.
“You can stay behind in the boat,” said the man. “I’ll take it from here.”
“Yes, of course. I knew that. Thank you,” said Bill Dempsey.
“Let me see your hands,” he heard the man say. “Good. Long, strong fingers as promised… Follow me.”
Bill Dempsey sat back down in the scull. After the fall of retreating footsteps faded away, he reached inside his coat pocket for the bottle of rye whiskey. Dempsey smiled and drank to his future.
“The kid’ll be alright,” he convinced himself. “Just has to play dumb, is all.”
As he lay back in the scull, he noticed an opened portal window above the waterline. He pulled the small craft within hearing distance. The man was leading the boy down a set of stairs to the boat’s small dining hall.
The man’s voice continued. “Have you ever seen a violin boy?”
“Not up close, sir,” Buddy replied.
“Think you can learn to play it?”
“I can do pretty much anything if I put my mind to it.”
“Just one caprice. That’s all I ask.”
“I’m sorry, sir?”
“A musical piece written and played by a man named Pavorini a long time ago.”
“Pavo?”
“Pavorini. He was the greatest violinist who ever lived. This is one of his original bows. But there was a price to pay for his gift.”
“Sir?”
The man smiled, speaking softly. “He sold his soul to the devil.”
"Just to play music?"
"In time, you'll understand."
“Why do you want me to learn this caprice?”
“In due time, all will be revealed.”
“My father said there is money involved.”
“There is - some now, more as we go and plenty more when we’re finished. All that you learn must be in the strictest confidence. Am I understood?”
“Yessir.”
“After all, Buddy, we wouldn’t something bad to happen to your family, now would we?”
“No sir.”
There was a light clatter as the violin was pulled from its case. “Hand me the bow, young man,”
Bill Dempsey took another drink in the scull and listened as the violin was played. It was the music of a haunted virtuoso played with unrivaled technical artistry. But there was something in the emotional notes that made Dempsey’s hair stand up and his blood curdle. “What have I done?” he pondered.
The music stopped.
Young Buddy’s voice dripped with awe. “I have never heard such music!”
“You shall learn to paint with music like me,” said the voice, “with emotion, voracity and perfect leaps through every draw of the bow, painting musical sounds! The four strings of the violin are capable of lightning, singing, thunderstorms, even birds singing! This is the instrument of kings!”
“May I pluck the violin?”
“That is the reason you are here. Pluck away.”
Bill Dempsey listened as his son scratched the bow across the strings of the violin. It was an awful high-pitched tumble of sounds. Now there was a long pull of the bow. It sadly hummed along a string in one long perfect note.
The man laughed loudly. “Bravo, Buddy! Your first words spoken with music.”
Bill Dempsey relaxed. His useless kid had passed the audition.
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
Vjay Christine Blackburn interviews me about my new novel The Glass Fence. (makes a great gift) http://ping.fm/z4Fjn
Saturday, December 3, 2011
Listen to my interview today from The Back Story radio show with Frank Fiore on my new novel The Glass Fence. http://ping.fm/4mAAq
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
Friend and relatives love to read? Order The Glass Fence for the holidays and make them smile!
http://ping.fm/EcYHx
http://ping.fm/EcYHx
Monday, November 21, 2011
Like to give print or ebooks for the holidays? Visit my Author Central account at Amazon.
http://ping.fm/KZiVt
http://ping.fm/KZiVt
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
My 3rd Interview with The Huffington Post for NaNoWriMo on The Witch with 300 Hats
http://ping.fm/1FxeA
http://ping.fm/1FxeA
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
My Huffington Post interview - NanoWriMo Authors Discuss Their Goals and Sacrifices. http://ping.fm/aOH5l
Friday, November 4, 2011
A Garrison Keillor Prediction
A touching insight relevant to my own demise as an author...
Garrison Keillor's column appears regularly in The Baltimore Sun.
When everyone's a writer, no one is. In a world where everything's free on the web, what will happen to publishing?
May 25, 2010 -By Garrison Keillor
In New York the other night, I ran into my daughter's favorite author, Mary Pope Osborne, whose "Magic Tree House" books I've read to the child at night, and a moment later, Scott Turow, who writes legal thrillers that keep people awake all night, and David Remnick, the biographer of President Barack Obama. Bang bang bang, one heavyweight after another. Erica Jong, Jeffrey Toobin, Judy Blume. It was a rooftop party in Tribeca that I got invited to via a well-connected pal, wall-to-wall authors and agents and editors and elegant young women in little black dresses, standing, white wine in hand, looking out across the Hudson at the lights of Hoboken and Jersey City, eating shrimp and scallops and spanikopita on toothpicks, all talking at once the way New Yorkers do.
I grew up on the windswept plains with my nose in a book, so I am awestruck in the presence of book people, even though I have written a couple books myself. These are anti-elitist times, when mobs are calling for the downfall of pointy-head intellectuals who dare tell decent people what to think, but I admire the elite. I'm not one of them — I'm a deadline writer, my car has 150,000 miles on it — but I'm sorry about their downfall. And this book party in Tribeca feels like a Historic Moment, like a 1982 convention of typewriter salesmen or the hunting party of Kaiser Wilhelm II with his coterie of plumed barons in the fall of 1913 before the Great War sent their world spinning off the precipice.
Call me a pessimist, call me Ishmael, but I think that book publishing is about to slide into the sea. We live in a literate time, and our children are writing up a storm, often combining letters and numerals (U R 2 1derful), blogging like crazy, reading for hours off their little screens, surfing around from Henry James to Jesse James to the epistle of James to pajamas to Obama to Alabama to Alanon to non-sequiturs, sequins, penguins, penal institutions, and it's all free, and you read freely, you're not committed to anything the way you are when you shell out $30 for a book, you're like a hummingbird in an endless meadow of flowers.
And if you want to write, you just write and publish yourself. No need to ask permission, just open a website. And if you want to write a book, you just write it, send it to Lulu.com or BookSurge at Amazon or PubIt or ExLibris and you've got yourself an e-book. No problem. And that is the future of publishing: 18 million authors in America
Back in the day, we became writers through the laying on of hands. Some teacher who we worshipped touched our shoulder, and this benediction saw us through a hundred defeats. And then an editor smiled on us and wrote us a check, and our babies got shoes. But in the New Era, writers will be self-anointed. No passing of the torch. Just sit down and write the book. And The New York Times, the great brand name of publishing, whose imprimatur you covet for your book ("brilliantly lyrical, edgy, suffused with light" — NY Times) will vanish (Poof!). And editors will vanish.
The upside of self-publishing is that you can write whatever you wish, utter freedom, and that also is the downside. You can write whatever you wish, and everyone in the world can exercise their right to read the first three sentences and delete the rest.
Self-publishing will destroy the aura of martyrdom that writers have enjoyed for centuries. Tortured geniuses, rejected by publishers, etc., etc. If you publish yourself, this doesn't work anymore, alas.
Children, I am an author who used to type a book manuscript on a manual typewriter. Yes, I did. And mailed it to a New York
Thursday, November 3, 2011
For my readers: Write-In Ballots needed for The Glass Fence for the Goodreads Choice Awards - Favorite Book of 2011. Please follow the link. Thanks so much! http://ping.fm/NBLKF
The Huffington Post is interviewing me weekly for the worldwide NaNoWriMo writing project. Please read: http://ping.fm/mID0t
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
Sunday, October 30, 2011
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
Sunday, October 23, 2011
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
Monday, October 17, 2011
Sunday, October 16, 2011
The Witch With 300 Hats
I figured out what happens next in The Witch With 300 Hats. Give me a couple of days. I love the twists and turns ahead. Like driving down a dark road with no headlights, a full moon illuminating the terrain.
http://www.barryhickey.com/
http://www.barryhickey.com/
Saturday, October 8, 2011
For writers - Norm Goldman interview about my personal approach to witing. writinghttp://ping.fm/KO6iB
Friday, October 7, 2011
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
The Witch With 300 Hats
First Chapters for a YA book: Comments appreciated.
THE WITCH WITH 300 HATS
THE WITCH WITH 300 HATS
By BJ Hickey
Chapter One
A double-dare had been made. The gossip traveled fast in the hallways and classrooms of Lincoln Elementary. Before lunchtime, all the older kids had heard about the dare. The general consensus was the dare was for the new kids - the lemonhead twins.
It came from Buddy Beakley. He had a reputation as a mouthy bully and brat but he was also highly entertaining. Mrs. Davis, the assistant principal, said he was trying to set a record for spending more time in detention than any boy in history.
When the noon bell rang, seventh and eighth graders tossed on coats and rain jackets and gathered in a large mob at the picnic pavilion near the practice field. A stiff whirling sleet blew in the damp cold, but the kids didn't care. A double-dare had been made. They were harder and naughtier than any regular dare. Few were ever accepted but the shame of turning down a double-dare carried a stigma for the rest of a person's life.
Buddy Beakley sat on a tabletop, eating a cheese sandwich. Kids weren't supposed to sit on the tables, but Buddy didn't care. The teachers would just send him to detention for the afternoon where he sketched cartoons. He started to chant "I dare, I dare, I'm gonna dare, I'm gonna stare with a double-dare!"
Pretty soon most of the kids had memorized the chant and were singing along with him.
Buddy swallowed the last of his sandwich and stood up. "It's two weeks to Halloween. And we all know that Halloween is the scariest day on earth. My double-dare is this..." He glanced around at all the familiar faces. There were two missing.
Buddy pushed the shoulder of the boy standing next to him.
"Hey, Exlax, go get me the lemonheads."
The kid ran off towards the school. Kids were laughing and giggling now. So it was the lemonhead twins!
Cecil and Bernice Lemon were brainiac science geeks from Chicago
Exlax returned with the twins in tow.
"They didn't want to come," he bragged. "But I made 'em or else.
Buddy started his chant again with his admirers.
"I dare, I dare, I'm gonna dare, I'm gonna stare with a double-dare!"
Buddy jumped to the ground and faced the twins. He raised his hand and there was silence.
"Know why you're here?" he asked the Lemon twins.
"It's the law," said Cecil Lemon. "We have to go to school."
Cecil was small for his size, just like his sister.
"Very funny for the money," Buddy said. "I can't tell which one is uglier, you or your sister."
"Take your pick," said Bernice. "We're twins."
"Red-haired, freckled freaks," said Buddy. "Listen, Halloween is coming. It's time to have a little fun. You do like fun, don't you lemonheads?"
"Depends on your idea of fun," said Cecil.
"Oh, this will be fun!" smiled Buddy.
He pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket and held it up to the twins.
"You two know how to read?" he asked.
Bernice took the paper and studied it. "Looks like a map," she said.
"It IS a map," said Buddy. "I drew it myself in detention yesterday. And now I double-dare you to follow it."
"What if we don't want to?" Cecil asked.
Buddy stammered. "Don't... don't want to? You have to! It's a double-dare!"
Cecil studied the map now. "End of town, through the woods, cemetery on the right, to the old house."
Cecil and Bernice reacted to gasps from the students. The name "Haunted Hill" whispered among them.
"Who lives there?" Bernice asked.
"Just a little old lady. The caretaker's widow. He had a heart attack last summer digging graves."
"What are we supposed to do when we get there?" Cecil asked. "I can't read your chicken scratch."
"Just go in, bring us proof that you did it."
"Proof? Like what?" said Bernice.
Buddy Beakley smiled. "I see the old lady in town sometimes when she buys groceries. She always wears a floppy old hat with holes in it. Bring it back to us."
"You mean, steal it?"
"Okay, bleeding heart. You can return it AFTER we all see it."
"This is stupid," said Cecil.
Buddy laughed and clapped his hands. "Ha! I knew they wouldn't do it! They're just a pair of lemonhead yellow belly sapsuckers!"
All the kids chanted, "Yellow belly sapsuckers, yellow belly sapsuckers!"
Bernice whispered in Cecil's ear. "We might get stuck living here the rest of our lives."
"So you think we should do it?"
The chant droned on.
"It can't hurt anything."
Cecil raised his hand. "Okay, we'll do it."
The chanting stopped and kids started applauding.
"No way!" said Exlax. "You're actually going to do it?"
"I thought you said we can't turn down a double-dare," said Bernice.
Buddy's eyes bulged. "Let me repeat myself. She is the gravedigger's wife! She helped him bury dead bodies! Rumor has it she killed him with a shovel. Some say she is a witch!"
"You said her husband died of a heart attack."
"Sure. Maybe after she hit him on the head with the shovel!"
Cecil and Bernice smiled at each other.
"Small town kids," said Cecil.
"Small brains," winked Bernice.
They started back towards the school.
"One more thing," said Buddy. "You have to steal the hat at night... When the ghosts are out."
"Sure, Buddy," Bernice called back. "We wouldn't have it any other way."
Chapter 2
All that day, and all through the next, the school was alive with anticipation. Would the lemonheads do it? If they did go, when would they go? There were dozens of discussions about ghosts and vampires and werewolves in the woods now.
Joey Toothe, a paperboy, said he saw a dead man hanging from a tree early that morning, just before sunrise. But when he looked again, the man was gone! A couple of non-believers wanted him to take them to the tree so they could see for themselves but he couldn't remember exactly where the tree was now.
"You don't stick around for ghosts," he warned.
In the library, brave eighth graders pored over old records of people buried in the cemetery. They counted three hundred. Most died of old age, but there were kids buried there, too and they suspected the bodies buried in the unmarked graves on Haunted Hill were axe murderers and killers.
By the end of the second day, everyone agreed that the Lemon twins were in way over their heads. What if the widow caught them? Would she kill them with her shovel, just like she did her gravedigger husband?
The twins were new to town. They didn't even know what the widow looked like.
"Her name is Mrs. Klumb," said Buddy. "Don't let her size and age fool you. She's nimble and quick, moves like a black cat."
Over dinner that first night and the next, Cecil and Bernice were very quiet.
"Are you thinking of your father?" their mother finally said on the second night.
The kids often thought of their father. He had been a sweet man, a kind man. Like gravedigger Klumb, he too had died of a heart attack. That was three years ago. Mrs. Lemon said she needed "a change of scenery" and the family packed up and moved to small town America
"I think about dad every day," said Cecil.
"Me too," said Bernice.
"So what's wrong?" asked their mom.
"Kids at school," said Cecil. "We got double-dared."
"I see," smiled Mrs. Lemon.
"Nothing we can't handle," said Bernice.
"They don't know you two are geniuses?"
Bernice smiled. "I can't wait to see the looks on their faces when they start freshman year of high school and we're off to MIT."
That night, Cecil and Bernice held a secret meeting in her bedroom. They put fresh batteries in flashlights and agreed to wear black clothes, shoes, gloves and stocking caps.
"When do you want to go?" Cecil asked.
"Tomorrow night," said Bernice. "Then on Friday morning, we show everyone the witch's hat and spend the weekend looking like super stars.
"Bernie, what if she really is a witch?" Cecil said.
"No such thing," said Bernice. "It isn't logical."
"Agreed."
Chapter Three
The next day was Thursday. Buddy Beakley spent the afternoon in detention, bragging that he saw Mrs. Lemon at a U-Haul store putting down a deposit for a big moving van.
During every class and in the halls between bells, Bernice and Cecil fended off the ultimate question:
"When are you going to do it?"
They smiled smugly and kept quiet.
That night, after they knew their mom was asleep, Bernice and Cecil donned their nightclothes and stole away from the house. They crept down alleys and side streets, avoiding well-lit areas where curious adults might spot them.
"I just realized," said Cecil. "We've never been to the edge of town."
"We never saw the cemetery either," said Bernice.
"I hope it's a big house," said Cecil.
"A really big house," said Bernice.
"What if she has a dog? A giant, snarling snapping beast?"
"Then we abandon the mission," said Bernice.
Twenty minutes later, they faced the forest marking the end of civilization. It seemed dark and dreary.
Bernice shone her light on the map.
"We follow Picker Parkway one-half mile uphill to the cemetery."
"Haunted Hill," reminded Cecil.
"Isn't logical," said Bernice.
She stuffed the map in her jacket, took her brother by the hand and bravely moved on. They walked step for step, side by side, listening for unusual sounds, but the woods were silent.
They reached the cemetery. It stood pale and dreary on a small knoll, its tombstones crooked.
"Over there," said Bernice. "The house."
Cecil shuddered at the sight of it. The house was everything a haunted mansion should be; tall and brooding, paint peeled from years of neglect, almost as dead as the people in the graves surrounding it.
"It isn't NEXT to the cemetery, it's IN the cemetery!" Cecil whispered. "What if my imagination starts to run wild?"
"Think of the calculations for E=Mc2," said Bernice.
They drifted slowly past older graves, then newer, fresher tombstones as they reached the old house.
"No lights on, no hounds barking," said Bernice.
"What about cats? A cat could alert the owner."
Bernice looked at her watch. "Midnight. Old people are always in bed by eight."
"What if she's a light sleeper?"
"We're about to find out."
Cecil shined his light on the front porch. It was wide with ancient floorboards.
"Looks noisy."
He pulled his sister away and led her to the rear of the house. A terrible stench filled their nostrils.
"What is that godawful smell?" Cecil whispered.
Bernice shined her flashlight on a big pile of rubbish.
"No garbage service out here," she said.
They crept forward to a small concrete pad and stepped up.
"Two doors," said Bernice. "First the screen."
She slowly, carefully pulled the door open. It didn't make a sound. She held it open and whispered to Cecil. "Try the main door."
He took a long swallow, reached for an old brass handle and turned the knob. The door opened with a slight creaking sound.
They were in.
It took ten minutes for the Lemon twins to cover the space of three rooms. First the kitchen followed by the dining room, then the living room. No cats, no dogs, no mice, no fish in an aquarium. No hats.
The house, like the cemetery, seemed dead.
Cecil pointed at his sister's head. "Hat?" he reminded her.
Their lights skimmed the living room. No hats here either.
They scratched their heads and stared at the steps leading to the second floor. Maybe the gravedigger's widow slept with her hat on?
Cecil spotted a door in the hallway and led his sister to it.
"A closet," he mouthed.
Carefully and slowly, he opened the door. Flashlights beamed inside. It wasn't a typical hallway closet. It was wide and deep, a walk-in. They stepped inside, dense dust in the air. Bernice closed the door behind them and pulled on a dangling string. A bright bulb suddenly filled the room with light.
"Oh my...," Bernice gasped.
Cecil couldn't believe his own eyes.
"Hats!" he said. "Hundreds of them!"
They inched their way through the closet. Along the walls on either side, hats of all sorts and sizes hung from pegs.
"Maybe she collects them?" said Bernice. "You know, like a shoe freak."
Cecil studied several hats. "Doesn't calculate. Kid's hats, old hats, cowboy hats, go to church hats... If she was a shoe freak they'd all be the same size."
"We only need one hat," said Bernice.
"But which one?"
"What was it Buddy said? The widow wears an old floppy hat with holes in it."
Bernice followed the left wall with her light. Cecil did the same on the right.
"Found one!" Cecil declared.
"Me too!" announced Bernice.
They compared hats. Hers was older and floppier. It also had more holes. She put it on her head for safekeeping.
Cecil hung his hat back on its peg and followed her towards the door, his flashlight moving along the hat row. He spotted a blue cap and tried it on.
"An old fishing cap, Bernie! Greek, I think."
She turned around and looked at him. "Put it back," she whispered.
"There's at least three hundred hats here," Cecil complained. "She won't miss it."
Bernice shook her head, pulled on the string and turned off the overhead light.
"This closet gives me the creeps," she said.
"Claustrophobic?" asked Cecil.
"No... I feel like... I feel like we're surrounded by dead people."
Chapter Four
Cecil carried the mysterious knapsack to school the next morning, promising Bernice she would be the one to open it at lunch. During Math class and all through English, he must have heard, "What's in the bag?" a million times. Cecil just smiled, saying, "All will be revealed at noon."
Buddy Beakley bumped into Bernice after first period and asked, "What's in the bag?"
"It isn't a bowling ball," she smiled.
"It isn't a human head either," said Buddy. "So what is it?"
"All will be revealed at noon," Bernice smiled.
Buddy wanted to punch her but that would put him in detention earlier than he planned. He had to be available at lunch to see what they had.
Friday, September 30, 2011
Almost Gone
There is a threshold we all reach in our creative pursuits. Move forward? Stay put and give up? This writing adventure is costing me so much time and money, perhaps I'll just melt away in obscurity and forget I was ever here...
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
Saturday, September 17, 2011
When I was an actor I had a "like me" tag on the back of my shirt. I thought it was part of my job... Now that I write books, I want people to "appreciate my work if its well-done. If it isn't their cup of tea, fine. If I offend a sensibility, that's their issue. Thick skin as a writer comes from intellectual understanding. Its resilient and callused, developed from years of being bruised. You won't stay a writer long without constant growth.
Monday, September 5, 2011
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
I talk with such a variety of people on a daily basis about my writing, acting and singing careers and the most compelling advise I offer is the phrase, "I was there." Don't measure your success by dollars and fame. Do your best work, be the best person you can be. Honor others and above all, honor yourself for having tried to the best of your abilities with what is available to you at the time.
Friday, August 26, 2011
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
Monday, August 15, 2011
Sunday, August 14, 2011
Thursday, August 11, 2011
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
Saturday, July 23, 2011
Sunday, July 17, 2011
Friday, July 15, 2011
We talked about the new book WRITER'S CRAMP on blogtalkradio last nite. A fun show. Please follow. http://ping.fm/39aqN
Sunday, July 3, 2011
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Looking for Personal Inspiration Tonight?
Listen to The Spirit Connection
Call in, share your own inspirations!
Explore yourself!
BE WHO YOU CHOOSE TO BE! Blog Talk Radio
Thursday Nights - 9pm Eastern Time
http://ping.fm/Bedlt
Discover Spirita and our other wonderful authors at TumbleBrush Press
http://ping.fm/eMTA8
Listen to The Spirit Connection
Call in, share your own inspirations!
Explore yourself!
BE WHO YOU CHOOSE TO BE! Blog Talk Radio
Thursday Nights - 9pm Eastern Time
http://ping.fm/Bedlt
Discover Spirita and our other wonderful authors at TumbleBrush Press
http://ping.fm/eMTA8
Friday, June 24, 2011
Monday, June 20, 2011
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Sunday, June 12, 2011
THE FIVE PEARLS
CHAPTER FIVE
Big Bill Hogan handed a stack of pictures to the man now know as Battle. “As promised. Pretty good diffusion of light, I must say. Framing’s good, too. There’s some real art in that pile.”
Battle thumbed through the stack. The pictures were mostly mundane snapshots of the Tadpoles hanging around, drinking and smoking by the creek. He lingered on some photos, sped past others. A few made him smile absently, as if recalling memories that had long since faded away. He finished with the pictures.
“Good enough?” Hogan asked.
“For now.”
“Since you are still walking the earth, what is your next command?”
Battle rose from his chair. “Give me a couple of days to think about it,” he decided.
Hogan shrugged. “Unlike you, I have plenty of time.”
www.barryhickey.com
CHAPTER FIVE
Big Bill Hogan handed a stack of pictures to the man now know as Battle. “As promised. Pretty good diffusion of light, I must say. Framing’s good, too. There’s some real art in that pile.”
Battle thumbed through the stack. The pictures were mostly mundane snapshots of the Tadpoles hanging around, drinking and smoking by the creek. He lingered on some photos, sped past others. A few made him smile absently, as if recalling memories that had long since faded away. He finished with the pictures.
“Good enough?” Hogan asked.
“For now.”
“Since you are still walking the earth, what is your next command?”
Battle rose from his chair. “Give me a couple of days to think about it,” he decided.
Hogan shrugged. “Unlike you, I have plenty of time.”
www.barryhickey.com
Saturday, June 11, 2011
Excerpt from my new novel - THE GLASS FENCE: http://ping.fm/evlD4
CHAPTER 1
BOYS AND GIRLS OF COLOR
Note on a napkin:
You reach for the sun.
I'll grab the moon.
It's closer.
"Makeup on, makeup off," Angela Spencer said in a throaty smoker's voice. She wiped down her cracked porcelain face with a warm wet towel. There was no art to removing makeup anymore.
"I may just as well use paint thinner," she complained, sipping straight from the mid-priced wine bottle.
It was far past her bedtime already but there was a new channel added to her cable service that she had to watch after the abysmal date with the paper products salesman. Channel changing consumed most of her regular evenings. She even had a callus on her index finger to prove it. As for the date? Another wasted experience. Mr. Paper was too busy bragging about his entire life ad nauseum to notice that she was chewing on her fingers as an appetizer. She wasn't even playing hard to get with the loser and he was most definitively not the object of any of her many desires. And the coupon at the end! Two-for-one! She'd never had that done to her before. In the foyer of the restaurant, she was blunt with the man. There would be no second date. Pretend you never found me on the web. Mr. Paper was scratched from the short list of dating contenders after the first lap.
"They never seem to ask what I'm interested in," she complained to her overweight cat. (It was sitting on the closed toilet lid). "I admit I was stuck on my decrepit personality and good looks for over fifteen years, but what's a former Miss Amarillo supposed to do? Now that I'm older but wiser, I have plenty to talk about besides airline deregulation, frequent flyer miles and beauty pageants."
The airlines. Old Glory days. She was a world-circling flight attendant with an international carrier before the sky fell and they found a way to put her out to pasture before she became a liability.
"Drunk on the job, my ass," she yelled down at the cat. "Never when I flew! Never!"
The stripped away, aging face confronting her in the vanity mirror looked like melting wax on a mannequin. No amount of creams could save her. Her bored cat slid off the toilet seat as she rubbed her eyebrows down to a wirey gray. Full round lips became thin-set strips that seemed to guard her cigarette-stained teeth. No doubt about it, the pretty days were gone.
Now Angela Spencer was the front desk supervisor at the fabulous Windamere Resort and Hotel. She didn't enjoy these one-on-ones with herself anymore. She didn't like talking to a bitch. The poor cat was a captive audience. She fed him, cleaned the shit from his litter box and kept him safe inside. He was a male cat. Declawed. Harmless except for his short sharp teeth.
She reviled him.
"Men think the battle of the sexes is a big chess game," she scolded the cat. "But the truth is, women play the game to collect as many pieces as they can, never wanting to actually end the game!" Angela giggled at the memories of her high-flying days when all the boys were wrapped around her finger. Pilots and co-pilots and the occasional straight stewie and all those married businessmen in hotel lobby bars... Some were lucscious.
She picked up the wine bottle and finished it off. A nature-made competitor to a cabinet filled with synthetic anti-depressants.
"How did it get like this?" she asked the unfeeling cat. "Once upon a time I was so pretty but then I wanted the next boy and the next and the next and now look at me. I look like a cartoon and there are no boys of any age worth pursuing anymore. What horrors have I done? Is it my fault? Am I so out of sync? Mr. Paper used a coupon for god's sakes! Did he use it on purpose to show his disdain for women? Was he angry that the online picture he found of me is ten years old? How many broken-hearted men out there hate my living guts now?"
The answer was a lot. There were three broken engagements and she was married twice. Vegas didn't count.
"Vegas never counts," she rationalized. Angela stumbled over the cat and wandered into the bedroom, the wine bottle clutched in her hand. She noticed the suitcase of sex toys in the pink round hat box sticking out from under the bed and kicked it - kicked it hard in the face like an old, cheating boyfriend.
"Enough of you, stupid box!" She coughed angrily. She kicked at the suitcase again, stubbing her big toe. Angela sat on the bed and burst into tears. She hated living alone, hated being alone with herself and the constant idiotic chatter she provided for her own ears. "The next man's the ticket, you'll see. Oh, to find a friend in a real man again," she lamented. "A man with magic who will put up with my bullshit for more than a dinner date!"
Her cat approached from the bathroom, purring at her feet for attention.
"Oh, shut up!" Angela chastised it. "You only pretend you like me. Otherwise you will starve to death, you clawless fool!" She dropped down on her knees to the floor and looked the cat in the eyes. "Just remember itty bitty kitty; you don't have any money and you're a bore!" There. Angela had said it. "The cat is out of the bag," she laughed. She pushed the feline aside and crawled up onto the bed, a small pool of drool collecting in her mouth.
The cat hated her right now. Hated her more than bathtub water and dry food. Hated her more than cat cartoons and Meow Mix commercials. Hated her enough to ram a fur ball down her throat to shut her up.
"I know what you're thinking, kitty cat!" Angela wagged her finger at him. "And if you're not careful I just might buy a dog yet! A pit bull to terrify you night and day. Or maybe I'll make you sleep outside on the apartment deck so you can watch for the coyotes below. You're their favorite food, by the way. You won't sleep a wink. Then you'll be as miserable as me."
The cat would never forgive her for her harsh words. Some cats are that way. They either forget everything that happened in nine hours or mistrust their keepers for eternity. The cat slinked off to shit in the litter box. Angela crawled under the covers of her bed, listening to the scratching sounds of the cat burying its excrement. The male cat would be back as soon as Angela fell asleep. It would sneak up on the bed and lay by her pillow and stare at snoring Angela's aging face, feeling dissatisfied that a former Texas beauty queen with man issues was his only companion.
Angela's muddled memory brought up the rhinestone-studded plastic tiara that she wore twenty years ago on what should have been the greatest night of her life. One of the judges chased her around the motel pool after the evening pageant. He said he expected compensation because he had been the swing vote for Miss Angela Spencer. When she turned a wet corner by the deep end, the crown slipped off her head and shattered on the concrete into a dozen pieces. Fleeing as she was from the obese city councilman, she didn't stop to retrieve them.
"Wonder Woman wears a tiara," she mumbled. Mentally exhausted, Angela inhaled deeply through clogged, wheezing nostrils and finally passed out. The male cat jumped up on the bed and joined her.
CHAPTER 1
BOYS AND GIRLS OF COLOR
Note on a napkin:
You reach for the sun.
I'll grab the moon.
It's closer.
"Makeup on, makeup off," Angela Spencer said in a throaty smoker's voice. She wiped down her cracked porcelain face with a warm wet towel. There was no art to removing makeup anymore.
"I may just as well use paint thinner," she complained, sipping straight from the mid-priced wine bottle.
It was far past her bedtime already but there was a new channel added to her cable service that she had to watch after the abysmal date with the paper products salesman. Channel changing consumed most of her regular evenings. She even had a callus on her index finger to prove it. As for the date? Another wasted experience. Mr. Paper was too busy bragging about his entire life ad nauseum to notice that she was chewing on her fingers as an appetizer. She wasn't even playing hard to get with the loser and he was most definitively not the object of any of her many desires. And the coupon at the end! Two-for-one! She'd never had that done to her before. In the foyer of the restaurant, she was blunt with the man. There would be no second date. Pretend you never found me on the web. Mr. Paper was scratched from the short list of dating contenders after the first lap.
"They never seem to ask what I'm interested in," she complained to her overweight cat. (It was sitting on the closed toilet lid). "I admit I was stuck on my decrepit personality and good looks for over fifteen years, but what's a former Miss Amarillo supposed to do? Now that I'm older but wiser, I have plenty to talk about besides airline deregulation, frequent flyer miles and beauty pageants."
The airlines. Old Glory days. She was a world-circling flight attendant with an international carrier before the sky fell and they found a way to put her out to pasture before she became a liability.
"Drunk on the job, my ass," she yelled down at the cat. "Never when I flew! Never!"
The stripped away, aging face confronting her in the vanity mirror looked like melting wax on a mannequin. No amount of creams could save her. Her bored cat slid off the toilet seat as she rubbed her eyebrows down to a wirey gray. Full round lips became thin-set strips that seemed to guard her cigarette-stained teeth. No doubt about it, the pretty days were gone.
Now Angela Spencer was the front desk supervisor at the fabulous Windamere Resort and Hotel. She didn't enjoy these one-on-ones with herself anymore. She didn't like talking to a bitch. The poor cat was a captive audience. She fed him, cleaned the shit from his litter box and kept him safe inside. He was a male cat. Declawed. Harmless except for his short sharp teeth.
She reviled him.
"Men think the battle of the sexes is a big chess game," she scolded the cat. "But the truth is, women play the game to collect as many pieces as they can, never wanting to actually end the game!" Angela giggled at the memories of her high-flying days when all the boys were wrapped around her finger. Pilots and co-pilots and the occasional straight stewie and all those married businessmen in hotel lobby bars... Some were lucscious.
She picked up the wine bottle and finished it off. A nature-made competitor to a cabinet filled with synthetic anti-depressants.
"How did it get like this?" she asked the unfeeling cat. "Once upon a time I was so pretty but then I wanted the next boy and the next and the next and now look at me. I look like a cartoon and there are no boys of any age worth pursuing anymore. What horrors have I done? Is it my fault? Am I so out of sync? Mr. Paper used a coupon for god's sakes! Did he use it on purpose to show his disdain for women? Was he angry that the online picture he found of me is ten years old? How many broken-hearted men out there hate my living guts now?"
The answer was a lot. There were three broken engagements and she was married twice. Vegas didn't count.
"Vegas never counts," she rationalized. Angela stumbled over the cat and wandered into the bedroom, the wine bottle clutched in her hand. She noticed the suitcase of sex toys in the pink round hat box sticking out from under the bed and kicked it - kicked it hard in the face like an old, cheating boyfriend.
"Enough of you, stupid box!" She coughed angrily. She kicked at the suitcase again, stubbing her big toe. Angela sat on the bed and burst into tears. She hated living alone, hated being alone with herself and the constant idiotic chatter she provided for her own ears. "The next man's the ticket, you'll see. Oh, to find a friend in a real man again," she lamented. "A man with magic who will put up with my bullshit for more than a dinner date!"
Her cat approached from the bathroom, purring at her feet for attention.
"Oh, shut up!" Angela chastised it. "You only pretend you like me. Otherwise you will starve to death, you clawless fool!" She dropped down on her knees to the floor and looked the cat in the eyes. "Just remember itty bitty kitty; you don't have any money and you're a bore!" There. Angela had said it. "The cat is out of the bag," she laughed. She pushed the feline aside and crawled up onto the bed, a small pool of drool collecting in her mouth.
The cat hated her right now. Hated her more than bathtub water and dry food. Hated her more than cat cartoons and Meow Mix commercials. Hated her enough to ram a fur ball down her throat to shut her up.
"I know what you're thinking, kitty cat!" Angela wagged her finger at him. "And if you're not careful I just might buy a dog yet! A pit bull to terrify you night and day. Or maybe I'll make you sleep outside on the apartment deck so you can watch for the coyotes below. You're their favorite food, by the way. You won't sleep a wink. Then you'll be as miserable as me."
The cat would never forgive her for her harsh words. Some cats are that way. They either forget everything that happened in nine hours or mistrust their keepers for eternity. The cat slinked off to shit in the litter box. Angela crawled under the covers of her bed, listening to the scratching sounds of the cat burying its excrement. The male cat would be back as soon as Angela fell asleep. It would sneak up on the bed and lay by her pillow and stare at snoring Angela's aging face, feeling dissatisfied that a former Texas beauty queen with man issues was his only companion.
Angela's muddled memory brought up the rhinestone-studded plastic tiara that she wore twenty years ago on what should have been the greatest night of her life. One of the judges chased her around the motel pool after the evening pageant. He said he expected compensation because he had been the swing vote for Miss Angela Spencer. When she turned a wet corner by the deep end, the crown slipped off her head and shattered on the concrete into a dozen pieces. Fleeing as she was from the obese city councilman, she didn't stop to retrieve them.
"Wonder Woman wears a tiara," she mumbled. Mentally exhausted, Angela inhaled deeply through clogged, wheezing nostrils and finally passed out. The male cat jumped up on the bed and joined her.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Excerpt from Chasing God's River. http://ping.fm/aDt80
Katie Jones shook her head, ever so slightly, coming out of the bruises of a crystal clear dream. Next to her, Wade was sound asleep, his head buried face down in a pillow. She looked at the quartz bedside clock. Three a.m.
Another angel dream.
A messenger this time. She laid her head back on the pillow, savoring the dream, hoping to find meaning. The angelic messenger was a young man, handsome and strong. His skin was a pale white marble. He had a sad innocent smile on his lips. She was standing by his side on a riverbank near the bottom of a tall waterfall facing up together.
“Here he comes,” the angel said.
The bow of a long kayak made of whalebone, driftwood, and sea lion skins appeared at the top of the waterfall and hung there.
Katie couldn't see who was in it.
The angel extended his left arm, palm up and open, as if holding the kayak in place.
“What is your wish for the passenger?”
“To find his way,” Katie responded.
“Then he must fall,” the angel said. The angel dropped his hand.
Katie watched as the kayak shot out from the waterfall, nose down in free fall. Wade was in the boat, dressed in animal skins, his eyes alert that real death was at hand. A powerful arm of evil water reached out from the base of the waterfall, grabbed the boat like a child's toy and sucked the kayak into a deep pool of wet death.
And Wade was gone.
Startled, Katie sat up in bed. “Why?”
In the darkened room, she heard the messenger's whisper. “Men are supposed to die.”
She felt the angel leave the room, like the soft evaporated whist of a breath withdrawn. Katie laid next to her sleeping husband, smothering him with the spooning warmth of her frenzied body, her hands reaching out, clutching his.
“Be safe, my love.” She kissed him on his cheek and he smiled in his sleep.
Katie Jones shook her head, ever so slightly, coming out of the bruises of a crystal clear dream. Next to her, Wade was sound asleep, his head buried face down in a pillow. She looked at the quartz bedside clock. Three a.m.
Another angel dream.
A messenger this time. She laid her head back on the pillow, savoring the dream, hoping to find meaning. The angelic messenger was a young man, handsome and strong. His skin was a pale white marble. He had a sad innocent smile on his lips. She was standing by his side on a riverbank near the bottom of a tall waterfall facing up together.
“Here he comes,” the angel said.
The bow of a long kayak made of whalebone, driftwood, and sea lion skins appeared at the top of the waterfall and hung there.
Katie couldn't see who was in it.
The angel extended his left arm, palm up and open, as if holding the kayak in place.
“What is your wish for the passenger?”
“To find his way,” Katie responded.
“Then he must fall,” the angel said. The angel dropped his hand.
Katie watched as the kayak shot out from the waterfall, nose down in free fall. Wade was in the boat, dressed in animal skins, his eyes alert that real death was at hand. A powerful arm of evil water reached out from the base of the waterfall, grabbed the boat like a child's toy and sucked the kayak into a deep pool of wet death.
And Wade was gone.
Startled, Katie sat up in bed. “Why?”
In the darkened room, she heard the messenger's whisper. “Men are supposed to die.”
She felt the angel leave the room, like the soft evaporated whist of a breath withdrawn. Katie laid next to her sleeping husband, smothering him with the spooning warmth of her frenzied body, her hands reaching out, clutching his.
“Be safe, my love.” She kissed him on his cheek and he smiled in his sleep.
Sunday, May 29, 2011
Barry James Hickey – Chasing God’s River Interview
by Cathy B Stucker
SellingBooks.com
q: Tell us a bit about the book.
A: The bond of marriage is tested when a husband in mid-life crisis returns to Colorado for the summer to kayak and find his virility again. He doesn’t expect to meet his former coach, an old college sweetheart and a mysterious teenager. Each wants something from him he can’t provide. And then there is the whitewater of the Arkansas river. It wants something from him, too. Maybe his life.
q: Tell us something about yourself.
a: My life’s journey is fodder for my books. I started writing when I was twenty. As a kid, I hitchhiked across America many times. I was a singer in three bands, acted in a dozen plays. A handful of commercials. I started in Chicago, then Colorado, a Los Angeles film career and back to Colorado. I have had a long list of odd jobs in-between: steelworker, elevator operator, desk clerk, canoe guide, movie studios, realtor, school teacher, car salesman, publisher to name a few… Four colleges… I did the Hollywood thing for 15 years as an actor, writer and producer. I’ve traveled to odd places – Greenland, India, Thailand, Greece, the Philippines to name a few.
q: What inspired you to write this book?
a: I’m in my mid-fifties. Everyday I’m confronted by broken people. Some by their own hand, others by the world they live in. I write stories about common people overcoming the sometimes-extraordinary obstacles of everyday life.
q: How did you choose the title?
a; The river is a metaphor. How many of us chase what isn’t there anymore or long for what will never be in our short lives? Our time on earth is limited. We have to accept that.
q: What obstacles did you encounter in getting this book published? How did you overcome them?
a: I’m still learning about the publishing world. I spent a few thousand dollars in postage and paper pursuing agents for my first three books. Since I’m not in the big leagues, there is no financial benefit to having a publisher besides the validation that comes with someone accepting my work. If I win a lottery, I will probably hire a publicist, marketers, and a management team. I’ve learned that the marketing is all on me. My publisher, TumbleBrush Press likes the spiritual offerings in my books.
q: How did you know you wanted to be a writer? How did you get started?
a: I was twenty, operating an old-fashioned Otis elevator at night in downtown Chicago. Lots of free time. I started with poetry. “Cold thoughts spring from the winter fountain.” I have two boxes of index cards from those days – outlines for two books; The Sons of Marco Polo and Voyageur. I sent queries to thirty agents and realized my first rejection letters. That was 35 years ago.
q: Do you have any writing rituals?
a: I have to work other jobs to survive so I write early in the morning and late at night. I like to meander on weekends with a notepad for new inspirations. I visit the library, a bookstore, a coffee shop.
q: How do you come up with the names for your characters?
a: When I see a character fully, I recognize the name. Some names are allegorical.
q: Did you learn anything from writing and publishing this book? What?
a: If I didn’t write I could afford vacations and increase my income in other ventures. I seem to have stepped away from the pleasures of local culture since my mind is always on my work. I also realize that it is very difficult being a stand-up guy with so much temptation.
q: If you were doing it all over again, what would you do differently?
a: I would have enjoyed singing in big auditoriums with a big band. But there is no do-over in life.
q: What types of books do you like to read? Who are your favorite authors? Why?
a: I read all sorts of books. This year it’s been John Irving, Larry McMurty, Robert Parker, John Grisham, Somerset Maugham, John Steinbeck, Norman Mailer, Mario Puzo, Carson McCullers. James Michener's Alaska this week. I started several other books by various writers but put them down halfway. I just couldn’t punish myself to finish them. I discovered a small gem in Neither Wolf nor Dog by Kent Nerburn. My favorite authors are Mark Twain, Jack London, Carson McCullers and Leo Tolstoy.
q; Are you working on your next book? What can you tell us about it?
a: The Glass Fence was released last week. Next is Waking Paul Bunyan. A modern day family resuscitates their giant uncle and Babe the blue ox. If I don’t get too misanthropic, it should be a humorous and poignant story about how American values have been suffocated by big government and materialism. Poor Paul has to face age discrimination, his disabilities as a giant, the utter loneliness of being a freak of nature and social outcast. And have you seen the cost of tomatoes at the local grocery?
q: What is the best advice you could give other writers about writing or publishing?
a: Publishing is a crapshoot. Write well and follow your moral compass.
q: Who is the perfect reader for your book?
a: Chasing God’s River is a modern love story with action and adventure. I think it appeals mostly to women over thirty. All of my books do. Maybe I’m a sensitive guy.
q: Where can readers learn more about you and your book?
a: I have a website. www.barryhickey.com. I’m on Facebook, Twitter, and Myspace with interviews on Youtube. My books are available at www.tumblebrushpress.com or on Amazon.com and Smashwords in print or as a download.
by Cathy B Stucker
SellingBooks.com
q: Tell us a bit about the book.
A: The bond of marriage is tested when a husband in mid-life crisis returns to Colorado for the summer to kayak and find his virility again. He doesn’t expect to meet his former coach, an old college sweetheart and a mysterious teenager. Each wants something from him he can’t provide. And then there is the whitewater of the Arkansas river. It wants something from him, too. Maybe his life.
q: Tell us something about yourself.
a: My life’s journey is fodder for my books. I started writing when I was twenty. As a kid, I hitchhiked across America many times. I was a singer in three bands, acted in a dozen plays. A handful of commercials. I started in Chicago, then Colorado, a Los Angeles film career and back to Colorado. I have had a long list of odd jobs in-between: steelworker, elevator operator, desk clerk, canoe guide, movie studios, realtor, school teacher, car salesman, publisher to name a few… Four colleges… I did the Hollywood thing for 15 years as an actor, writer and producer. I’ve traveled to odd places – Greenland, India, Thailand, Greece, the Philippines to name a few.
q: What inspired you to write this book?
a: I’m in my mid-fifties. Everyday I’m confronted by broken people. Some by their own hand, others by the world they live in. I write stories about common people overcoming the sometimes-extraordinary obstacles of everyday life.
q: How did you choose the title?
a; The river is a metaphor. How many of us chase what isn’t there anymore or long for what will never be in our short lives? Our time on earth is limited. We have to accept that.
q: What obstacles did you encounter in getting this book published? How did you overcome them?
a: I’m still learning about the publishing world. I spent a few thousand dollars in postage and paper pursuing agents for my first three books. Since I’m not in the big leagues, there is no financial benefit to having a publisher besides the validation that comes with someone accepting my work. If I win a lottery, I will probably hire a publicist, marketers, and a management team. I’ve learned that the marketing is all on me. My publisher, TumbleBrush Press likes the spiritual offerings in my books.
q: How did you know you wanted to be a writer? How did you get started?
a: I was twenty, operating an old-fashioned Otis elevator at night in downtown Chicago. Lots of free time. I started with poetry. “Cold thoughts spring from the winter fountain.” I have two boxes of index cards from those days – outlines for two books; The Sons of Marco Polo and Voyageur. I sent queries to thirty agents and realized my first rejection letters. That was 35 years ago.
q: Do you have any writing rituals?
a: I have to work other jobs to survive so I write early in the morning and late at night. I like to meander on weekends with a notepad for new inspirations. I visit the library, a bookstore, a coffee shop.
q: How do you come up with the names for your characters?
a: When I see a character fully, I recognize the name. Some names are allegorical.
q: Did you learn anything from writing and publishing this book? What?
a: If I didn’t write I could afford vacations and increase my income in other ventures. I seem to have stepped away from the pleasures of local culture since my mind is always on my work. I also realize that it is very difficult being a stand-up guy with so much temptation.
q: If you were doing it all over again, what would you do differently?
a: I would have enjoyed singing in big auditoriums with a big band. But there is no do-over in life.
q: What types of books do you like to read? Who are your favorite authors? Why?
a: I read all sorts of books. This year it’s been John Irving, Larry McMurty, Robert Parker, John Grisham, Somerset Maugham, John Steinbeck, Norman Mailer, Mario Puzo, Carson McCullers. James Michener's Alaska this week. I started several other books by various writers but put them down halfway. I just couldn’t punish myself to finish them. I discovered a small gem in Neither Wolf nor Dog by Kent Nerburn. My favorite authors are Mark Twain, Jack London, Carson McCullers and Leo Tolstoy.
q; Are you working on your next book? What can you tell us about it?
a: The Glass Fence was released last week. Next is Waking Paul Bunyan. A modern day family resuscitates their giant uncle and Babe the blue ox. If I don’t get too misanthropic, it should be a humorous and poignant story about how American values have been suffocated by big government and materialism. Poor Paul has to face age discrimination, his disabilities as a giant, the utter loneliness of being a freak of nature and social outcast. And have you seen the cost of tomatoes at the local grocery?
q: What is the best advice you could give other writers about writing or publishing?
a: Publishing is a crapshoot. Write well and follow your moral compass.
q: Who is the perfect reader for your book?
a: Chasing God’s River is a modern love story with action and adventure. I think it appeals mostly to women over thirty. All of my books do. Maybe I’m a sensitive guy.
q: Where can readers learn more about you and your book?
a: I have a website. www.barryhickey.com. I’m on Facebook, Twitter, and Myspace with interviews on Youtube. My books are available at www.tumblebrushpress.com or on Amazon.com and Smashwords in print or as a download.
Barry James Hickey's The Five Pearls captivates and inspires, lures and hooks you. John Battles' struggle to atone for his past resonates with readers young and old. Amber and her loose gang of tadpoles touch on issues that all teenagers face and you find yourself rooting for all of them as they struggle towards adulthood. Hickey has written a novel seeped in today's most compelling issues and written a story to inspire us all - Tonya Norton.
The Five Pearls: http://ping.fm/GrK2q
The Five Pearls: http://ping.fm/GrK2q
Friday, May 27, 2011
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Sunday, May 22, 2011
I Missed Doomsday Again
Some kid showed up at my door selling Mayan calendars and chocolate bars for a buck. I bought one of each. After he left I glanced at the calendar and realized the Doomsday prophecy was right around the corner. I barely had enough time to prepare for my end of days.
I washed my car, did all the laundry and even folded it, watered the houseplants, and emptied the trash. I set the thermostat at a comfortable 68 degrees. I paid my cable and utility bills and wrote a post-dated check to the landlord. Just in case.
My dilemma in all this was the underlying fact that only good people would be disappearing from the face of the earth and all the bad people would still be left behind.
I judged myself. Was I a good person or a bad person? I lose my temper sometimes, but it's usually for a good reason. Am I bad? If only bad people were left to rule the earth, how chaotic would it get? I realized that if I were left behind for reasons unknown it would still be business as usual.
The day before Armageddon, I called my boss, reminded him that Doomsday was at hand and that there was a good possibility I wouldn't be at work on Monday. My boss said he'd take his chances.
My car dealer would still be in business. There are bad people there, especially in the service department. They charge $90 an hour. That's more than my good dentist and doctor get from me on a visit after my co-pay.
The people at the dry cleaners would be left behind. They burned two shirts and lost a pair of my slacks.
If all the churchgoers disappeared what would happen to Sunday? Should we cancel it? Who would ring the bell and pass the basket?
People who work in liquor stores would be left behind. They sell demon spirits. I bought a bottle of Merlot last week. Did this make me a bad person?
I made a list of friends and assigned them to one of two columns - GOING or STAYING. Chuck buys lottery tickets. He's staying. Mary is a waitress and doesn't declare her tips. Staying. Mark lies about his golf score. He's staying. Cliff and Barb owe the IRS back taxes. They have to stay. On and on the list went and I couldn't put anyone but me in the GOING column.
Up and down my block, neighbors were busy packing boxes in their garages. It's a good neighborhood filled with responsible working people. I assumed everyone had bought a Mayan calendar from that kid. Only one neighbor seemed oblivious to the exodus. Old Bert. He lives two doors down.
"Aren't you getting ready?" I asked.
"For what?" he said.
"Doomsday. Armageddon. The End of Days."
"Shucks," he laughed. "I ain't going nowhere. Even if I was elected I wouldn't go."
"Why not?"
Bert watered his flowerbed. "That scientist Stephen Hawking, he says heaven is a fairy tale."
"But he isn't God!" I reminded him.
"Look at my place," he smiled. "I got flowers coming in and tomato vines budding. It's as close to heaven as I can get. Besides, I don't wanna run into my three ex-wives in heaven. They'll just pick up their arguments where we left off."
"Are they good women?"
"Good enough for me."
"Bert, what is the difference between a good person and a bad person?"
"Something to do with kindness. Doing what's right by people."
I mulled this over. "Bert, let's make a pact. If I go, will you take care of my house? Feed my dogs? Cut the lawn?"
"I suppose I can," he said.
"And if you go, I'll keep up your garden."
We shook on it, then drove to Henley's key shop. We had spare house keys made for each other.
On the way back, Bert said, "I'll be wanting my key back come Monday."
"What makes you so sure I'll be here on Monday?"
Bert scratched his whiskers. "The way I figure it, they raised the bar so high about being good that nobody's goin'.
When we arrived at his house he clipped me a rose from his bush and handed it to me.
"What's this for?" I asked.
"Just a little heaven on earth."
I smiled and took the rose home. After an hour I called my boss and said I'd probably be in on Monday. My boss told me I was a good person.
Doomsday came and went and nobody from my block left. I took the defective Mayan calendar off the wall and threw it away. A neighbor stopped by and I signed her petition to ban kids from soliciting on our block.
http://ping.fm/5TzJl
Some kid showed up at my door selling Mayan calendars and chocolate bars for a buck. I bought one of each. After he left I glanced at the calendar and realized the Doomsday prophecy was right around the corner. I barely had enough time to prepare for my end of days.
I washed my car, did all the laundry and even folded it, watered the houseplants, and emptied the trash. I set the thermostat at a comfortable 68 degrees. I paid my cable and utility bills and wrote a post-dated check to the landlord. Just in case.
My dilemma in all this was the underlying fact that only good people would be disappearing from the face of the earth and all the bad people would still be left behind.
I judged myself. Was I a good person or a bad person? I lose my temper sometimes, but it's usually for a good reason. Am I bad? If only bad people were left to rule the earth, how chaotic would it get? I realized that if I were left behind for reasons unknown it would still be business as usual.
The day before Armageddon, I called my boss, reminded him that Doomsday was at hand and that there was a good possibility I wouldn't be at work on Monday. My boss said he'd take his chances.
My car dealer would still be in business. There are bad people there, especially in the service department. They charge $90 an hour. That's more than my good dentist and doctor get from me on a visit after my co-pay.
The people at the dry cleaners would be left behind. They burned two shirts and lost a pair of my slacks.
If all the churchgoers disappeared what would happen to Sunday? Should we cancel it? Who would ring the bell and pass the basket?
People who work in liquor stores would be left behind. They sell demon spirits. I bought a bottle of Merlot last week. Did this make me a bad person?
I made a list of friends and assigned them to one of two columns - GOING or STAYING. Chuck buys lottery tickets. He's staying. Mary is a waitress and doesn't declare her tips. Staying. Mark lies about his golf score. He's staying. Cliff and Barb owe the IRS back taxes. They have to stay. On and on the list went and I couldn't put anyone but me in the GOING column.
Up and down my block, neighbors were busy packing boxes in their garages. It's a good neighborhood filled with responsible working people. I assumed everyone had bought a Mayan calendar from that kid. Only one neighbor seemed oblivious to the exodus. Old Bert. He lives two doors down.
"Aren't you getting ready?" I asked.
"For what?" he said.
"Doomsday. Armageddon. The End of Days."
"Shucks," he laughed. "I ain't going nowhere. Even if I was elected I wouldn't go."
"Why not?"
Bert watered his flowerbed. "That scientist Stephen Hawking, he says heaven is a fairy tale."
"But he isn't God!" I reminded him.
"Look at my place," he smiled. "I got flowers coming in and tomato vines budding. It's as close to heaven as I can get. Besides, I don't wanna run into my three ex-wives in heaven. They'll just pick up their arguments where we left off."
"Are they good women?"
"Good enough for me."
"Bert, what is the difference between a good person and a bad person?"
"Something to do with kindness. Doing what's right by people."
I mulled this over. "Bert, let's make a pact. If I go, will you take care of my house? Feed my dogs? Cut the lawn?"
"I suppose I can," he said.
"And if you go, I'll keep up your garden."
We shook on it, then drove to Henley's key shop. We had spare house keys made for each other.
On the way back, Bert said, "I'll be wanting my key back come Monday."
"What makes you so sure I'll be here on Monday?"
Bert scratched his whiskers. "The way I figure it, they raised the bar so high about being good that nobody's goin'.
When we arrived at his house he clipped me a rose from his bush and handed it to me.
"What's this for?" I asked.
"Just a little heaven on earth."
I smiled and took the rose home. After an hour I called my boss and said I'd probably be in on Monday. My boss told me I was a good person.
Doomsday came and went and nobody from my block left. I took the defective Mayan calendar off the wall and threw it away. A neighbor stopped by and I signed her petition to ban kids from soliciting on our block.
http://ping.fm/5TzJl
Friends - My new novel The Glass Fence is finally available for guilty summer reading pleasures. A bouncing cultural mystery set at a luxury hotel with troubled romances, cracking friendships, my twisted humor, the spirit of life and plenty of subplots . It is available at Amazon in print or ebook and Smashwords. Please take a peek. Links below...
Glass Fence Amazon print:
http://ping.fm/4lXwg
Amazon Kindle:
http://ping.fm/3jZk3
Smashwords (all other ebook platforms)
http://ping.fm/wrssa
Glass Fence Amazon print:
http://ping.fm/4lXwg
Amazon Kindle:
http://ping.fm/3jZk3
Smashwords (all other ebook platforms)
http://ping.fm/wrssa
Listen to The Spirit Connection - Inspirations - Honoring Soul with Barry James Hickey.
Listen to internet radio with SpiritConnection on Blog Talk Radio
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Barry Hickey hosts The Spirit Connection tonight at 7pm mountain time on blogtalkradio. Tune in!http://ping.fm/yONac
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Join Barry Hickey, Christine Blackburn and David Torres on The Spirit Connection thursdays at 7pm (Mountain Time)
http://ping.fm/6YWKA
http://ping.fm/6YWKA
Friday, May 6, 2011
My Dogs Are On Facebook
Barry James Hickey
Georgie Girl and her accomplice Portia are rascal mutts. I know they take me for granted. I used to wonder what they do around the house all day while they send me to fetch money to keep them living in doggy heaven. Then I stumbled across something very disturbing this week.
My dogs are on Facebook.
Are dogs intelligent? I suppose. I know dumber people. But dogs are also cunning master manipulators. My girls always wake me before sunrise to feed them. They force me to walk them at least once a day. They eat dinner before I am allowed. I had to give up Sunday church services for the dog park. And why do I have to chill their water bowls?
Sure, they let me sit on the couch sometimes. After all, I paid for it. That king-sized bed has my name on it, not theirs. But they don't care. They think they have me trained. But this Facebook business… I feel like I lost my best friends.
I should have seen it coming. There were early signs, dire warnings. But I can't smell or see or hear like a dog.
The hole I found dug under the fence last week? It turns out Georgie Girl and her live-in girlfriend Portia were dragging coaxial cable from the empty house next door, stealing the land line signal for their secret lair tucked in a corner of the garage behind stacks of old boxes.
Last week several UPS boxes arrived c/o "Ladies of the House" from Dogs-R-Us. It wasn't Christmas or their birthdays. Dogs don't celebrate Easter or Mother's Day (at least I don't think so). Inside were behavioral toys, peanut butter biscuits and a yard clean up tonic "for a sweet smelling yard".
I discovered that Georgie Girl hacked into my old laptop computer in the garage while Portia swiped my credit card from my wallet when I was sleeping. They bought $200 worth of junk. (That's my credit card limit - I'm not a rich man - two female dogs are expensive upkeep.) When I confronted them they smiled and barked, "It's a woman's prerogative." (Whatever that means.)
I threatened to seal up their doggy door but they know I won't go through with it. I'm not Alpha enough. Besides, when they poop in the house they always make me clean it up.
Now this Facebook business behind my back. They posted over 200 profile pictures and I'm not in any of them. They describe themselves as voluptuous, rather than pudgy. I discovered their interest in "men" and that Georgie Girl likes "romantic walks in the rain," while Portia enjoys "romantic dinners by candlelight." They're such liars. Georgie Girl whines when it drizzles and Portia's idea of a romantic dinner is gorging herself on sweat socks.
I sat them down and spent a fruitless afternoon talking to them about the pitfalls and dangers of social media between strangers. But they don't care. They want what they want when they want it.
I checked into other social sites. They opted out of MySpace. There are no videos of them on YouTube yet. (I returned the digital camera they ordered.) One of them saved Twitter as a favorite site. I'm sure they'll have something to bark about in 140 characters or less.
I went into my Facebook account and posted on their wall, telling their "male friends" that the two of them are just two fat lazy bitches in heat and that they don't look anything like their pictures in real life. The next day they had over thirty hits. Males looking to "hook up" with females on the plump side.
And just how did they get more friends than me on Facebook? It's a dog's life.
Barry James Hickey
Georgie Girl and her accomplice Portia are rascal mutts. I know they take me for granted. I used to wonder what they do around the house all day while they send me to fetch money to keep them living in doggy heaven. Then I stumbled across something very disturbing this week.
My dogs are on Facebook.
Are dogs intelligent? I suppose. I know dumber people. But dogs are also cunning master manipulators. My girls always wake me before sunrise to feed them. They force me to walk them at least once a day. They eat dinner before I am allowed. I had to give up Sunday church services for the dog park. And why do I have to chill their water bowls?
Sure, they let me sit on the couch sometimes. After all, I paid for it. That king-sized bed has my name on it, not theirs. But they don't care. They think they have me trained. But this Facebook business… I feel like I lost my best friends.
I should have seen it coming. There were early signs, dire warnings. But I can't smell or see or hear like a dog.
The hole I found dug under the fence last week? It turns out Georgie Girl and her live-in girlfriend Portia were dragging coaxial cable from the empty house next door, stealing the land line signal for their secret lair tucked in a corner of the garage behind stacks of old boxes.
Last week several UPS boxes arrived c/o "Ladies of the House" from Dogs-R-Us. It wasn't Christmas or their birthdays. Dogs don't celebrate Easter or Mother's Day (at least I don't think so). Inside were behavioral toys, peanut butter biscuits and a yard clean up tonic "for a sweet smelling yard".
I discovered that Georgie Girl hacked into my old laptop computer in the garage while Portia swiped my credit card from my wallet when I was sleeping. They bought $200 worth of junk. (That's my credit card limit - I'm not a rich man - two female dogs are expensive upkeep.) When I confronted them they smiled and barked, "It's a woman's prerogative." (Whatever that means.)
I threatened to seal up their doggy door but they know I won't go through with it. I'm not Alpha enough. Besides, when they poop in the house they always make me clean it up.
Now this Facebook business behind my back. They posted over 200 profile pictures and I'm not in any of them. They describe themselves as voluptuous, rather than pudgy. I discovered their interest in "men" and that Georgie Girl likes "romantic walks in the rain," while Portia enjoys "romantic dinners by candlelight." They're such liars. Georgie Girl whines when it drizzles and Portia's idea of a romantic dinner is gorging herself on sweat socks.
I sat them down and spent a fruitless afternoon talking to them about the pitfalls and dangers of social media between strangers. But they don't care. They want what they want when they want it.
I checked into other social sites. They opted out of MySpace. There are no videos of them on YouTube yet. (I returned the digital camera they ordered.) One of them saved Twitter as a favorite site. I'm sure they'll have something to bark about in 140 characters or less.
I went into my Facebook account and posted on their wall, telling their "male friends" that the two of them are just two fat lazy bitches in heat and that they don't look anything like their pictures in real life. The next day they had over thirty hits. Males looking to "hook up" with females on the plump side.
And just how did they get more friends than me on Facebook? It's a dog's life.
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Barry James Hickey is the host of the entertaining 30-minute Spirit Connection on Blog Talk radio tonight at 9pm, Mountain Standard Time. We are looking for show followers and guests for future shows. Look for Barry's other show - Made in America in a few weeks.
http://ping.fm/wuhFo
http://ping.fm/wuhFo
http://www.blogtalkradio.com/spiritconnection/eventfeed
Barry James Hickey is the host of The Spirit Connection on Blog Talk radio. Look for his own show, Made in America in two weeks.
http://www.blogtalkradio.com/spiritconnection/eventfeed
http://www.blogtalkradio.com/spiritconnection/eventfeed
Saturday, April 16, 2011
Excerpt from the novel Chasing God's River
THE ROYAL GORGE
Less than a mile downstream, Wade and Malachi came around a bend and saw two spent men sitting on a boulder near their overturned boats. A camera operator was videotaping them from a bluff across the river.
“Howdy, Wade,” Bratt said.
“Howdy, Bratt. Looks like we made it a-ways,” said Wade.
He and Malachi pulled to shore and climbed out of their kayaks, stretching their legs.
“That we did, Wade,” Dimens spoke. “But the snake took its toll. Anybody left behind you?”
“Nope. As far as I can tell we're the last ones. He looked at the bandage on Dimens head. “Concussion?”
“It's comin'. Feels like I'm drippin' blood in the back of my brain.”
“Guess I'll take dim Dimens and me into the next town for some x-rays,” Bratt said.
“Where’s Dennis the Menace?” Wade asked.
“You mean Spooky Dennis - been staring at his derriere all day,” Dimens said. “You'll find him around the next bend up ahead in his boat. Been dodging us like we got a plague. Every time we move up, he moves up, hoping a television camera will see him in first place. But nobody can get in this part of the river. I don't think he wants to enter the gorge but then again, he ain't gonna let nobody pass him either. I’ll bet you a buck he’s parked in his boat around the next bend, praying we’re all finished.”
“Dennis doesn’t pray,” Malachi said.
“Old bastard,” Bratt said.
Wade took a long drink from his water bottle. “Malachi? I'm gonna walk the river up ahead, see if I can talk some sense into Dennis. Maybe I won't spook him if he sees me on foot. Can you get these kayaks up to the roadside?”
“I’ll take care of it,” said Malachi.
Wade cautiously followed the fast-flowing river, gripping at the vegetation along the riverbanks so he wouldn't be forced into the current. Fifty yards ahead, he turned a sharp bend, climbing a rock to get a view downstream. He found madman Dennis Nicholson below, his aching body half in his banged up boat, eyes twitching, examining the river upstream for humans in kayaks. His arms and face were bloodied.
“Jesus,” Wade said. He yelled down to the man. “What the hell kind of mess you get yourself into, Dennis?”
Dennis turned around, flashing his paddle like a weapon. “Jes' keep yer distance, Jones!”
“Hell, Dennis, if I wanted I coulda jumped you and smashed your head in already.”
“You'd like that, wouldn't you, Wade? You'd like to claim the day. Just like always! The great Wade Jones gettin' all the glory while old Dennis lays back sucking on what's left of the tit!”
“Come on, Dennis. It ends here,” Wade said. “We can climb this hill together and be done with the river.” He glanced ahead at Deadman's Drop - the narrow entrance to the Royal Gorge - a point of no return. “Your boat won. Gotta be worth at least forty thousand dollars cash in your pocket.”
Denny's eyes scanned the horizon. “So you say - and not a damned camera in sight to prove it,” he said.
“Hell, Dennis, you can take my word.”
“Your word don't mean nuthin' to me! I got you to two Olympics and what did you do when you got there? You pissed it all away, pissed away that God-given talent, never listening to a damned word of advice I gave you. You think them Olympics cost you? What about me? I lost everything trying to take you to the top! My wives, my career - all bet on you - and you threw me away like an old penny when it was over.”
“I got married, Dennis. Tried to move on. Even got a kid coming now!”
“Not so much as a Christmas card from you,” Dennis yelled. “To a man who treated you like a father!”
“Dennis... Let's get off the river. We'll talk about old times. I got a kid coming. You won the race.”
“Any kind of lie to get me to stop - to hell with you! To hell with everybody!” He slid into his boat.
“Denny, don't...” Wade started sliding down the rock to stop him.
“Yeah, that's right, Jones! You just try to stop me!” He pushed off into the river.
“Come on, Denny. Pull over!” Wade yelled.
“I'm right where God wants me to be,” Dennis decided.
Wade fell into the water and reached for Dennis' boat. The old man fought back, slapping at Wade's fingers with the blades of his scarred paddle.
“I'm taking the day! Me!” the older man ranted.
“Dennis...” Wade called out. “Stop Dennis! There's another way!”
“To hell with you, Jones!” Dennis shouted as his boat caught the current and drifted downstream between the narrow granite walls of the gorge. “This is the only way!”
The old man drifted into Deadman's Drop and was gone.
THE ROYAL GORGE
Less than a mile downstream, Wade and Malachi came around a bend and saw two spent men sitting on a boulder near their overturned boats. A camera operator was videotaping them from a bluff across the river.
“Howdy, Wade,” Bratt said.
“Howdy, Bratt. Looks like we made it a-ways,” said Wade.
He and Malachi pulled to shore and climbed out of their kayaks, stretching their legs.
“That we did, Wade,” Dimens spoke. “But the snake took its toll. Anybody left behind you?”
“Nope. As far as I can tell we're the last ones. He looked at the bandage on Dimens head. “Concussion?”
“It's comin'. Feels like I'm drippin' blood in the back of my brain.”
“Guess I'll take dim Dimens and me into the next town for some x-rays,” Bratt said.
“Where’s Dennis the Menace?” Wade asked.
“You mean Spooky Dennis - been staring at his derriere all day,” Dimens said. “You'll find him around the next bend up ahead in his boat. Been dodging us like we got a plague. Every time we move up, he moves up, hoping a television camera will see him in first place. But nobody can get in this part of the river. I don't think he wants to enter the gorge but then again, he ain't gonna let nobody pass him either. I’ll bet you a buck he’s parked in his boat around the next bend, praying we’re all finished.”
“Dennis doesn’t pray,” Malachi said.
“Old bastard,” Bratt said.
Wade took a long drink from his water bottle. “Malachi? I'm gonna walk the river up ahead, see if I can talk some sense into Dennis. Maybe I won't spook him if he sees me on foot. Can you get these kayaks up to the roadside?”
“I’ll take care of it,” said Malachi.
Wade cautiously followed the fast-flowing river, gripping at the vegetation along the riverbanks so he wouldn't be forced into the current. Fifty yards ahead, he turned a sharp bend, climbing a rock to get a view downstream. He found madman Dennis Nicholson below, his aching body half in his banged up boat, eyes twitching, examining the river upstream for humans in kayaks. His arms and face were bloodied.
“Jesus,” Wade said. He yelled down to the man. “What the hell kind of mess you get yourself into, Dennis?”
Dennis turned around, flashing his paddle like a weapon. “Jes' keep yer distance, Jones!”
“Hell, Dennis, if I wanted I coulda jumped you and smashed your head in already.”
“You'd like that, wouldn't you, Wade? You'd like to claim the day. Just like always! The great Wade Jones gettin' all the glory while old Dennis lays back sucking on what's left of the tit!”
“Come on, Dennis. It ends here,” Wade said. “We can climb this hill together and be done with the river.” He glanced ahead at Deadman's Drop - the narrow entrance to the Royal Gorge - a point of no return. “Your boat won. Gotta be worth at least forty thousand dollars cash in your pocket.”
Denny's eyes scanned the horizon. “So you say - and not a damned camera in sight to prove it,” he said.
“Hell, Dennis, you can take my word.”
“Your word don't mean nuthin' to me! I got you to two Olympics and what did you do when you got there? You pissed it all away, pissed away that God-given talent, never listening to a damned word of advice I gave you. You think them Olympics cost you? What about me? I lost everything trying to take you to the top! My wives, my career - all bet on you - and you threw me away like an old penny when it was over.”
“I got married, Dennis. Tried to move on. Even got a kid coming now!”
“Not so much as a Christmas card from you,” Dennis yelled. “To a man who treated you like a father!”
“Dennis... Let's get off the river. We'll talk about old times. I got a kid coming. You won the race.”
“Any kind of lie to get me to stop - to hell with you! To hell with everybody!” He slid into his boat.
“Denny, don't...” Wade started sliding down the rock to stop him.
“Yeah, that's right, Jones! You just try to stop me!” He pushed off into the river.
“Come on, Denny. Pull over!” Wade yelled.
“I'm right where God wants me to be,” Dennis decided.
Wade fell into the water and reached for Dennis' boat. The old man fought back, slapping at Wade's fingers with the blades of his scarred paddle.
“I'm taking the day! Me!” the older man ranted.
“Dennis...” Wade called out. “Stop Dennis! There's another way!”
“To hell with you, Jones!” Dennis shouted as his boat caught the current and drifted downstream between the narrow granite walls of the gorge. “This is the only way!”
The old man drifted into Deadman's Drop and was gone.
Thursday, April 14, 2011
I think we nailed our book back cover synopsis for The Glass Fence. I'm looking for pre-publication reviewers. Anyone interested? It's a fun read.
Barry James Hickey
"To reclaim her heart and spirit, Katie Jones struggles with an aloof General Manager and his entrenched staff to start an employee rowing team at a luxury seaside hotel. All she has to do is find a willing team from a dysfunctional group of earnest employees and solve the mysteries of The Glass Fence."
http://ping.fm/CxR7U
Barry James Hickey
"To reclaim her heart and spirit, Katie Jones struggles with an aloof General Manager and his entrenched staff to start an employee rowing team at a luxury seaside hotel. All she has to do is find a willing team from a dysfunctional group of earnest employees and solve the mysteries of The Glass Fence."
http://ping.fm/CxR7U
Friday, April 8, 2011
Midwest Book Review (Oregon, WI USA) - This review is from: Chasing God's River (Paperback)
We can't always live up to what the past expects of us. "Chasing God's River" is about a life crisis when Wade Jones goes to meet old friends, away from his wife and broken life. Blending kayaking into the story as a strong focus, this story of life will draw people in and be tough to put down. "Chasing God's River" is a fine read and very highly recommended.
We can't always live up to what the past expects of us. "Chasing God's River" is about a life crisis when Wade Jones goes to meet old friends, away from his wife and broken life. Blending kayaking into the story as a strong focus, this story of life will draw people in and be tough to put down. "Chasing God's River" is a fine read and very highly recommended.
Saturday, April 2, 2011
Friday, April 1, 2011
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Friday, March 18, 2011
Readers want Chasing God's River to be a movie next. I don't even have an agent. http://ping.fm/cRDHD
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
www.barryhickey.com
I found the voice for Waking Paul Bunyan!
He's 12. What do you think?
"Most people say I'm pretty smart, but it's never been proven. I guess I elected myself to spill the beans on something worth mentioning. It ain't easy having a famous relative - especially when it's Paul Bunyan, the biggest man who ever lived, apparently. My dad, (sometimes I call him my old man), he's crazy about my great, great, great uncle. He has facts and figures and a handmade genealogy tree that goes way back, maybe even to the dinosaurs.
My sister Alissa, she's crazy, too. All girls are crazy. Just ask any twelve-year-old boy and they'll tell you. Girls ain't good for much. Too emotional, especially. Alissa cried when the goldfish drowned. She had a nervous breakdown when her hamster keeled over on the exercise wheel. But when it comes to spiders and bugs, she's plain kill crazy and joyful at their demise.
Having madness in a family is okay, I guess. It doesn't bring great pleasure but it always gives me something to think about. I'm pretty thick-skinned from it. My mom says someday it will make me a better man, having all that insanity on my dad's side of the family. She says she never would have married the old man if she knew he'd become a Paul Bunyan nut. He wasn't that way when he was a Boy Scout. He never mentioned it in high school or when they married. She says his obsession began after we kids were born and after his own dad died. Going through old boxes hidden in grandpa's attic, he discovered the whole Bunyan story. Grandpa never revealed the big dark secret. Maybe he just didn't want to live in someone else's shadow. Mom says dad is middle-age crazy now with failed dreams. Being related to Paul Bunyan is a big deal for him, she says. It's made her crazy, too. Crazy enough to turn any conversation into a cause for divorce.
My little brother, he's a good kid, I guess. He lives in that stupid wheelchair and never complains. I wish I had his kind of guts. Him and Paul Bunyan and my crazy old man, they're as unique and different as marbles.
My mom's craziness is nothing like my sister's. Mom is too business-like, running that eighteen-room motel at the edge of town. We kids call it the Psycho Motel - like from the movie. It has a history of violence - People stabbing themselves to death or hanging themselves, people with prescription bottles and old people dying in their sleep 'cuz their respirators ran out of air. Hell, some motels with bad locations may as well be called mortuaries. We kids joke with her too much. I said she ought to put casket brochures in every room instead of bibles nobody reads. If people read the bibles, maybe they wouldn't be wanting to die so fast.
My family, we try to laugh a lot between all the miseries. We try not to talk about death much, not knowing what's gonna happen to Little Bill as we go. Seems we know more doctors than kids. But Little Bill, he takes things in stride. He's one heck of a marble.
I can't say I'm living a normal life. Not with all the eccentrics around me. Being the offspring of dreamers and intellectuals tends to lead towards social isolation. My dad thinks an old pile of scrap wood, a box of nails and a claw hammer is the most fun any boy can have. I tend to disagree. I'd rather have something electronic. My dad, he says cell phones maybe cause cancer. The closest I can get to one is two old tomato soup cans connected by string. Little Bill, he's only ten feet away on the other end so I can hear every word he says, regardless.
All us kids, my mom, the neighbors, even the man at the dump tell my old man to move his mind into the twenty-first century. Hell, he ain't even in the last century most of the time, his thoughts clouded with Paul Bunyan business from the 1800's.
After Grandpa died, then Grandma, we moved to the old farmhouse on a forty acre tract of land. It sets on the edge of town in Wabasha, Minnesota, along the upper Mississippi River. On a clear day, I can see Wisconsin across the water. (We don't get to Wisconsin much. Dad says it's full of liberals).
Wabasha is the oldest town in the state, started in 1826 as a trading post. Everybody here is pretty proud of it. It used to be called Wabashaw with an extra w, named after an Indian chief. I hear they dropped the last w to make the place sound more cosmopolitan and less Indian to nervous investors and homesteaders. Lots of Indians roamed the area before white settlers came. There were Sioux, Sacs, Foxes, Iowas, Omahas, Otoes and Chippewas. But they faded away over the years. We got lots of half bloods in the area. Everybody wants to be part Indian in Minnesota. You get free money from the government."
I found the voice for Waking Paul Bunyan!
He's 12. What do you think?
"Most people say I'm pretty smart, but it's never been proven. I guess I elected myself to spill the beans on something worth mentioning. It ain't easy having a famous relative - especially when it's Paul Bunyan, the biggest man who ever lived, apparently. My dad, (sometimes I call him my old man), he's crazy about my great, great, great uncle. He has facts and figures and a handmade genealogy tree that goes way back, maybe even to the dinosaurs.
My sister Alissa, she's crazy, too. All girls are crazy. Just ask any twelve-year-old boy and they'll tell you. Girls ain't good for much. Too emotional, especially. Alissa cried when the goldfish drowned. She had a nervous breakdown when her hamster keeled over on the exercise wheel. But when it comes to spiders and bugs, she's plain kill crazy and joyful at their demise.
Having madness in a family is okay, I guess. It doesn't bring great pleasure but it always gives me something to think about. I'm pretty thick-skinned from it. My mom says someday it will make me a better man, having all that insanity on my dad's side of the family. She says she never would have married the old man if she knew he'd become a Paul Bunyan nut. He wasn't that way when he was a Boy Scout. He never mentioned it in high school or when they married. She says his obsession began after we kids were born and after his own dad died. Going through old boxes hidden in grandpa's attic, he discovered the whole Bunyan story. Grandpa never revealed the big dark secret. Maybe he just didn't want to live in someone else's shadow. Mom says dad is middle-age crazy now with failed dreams. Being related to Paul Bunyan is a big deal for him, she says. It's made her crazy, too. Crazy enough to turn any conversation into a cause for divorce.
My little brother, he's a good kid, I guess. He lives in that stupid wheelchair and never complains. I wish I had his kind of guts. Him and Paul Bunyan and my crazy old man, they're as unique and different as marbles.
My mom's craziness is nothing like my sister's. Mom is too business-like, running that eighteen-room motel at the edge of town. We kids call it the Psycho Motel - like from the movie. It has a history of violence - People stabbing themselves to death or hanging themselves, people with prescription bottles and old people dying in their sleep 'cuz their respirators ran out of air. Hell, some motels with bad locations may as well be called mortuaries. We kids joke with her too much. I said she ought to put casket brochures in every room instead of bibles nobody reads. If people read the bibles, maybe they wouldn't be wanting to die so fast.
My family, we try to laugh a lot between all the miseries. We try not to talk about death much, not knowing what's gonna happen to Little Bill as we go. Seems we know more doctors than kids. But Little Bill, he takes things in stride. He's one heck of a marble.
I can't say I'm living a normal life. Not with all the eccentrics around me. Being the offspring of dreamers and intellectuals tends to lead towards social isolation. My dad thinks an old pile of scrap wood, a box of nails and a claw hammer is the most fun any boy can have. I tend to disagree. I'd rather have something electronic. My dad, he says cell phones maybe cause cancer. The closest I can get to one is two old tomato soup cans connected by string. Little Bill, he's only ten feet away on the other end so I can hear every word he says, regardless.
All us kids, my mom, the neighbors, even the man at the dump tell my old man to move his mind into the twenty-first century. Hell, he ain't even in the last century most of the time, his thoughts clouded with Paul Bunyan business from the 1800's.
After Grandpa died, then Grandma, we moved to the old farmhouse on a forty acre tract of land. It sets on the edge of town in Wabasha, Minnesota, along the upper Mississippi River. On a clear day, I can see Wisconsin across the water. (We don't get to Wisconsin much. Dad says it's full of liberals).
Wabasha is the oldest town in the state, started in 1826 as a trading post. Everybody here is pretty proud of it. It used to be called Wabashaw with an extra w, named after an Indian chief. I hear they dropped the last w to make the place sound more cosmopolitan and less Indian to nervous investors and homesteaders. Lots of Indians roamed the area before white settlers came. There were Sioux, Sacs, Foxes, Iowas, Omahas, Otoes and Chippewas. But they faded away over the years. We got lots of half bloods in the area. Everybody wants to be part Indian in Minnesota. You get free money from the government."
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Childhood memories from Prospect Street in Chicago: Running in clouds of DDT when the fog man sprayed the neighborhood, how we scrambled for change at the sound of the Good Humor Man, building our first go-karts and motor bikes with engines from old lawn mowers, watching the knife man sharpening the cutlery from his cart on the street, Gordy giving us a bear hug whether or not we bought a greeting card from his bicycle basket, King and Duke learning to pull our sled in preparation for a Klondike Derby. The taste of an eight-ounce coke or orange Nehi in a glass bottle pulled from the door of the vending machine at the gas station... Penny candy at Mrs. Reece's candy store. The smell of the plastic drawers in the back of her store where treasures could be bought for a quarter. The purple whip cream at the Purple Cow on Western, the taste of a Wimpy's hamburger with its secret relish and onions, hot chocolate made with milk and marshmallows, the aroma of the chicken coop under the back porch, the smell of gasoline and oil and old rags and wet ropes in the garage. Climbing in the third row of the station wagon, facing backwards. Four shopping carts at the Hi-Lo, scouring aisles with mom. Carloads of hillbillies parked in front of the house, sipping on beers and nuts, waiting for dad to return with cash from Beverly bank. Old Mrs. Brown limping from her house with a broom to chase away our bicycles that she swore put gouges in her new sidewalk from the kickstands (actually Mike did it with a pick when he shovelled her walk and broke up the ice the previous winter... Old Miss Miller suddenly appearing from her house to snatch a softball or football that descended on her property. Mrs. Evans carrying a fresh-baked apple pie across the street, Bob the Milkman, Ralph the Dry-Cleaner, Buddy Beakley, Flashlight tag in the Duffy backyard (no poop). Baloney sandwiches, gravy-on-bread, the taste of mom's delicious rock-hard fudge... The smell of Momma Helen's hair when mom dyed it, the aroma of Niagra spray starch when mom and the black lady ironed all day. (no permanent press then). The smell of Tabu powder, the scent of banana peppers when dad made a batch of chile. The look on Ronnie Michelak's face when we told him it was raccoon chile, Dad getting Tom Jones, Rich Licker, and John Huber to rake the front lawn so I could leave the house early. (Only for them to discover when they were done that I wasn't even home). Dad arriving at the house on a hot August day with boxes and boxes of ice cream from the Swift plant when their freezers died and a hundred kids from the block sitting on our front lawn eating ice cream sandwiches and fudgicles and dreamsicles until they were sick. Chum gum coated in confectionary sugar for a penny. The spongy delight of Tip-Top cakes from Mr. Tusher. The greasy-bottomed 25 cent bags filled with day-old pastries from Reizman's bakery every Friday night. Get Smart, Gomer Pyle, USMC, The Man From Uncle, I Spy. Jackie Gleason in black and white. Clutch Cargo, Garfield Goose, Bozo's Circus, Saturday morning cartoons. The magic of Halloween and Christmas. The stripped glass handles of the door in the downstairs bathroom. Spumoni ice cream. Mom's secret stash of peanut butter cups. The stairway traffic as the cats carried their litters upstairs after the dogs carried them downstairs. The never-ending laundry pile in the basement. The spider money, the raccoon, the ducks, the geese. Pat being mauled by a turkey. Bringing cherries from our tree so Pa would give us a silver doller. Cooking hot dogs on a stick over a pile of leaves at Dan Ryan's Woods with John Duffy. Chocolate or white milk in 6-ounce cartons in the basement of St. Barnabas. The flavor of a chocolate long-john after the 6 am mass as an altar boy. Wrapping up my orange belt as a crossing guard in sixth grade. Book bags, pencil sharpeners and the magic of a Bic pen. Secretly suckling on sweet tarts one at a time in Sister Alberta's math class. Sister Nina examing Kevin's snapping turtle with a pencil before Show and Tell. Carol's yellow record player and her 45's of Fabian with Ginny Gratz. American Bandstand, then The Soul Train... That Susie Homemaker oven when I baked my own chocolate cakes. The monkey wreaking havoc at the Dove candy store. The giant polar bear in the lobby of For Men Jr. Dialing four numbers on the heavy black telephone. Camping in Jimmy Brown's backyard. Prank phone calls to random strangers at midnight to tell them their child was just arrested. Shaving with a toothbrush to make my mustache come in. Sweating in my bunk bed, listening to the sound of the Rock Island trains whooshing by over the hum of the window fan. Dad comically standing in the dark for an hour with a bear paw poised over the light switch at the door of the bedroom after we saw Thirteen Ghosts. No one dared move. Buddy Beakley's enormous collection of soldiers. Watching both Mr. Norrises wearily marching home after a day of labor. Skinny Ernie Vogwell and his fat wife. Gypsy John at the coal factory. The smell of heating oil, one dixie cup at a time. Playing Injun Joe with Howie and taking all of his money on his first date with Carol. The older kids, the little kids. Mom remembering my name after running down her list of children to get to mine. The Game of Life, Sorry and Monopoly. Scrabble. Dad nailing windows and doors shut so we couldn't sneak in the house. Scrubbing down the driveway with Comet. The square blocks of ice cream at Prince Castle. A triple decker at Rainbow Cone. The scent of incense in the gym while the new church was being built. Making crossbows and arrows. The backyard crab apple tree, the turtle pond, switches and tomato weeds. My big circus with popcorn balls. Kool-aid stands. short-cuts and alleys and Tim and Vinny Brown's secret tree fort at the prairie. Mike walking down the path telling us his rented horse died when he kicked it in the ribs to giddy-up. Yes, I remember most of it.
Monday, February 21, 2011
Saturday, February 19, 2011
Excerpt from Chasing God's River
He wanted to stock up on pecan logs.
The only Stuckeys between San Diego, California and Salida, Colorado was in Grants, New Mexico, ninety miles east of the Arizona border on I-40. Indian land. Navajo. The candy detour added a hundred miles on The Beast's odometer but Wade made up for the time with a flatter route. After Grants, he would swing through Albuquerque, then up Interstate 25 through Santa Fe, over Raton Pass before entering Colorado at Las Animas County.
He remembered the Stuckeys legend ever since he was a boy. The franchise began during the Great Depression in the 1930's. Some good old boy from Georgia named W. S. Stuckey started with an old car converted into a truck and a thirty-five dollar loan from his grandmother. He bought and sold nuts locally until a banker invested in his idea for a roadside stand to lure drivers passing through Georgia on their way to Florida for vacation. To supplement the seasonal supply of pecans, his wife started making other candies. Things went so well, they sold their roadside stand and built three stores until World War II came and he was forced to close his stores because of gas rationing and a rubber shortage. (What rubber and candy have to do with each other is a mystery.) But his candy had caught on. Mr. Stuckey was commissioned to make candy for the military.
After the war, business boomed as Americans started driving again. By the time of his death in 1977, he had over one hundred stores. But after a corporate buy-out, the land his stores were built on was more valuable than profits from the stores. Land that wasn't sold was simply shut down and boarded up or sold to independent operators.
For Wade, the pecan logs were living history. As much a part of Americana as White Castle Sliders, eight ounce bottled Cokes from a reach-in machine and Bonomos Turkish taffy. Bonomos wasn't really taffy, but a kind of nougat. It came in four flavors - chocolate, strawberry, banana, and vanilla. Wade knew a place in Vermont for it.
“A little out of my way this trip,” he smiled. He'd settle for the Stuckeys taffy.
http://ping.fm/1cK52
He wanted to stock up on pecan logs.
The only Stuckeys between San Diego, California and Salida, Colorado was in Grants, New Mexico, ninety miles east of the Arizona border on I-40. Indian land. Navajo. The candy detour added a hundred miles on The Beast's odometer but Wade made up for the time with a flatter route. After Grants, he would swing through Albuquerque, then up Interstate 25 through Santa Fe, over Raton Pass before entering Colorado at Las Animas County.
He remembered the Stuckeys legend ever since he was a boy. The franchise began during the Great Depression in the 1930's. Some good old boy from Georgia named W. S. Stuckey started with an old car converted into a truck and a thirty-five dollar loan from his grandmother. He bought and sold nuts locally until a banker invested in his idea for a roadside stand to lure drivers passing through Georgia on their way to Florida for vacation. To supplement the seasonal supply of pecans, his wife started making other candies. Things went so well, they sold their roadside stand and built three stores until World War II came and he was forced to close his stores because of gas rationing and a rubber shortage. (What rubber and candy have to do with each other is a mystery.) But his candy had caught on. Mr. Stuckey was commissioned to make candy for the military.
After the war, business boomed as Americans started driving again. By the time of his death in 1977, he had over one hundred stores. But after a corporate buy-out, the land his stores were built on was more valuable than profits from the stores. Land that wasn't sold was simply shut down and boarded up or sold to independent operators.
For Wade, the pecan logs were living history. As much a part of Americana as White Castle Sliders, eight ounce bottled Cokes from a reach-in machine and Bonomos Turkish taffy. Bonomos wasn't really taffy, but a kind of nougat. It came in four flavors - chocolate, strawberry, banana, and vanilla. Wade knew a place in Vermont for it.
“A little out of my way this trip,” he smiled. He'd settle for the Stuckeys taffy.
http://ping.fm/1cK52
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