Discover what happened when “Swamp Man” starts to make more appearances in Michigan!!
“The Flap has been accepted on the Jukepop site of stories told in serial style. Chapter 3 will be added soon and then will be on the site.
A two act play, set in 1906 Detroit. I am looking for backers who would like to see this play produced in the city of Detroit, since it is an actual part of Detroit history, in the Fox Theater.
Nick’s mother,Katie, was setting the kitchen table for dinner when the boys burst in. She dropped the forks in her hands in surprise.
“Boys! What’s the matter?” she asked.
The three still breathed hard several more seconds till Nick caught his breath.
“Nick, what in the world is the matter?” Katie’s green eyes widened in concern at the boys’ state. There was the secondary surprise at the boys showing up before she turned on the porch light.
“Mom, there’s…..we saw…..something in the swamp!” said Nick.
Katie squatted down to her son’s level.
“Now all of you calm down.” Katie comforted all three boys huddling up around her. The three boys’ breathing slowly returned to normal, from Kate’s calming presence and the warmth and light of the Johnson’s kitchen, filled too with the smells of delicious, home cooked food.
Sammy calmed completely first.
“We were playing down by the swamp, Mrs. Johnson. Just playing, and we saw him, in the swamp, lookin’ at us.”
“Him?” said Katie, startled at the word. “A man? Did he say something bad to you? Did he try and hurt any of you? Did you recognize him?”
“No, Mom. It wasn’t a man. A regular man,” said Nick.
“Not a regular man? What are you talking about? What did he look like?”
The boys looked at each other several seconds, visibly agreeing to a description.
“He looked like a…..a Swamp Man!” said Sammy.
Katie looked surprised, her eyebrows shooting up.
“A swamp man? What’s a swamp man?”
“He was really, really, tall, and, he had a face like a frog, and skin all green and bumpy all over his body and arms and legs, and he had claws for hands,” said Sammy.
Katie stared at Sammy, more with curiosity than any disbelief. Then Nick spoke.
“He also had glowing red eyes, a wide mouth with spit drooling down his long sharp teeth showing out of his mouth.”
Little Matthew was finally composed, though he continued to sniffle and hiccuped several times before he spoke.
“That’s right, Mrs. Johnson,” he said. “He was a big healthy creature with big red eyes!”
This is a rant. I have been wanting to get all this off my chest a long time. I’m sure there must be some writers out there who feel the same. In other words, the frustrated ones who can’t catch a break.
The problem as I have long seen it is the same, small group of authors dominate the publishing business with constant book after book written and published. There’s hardly any time that separates one new book from the other with some authors. They are churned out like on an assembly line, or even closer, some authors have two or three new books out at the same time. They are like hamburger after hamburger cooked at McDonald’s. These books are just like fast food in they are basically the same over and over again and with absolutely no variety in them, or real nourishment in them
You other writers know who I am talking about. They are on every new New York Times best seller list every time. People like Fern Michaels, Danielle Steel, David Baldacci, Vince Flynn, James Patterson, Janet Evanovich, Nora Roberts/J.D. Robb, Clive Cussler, John Grishon, Sandra Brown, Tom Clancy, Ken Follett, Lee Child, Iris Johanson, Nicholas Sparks, Stephen King and Stuart Woods.
I work in a library and these “prolific” writers take up shelves and shelves with their books. Like a cancer these books are spreading out through the whole shelving area, squeezing out lesser known, struggling, less well known writers. What I would like to know when are those people going to retire from writing their pulp and giving other writers a chance to build a career? Allow publishers to build up new writers’ careers and authors of the future? Haven’t you super best selling authors made enough money from your writing by now? (Or, as it’s my theory, you spend your big bucks profits as fast as you make it, and when you need money, hey, sit down and write another simplistic, mind-numbing novel, and your compliant readers just buy the damn thing because it has your name on it. That is what Elvis Presley did, spent his money till it was gone and just decided to go on another tour to make more. And we all know what happened to him.)
In any job it has usually been, put in thirty years and then you retire. Allow new blood to come into the business. Or, what, do you people think you’re so brilliant you just can write book after book one after another and quality won’t suffer? Look, Isaac Asimov wrote book after book, about everything, but he was a Genius! None of you and none of any of us are in his class.
In conclusion, there are two writers I particularly want to point out, but for opposite reasons. The first, Janet Evanovich. You do not write books, Janet, you write OUTLINES for books. I read “Plum Spooky” and expected some fun with the Jersey Devil that was mentioned in the liner note. But nothing. A couple of references and that’s it. It’s my opinion, you are taking big money away from your undiscriminating,simple-minded readers.
The second writer is Lavyrle Spencer. The woman wrote a nice series of wonderful, thoughtful love stories, then retired. She stated she made enough money writing and it was time to let others build a career. What a class act. Sorry there aren’t more like her out there.
Christine turned from the door and took a few more steps. This brought her to the closed door by the kitchen. Quietly she grabbed the knob and turned it, and opened the door. She peered in.
It was a bedroom. Another thatched rug covered the wooden floor, but in the middle that was was a large brass bed, with a beautiful green and white star-patterned quilt over it. A nightstand with a hurricane lamp stood on each side of the bed.
She had made it to the open glass door when Joel finally finished and shut the door for good. Christine had stood and looked out at the water, which had started to whip up into heavier waves and hit the beach, and the cliff in the distance, in large spray. Now as Joel came in the wind became stronger and slowly drops of rain began to fall. He crossed the room and slid the door shut, and locked it.
“Looks like the gale has started, sooner than I expected,” he said. And no sooner did he say that than a flash of lightening crackled through the sky over the water in the distance and was immediately followed by a powerful rumble of thunder. A pause seem to hand in the air a split second afterwards, then with a crashing sound rain came down in a torrent.
“I think a nice fire is called for about now,” he said. Joel went to the fireplace, and within moments he had a cheerful, crackling, driftwood fire burning in the stone opening.
“Would you like something to eat? You know we didn’t have any breakfast,” he said, as he came around the couch and lit the hurricane lamp.That, plus the dancing light from the fire causing flickering shadows against the map on the wall, gave the room an even cozier, and romantic, feel.He blew out the match and tossed it into an ashtray, then looked at Christine.
“No, I’d better get going. I have to pack when I get back to the motel, and then there’s the drive back to Seattle.”
“You can’t go,” said Joel firmly.
Christine was taken aback.
“I can’t? Why not?”
“You can’t drive in this storm. Not in this storm,” he said. “It’s too dangerous. The wind sometimes reached 100 miles an hour during a gale. And you can barely see the road in the rain. You’ll have to stay here till the storm is over.”
Christine sighed. “All right,” she said, “If you say it’s that bad, I can wait a couple of hours for the stormy to end. I’ll just get home later tonight.”
Joel raised an eyebrow. ” ‘Couple hours? Later tonight?’ That won’t happen Christine.
Now it was Christine’s turn to raise an eyebrow, in alarm. “What do you mean?”
“This isn’t just rain. This is a gale. They last up to four or five days, like this. You won’t be able to start for home till then.”
“What!” she shrieked, “Four or five days! What….where am I going to stay?”
Joel cocked his head to one side.
“You’ll stay here, Christine, for the next five days. With me.”