April 4, 2011

ROYA FETOVA – 4

Roya FetovaRoya Fetova

A Crowdsourced Novel

Read it here – Say what comes next.

Tony had stolen a cheap Chevy for this job. When they reached heavy traffic, he closed to within two cars of the BMW and grinned. Either these guys didn’t expect a tail or they didn’t care. The one in front leaned his seat back. The one in back slid down out of view. The driver didn’t turn his head. Nighty-night boys.

* * *

The BMW wasn’t big on trunk room. In the dark, the woman’s shoulder dug into Frank’s face and her hip pressed against him. Then she gasped and took three deep breaths before he felt her teeth. She scraped at his cheek, working the duct tape off his face. With a rip it was gone. He spat out the rag and coughed. “How—how did you do that?”

“Tape doesn’t stick so good to makeup. Those idiots should’ve wrapped it all the way around.” She paused, then whispered, “We better keep the noise down. What’s your game in this?”

“I don’t know. Don’t even know what they want.” Frank realized she had no reason to believe him. The car abruptly slowed then accelerated and when they pressed against one another, the heat of a blush traveled across his face. He knew she couldn’t see it in the dark of the BMW trunk and didn’t speak again until he got his breathing under control. “I don’t even know your name.”

“Call me Roya.” She breathed on his wet skin. “Roya Fetova. And you’re Frank, right?” Suddenly she made a sharp exclamation. “I hate duct tape. Taping my elbows. The sadistic—” She stopped, then whispered again. “They trussed my wrists to my ankles. Can’t even kick my way out. Try to roll over and I’ll work you free.”

“No room. They tied me the same way.”

“Then I hope your teeth are sharp.” He felt her shift position. “Try to reach my elbows—my hands are numb.

Frank spoke in low tones as he struggled to work his way down her back. “Sorry you got mixed up in this. You must be worried about your twins. I bet they’re smart kids. They’ll probably know to wait for the police and it will turn out all right.” It sounded lame but he hoped it gave her some comfort.

A quiet laugh. “My twins are what I call my two Glocks. My Beagle—well that’s another piece of hardware. Just say I was making a delivery.”

Frank thought about that for a few seconds. “Did your car really break down?”

“You don’t need to know. I can tell you they took my purse just like they took your wallet. They’ll use my phone and ID to find out all about me, but they won’t learn anything real. And if that Italian smoothy thinks he owns me, he’s in for a surprise.”

Frank bit at the tape and she gasped. “That hurt?”

“I’ve had worse.”

He spit out a chunk of the sticky stuff. “It’s all twisted. This is gonna take some time.” He spit again, then rubbed his mouth clean against the carpet. “Who are you really?”

“All we need to talk about is how to get away.”

“Well, you seem to be the one with the answers.”

“Yeah, but not to that particular question.

* * *

The sun came up behind Tony as they left the city behind. Tailing under these conditions was easy. Then the BMW took an off-ramp. Tony stopped at the top of the bridge and watched it head north.

He backed down the apron and then drove onto the ramp. This road headed past some gravel pits then into the cornfields. Not a town in miles. He drove fast till he saw the black car crest a hill, then followed at an easy pace.

He came over the hill and spotted them just as a gravel truck appeared and drove right over the front of the BMW like a speed bump. The noise–even at that distance. The clouds of dust. Tony came to a stop and watched through binoculars. Watched a man kick open the back door. Watched him climb out. Pull a gun. Shoot the approaching truck driver. No hesitation whatsoever. Holy—

A huge man crawled out the same door head first. He opened the trunk and hoisted the man out, then the girl. Carried them like luggage. Slung them high into the bed of the truck, one at a time. Tony knew if he ever faced Gort, he’d shoot first and shoot to kill. The two men climbed into the cab of the truck and rumbled down the highway.

Tony cruised up to the wreck and got out. From the dashboard forward, nothing but crumpled metal. Glass windshield a sagging mess. He grabbed the long hair of the driver and turned his head. Neck broken. Bloody face. He felt for a pulse. Dead.

He walked to the truck driver. The smell of whiskey and blood. A fly crawled across the man’s face.

Tony got in his car. Pulled into the ditch and around the wreck. Drove off in search of the gravel truck.

In five miles he saw dust at a side road. Pulled to a stop. Approached on foot. A private drive, led to a large shed. A grass runway in the cornfield. A single engine Cessna turned into the wind. It’s prop got loud and it tore down the runway and into the sky.

What happens next? TAKE YOUR TURN [click here]

HOW TO PLAY–This is an interactive story based on Nate’s game in my novel. You get to say what comes next:

1.) KEEP IT SHORT – It’s easy to play Nate’s game. Just enter your idea as a comment like, “their jeep drives off a cliff.” Don’t worry about form—just suggest the next step in the story. I’ll pick one, write it, and post it as a scene in serial form.

2.) KEEP IT CLEAN – I hold the veto pen. Since this is an experiment, I get to add rules as we go along.

3.) SHARE – Your posts are a precious gift to me. Maybe you’ll help write my next novel. Maybe we’ll just have a great time. I take you at your word that all ideas are your original thoughts. No criticism. No arguments. No lawsuits allowed. Let’s have some fun.

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March 29, 2011

ROYA FETOVA – 3

Roya FetovaRoya Fetova

A Crowdsourced Novel

Read it here – Say what comes next.

In the huge garage, Frank regained his balance, stepped away from the tool bench and rubbed grease from his hands. Oil soaked through his suit to the skin of his back. Across the garage, a gleaming black BMW was parked in the fourth bay, the limo driver working under its hood. Frank looked back at the two men confronting him.

Gort was huge—some kind of hired goon. The flat nose. The protruding brow. The older man sounded cultured, somehow foreign and wore a better suit than his crony. Probably European. Frank decided to call him Luigi then looked to the other side and peered through a small dingy office, spotting a grey steel door.

“I have clients waiting for me in the morning. I don’t know who this Speck person is and I don’t care. I’m leaving.” Frank started for the exit.

“Gort.” A single sharp command.

Just as Frank reached for the doorknob, he was lifted off his feet. Gort deposited him in a swivel chair and held him down while Luigi secured his wrists to the chair arms with duct tape, tight, then bound his ankles.

“Mr. Speck.” Again the smooth accented tones. “Why do you not cooperate and make it, how you say, pleasant for all of us?”

“I told you, my name’s Smith and I’m due at the office at nine.” Frank felt his face flush. What kind of guy was this Speck anyway, and how did this mix-up happen?

The foreigner sighed. He produced a knife, flicked it open and turned it over in his hands. “I am quite sure your fictitious clients will wait. You are now supposedly a peddler of, what was it? Insurance? Is not hard to rent an office and print business cards.” He clucked his tongue. “Not even a secretary. Yes, I do not think you will be missed.”

Frank knew he was in for a brutal questioning and he didn’t have any answers. “Now look here. My wife will miss me. She’s probably already called the police.”

The man’s mouth distorted in a sarcastic grin. “You live alone, Mr. Speck. You have been in St. Louis only a short time. You were traced to Burlington Iowa where you wisely left the government witness protection program, at which point I was called. You took this obvious name Smith for what reason, I know not. Did you think I would not find you? So you see,” he turned up a palm and shrugged, “there is no point lying. You are in a great difficulty, Mr. Speck. Uomo Grasso demands an audience with you. But, as you say, I have you now. Would you care to tell me where the money is hidden?” Luigi ran a thumb across his knife blade. “I have not been informed in what condition you must arrive.”

A knock at the door. They all turned. Frank shouted for help.

“Gort, silence him.”

The big man shoved a rag into Frank’s open mouth. As he struggled to spit it out, huge fingers tore a length of duct tape and stretched it across his face. The knocking turned to pounding, then what must have been kicking as the door shook. Frank prayed for it to be the police.

Luigi pocketed his knife and opened the door a crack. “I am afraid we are closed, young lady.”

Frank heard a woman’s voice from outside. “Let me in. My car broke down.”

“I am sorry. We are closed for the night.”

“But your lights are on. I need help. Your sign says roadside service—is that false advertising or what? I left my twins and my Beagle in the car and need to get back. It’s just a mile or so.  Listen, I’m tired and there’s nowhere else open this time of night. Won’t you please help me? I bet it won’t take a minute for a smart guy like you—hey you’re dressed kinda fancy for a mechanic.”

“Precisely. Will you please go away?”

“How will I get home? At least rent me a car. Let me use the phone—my cell’s dead.” Luigi pulled the door closed as she called out, “I guess I’ll just flag down a squad car.”

Luigi turned with a look of exasperation. “Gort.”

The giant pushed the door open, yanked the woman inside and held her while Luigi stepped behind and wound duct tape around her arms at the elbows. She flailed at Luigi with high heels. She kicked Gort’s shin with a pointed toe then struck him with a knee. The giant dropped her and doubled over.

Luigi struggled to bind her feet and gasped when she kicked at his head. He swore and pinned her legs, wrapping five circles of tape around her ankles. She cried out until he taped her mouth shut. He got to his feet. Wiped blood from his brow with a handkerchief. Straightened his jacket, brushing off grit while Gort lifted her like a rag doll.

Frank was shocked. A pretty woman. Blonde. Twenty something. Designer jeans. White summer top. Spaghetti straps. Pearl buttons straining from the way she’d been tied. She flashed him a fierce look.

Gort licked his lips, then mumbled, barely moving his mouth, barely audible. “You want I should take her out back and ask some questions?”

“Shuttup.” Luigi’s face contorted with rage. He brought up his knife. Sliced off a pearl button and placed it in his pocket as if he’d taken ownership.  Grabbed her chin. Turned her head. Touched the point of his knife to her throat and spoke through gritted teeth. “You cause me no more trouble. Capiche?” He turned his back to her. “Gort, put her in the trunk with Mr. Speck. We have wasted too much time. We must get to the airstrip.”

* * *

From his car, Tony Ferragamo watched while the woman got pulled into the garage. That was her problem, not his. It looked like the hired help took the bait. This Frank Smith even bore a physical resemblance to him. He congratulated himself but wanted to be sure the plan worked to completion.  It had to fool Uomo Grasso.

Tony skipped out on witness protection just in time—needed a change anyway. Living in a flophouse as Frank Speck in Burlington Iowa almost drove him crazy and he was glad to be on the loose again. A few hundred bucks got him a Social Security card, a drivers license, and credit cards in the name of Frank Smith and he left a wide trail to St. Louis–one he was sure would be followed. Now he’d need a different identity. Frank Smith would die—Uomo Grasso would see to that—and the names Frank Speck and Tony Ferragomo would die with him. Nobody would ever find the money paid for a hit that never happened.

The overhead door rolled open and a BMW backed out. Tony cranked the ignition and followed.

What happens next? TAKE YOUR TURN [click here]

HOW TO PLAY–This is an interactive story based on Nate’s game in my novel. You get to say what comes next:

1.) KEEP IT SHORT – It’s easy to play Nate’s game. Just enter your idea as a comment like, “their jeep drives off a cliff.” Don’t worry about form—just suggest the next step in the story. I’ll pick one, write it, and post it as a scene in serial form.

2.) KEEP IT CLEAN – I hold the veto pen. Since this is an experiment, I get to add rules as we go along.

3.) SHARE – Your posts are a precious gift to me. Maybe you’ll help write my next novel. Maybe we’ll just have a great time. I take you at your word that all ideas are your original thoughts. No criticism. No arguments. No lawsuits allowed. Let’s have some fun.

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March 27, 2011

ROYA FETOVA – 2

Roya FetovaRoya Fetova

A Crowdsourced Novel

Read it here – Say what comes next.

The burlap bag restricted his breathing and chaffed his face. Trying not to panic, Frank brought to mind mystery novels, movies, crime shows—anything that might help him know what to do. He sensed occasional headlights and the movement of the big car. Memorizing every turn, he listened for clues to pinpoint their location. Crowded between the two goons, he counted seconds, minutes, and sweated freely.

His cell phone—it might ring and he didn’t want it taken away. He slid his hand slowly into his suit pocket and silenced it.

The car stopped. The engine went dead. By his count, a twenty minute ride, probably north of home. The sound of an overhead door rolling closed. The car door opening. The sudden flash of light through the burlap fibers. The bag abruptly pulled from his head. The gravelly voice of the larger man. “Get out of the car, Mr. Speck.”

Frank Smith didn’t argue, didn’t try to claim his true identity. He merely obeyed. He found himself in a mechanic’s garage, the last of four bays. The man shoved him and he backed into a greasy tool bench.

The older man’s cultured tones. “Not so rough, Gort. That’s no way to treat our guest.”

What happens next? TAKE YOUR TURN [click here]

HOW TO PLAY–This is an interactive story based on Nate’s game in my novel.  You get to say what comes next:

1.) KEEP IT SHORT – It’s easy to play Nate’s game. Just enter your idea as a comment like, “their jeep drives off a cliff.” Don’t worry about form—just suggest the next step in the story. I’ll pick one, write it, and post it as a scene in serial form.

2.) KEEP IT CLEAN – I hold the veto pen. Since this is an experiment, I get to add rules as we go along.

3.) SHARE – Your posts are a precious gift to me. Maybe you’ll help write my next novel. Maybe we’ll just have a great time. I take you at your word that all ideas are your own original thoughts. No criticism. No arguments. No lawsuits allowed. Let’s have some fun.

5 Comments

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March 25, 2011

ROYA FETOVA – 1

Roya FetovaRoya Fetova

A Crowdsourced Novel

Read it here – Say what comes next.

On a soft summer night, Frank Smith strolled around his neighborhood when two men in dark suits came beside him and took firm hold of his arms.  “You’re coming with us, Mr. Speck.” A black limo rolled to the curb and the men propelled him into the back seat.  The door slammed and they pulled away.

Crowded between the two, he became aware of the smell of sweat and garlic. The driver wore a black leather jacket and shoulder-length hair. Frank looked from one man to the other and settled on the older one. “My name’s Smith. You’ve taken me for somebody else.”

The man sneered. “Don’t insult my intelligence. We know all about you, Mr. Speck.”

“No, really. You’re making a mistake. You can check my driver’s license.”

The other man stuffed a bag over Frank’s head.

What happens next? TAKE YOUR TURN [click here]

IF YOU ARE READING THE ENTIRE NOVEL FROM THE BEGINNING — Chapters are in reverse-chronological order.  Scroll up to find the next chapter.  When you reach the top of a page, scroll to the very bottom and select “Newer Entries.”

HOW TO PLAY–Just for fun, I’m taking this blog in a new direction—an interactive story like the one Nate and Zachary play in my novel. With many players, a few rule changes are in order:

1.) KEEP IT SHORT – It’s easy to play Nate’s game. Just enter your idea as a comment like, “their jeep drives off a cliff.” Don’t worry about form—just suggest the next step in the story. I’ll pick one, write it, and post it as a scene in serial form.

2.) KEEP IT CLEAN – I hold the veto pen. Since this is an experiment, I get to add rules as we go along.

3.) SHARE – Your posts are a precious gift to me. Maybe you’ll help write my next novel. Maybe we’ll just have a great time. I take you at your word that all ideas are your own original thoughts. No criticism. No arguments. No lawsuits allowed. Let’s have some fun.

To get us started, I’ve taken the first turn. Now it’s your turn.

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March 21, 2011

DROWNING MAN

I just dug out some favorite music and came across these golden words:

“You don’t ask a drowning man if he wants to be saved when you know he’s sinking down—down beneath the crashing waves.

“Betrayal wears two faces, both easy to explain. One is what you say and do to bring another human pain. When you refuse to act, though you know the good to do—when you refuse to speak what’s right, you’ve worn the face of number two.

“You don’t ask a drowning man if he wants to be saved when you know he’s sinking down—down beneath the crashing waves.”

Charlie Peacock

From the album, THE SECRET OF TIME, Lyrics from Drowning Man, 1990 by Sparrow Corporation

See it on Amazon

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February 26, 2011

SECRET

When a violent crime takes place, should the police always be involved? The quick answer is yes, but ponder a moment. I mean this as a human question, not an ethical one. We are emotional creatures and we make decisions through the filter of past experience.

Early in my novel, Zachary blunders into an armed robbery in progress at Big Jim McCullough’s service station. It’s not the first time it’s happened yet McCullough won’t call the police. His response is emotional, rooted in past memory. Logical or not, he will protect himself against a repeat of previous events. These things are hidden in his heart and Zachary can make no sense of the decision.

During a previous robbery, McCullough chases off a couple of hold-up men with a shotgun loaded with slugs—just fires over their heads. The police respond to the scene and arrest McCullough. You get that? The police arrest him right in his own place of business—they don’t pursue the real criminals. They charge McCullough for firing without imminent danger. That’s against the law in most places. To state it baldly, he’s not in the process of being murdered when he fires his weapon.

Fiercely independent, McCullough creates his own system for dealing with such incidents—a method that doesn’t involve the police. His system works. It keeps him clean with the law and the insurance company.

Later in the story, Zachary faces a similar decision. After a layoff, a disgruntled worker shoves a shotgun against his back. As foreman, it’s not the first time he’s been threatened but on this occasion, his friend, Ocono, knocks the man to the ground and beats him senseless. Should Zachary call the police?

If he does, a good machinist will not only be out of work but will face jail time. If he does, Ocono may be charged with assault. If he does, Zachary’s wife will worry about dangers that are a part of his job. What should he do?

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February 11, 2011

REAL LIFE

In a previous post, I told about flying a small plane on instruments through a series of thunderstorms and the shock and delight of making it back alive. I made the case that, whether we write about it in fiction or experience it in real life, there’s something wonderful about the thrill of imminent death—a feeling for which I have no words. Then the death of a loved one brought home a forgotten lesson. In the article that followed, I presented stark images—sights the bulk of us avoid. I made the case that, in real life, common events move us—events too mundane for fiction. Is that strictly true? I now have yet another side of the question to explore. Let me tell you a story about a loving mother who did her best.

My mom grew up poor and rough in the Great Depression under the thumb of a perfectionist mother and an alcoholic, abusive father, who threatened the family with death on a number of occasions and at one point had to be subdued with a tire iron. Mom moved around between relatives. To complete high school, she worked as a nanny, a house cleaner, later at an office in the city.

Skip to the end of her life. She nursed her sick husband for seven years. He died, and so did her mother, her sister, other relatives, and friends—all in a short span of time. Her own health failed and she spent eight grueling years in ever-increasing pain. Three weeks ago, she was diagnosed with Leukemia, just as my father had been. She died three days later at age 78, just as my father did. This all sounds grim and you might get the picture of a woman who suffered all her life. She did suffer, but looking through her photo albums, I am reminded of a vibrant, powerful and loving mother who graced our family with joy and the profound and wonderful life she lived between those hard times.

As a child, she grew up on a farm—a “Tom Boy,” winning marbles from the other kids, tipping over outhouses and sometimes getting a backside of buckshot. She lived with enthusiasm and created all sorts of mischief.

Dad dated her on his birthday and soon proposed on her birthday, then married her shortly after that on Veteran’s Day so they’d always have their anniversaries free together. Mom married him when she was only 19—a love affair lasting over 50 years. Only death separated them. True Love—just like the movie, The Princess Bride. Two people who faced life and conquered. Imagine the joy of a passionate love like that. It makes me re-think my statement about the mundane nature of life as compared to fiction.

At first, they struggled, but I think those proved the most joyful years of all. She repaired and renovated that first house—a wreck that she turned into a home. She re-plastered walls, re-finished and re-built furniture. Painted inside and out. Made our clothing and did all sorts of sewing and needlework. Picked and canned cherries and apples from our own trees. Fed us vegetables from her own garden in the vacant lot out back. Baked bread. Hand made Christmas cards. Frugal—nothing wasted.

She gave us wonderful meals—everything from scratch. Nothing too good for her family. When she cooked spaghetti, she created sculpture out of mushrooms. She had to teach herself to cook. When I was young, she made a coffee cake and put in way too much yeast. (Some of you may recall an I Love Lucy television episode along those lines.) Mom just cut it in half. Now she had two coffee cakes–both good!

Later, Dad started his own business. Mom risked the house to get that company going and it came back as a wonderful blessing. When they built a new home, Mom designed it, right down to the scale drawings.

She always found pride in her family and loved us deeply. She kept photos—lots of them—the newest babies always in front. A closet full of scrapbooks. Pictures stained with tears. She loved being a great grandmother. Mom boasted 3 children, 9 grandchildren, 6 great grandchildren. With spouses, that’s 24 immediate family. Often, she’d say, “Look what Bob and I started.”

All my life, Mom’s home served as the base for festivities and celebrations that included the entire extended family and friends. I’m talking huge family gatherings. Mom cleaned. Cooked elaborate meals. Entertained. Took care of aging relatives who’d often stay several nights. She and Dad organized game tournaments that kept the party alive. Later, when they could afford it, they loved to treat us out to dinner. When Mom and Dad threw a party for friends, 300 people might show up.

Mom never believed it, but she possessed an amazing intelligence. She made paintings, sculpture, played piano and sang in the church choir. She loved family games, especially strategy games and she usually won. In recent years, she’d often fall asleep between turns but she’d win anyway. That’s right—she beat us in her sleep.

Back when she was poor and some dear family members found themselves caught between jobs without a home, Mom took them in. Those were good times for me. Three more kids in the house. It lasted only a few months, but seems like the bulk of my childhood. Mom cleaned her church, worked tirelessly for Right to Life and with mentally disabled adults. Just the other day, my nephew told me of a time when a stranger rushed up to Mom and Dad and thanked them for paying for their child’s operation. Imagine that. They never told anybody.

During her last day on earth, she enjoyed two joyous visits with grandchildren and gave marital advice. She always gave advice. (Nobody could stop her.) She also shared her faith that day. That night, in terrible pain, she phoned me to pray for the help of the Holy Spirit. You see, my mother accepted Christ’s free gift of salvation and lived in His grace. She accepted it by faith. She lived a vibrant life and also labored and suffered, but she knew her final destination. I have complete certainty that she’s with the Lord. Every pain and sorrow gone. Every tear wiped away.

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