Summertime
Book
One
Chuck
Gould
Genre:
metaphysical fantasy
Publisher:
Starry Night Publishing
Date
of Publication: September 28, 2014
ISBN:
9781502523174
Number
of pages: 298
Word
Count:
Cover
Artist: Larry Dubia
Book
Description:
Wesley
Perkins, successful and privileged advertising executive, makes an
apparently impromptu purchase in a pawn shop. Almost immediately, he
becomes immersed in a new reality. Old values evaporate. The line
between good and evil seems inconsistent. Wesley is challenged to
accept profound change, all the while juggling choices of enormous
consequence.
Summertime,
Book One, is the first portion of a story that delves into a surreal
realm of metaphysical fantasy. Situational moralities are juxtaposed
with omnipresent supernatural forces. Where the boundaries of our
mundane lives intersect cosmic intents, events, and conspiracies, we
can become overwhelmed by involuntary transformation. We look for
surrogate sacrifices, and a home in Summertime.
Excerpt
Book 1
Vanessa
hated the basement. Even during the daylight hours, she ventured only
reluctantly down the stair to do her laundry or occasionally retrieve
something from storage. She knew there were rats in the basement. She
often swept up their droppings, and it wasn’t unusual to hear
something scraping against cardboard boxes as it ran along the base
of the wall. Oddly enough, Vanessa seldom saw a rat. Infrequently, a
sacrificial rat would appear- neck broken by the savage spring of
Vanessa’s 17th Century style trap. Vanessa used to pretend she had
caught “the” rat, and wouldn’t need to spend hundreds of
dollars for an exterminator. Over the years, she had accepted an
unhappy truce with her resident rodents. These days, she didn’t
call an exterminator because there was always something that seemed a
more important use of the money.
Vanessa
found her flip flops and bathrobe, and headed for the stairway. Her
open white bathrobe hung from her shoulders, contrasting with her
dark skin but failing to provide any degree of modesty. She was
reluctant to venture underground at night, but the weird idea that
there might be some unexplained connection between Wesley Perkins and
her probable grandfather, Judah Jones, couldn’t molder until
daylight. She flipped the light switch at the top of the stairs. The
loud snap of the switch initiated a series of electrical flashes,
followed by the muffled explosion of a failing light globe. “Shit.
One lightbulb in the whole damn basement, and it just burned out.
Hell with it. I’m going down there anyway. I’ve got to, got to,
got to figure this out.”
Vanessa
tied her bathrobe across the front of her body, grabbed a fresh globe
from a kitchen cabinet next to the stairway door, and stepped slowly
into the blackness. A 90-degree bend at the top of the stairs
prevented any usable amount of light from filtering in from the
kitchen. Vanessa moved her feet slowly and deliberately between
wooden treads, feeling her way in the darkness with heel and toe. A
few steps from the bottom, she gasped at the sensation of something
with tiny paws ran across her bare foot tops, dragging what felt like
a coarse tail behind. She was sure she saw a pair of glowing eyes
near the laundry sink. There was definitely a rustle among the
storage boxes. Vanessa considered turning around and climbing back up
the stairs. She wanted to act as though her visit to the basement
could wait until morning, but she was compelled to conclude it could
not.
Summertime
Book
Two
Chuck
Gould
Genre:
Metaphysical fantasy
Publisher:
Starry Night Publishing
Date
of Publication: January 26, 2015
ISBN:
9781507681787
Number
of pages: 316
Cover
Artist: Larry Dubia
Book
Description:
The
metaphysical fantasy continues in this sequel to Summertime, Book
One. Wesley Perkins spirals ever deeper into a world he struggles to
understand, inextricably linked to the tragic past of a long dead
blues musician, Judah Jones. His closest allies are Jones’
granddaughters. Wesley must endure a variety of forces attempting to
manipulate his fate, after being warned about the dangers presented
by his own ego.
Meanwhile,
in Iberia Parish Louisiana, pilgrims seek a new home in a spiritual
enclave established by a charlatan radio preacher. The entire
community falls victim to an ancient heresy. Are these disparate
universes part of a common, supernatural conflict?
Excerpt
Book 2:
Ira
lodged Memphis Rail and the Family Jones at the Fairmont Hotel on Nob
Hill. Mary Towne retired to her room upon arrival. Vanessa and Redd
Wilmott shared a room, as did Wesley Perkins and Rebekah.
Art
Abbott and John Flood sought out the Tonga Room and Hurricane Bar.
Back in the 1940’s, the Fairmont converted the hotel’s indoor
swimming pool to a Tiki bar. The pool became a rectangular lagoon,
with a floating stage. A ship’s mast, tropical huts, Polynesian
sculptures, and the façade of an Asian house illuminate by paper
lanterns instilled a dimly lit atmosphere. Faux thatched roofs
hovered over tables around the perimeter of the pond.
A
waitress approached their table.
“Tonga
Mai Tai, please,” requested John.
Art
chuckled. “You really want one of those candy ass drinks served in
a phony coconut shell?”
“Shit,
ya.”
“Make
mine a Seagram’s and Seven, please, Miss,” said Art.
John
rested his elbow on the table and his head on his fist. “Gonna be a
big day tomorrow. Two shows, sold out. Who woulda thought? Even six
months ago, we be lucky to sell four or five thousand seats.”
Art
shook his head with a shiver. “Yeah, but are you really OK with
this? I’m thinkin’ about that incident at Rain Crow. And a
shitload of other stuff to boot. I heard you play the sax, once, a
long time ago. You couldn’t get a goddam note out of that Wesley
Perkins’ horn. What’s up with that?”
“Hell,
I don’t know exactly. Seems spooky as shit, if you ask me. For now,
I’ve just decided to ride along, ‘cause the money’s gonna be
really good.”
“Money?
Holy crap man, is all of this reduced to bein’ about money?”
“Well,
no. But money’s a big part of it,” said John. “Was a time it
was mostly about love. Hell, I’d a paid to drum for The Rail when
we first started out. Now days, I’m mostly old, tired, worn out,
and ready to give it up and go home.”
Art
was ready to change the subject. “Check out that floatin’ stage.”
“Yeah,
so what about it, other than it’s pretty small.”
“Ever
think there’s this invisible line?”
John
shifted to the opposite elbow. “Huh? I don’t follow you, really.”
“Like
there’s this invisible line between where we are and where
everybody else is. It’s sort of the edge of the stage, if you know
what I mean.”
“Oh,
hell yeah. Most of the folks buyin’ tickets think that there’s
some magical divide. Like we never have to take a piss halfway
through a set. Like we ain’t put in fifty hours of rehearsal and
made a hundred mistakes for every sixty seconds we have out shit
together during a concert. Hell yeah, I get that.”
“So,
that floatin’ stage just makes the point more directly. Sort of
like there’s this middle ages moat or something.”
The
waitress returned with the drinks. “Are you gentlemen staying here
at the hotel? If so, we’d be pleased to start a tab and bill it to
your room.”
A
young woman passed their table. She stopped abruptly, and looked
deliberately at the two musicians. She flashed a slow smile of
recognition, coupled with a slight nod, before she waved very
slightly and continued on her way. Art and John watched her hips
shift back and forth beneath a short, tight skirt.
Art
sipped his drink. “You see the posters?”
About
the Author:
Seattle
native Chuck Gould is a writer and musician.
Formerly
editor of Nor’westing Magazine and editor emeritus of Pacific
Nor’West Boating, he has written over 1,000 articles for
recreational boating magazines.
Chuck
plays a variety of keyboard instruments, and enjoys the “exercise
in humility” attempting to master the great highland bagpipe.
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