Garry Rogers – Stories Told by Secondary Characters

Stories Told by Secondary Characters

by Garry Rogers

Nested stories are common literary devices.  Some writing texts advocate treating every chapter as a separate story with a beginning and an end.  Nested stories can be standalone chapters, and they can be stories narrated by characters within the framework of a chapter.  A character within the main story might recall an experience, or they might tell a fictional story of their own.

I like nested stories; they are fine places to give readers glimpses of hidden themes and character motivations.  They can add evidence for the reality of the main story.  I gave an example in an earlier post about stories told by the protagonist.  Here is an example of a nested story involving secondary characters in the novel Corr Syl the Warrior.  The story provides support for subsequent actions within the main story.

News of Allon

As Allysen and two fighters trotted past a picnic area near the new military base, a Danog woman waved them over.

“Hello.  Do you have a moment?”

Allysen focused.  The woman seemed worried, and she wanted help from Tsaeb.  Odd.  Allysen introduced her group and asked how she could help.

“I am Elaine Medlar, and this is my husband Paul.  A friend of ours, Julie Snow, lived where they’re building the new army base.  A Tsaeb, Allon Trofeld, stopped by while we were visiting her last month, and I wondered if you knew him.”

“I do.  What happened?”

“Well, probably nothing, but we haven’t been able to reach Julie, and we’re wondering if Trofeld knew anything.  Would you mind asking him to give me a call?”

“I wouldn’t mind, but I may not see him for a while.  Tell me about your meeting with him.”

“Sure . . . this is a long story. Julie and I taught at Saguaro Elementary.  Last January, she accepted a job in the State Education office.  The new job didn’t start right away, and Julie decided to take some time off so she could work on her novel and visit her family.  She moved into an old ranch house outside town.  My husband Paul and I had dinner with her last month, and that’s when we met Trofeld.”

“Is the house near here?” Allysen asked.

“It was, but I think it has been torn down.  It was down this road, about where the army is working on something. It was an interesting evening.  The house was on a gravel road about a mile north of the city.  The place was old.  It had a corrugated tin roof splotched with rust, and a wrap-around porch.  Inside, it felt like the ceilings were too low, and the rooms were dark.  During dinner, Julie told us the Tsaeb border was a short distance farther north.  After dinner, she took us out on the front porch to look at the desert.  Tall Saguaro stood between round Paloverde and clusters of bristling Cholla.  The air was cool, clear, and very still.  It was pretty, but very quiet.  After we went in, Paul said the silence was eerie.  He asked Julie if she had expected it to be so quiet.  She said mocking birds often sang at night, and normally you could hear owls and a cricket or two.”  Elaine stopped her narrative to take a breath, and collect her thoughts.  Follow this link if you wish to finish the story.

“There was a knock and we all jumped,” she continued. “Then we laughed and Julie went to the door.  When Julie opened the door we could see a tall creature with fur like yours, tawny everywhere, but white on his chest and stomach.  He wore a neat brown vest and trousers, but his chest and feet were bare.  He carried a walking stick and had a box under his arm.  He said his name was Allon Trofeld and he had stopped by to say hello.  Trofeld said he had heard the old place was rented, and had come to welcome the newcomers to the neighborhood.  He held up his box, and said he had brought fruit.  Julie told Trofeld she had company, and asked if he would like to come in for a moment, and Trofeld said he would be delighted to meet us.”

Elaine paused, but seeing that Allysen and the fighters were listening intently, she went on.

“Trofeld placed the box on a table beside the door and leaned his stick against the wall.  Julie introduced us and he explained he was descended from mountain lions and grinned, exposing very large teeth.  I remember how they gleamed in that dark little room. Trofeld’s walking stick was peculiar. A long straight cylinder about half his height, it had a shiny surface covered with fine markings.  I asked Trofeld if he lived nearby.  He said his home was just across the border.  I asked what he did, and he said he furnished information for district council meetings, and traveled far too much.  As he said this, his long whiskers twitched.  I was going to ask about his walking stick, but Julie spoke up and said she was a traveler too, and had rented the house for just a few months before starting a new job.

“Trofeld asked about her job, and then asked if she had anyone living with her.  Julie said no.  Then Trofeld turned his large round yellow eyes on me and asked if Paul and I had any family living with us.

“I told him that our two children were at home with our babysitter.  I remember adding that if we weren’t home by 10:30 and didn’t call, the babysitter would call my mother.

“I asked Trofeld if he had a family and he said they were estranged.  His whiskers twitched again as he said that.

“Trofeld was remarkable.  He listened with understanding to our ideas about education, politics, and the economy, he told stories and jokes, and he even taught us the difference between limericks and haiku.  Let’s see, five lines; first, second, and fifth rhyme; third and fourth are shorter and form a rhyming couplet.  Haiku:  three lines; five, seven, and five syllables.

“When it was time for us to leave, we shook hands.  Trofeld’s hand was huge, but his fingers were short.  I think he had retractable claws.  When he took my hand, I had a faint sensation that needles touched my wrist . . ..

“We were nearly home when I remembered my grandmother’s bowl.  Paul grumbled, but turned around.  I knocked, waited, and finally knocked again before the door opened.  It was Trofeld, dabbing his lips with a towel.

“I told him I had forgotten my bowl.

“Trofeld volunteered to get it.  He asked me what color it was.  I guess he could tell I was surprised he was still there.  He said Julie was fixing him a bite to eat before he went home.

“I remember feeling nervous.  Julie had just met Trofeld.  Doesn’t it seem odd that he answered the door?”

Allysen and the other Tsaeb did not respond.

Elaine went on. “While Trofeld was getting the bowl, I noticed his stick was gone and his box had fallen.  I put the box back on the table and looked around for the stick, but didn’t see it.

“The next morning I had to start getting ready for spring semester, and I didn’t think of Julie for days.  When I did, I called and left a message about having her over for dinner.  She didn’t reply.  I guessed she might be visiting her parents, but I tried another time, and again there was no answer. “

“And you still haven’t heard from her,” Allysen asked.

“No, we haven’t, and I’ve gotten worried.  When I think about how quiet it was around her house that night, I wonder if Trofeld is still living nearby.  If you see him, would you mind asking if he saw Julie again?”

“I will,” Allysen said.  “Let me have your phone number.  Here’s mine.  Call me if you hear from Julie.”

As Allysen and the fighters went on down the road, one of the fighters muttered, “It doesn’t look good for Julie.”

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Genre –  Science Fiction

Rating – PG

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Website http://garryrogers.com/

Lucas Heath – Things You Didn’t Know About BoX

Things You Didn’t Know About BoX

• Could I write a story that takes place in a single location, such as a cube, and keep the reader drawn to the story? When I began to write BoX, I pushed myself to meet this challenge. What do my readers think? Why not let me know!
• BoX started with a simple plan: 27 cubes in a box. Each cube was assigned to a specific location in that box and enclosed one person. Each person had a name and subject number. Whether the life and story of any particular subject would become known to the reader or whether they would live or die hadn’t yet been determined. The story would unfold with each stroke on the keyboard.
• Some of my characters’ first names were inspired by people I have known socially or as work colleagues.
• Originally intended to be a short story of approximately ten pages in length, BoX grew with each word into a novella.
• As the story developed and I got to know the characters, I was able to create an outline for the second half of the book.
• BoX has reminded some readers of the cult horror movie Cube. I’ve seen all three Cube movies; aside from the setting of a cube, the stories are quite different. While the premise of the movies is shock and horror through very gruesome deaths, they have no other purpose. BoX, however, is written with a meaning, a message, and a purpose in mind.
• When I began writing BoX, I wanted the focus of the story to be about revealing both the good and bad aspects human nature.
• Readers have commented that the ending of BoX left them wanting more; that’s not a bad thing. Though some people suggested the ending seemed rushed and abrupt, it ended as intended. My aim is to entertain, draw people into my world, and why not keep the reader guessing? Predictable stories are for other people to write.

The X in BoX is capitalized as it represents the Greek letter Chi. I am currently writing a set of three books called The Midas Trilogy. Each book has its own Greek symbol, Phi, Psi, or Omega. The letter Chi falls in between Phi and Psi, making BoX the story that transitions between the first book in the trilogy and the second.

How far would you go to save yourself? Would you compromise your religion, morals, or integrity to avoid death?

Twenty-seven people wake up to discover they are imprisoned in isolation cubes. They are forced to endure multiple trials in an experiment designed to test the limits of human nature.

In each cube is a pistol. During any test an individual can use the gun to end the torment and take their own life. In doing so, they believe the test would immediately end for everyone and potentially save the lives of others.

Would you lay down your life to save another? Would you pass the tests?

It’s the ultimate trial for human nature and the will to stay alive.

Would you survive the experiment?

This story is a novella, at around 100 pages, or 26000 words.

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Genre –  Thriller / SciFi

Rating – PG13

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Website http://lucasheathbooks.com/

The Way Home by Nhys Glover

PROLOGUE

October 1940, Leconfield, Yorkshire, ENGLAND

What it was about the large farmhouse Hawk did not know, but from the first moment he crossed its threshold, he felt at home. Its thick stone walls embraced him; its low beams protected him.

Homesickness or nostalgia couldn’t account for his feelings because the place was very different from its counterparts at home. Nothing in England reminded him of Poland.

‘Come in, come in, don’t stand there like statue,’ the farmer demanded, his gruff Yorkshire accent softened by his friendly tone. He looked to be in his fifties, although there was the fragility of old age about him, too, as if his body had worn out earlier than it should.

‘You do understand me, don’t ye? I know ye’re foreign an’ all…’

Hawk grinned and nodded. Although the man’s accent was strong, he understood it well enough. ‘I speak English. We had to learn before they would let us up in their planes.’

The farmer nodded sagely, still waiting for him to move into the house more fully. Hawk wanted to savour the moment like a fine liqueur, letting the taste remain on his tongue, breathing it in through his nose.

There was mustiness in the air of a damp space kept closed up for too long. He could smell furniture polish and wet dog. There was also the odour of manure that had accompanied them in from the farmyard. None of the individual scents he identified gave him sensations of pleasure, but in combination, they affected him pleasantly.

He’d grown up in the city. Rural life was alien to him. Mostly, it worried him with its isolation, but not here, not in this farmhouse. Here, the rural setting suited him. Here, the isolation felt comfortable, as if he could be wholly himself for the first time without the intrusion of others. The sound of aircraft landing and taking off nearby only added to the feeling of home.

‘Is it shell shock ye’re sufferin’?’ The farmer was staring at him now, his deeply lined brow puckered with concern.

Hawk gave himself a mental shake and smiled at the man again. ‘Sorry, no. It is just this house. I feel like I know it… or it knows me. I sound like a crazy person, I know. Would you prefer I left?’

He didn’t want to leave – not now. Not ever, a little voice in his head said. If the man began to worry about Hawk’s sanity, however, it might be better. They didn’t want to get a bad reputation with the locals. Already, the man might see him as an intruder. After all, Hawk had wandered up his long drive to the farmhouse for no reason other than he wanted to know what was at the end of the road. He hadn’t been invited onto the property until the farmer had seen him and offered him welcome.

‘Nah then, lad, don’t be daft. I invited thee, didn’t I? And our Mildred’ll give me a right say-so if I let thee go before tha’ve had a cup o’ tea. We’ve heard about thee lads, the 303 Squadron?’

The man had turned and had begun walking down the dark hallway, talking all the while. Hawk couldn’t draw the moment out any longer. He had to follow along behind the farmer or be considered rude.

He took several long, striding steps to catch up with the Yorkshireman. ‘Yes. We were rotated out to Leconfield from Northolt for a break. Six weeks we have been in the air.’

‘One hundred and twenty-six kills in six weeks, they’re sayin’. Impressive, and we aren’t impressed by foreigners easy in these parts.’

‘We lost eighteen Hurricanes, seven pilots and we have five more badly wounded. That is not so impressive.’

‘If I told thee the losses we took at the Somme, thee’d think twice about that.’ The man’s voice was hollow, as if it came from a long way away, a lifetime away.

‘You survived the Great War?’

‘Aye. Lucky’s what I was, nowt but lucky. The mustard gas got ta ma lungs, but nowt bad. Now ‘ere’s our Mildred…’

They’d made it to the back of the house by now and entered the big country kitchen with its wooden table in the centre and flagstones on the floor. A big black range burned hot against the far wall. He could feel its heat from where he stood. A small window over the sink was open, as was the back door, probably because it was midday and the sun was shining. The cool air from outside also balanced the heat inside a little.

He could see autumn leaves, golden and beautiful, on the oak tree just outside the window. They seemed to glow in the sunlight.

Mildred was a matronly woman with grey, straggly hair and a friendly smile. Her face was flushed red from the heat of the stove. She wiped a strand of hair away from her face with the back of a floury arm.

‘Ayap, who’s tha wi’ ye then, our Alf? A ‘andsome airman fromt’ looks of ‘im.’

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Genre - Historical  Romance

Rating – PG

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Website http://nhysglover.com/

Excerpt: Blood Moon (The Huntress/FBI Thrillers) by Alexandra Sokoloff

The middle of the board was blank. After a teenage history of foster homes, group homes and juvenile prison, Cara Lindstrom had disappeared off the map at the age of twenty-one. She’d been invisible for eight years. The team had not found any hint of her location, her name, or any activities whatsoever until the day Roarke had seen her on the sidewalk behind Agent Greer just before his bloody demise. What Cara had done to Greer besides speak to him, naming his crime, was still unclear. What was clear was that Greer had turned, as undercovers sometimes do. He had been using the trafficked women he was sworn to protect, sexually abusing them rather than helping them to safety. Roarke had no idea how Cara could have known this about Greer, and he doubted they would ever be able to prove that murder, if murder was even what anyone could call it. That was the problem with Cara Lindstrom. She was forcing Roarke to come up with new definitions for everything he’d ever believed in.

But call it murder or call it — whatever —he had seen Cara kill eight men in one night and he had very little doubt that in the weeks to come they would find many, many more bodies to fill up that space in the middle of the board between Cara’s childhood and the bloodshed of two weeks ago.

Singh was speaking and Roarke turned back into the room to listen. “She is on the Wanted list. Bulletins are out to the agencies throughout the states, as well as in Nevada, Oregon, and Utah. We’ve gotten the usual assortment of useless tips and a few confessions. Not one has checked out so far. The San Luis Obispo Sheriff’s department is putting together a package to take to the District Attorney, to see if there is enough there to charge her.”

“If we can find her and deliver her,” Epps muttered.

It was almost always preferable to have local police bring a case rather than federal prosecutors, not just faster: the sentences in non-federal courts were often more harsh. But in this case it was more complicated, being that the trucker whose throat Cara had slashed had a record of sexual assault, and had come after her in the women’s bathroom.

Singh glanced at Roarke as if she’d heard his thought. “And it will be a difficult case to make, obviously. Any defense attorney will be able to introduce a strong motive of self-defense.”

“We’ve got her for kidnapping,” Jones said.

“Also not an easy case to make, under the circumstances.” Singh replied. “My understanding is that Sebastian will never press charges. He and his son are more likely to appear for the defense.”

Mark Sebastian was a newly divorced father who along with his five-year old son had befriended Cara while they were on vacation in Pismo Beach; she had used the pair of them as both hideout and camouflage after Roarke had picked up her trail. Cara had ended up killing the drug dealer boyfriend of Sebastian’s ex-wife. The dealer had been selling pictures of Jason to a pedophile ring. Another murder on her scorecard; another death not many people would ever lose sleep over.

Epps was speaking and Roarke forced himself back into the present to listen.

“We need to get her, and let the prosecutors worry about how to charge her,” Epps said tightly.

Singh glanced at him without comment and then continued. “One more thing. So far our bulletins are confined to law enforcement agencies. Obviously, we could begin a more public appeal—”

“No,” Roarke said, before she could finish the sentence.

His team looked at him.

“We don’t want the media anywhere near this. A female serial killer?”

He didn’t have to explain it. Female serial killers were exceedingly rare. There was even an argument to be made that no such thing existed that fit the textbook definition of sexual homicide, murder specifically for sexual gratification. Cara Lindstrom was a killer, the most unusual one Roarke had ever encountered. She hunted and killed brutally and specifically. But psychologically she was more of a vigilante, her victims hand-picked for their crimes against women and especially children: child molesters, sex traffickers, and in one case, a homegrown terrorist who had been plotting to bomb a Portland street fair.

He spoke into the silence. “We let word leak out about what she’s doing, we won’t be able to take a step without cameras down our throats. It’s too volatile, and a logistical nightmare. I say we do this quickly and quietly, and hope to God the press doesn’t get wind of it.”

He could see Epps struggling with himself, but finally he nodded reluctantly. “Agreed.”

Roarke breathed an inner sigh of relief, then took control. “So. Her last known whereabouts are the cement plant. We know that she steals cars for transportation. She has a master key for Hondas at the very least.” He turned to Singh.

“I have been monitoring reported car thefts in Southern California,” she said in her musical lilt. “There were none that checked out in the Blythe area on the night she disappeared.”

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Genre – Mystery / Thriller

Rating – PG13

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Website http://alexandrasokoloff.com/

Knights of the Dragon by Albert J. Gallant @Alberttttt

This novel contains baby dragons and adventure. It also encompasses valorous knights and humor. It’s a tale of magic and mayhem.

Knights of the Dragon is an exciting tale of knights, wizards, romance and dragons. The adventure to save Leeander is on! When an exceptional baby dragon is born will it change everyone’s destiny?

A dragon named Ryxa befriends a boy only to discover that his kingdom will soon be conquered by another and the boy is doomed, and so to save him and his people she hires knights to go on an adventure with her and the boy to find magic.

Leeander’s knight Stone is sent out to capture a wizard in an attempt to defend the kingdom while trying hard to keep his eyes off princess Alexa, who insists on going with them in pursuit of a sorcerer.

Meanwhile, a red dragon named Ella falls for a black dragon, which is taboo, and she tries hard to resist his irresistible charm. She doesn’t want her life to be left in ruins because of bonding with a black dragon.

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Genre - Fantasy

Rating – PG-13

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Website http://www.independentauthornetwork.com/a-j-gallant.html

Harmless by Ernie Lindsey

CHAPTER 1

Here’s how it happened, and most of this is true.

That night, a single pop of gunfire next door interrupted a well-earned scotch. 

Long day.  Feet up.  Tie loosened with the Giants down by two runs in the ninth.  You know how it goes.  You wake up expecting normal things to happen—like a shower without the hot water heater going bust, or fixing your eggs without burning a fat blister, or the judge deciding that you are, indeed, entitled to see your kids every other weekend.  One bang of the gavel and you trip backwards down the stairs of Progress, rolling and tumbling until you land on your rear, dazed, alone, and seriously pissed off.

First floor: defeat, desperation, ladies’ lingerie.

It’s amazing how a thin slingshot of material—a mixture of lace and cotton, a thong, or thongs, plural—can ruin ten years of marriage, a career, and the relationship you’re supposed to have with your children.

The fault lies with me.  I’ve admitted it.  I’ve apologized.  I’ve begged.

I am, and remain, an unforgivable wretch.

At least, according to the court system.

And those who are unfamiliar with me.

I jumped to my feet, drenching a pants leg with sloshing scotch and melting ice, and pulled two blinds apart at the window.

The woman next door, the first time I met her, she initially said her name was Jan.

She said Jan, I know she did, but we’ll get to that later.  The mistakenly delivered mail from Sterling Savings & Loan referred to her as Kerry Parker—do I really look that sketchy?  Sketchy enough for her to lie?  Also, I used this joke on her, an old standby:  “I think I know you from somewhere…maybe from high school…yeah, didn’t we have Chemistry together?  No?  Well, we do now.”

Jan, Kerry.  Kerry, Jan.  I’ll call her Kerry.  It’s easier that way.

She moved in six months ago and lived alone in a modest ranch home with dark, red brick and white shutters.  Her plants died in the summer heat while her yard stayed over-watered and jungle-like.  What kind of person does that?  I was positive that an entomologist could find a number of undiscovered species crawling throughout its vines and lush green canopy.  I’d offered to mow it for her several times while mowing mine (shirtless, of course—the tan stays even, period), but she always declined, said she could use the help but no thanks, and then would scurry inside like she was trying to get away from me.  Cute butt waggling in short shorts, flip-flops slapping against her heels as she climbed the three steps leading up to her porch.

I mention the cute butt because, well, how could you not?  I mean, really, it’s like a bubble.  The one time I got a better look from my office window, as she sunbathed in her backyard—no top and a pink thong, of all things—that was all it took to confirm that yes, “bubble” was the perfect word.  It’s not like I was spying.  I just happened to be on the computer upstairs and looked outside.  Maybe for a little too long—what’s the harm in that?

The difference between a peeping tom and coincidence is timing—and duration.

She was thirty-two, eleven years younger than me.  And I know this because I got a quick look at her driver’s license—Kerry Parker, confirmed—which I found in the front seat of her car.  (A storm was coming.  Her windows were down.  I try to be helpful in such situations.  I do.  Honest.) 

She was separated from her husband, according to the letter from Wellington & Wellington, Attorneys at Law, which, coincidentally, was the same firm handling my case.  So it was a complete accident that I opened the envelope.  I thought it was mine. 

When I gave it to her, I got the feeling that she was slightly unnerved.  Explaining what happened eased her apprehension, I’m sure of it, but she still gave me the same kind of look you give a car salesman when you know he’s trying to give you the shaft and guaranteeing that you’ll enjoy it.  I should know.  I’ve gotten that look several times peddling metal over at Thrifty’s Used Cars.

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Genre - Mystery/Suspense

Rating – PG13

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Blog http://www.ernielindsey.com/

Anniversary of the Veil by Vanna Smythe

Duty versus love is the one battle warrior Kae doesn’t know how to fight.

Kae has trained his entire life to become an elite Protector of the Realm. But when he earns that honor he finds himself protecting something far greater: the Veil separating two worlds. On one side of the Veil lie untold stores of magic. On the Realm’s side, magic is all but obliterated, and Kae is one of the few who can use it. The priests who secretly rule the Realm will do everything they can to control his growing magical abilities. He’s willing to pay the price, even though it comes between him and Issa, the princess he loves.

But the Veil has weakened over a thousand years and powers on both sides will stop at nothing to keep it intact. Strangers from the other side have kidnapped Issa to take her across the Veil and sacrifice her to strengthen it. Kae is the only one who can find her. If he goes after Issa, he loses everything he’s worked so hard for. But if he chooses duty over love, Issa will die.

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Kae, a warrior Protector, has followed Princess Issa across the Veil separating two worlds. They were told Issa will play a crucial role at the Anniversary of the Veil, but have been mislead! Kae will face a terrible choice once the Anniversary finally comes. He is the Decision Maker and must play his part in a ceremony that will reunite Issa with the man from her dreams, her other half – but in so doing, leave her senseless or worse, dead.

As the King fights to find his daughter, as the Priesthood is falling apart; Kae must make his choice between stopping Issa’s Joining and force her into a life of unhappiness, or allow her to Join and thereby leave her a mere shell of herself. Meanwhile friends and foes alike are showing only half-truths to both Kae and Issa, and the right choice depends entirely on who you ask. Will Kae be able to make the right choice?

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The Anniversary of the Veil has come and gone, for better or worse. Now all is left is to pick up the pieces and move on. Easier said than done, that!

Kae only wants to be left alone to live and die in peace, Issa makes plans she can’t realize and Alet is drowning in her own guilt. Yet someone must rise to wake them all, rouse them and let the past truly become the past. Only, can it still be done?

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Genre – Fantasy, Paranormal Romance

Rating – PG13

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Website http://vannasmythe.com/