Blog Archives

RECOMPOSE and "Triple Threat"

9/29/2016

I'm pleased to announce my flash fiction story "Triple Threat" is now available in Recompose Magazine, Issue #2.

About the story:

Tammy's the odd girl out, the fraternal triplet to identical twins. They think they're smarter and prettier than her. They call her "retard" sometimes when they think-talk. They don't know she's been able to hear them all these years, and she's a lot smarter and far less innocent than either realizes....

About the publisher:

Alliteration Ink has a reputation for publishing stories that break boundaries and push the imagination—stories that take chances. This project not only pursues two passions of the publisher—a new appreciation of poetry and a deep love of transgressive short fiction—but also provides an opportunity to pay authors and poets professional rates for their work.

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The Debate You Might Have Missed

9/28/2016

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National CEO Mead (Freedom Party) v. State Manager Douglas White (Citizens' Party)

Everyone went quiet when the lights dimmed and the stage lit up. An announcer spoke through the loud speakers: Ladies and gentlemen, your National CEO candidates, incumbent CEO Walter Mead and his opponent, State Manager Douglas White! Applause rolled through the audience. Emma and Herald stood and clapped as the National CEO strolled to his lectern and stood mere feet away. On his suit were patches representing corporate sponsors, the largest of which being Future Tech. The Citizen’s Party candidate was not nearly as well dressed, and his sponsor patches advertised smaller companies such as the Police Network and Acme Fire Company.

“Thank you all for coming,” National CEO Mead said, prompting everyone to cut their applause and sit. “I’d like to begin this debate by offering my opponent the first question.”

State Manager White gave a humble bow. “Thank you, Mr. CEO.” He wasted no time, taking only a second to glance at his notes. “I would like to know how, should you be elected for another term, you intend on remedying the growing divide between the upper and lower classes.”

“Well, I’m among those who believe the class divide will remedy itself. If we place our faith in the Invisible Hand, it will guide us to prosperity. The rich encourage the poor by example to work harder, that they too might afford luxuries like televisions, better insurance policies, and yearly vacations. A lack of tenacity is the only obstacle, and those who fail to succeed do so because they simply lack the drive.”

Emma and Herald applauded with their side of the audience. “So eloquently stated,” she said into his ear.

“He could have been a bit more tactful, but he’s got the right idea,” he whispered back.

She responded with a light chuckle.

“I’d like to know your thoughts on the matter,” added the National CEO with a wry grin to his still-clapping supporters.

The State Manager straightened his tie. “I believe we’ve seen the private sector go as far as it can take us. It is time for a new strategy. It’s time we reintegrated a mixed system so that those currently struggling under the weight of outrageous insurance prices and unchecked social service costs can have the same chances as everyone else. As it stands, the class divide can only grow.”

The Citizens' Party audience clapped and nodded.

“Then I assume you would initiate an aggressive taxing plan, effectively robbing the rich to give to the poor?” Mead interjected.

“Absolutely not. Yes, I believe in bringing back taxes and public services, but it’s far from robbery. In the past, our country flourished under a mixed system. Everyone paid their fair share, and everyone had their fair chance to climb the ladder of opportunity. Under our current system, there’s little room for the lower classes to rise above their current stations.”

“That’s absolutely ridiculous. If you’ll read your history books, you’ll see that Americans protested taxes at every turn, striving for a pure and private system in which the cream would invariably rise to the top. The Boston Tea Party of the eighteenth century is a prime example, as are the nearly nonstop wave of depressions that persisted for hundreds of years afterward.”

More cheers rose from the Freedom Party.

“Actually, if you want to be accurate—”

“Supporting Robin Hood Economics is tantamount to supporting communism. Are you a communist, State Manager White?”

Of course not! I’m merely suggesting—”

“You’re suggesting we return to a system that nearly destroyed this country, and I intend to do everything in my power to see that doesn’t happen!” As he finished his sentence, he slammed a tight fist against the wooden surface before him for added emphasis.

The Freedom Party audience offered him a standing ovation.

“If I may,” White tried, his words proving ineffective in silencing the crowd. “I still have the floor.”

“Let the man speak,” Mead said, and the audience began to quiet. “Let him tell us all about the hordes of poor people waiting for someone to give them a handout. Let him ramble on about the homeless rate and how the ‘less fortunate’ can’t afford to feed their families. Let him tell you that it’s all your fault because—heaven forbid—you worked hard and saved your money!”

The audience roared.

White did his best to speak over the din. “So you would blame the poor for being poor? You would rather assume they choose to go hungry or that they enjoy living one tragedy or illness away from losing their homes? You actually believe that owning multiple estates or an excess of cars and amenities is more important than ensuring the least well off can afford to put food on their tables? Where is the liberty in that? How American is that?”

“People, do you want a National CEO who thinks it’s okay to question the American way? Are you going to support a politician who encourages people to rock the boat every time they don’t agree with a policy? The Citizens' Party does not work for us—it works for the degenerates of society, the free thinkers who don’t know how to stay in their place. Mark my words; if my opponent somehow slithers his way into office, jobs will be lost, insurance will be rendered useless, and our education system will fail.”

White tried to speak over the cheers and applause, but his words only melted into the clamor.

From The Private Sector.

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John Molik: THE FIDUCIARY DELUSION

9/20/2016

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Today, guest author John Molik is promoting his new thriller, The Fiduciary Delusion. He'll be giving away a $10 Amazon or Barnes and Noble gift card, so be sure to enter for your chance to win using the Rafflecopter box below.

About the novel:

An unambitious young man finally finds himself, only to nearly lose everything in an apparent web of international economic terrorism and intrigue. But, as his world begins to unravel, has he become genuinely delusional? Or is he really on to one of the most dangerous global conspiracies of all time? Against all odds, only love and a true friend's faith can save both him and the world as we know it from the abusive power of evil.

Excerpt:

There was that strange odor again of sweet burnt beans and paint thinner. Jeremy Hughes had started noticing this strange aroma about a week ago. The location of his lecture hall at UC Davis was just a stone's throw from the Coffee House, the local student dining hall and entertainment venue, so he was not immune to the unexpected food smells fit for starving students. But this odor was different. Hopefully, it wasn't wafting down from the Chem lab. There were rumors going around that with the UC budget cuts, some of the filters at the lab were not being replaced regularly. Surely, these aren't some sort of carcinogens, for heaven's sake. Nevertheless, he made a mental note to ask around.

As Jeremy had only been a lecturer at UC Davis for just over a year, this placed him near the bottom of the academic employment hierarchy. He had little hope of surviving the next round of budget cuts. Last year had been a real drag too. The Department Chair had left after the second term to work in the private sector and Brigitte Sheen, his interim replacement, was a haughty cold bitch who had no qualms about showing who's boss by playing mind games with her faculty. Brigitte Sheen was an imposing, solid, nearly six foot tall Korean American woman who, at first glance, looked like a cross between the gorgeous Moon Bloodgood and the Chinese Hercules. When Jeremy first met her, he looked carefully into her eyes. Someone had told him that if you could hold eye contact with her long enough, you could verify that she did in fact have horizontal pupils. Brigitte's straw-thick, tea-colored bangs appeared to be cut with a 4 stroke line trimmer. Her solid, thick, musculature was formidable, and was built from 15 years of Olympic style weightlifting at the University of Washington, where she routinely lifted the equivalent of a completely loaded fridge/freezer over her head dozens of times per day.

Last year, on Jeremy's first day, he received his first taste of venom.

'You make a problem for me, I will make your life a living hell. If you are not prepared or call in sick to take day off to go Tahoe or something, it's over. Just get in your car and drive away. Fast. I'll do the paperwork,' she had snarled. Brigitte was definitely a woman to avoid by strategically flying under her radar.

About the author:

John grew up in Rancho Palos Verdes, California and graduated from UC Davis with a B.A. Degree in Economics and has worked in numerous corporate finance and project management jobs in the consumer electronics and IT industries. In 1990, after taking an extended backpacking trip of the South Pacific before attending graduate school, he met his would be wife and in 1991 was married. They settled back in Irvine and South Orange County area of California. In 2003, he and his family (now with two kids in tow) relocated to Christchurch, New Zealand.

John's interest in writing began when he was a student at UC Davis, having worked as a Feature Writer for the California Aggie Newspaper. Possessing the desire to write again, and with a bucket list goal of eventually trying his hand at thriller novels, he took the plunge, and in 2014, began writing his first novel, The Fiduciary Delusion. John's interests also include: science, existential philosophy, health, and both western and eastern holistic medicine. John also plays guitar, piano, sings and writes music. In addition, John is an admitted “gym rat” and can be regularly found lifting weights, trudging up hills, sea kayaking, and getting out and about enjoying the beautiful wild outdoors.

The Fiduciary Delusion is available at Amazon and AmazonUK. Check it out at Goodreads. You can learn more about The Fiduciary Delusion at Ask David.

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"Monsoon"

9/13/2016

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Another headliner:
“No Prison For Colorado Student Who Raped Helpless Freshman”
His name is Wilkerson; her name’s withheld
because it’s such a shameful thing, getting drunk.
And she won’t remember a thing,
so why should he?

So it rains again.
I can’t stop it now.
It was sunny and dry for a good while,
but these headlines drag back the clouds,
with no decency
even to bring along a silver lining.

Don’t you see?
Can’t you see it?
You’re every bit as blind
as you judge
everyone else to be?
Admit it: You’re a fucking hypocrite.

Because you weren’t in her Cinderella shoes
when the sweet Prince put her to sleep
before midnight
and kissed her oh-so deeply.

You don’t remember, so why should he?

As for me, I’m left wondering:
How is this possible?
I feel sick.
The world has been taken over by ostriches,
and the vultures glide freely
while the songbirds sit muted
in their cages.

A monsoon is coming
because talk is cheap.
You can’t meme away a storm
any more than you can
make the
right people
remember.

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Joan Hall Hovey: THE DEEPEST DARK

9/12/2016

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Today, I have the pleasure of hosting Joan Hall Hovey, who is here to promote her suspense/thriller novel, The Deepest Dark. She will be awarding a 10 1/2' x 8" still life laminate print by Jean Baptiste Oudry from Metropolitan Museum of Art (US and Canada only) to a randomly drawn winner via Rafflecopter during the tour. Check out the end of this post for more details.

About the novel:

Following the deaths of her husband, Corey, and ten year old daughter Ellie in a traffic accident, author Abby Miller sinks ever deeper into depression. She contemplates suicide as a way to be with them, and to end her unrelenting pain.

In a last desperate effort to find peace, she drives to Loon Lake where they last vacationed together, wanting to believe they will be waiting for her there. At least in spirit. Barring that, the pills Doctor Gregory gave her to help her sleep, are in her purse.

The cabin at Loon Lake was her and Corey’s secret hideaway, and not even Abby’s sister, Karen, to whom she is close, knows where it is.

But someone else does. He is one of three men who have escaped from Pennington prison. They are dangerous predators who will stop at nothing to get what they want - and to keep from going back to prison. Having already committed atrocious crimes, they have nothing to lose.

Unknowingly, Abby is on a collision course with evil itself. And the decision of whether or live or die will soon be wrenched from her hands.

"...Joan Hall Hovey knows suspense. She keeps it simmering in every scene she writes and knows just the right moments to turn up the heat and bring it all to a boil. THE DEEPEST DARK is a terrific suspense novel." --James Hankins, author of Brothers and Bones and Shady Cross

"...readers will be chilled as they root for Abby to take back her life and escape the Loon Lake cabin alive and breathing. Once the first page is read in this one, nothing will be able to draw your attention away..." --Amy Lignor, author of "The Charlatan's Crown."

Excerpt:

The three dark figures moved quietly among the shadowy, rain-dripping birches, pines and alders toward the old farmhouse where amber lights glowed in the two lower windows. They crept with the stealth of foxes intent upon the chickens in the hen house, hungry and deadly, already tasting blood. And the Nichols’ actually did keep a few chickens of their own, mainly for the fresh eggs, but not altogether for that reason. They liked seeing them clucking and pecking about the yard; they were good company and cost only a bit of seed. Once, they had operated their own farm, and a fair sized one it was, too. These days they kept a small vegetable garden and Ethel Nichols tended the flowers that grew along the walkway and in her window boxes, mainly morning glories in heavenly blue and pansies in shades of lavender and sun-yellow.

In their early eighties now, and in relatively good health, they were enjoying the fruits of their labor in these latter years, including the big screen TV on which they were presently watching an old rerun of All in the Family, one of life’s pleasures that Hartley and Ethel shared. …

When the commercial came on, Ethel rose from the big stuffed chair across from her husband’s Lazy Boy. She was white-haired, ample of figure, and quick to smile. “Cup of tea, Hartley?”

He looked in her direction and grinned mischievously. Though his own hair had long gone and he walked with a limp, to Ethel he was as handsome as the first time she saw him walking into Mr. Biggar’s class in grade nine. She could still see him as he was then, tall and lean, with a thatch of fair hair fallen over his brow.

“Wouldn’t mind having just a tiny slice of that apple pie you baked to go with my tea.” An affectionate coaxing twinkled in blue eyes that had faded only a little over the years.

Looking at him, she mentally shook her head. He knew he had trouble getting to sleep if he ate after he’d had his supper. “Sure,” she said. And it will be tiny, Mister Nichols, you can bet on that. She had started for the kitchen when she stopped in the doorway between the living room and kitchen, thinking she’d heard a noise outside. She listened. Heard it again. A squeaking of the porch swing chain?

“Did you hear that?” she called into the living room.

“Hear what? Didn’t hear nothin’, Ethel.”

“I’m not sure. Sounded like... oh, I’m sure it’s nothing. The wind.”

About the author:

Joan Hall Hovey is the definition of an ‘artist’. From her writing that has taken the form of suspense novels, as well as short stories and articles, this woman has not only taken the suspense world by storm, but also dabbles in the theatre community. In addition to it all, Joan takes the time to work with other authors, giving them the information and help they need to embrace their talent and become a part of the literary world.

Born and raised in Saint John, New Brunswick, Joan has a family she adores; including, Scamp, the family dog. She is blessed to look out every day at the tall pine trees and the stunning view of the Kennebecasis River. But although that view is certainly inspiring, her fans will tell you that it is Joan’s view – the scenes and characters within her own creative mind – that is truly unforgettable. This is a talent who brings vibrancy to the page, creating locations that, even in the light of day, chill fans to the bone.

An insatiable reader, the works of Poe, King, and other masters of the mystery world, inspired Joan to write. And now, with her latest novel – THE DEEPEST DARK – she once again hits the nail on the proverbial head, drawing readers into a world of fear that will leave them absolutely breathless.

Available at most online bookstores including Amazon and Barnes and Noble.
Published by Books We Love Inc.

Visit the Official Website of Joan Hall Hovey, check out Joan on Facebook, and follow her on Twitter.

Other Suspense Novels by Joan Hall Hovey:
Tragic Spawn
The Abduction of Mary Rose
Night Corridor
Chill Waters – winner of the Bloody Dagger Award
Nowhere To Hide – winner of the Eppie Award
Listen to the Shadows

Enter below for your chance to win a laminate print of this painting. (US and Canada only).

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Dosed and Defeated: My Story and My Take on Rape Culture

9/11/2016

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When I was nineteen or twenty, I went to a coworker’s to help him paint the master bathroom. The man, well into his thirties, maybe even his early forties, was renovating our employer’s home in exchange for a break in rent. We’d been friendly with one another, so I didn’t suspect anything when he said he could use my help. Whereas I just thought he was being friendly when he asked me out previously for drinks, he’d had other ideas in mind. I’d never expressed any interest in him, so I innocently assumed he was just a male coworker who liked to hang out over drinks. You see, I was an unusually slow developer—physically an adult, but still not even close to sexually mature—so I’m not exaggerating when I say I was oblivious as to what he’d been digging for when he had repeatedly invited me for “drinks after work.”

The evening he dosed me, just the two of us were at the house. He had given me a soda. I didn’t drink much of it before I was too punch-drunk “sleepy” to continue taping the ceiling. I apologized profusely, struggling to keep my eyes open, telling him I feared I was going to fall asleep right there on the ladder. He was so sweet about it, even led me to the bed in the connected master bedroom and told me he had no problem with me taking a nap….

And just like that, I was out.

I was so naïve… I didn’t even piece together what he had done to me until years later, and then what could I do? What proof did I have? Even more, I was ashamed… because he’d convinced me to come over by offering me a few grams of pot in exchange for my help. I remember that next morning, he gave me the baggie, and I told him I would feel bad taking it since I didn’t do any actual painting. He told me he wanted me to have it anyway. At the time, I just thought he was being nice. Now, I see red when I think about it. That motherfucker not only dosed me and then did god-knows-what, but he had the nerve to pay me for it the morning after like I was some cheap whore. So, I kept the rape to myself. I could have reached out when I learned a family member had also been dosed—but she had traumatic memories, able to recall bits and of parts of her rape, and as strange as it sounds, I felt guilty when I considered my horror relative to hers. What would I say to her? I hadn’t a clue, so I decided to say nothing.

To this day, what gets under my skin the most is not knowing what he did to me while I was unconscious. Maybe I’m better off not knowing, but it still eats at me sometimes. I have no memory whatsoever of anything that happened between my head hitting that pillow and my waking up (alone in the bed and fully clothed, of course) the next morning. I’ve fantasized about tracking him down and making him tell me everything he did while I was unconscious… and making him explain why he thought he had the right to do what he pleased with my body—without my consent. What he did had been calculated; normal people don’t keep roofies just lying around.

Even though I don’t remember it, I feel angry and disgusted, and I get even angrier when I think about the fact that he got away with it. How many other women has he done this to? I doubt I’m the only one. If he had served time for raping someone else, I would have felt at least some sense of justice, but I checked to see if the California legal system had his name in their sex offender database, and he came back clean. So, no, he hasn’t paid any price whatsoever for raping anyone.

I can go long stretches without thinking about it at all. I don’t have any traumatic images to flash back to, and it happened over twenty years ago. Sometimes, however, it just comes randomly to the forefront, and I feel that pang of injustice twist into my chest again. Seeing so many recent news reports of rapists pretty much getting away with it has left me so livid I can barely stand to look at any online media right now. My chest is painfully tight just typing this. Why is such injustice being allowed to continue? So much talk… and yet nothing changes.

Let’s talk about white, middle- to upper-class male privilege in its broadest form. Yeah, people have discussed it to death—but that’s because it’s still a problem. Privileged men get so many passes that move them effortlessly ahead in the line, from local political connections and small-town stardom in high school or college sports to the even higher privileged elites: “gentlemen’s C’s”; million-dollar “start-up loans” from Dad; buying their way out of consequences that leave their impoverished counterparts serving years in prison; and so many other perks that come with having “friends in high places.” These privileged people grow up to be entitled, and entitled people cannot seem to comprehend the simple fact that they should have to follow the same rules as everybody else.

But then you have men who weren’t born into money or given an easy ride growing up—and yet they believe they are entitled to anyone they have a strong desire to fuck, regardless of whether that desire is reciprocated. These men grow up either with bad role models or just a general lack of empathy; maybe they’re just born defective. These men are just as dangerous as the ones who can buy their way out of major jail time. They are cut from the same cloth: Either they think the rules don’t apply to them or money and/or status makes it so society’s rules truly don’t apply to them. We let this happen. Society has lost its cohesion. We don’t stand together anymore. We’re too busy arguing over countless other issues that never change—divided, distracted, defeated.

Finally, let’s talk about justice. What is the price tag for an invisible scar like mine? In a fair world, how much time would Brock Turner have served in prison? What do you personally believe would have been a just sentence for my rapist had he been caught in the act?

And, most importantly, how do people like me come to terms with our own injustices when reports all over the place are showing men getting away with similar crimes? No one should have to feel so completely failed by the justice system. Why is this being allowed to continue? I don’t understand how people with such selfish disregard for others can come out on top, time and time again. What happened to integrity? What happened to good prevailing over evil? Do such things exist? Did they ever exist?

I just don’t know what to think anymore. Maybe I should forget about justice and join the complacent, quiet, socially anesthetized masses: Let it mute my voice; let it twist me to believe in the virtue of one-upping the Jonses over the virtue of doing what is right; let it make me believe, and ignore, whatever it wants me to.

And let it make me believe that there is nothing I can do to change any of it.

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Life on Pause

9/7/2016

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I’ve neglected this blog in recent months. Whereas I used to average new, original content regularly, I now have a long string of guest posts and little more. I’ve been meaning to reach out, but I’ve also been hesitant. It’s hard to explain how the loss of one cat has had such a profound effect on so many aspects of my life. She and I had a special bond. I had bottle fed her after finding she’d come home not yet weaned. We’d survived Jeff together, leaned on one another through the abuse and beyond, both coming out stronger for it. She had an expressive face and a unique sense of humor. She was an important part of my life for seventeen years.

You don’t expect the grieving process to begin while your dying loved one is still very much alive, but it begins as soon as you learn the condition is terminal. Caring for Kadie took a lot out of me. Life went on hold. I simply lost the energy to do more than keep my home marginally clean and keep Kadie, hubby, and myself fed—and that lasted for months. I took care of her, at her whim nearly every moment until the end. She was a sweet, funny, empathetic, and obedient companion; she deserved only the very best of hospice care.

When she died, something inside me became just a little duller. Emptier. I lost my fire. I could barely eat for a good month. The 18th will mark two months since her death, and I still can’t even think about moving the scratching posts without fighting tears. Home feels so empty while hubby is away at work. Sometimes I think I see her in the corner of my eye, or I could swear I just heard her meow. It’s not as bad as it was at first, but it still throws me.

Not long after Kadie’s ashes came home, hubby and I decided that a change of scenery would refuel us both, so we packed our bags and took off. We didn’t want to burden anyone with Hue, our leopard gecko, so we put her in a travel tank and brought her along for the ride (and, I must say, she took the trip with the utmost of grace). We drove up the California coast, stopping to swim at beaches and get together with friends and family. I took tons of pictures, getting a few nice shots to remember the drive by. Our final destination was a small town in southern Oregon, where my sister was slated to perform in a local production of Cats, a fitting play to attend given the circumstances. Hubby and I were there for opening night. It was a blast. We stayed with my amazing niece for a few days before heading back.

The vacation proved to be a wonderful break from the grief, but a break was all it was. I came home to an urn on a shelf. I have toy mice and catnip pillows packed away in a box I can’t bring myself to part with. A handful of people have insisted I get a kitten to fill the void, and it really only makes me feel guilty that I do not want another cat. I've zero desire at this time to open my home and my heart to another pet. That approach might work for some, but it is not the right one for me. S/he could never live up to Kitty (who died three years ago) and Kadie--no one could right now—and that would affect how I behaved around him or her. It would just be unfair to any animal.

So, here I am, struggling to write. A friend suggested I try some free-writing to get the words flowing. I think this is as close as I’m going to get. Anyway, I want to thank those of you who have taken the time to read my blog over the years. I’m still searching for that spark, something to reignite my connection to the written word, but I’m hoping to have more of my own posts to share with you in the coming months. Thanks so much for your patience and understanding. And, as always, thank you for your readership and support.

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Ronald Chapman Book Blast

9/5/2016

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Today, guest author Ronald Chapman is here to promote two books: A Killer's Grace and My Name Is Wonder. He is giving away a $20 Amazon or Barnes and Noble gift card to one reader, so be sure to enter using the Rafflecopter box below.

About A Killer's Grace:

From the high desert of New Mexico comes a tale of mystery, murder and redemption. When journalist Kevin Pitcairn receives a disturbing letter from a serial killer, he is drawn into a compelling journey with profound psychological and spiritual implications, not just for the murderer, but for himself and society as a whole. As he tries to investigate and then tell the story, he finds himself battling his own inner demons and sordid history. Events conspire to propel an isolated matter to a national stage and audiences that are increasingly hostile. Forced to explore the roots of human psychology and sanity, Pitcairn must navigate moral and philosophical realms. What is the nature of evil? What powers of choice do humans actually possess? How may we be redeemed? And in the end, how do we reconcile with ourselves?

About My Name is Wonder:

My Name is Wonder chronicles the transcendent adventures of a little goat with big dreams. Join Wonder and his wisecracking guide, the mysterious crow Mac Craack, on a journey through the scenic landscapes of the American Southwest and into the heart of a mindful presence. Along the way, you’ll meet an unforgettable cast of creatures, each with an important lesson to teach.

Excerpt from A Killer's Grace:

As a freelance journalist and columnist for the local afternoon newspaper, the Albuquerque Chronicle, Pitcairn often received unsolicited mail. In this case, he immediately recognized the name of Daniel Davidson. He knew all about the case. Davidson was convicted for the murder of four of his six Texas victims after protracted delays for psychiatric evaluation. During that time, the state of Oklahoma had opted not to prosecute him for the murder of a seventh victim. But after those many lengthy delays, he was remanded to the custody of the state of New Mexico for trial in the murder of a seventeen-year-old Santa Fe high school girl.

That final proceeding was notorious for ending without a conviction two weeks before. Unlike the Texans, this jury had bought the psychological evidence. Their decision was greeted with derision and accusations of racism from the northern New Mexican, Hispanic community to which the young woman belonged. The police had to quell a near riot. Now Davidson was to be returned to Texas to await execution.

Davidson’s case was unusual. Despite the efforts of anti-death penalty agitators to appeal his case in Texas on psychiatric grounds, especially in light of the New Mexican decision, the murderer requested that his sentence be carried out as soon as possible. It was reported that he understood he had broken society’s covenants and actively sought his own death.

About the author:

Ronald Chapman is owner of an international speaking and consulting company, Magnetic North LLC. In addition to international accreditation as a speaker and national awards for radio commentary, he is the author of two novels, My Name is Wonder (Terra Nova Publishing, 2016) and A Killer's Grace (Terra Nova Publishing, 2016 and 2012), two works of non-fiction, Seeing True: Ninety Contemplations in Ninety Days (Ozark Mountain Publishing, 2008) and What a Wonderful World: Seeing Through New Eyes (Page Free Publishing, 2004) and the producer of three audio sets, Seeing True: The Way of Spirit (Ozark Mountain Publishing, 2016, 2005), Breathing, Releasing and Breaking Through: Practices for Seeing True (Ozark Mountain Publishing, 2015), and Seeing True – The Way of Success in Leadership (Magnetic North Audio, 2005).

Ron provides a wide array of social media content at www.SeeingTrue.com, content for people in substance abuse recovery at www.ProgressiveRecovery.org, and other content from his master site, www.RonaldChapman.com. He holds a Masters in Social Welfare from The University at Albany (New York.) Prior to his relocation to Atlanta, Georgia in 2008, he was a long-time resident of Albuquerque, New Mexico.

Note: A Killer’s Grace is one of two novels by Chapman being released simultaneously by Terra Nova Publishing, the other being My Name is Wonder. The publisher commented, ““It is remarkable that these two books can be so very different but somehow speak to the same messages.”

Links:

You can find A Killer’s Grace on Goodreads and Amazon.

Find out more at Ron Chapman's Websites:
http://www.RonaldChapman.com/ for other information from the author.
http://www.SeeingTrue.com/ for ongoing social media content including blogs, v-logs, graphical materials, etc.
http://www.ProgressiveRecovery.com/ for materials relevant to those in recovery from substance abuse.
Facebook Page: https://www.facebook.com/seeingtrue/

Note: A Killer's Grace and My Name is Wonder are being released simultaneously by Terra Nova Publishing. The publisher commented, “It is remarkable that these two books can be so very different but somehow speak to the same messages.”

My Name is Wonder Amazon is available for pre-order.

Praise:

“…a book for the ages, with profound truths simply stated. First there was Jonathan Livingston Seagull and then Yoda—Now there is Wonder…” ---Beverly Molander, Minister and Radio Host of Activating the Power of Yes

“…an exploration of human nature and into the allegorical realm that shows us how to be wise teachers and guides…”
--Paula Renaye, Author of Living the Life You Love

“Clarity is an aspect of love, it is seeing clearly. Ron Chapman sees with those eyes. He pays attention as few do to the miracles around us.” --Stephen Levine, Author and Teacher

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