ENDINGS AND BEGINNINGS SAMPLE CHAPTER!

The book is arriving soon. Really soon. Before you know it, I'll be asking you to fork over some of your hard earned cash to read it. 


Until then, here's some free stuff.



16. TEMAZCAL 
   The heat was sweltering. The summer had been particularly rough and dry, and altogether uncomfortable. This was an angry heat, tailor-made for the suffering of those forced to live through it. In the backyard of the Jarvis family, tucked safely beneath the shade of a thick-trunked Oak Tree, sat the house of the family dog, Mr. Button. Built when Button was a pup, the years were noticeably rough on the modest dwelling. The rain had warped its walls and rusted the nails holding them perilously in place. Once a crisp, almost blinding shade of white, the paint had been peeling away for quite some time, exposing the worn and damaged wood beneath in softball sized clumps of pure ugly. The roof was little more than ragged jumble of partially rotted materials, and the likelihood of the structure's collapse grew substantially with every passing day. So pathetic was this shell of a once proud doghouse that Mr. Button had taken to lying outside rather than in. Even he was capable of understanding it was a disaster waiting to happen. 
   Despite the heat and the ever-present fear of being buried beneath a heap of rotted wood, jagged sheet metal and copper colored nail chips, eight year old Tommy Jarvis had been sitting cross-legged inside the funky-smelling piece of construction for hours. His hair was soaked with perspiration, his clothes drenched so thoroughly they could literally be ringed out. The dirt beneath him transformed into a moist, muddy-wet stew of yellow-tinted sweat and soil that smelled as bad as it looked. His throat was dry and his lips cracked to the point that that act of running his tongue across their surface no longer accomplished anything at all. 
   Despite his aching bones, and the fact that his vision had begun to blur, young Tommy had no intentions of leaving. 
   He was determined to remain exactly where he was. He wanted to sit there, and stay there, and keep himself angry, because anger was what he was feeling, and because it was all he wanted to feel. Would it have been possible, Tommy might have sat in that exact spot forever, until his skin peeled away, caught the breeze and fluttered off, until his bones turned to dust and became indiscernible from the ground beneath. 
   That would teach them: his mom and his dad, that annoying jerk Donald Rondage. That would teach them all. 
   From just outside the doorway, on the wobbly roof of the modest doghouse, came a series of knocks that gently rattled the warped timber of the surrounding walls. Tommy didn’t look up. Instead, he pulled his knees close to his chest, folded his arms around his shins, and buried his head against the dusty-moist denim of his pants. 
   “Tommy? Come on out, bud.” 
   It was his father’s voice. His father was the last person he wanted to talk to. His father would try to calm him down, try to make him forget how angry he was. He wanted his father to go away. 
   “Come on Tommy. You can’t stay in there all day. I know you think you can, and I bet you want to, but you can’t.” 
   “Yes I can.” Tommy mumbled into his drawn legs defiantly. And he believed it. 
   He would have stayed there all day, and all of the next day and the day after that. He would have done anything to prove his father wrong. 
   Then they’d see. Then they’d all understand. 
Outside the doghouse that Mr. Button previously resided and was now home to his son, Chris Jarvis wiped a puddle of sweat from his forehead and glanced briefly into the sky. The heat was unbearable, and he was overdressed. He wanted a cool drink. He wanted to go inside, to sit just below the vent on the ceiling in the living room and let the air conditioning chill his troubles away. As hot as it was outside, he imagined it was doubly bad for his son. Though the doghouse was in the shade, it was small, and the metallic roof was undoubtedly absorbing the heat and locking it within, essentially transforming it into a stinky, dog-smelling hot-box. According to his wife, Tommy had been sulking inside Mr. Button’s humble abode for hours, ever since he got home from school. Chris needed to get his son out. His day at work had been extra-long and more frustrating than normal, but his son was his priority. Rest could come later. 
   “Well, if you won’t come out, I’m just going to have to come in.” 
   Dropping to his knees, Chris managed to wedge the top half of his body through the tiny doorway before realizing it was as far as he could go. The heat inside was absolutely blistering. Less than a second after jamming himself in the doorway, he began to feel lightheaded. A moment after that, breathing became noticeably more difficult. A few feet away with his back to the rear wall and his knees pulled tightly to his chest, Chris spotted his eldest son. Though the boy’s face was buried in the folds of his light blue jeans, Chris could tell Tommy had been crying. This information didn’t make things any simpler: quite the opposite, in fact. 
   “So you want to tell me what happened, bud?” Chris asked calmly while digging his elbows into the dirt and propping himself up. 
   Tommy chose to remain mum. 
   With the top of the doorway slicing into his back and resulting in considerable discomfort, Chris took a moment to reposition himself before continuing. “Come on. I can’t help you if you won’t let me.” 
   Again his son remained stoic, his stringy blond hair dripping with perspiration created by the immense heat. 
   “You know, this isn’t how we handle problems in our family, Tommy. We don’t run away from them. We don’t hide away and avoid them, and we don’t pout. Things don’t ever change unless you change them yourself. I know that kind of sucks, but that’s just the way it is.” Reaching forward, Chris gently placed his hand on his son’s sweaty head and massaged the clumps of damp hair. “Tell me what happened and we’ll take care of it together. That’s another thing we don’t do in this family; we don’t handle things alone. Your mom and I are here to help you whenever you need it. Whatever happened, we can fix it. I promise.” 
   Tommy could feel the palm of his father’s hand on his head, feel it mashing against his skull, feel his fingers moving reassuringly across the tender skin of his scalp. Despite his anger and in spite of his frustration, the boy could not deny the fact that the simple gesture almost instantly caused him to feel better. His father always had the ability to fix him when he was broken, and with very little effort. It came so naturally. As much as any young boy of eight possibly could, he trusted his father. His father meant everything to him. 
   Chris smiled subtly as his son lifted his head from between his knees and glanced through watery-red eyes in his direction. The fact that Tommy even bothered to look up meant that he was listening, and if he was listening, maybe, just maybe he was hearing. 
   Stretching himself forward, Chris put his hand on his son’s shoulder and patted gently. “You want to come inside and we’ll talk about it?” 
   Tommy forced himself not to respond. He was still a bit too mad, and he wanted to remain that way. The fact that his father was attempting to coax him into the exact opposite was only making him madder. He was sick of getting picked on at school, sick of Donald Rondage shoving him in the mud and calling him names, sick of being the wall against which the ball was bounced. He wanted to be the ball for once in his life. He wanted to do the bouncing. 
   Though Chris had no idea exactly what happened at school to put his son in such a state, he believed he had a general idea. Tommy had been having problems with a boy named Donald for some time. His wife had talked with his teacher about it, but his teacher could only be expected to do so much, and apparently what she’d done wasn’t nearly enough. As Tommy buried his head into his jeans once again, Chris Jarvis was momentarily bought back to his own youth, to the fourth grade and to a smarmy little jerk of a kid by the name of Ricky Emerson. He hated Ricky. He hated him so much. For years Ricky made a habit of pointing out little Christopher Jarvis’s every mistake. The kid seemed to relish doing it, and the reaction it garnered from the other children. After an unfortunate accident in the second grade, Ricky even gave Chris a nickname: Christopher Pisstopher. The name stuck and followed Chris all the way through middle school before finally fading away. 
   Chris sighed, staring blankly into the distance while remembering Ricky’s greasy little face and those pants with the holes in the knees he was always wearing. Surprisingly, despite the onslaught of awful memories, he smiled. Tommy was a lot like he’d been at that age. He thought too much. Sometimes he felt too much for his own good. 
   There are certainly positives to being blissfully unaware. 
   Wedging his hand beneath Tommy’s chin, Chris lifted the boy’s face so he could look him in the eye. 
   A puddle of sweat had formed on his forehead and was now leaking down the sides of his face like splatters of rainwater against a pain of glass. “You know none of this matters, right, kiddo?” 
   Tommy’s eyes remained downcast, his features slippery with perspiration. 
   “You’ve got a long life ahead, and the years are going to throw an awful lot at you. I guarantee the day will come when all of this…stuff…when none of it means a thing. Believe it or not, it’ll even seem a little silly.” 
   Though young Tommy Jarvis could clearly hear his father’s words, he didn’t believe a single one of them. He couldn’t and he wouldn’t, not yet, anyway. 
   Words are weird that way. They can mean entirely different things at various points in life. While some might claim their meanings are unchanging constants, those some would be wrong. Words adapt and evolve like all things in the universe, even eight-year old boys. 
    “Come on. It’s time to come inside.” Lovingly squeezing his son’s shoulder, Chris began pulling him in toward the door in which he was currently wedged. “Your mom will kill me if I walk into the house without you. I’m not asking you to be happy about it. You can hate me if you want. That’s okay. Right now I need you to crawl out of this toaster and come inside. You’ve been out here long enough. It’ll be dark soon. Come on. Do as your father says.” 
   Though Tommy’s mind wanted to fight for his position and remain exactly where he was, his body relented. It had just about had enough. It was drained and worn, and left to stew in its own juices. It wanted out. After crawling from the beaten shell of Mr. Button’s once proud residence, father and son walked slowly across the yard and into the house through the glass slider in the back. Chris rested his arm on his son’s shoulders the entire way. 
   Tommy was happy to have it there. 
   A part of him wished it could stay forever.

SAMPLE CHAPTER - BOOK TWO - CHAPTER TWO

Liars and Thieves will hit in both e-book and print editions in the next couple months. In my eternal attempt to keep you interested, I'm going to be offering up some chapters leading up to to the release.

If you want to get caught up before Book 2 becomes available, the cheapest method is to snag yourself a copy the Fathers and Sons "Special Edition" for Nook or Kindle at the link below.

CLICK HERE

Okey dokey, enough with the babble.

Enjoy Chapter 2!

2. Family Visits

“Boys?” Edna Williamson called out from the bottom of the stairs. “Your father and the chaperone should be here soon! Why don’t you come downstairs?”

Both Tommy Jarvis and his younger brother Nicky clearly heard her words, yet neither made a movement toward the bedroom door. It had been months since either boy had been in the same room with their father. The abuse allegations, and subsequent investigation proving them to be true, resulted in their removal from his care and placement with a foster family. For almost half a year they lived with a couple of retirees named Ed and Edna Williamson. In spite of their comically similar first names, the Williamsons proved to be decent, caring people — not perfect people by any means, but good people — the kind of people Tommy and Nicky barely believed existed anymore. Neither boy had forgotten about their father, yet at the same time they were only now beginning to settle in to their new life with the Williamsons. Things were easier for them here, quieter and certainly a lot less painful. The truth of the matter was that neither boy found the idea of introducing their father back into their lives even remotely appetizing. A week and a half before, a social worker for the state sat the pair down, telling them that Chris had been attending his meetings, that he was sober, and remorseful, that he was making great strides, and was anxious to see them again. Of the two, Nicky was slightly more open to the idea of reuniting with their father, but then Nicky’s past experiences with the old man were quite different from Tommy’s.

The memories – the awful, stinging memories –just recently began melting away for the fourteen year old Tommy Jarvis. What would happen now though? What would happen, when after all these months, Tommy came face to face with his father? Would the very old, very thick anger boil up from wherever he’d managed to shove it down deep inside his belly? Would the pain attached to those memories like a nasty parasite feeding off a half-starved host prove too much to bear? There were some questions in life for which one simply didn’t want answers. For Tommy Jarvis, these were those very questions.

“Boys? Come on now, don’t dawdle . . .get your behinds down here.” Edna yelled out a bit more forcefully from downstairs.

Propped up on his elbows, Nicky reluctantly slid his feet over the side of his bed, sighing deeply. Across the room Tommy remained on his back, staring blankly up at the ceiling. His eyes were closed, his chest rising and sinking patiently with each breath. Tommy didn’t want to forgive his father, and he couldn’t understand why everyone seemed to expect him to. Even if the old man had changed – even if he never again laid a hand on him, or screamed at his little brother – so what? The damage had been done.

Some things, once done, can never be undone. It was as simple as that.

Things were by no means perfect with the Williamsons, but they were certainly better than anything the Jarvis brothers had experienced in a very long time. Tommy understood completely that he and Nicky’s time with the Ed and Edna was limited - a temporary solution at best. Temporary or not, it was something he wasn’t ready to let go of. Nicky was speaking again and doing better in school. Last week Tommy spotted his little brother talking to another boy outside the building after school ended. Nicky had a friend - a real, living and breathing friend. Things were getting better. For the first time in years, happiness – even on the tiniest of levels – seemed attainable. It could all go away with the snap of the fingers — or the stinging crack of a backhand across the face if they were forced to move back in with their father. Only recently, Tommy had experienced, for the very first time, the wonderful sensation of going to bed without a welt on his leg, a scratch on his arm, or a fractured bone inside his chest. Lately his sleep had been deep and comfortable and warm, his dreams non-existent. How utterly amazing it had been to simply sleep, free of nightmares and without worry. It was luxury he had forgotten existed. What did a life with his father have to offer? Why did he deserve a second chance? He didn’t.

“Are you coming down?” Nicky asked Tommy while standing next to his bed staring at his older brother from across the room.

Tommy breathed deeply, turning his head slightly in Nicky’s direction. “No . . .and neither should you.”

“We have to.”

“We don’t have to do anything Nicky . . .especially not for him.” Twisting his body sideways while pulling his knees to his chest and curling into a half-fetal position, Tommy turned away from the confused face of his little brother and toward the opposite wall.

At the bottom of the stairs, Edna Williamson was a moment away from calling to the boys again when she noticed Nicky slowly making his way toward her. Tommy, though, was nowhere to be found.

“Where’s your brother?” She asked the youngest Jarvis boy as he passed her on his way into the kitchen.

“He doesn’t want to come down,” Nicky responded softly, never turning in her direction.

From the opposite end of the room, Ed Williamson sighed with a deep, noticeable frustration while tugging his aching body up from a very comfortable position on the couch.

“I’ll go have a talk with him,” he grumbled, slowly beginning the long journey up the stairs.

“Don’t you go flying off the handle, Ed . . .this isn’t easy on the boy.”

“I know Edna, I know. Give me a little credit will you. I’m just going to have a little chat with him, that’s all.”

“If he’s not ready to come down, the social worker said we shouldn’t push too hard . . .especially not for the first meeting.”

Ed was near the top of the stairs now, his chest straining, his aged knees aching from the journey.

Stopping momentarily to catch his breath he looked down at his wife of so many years while rolling his eyes, “I remember what she said . . .I remember. If there’s anyone in this house that knows what he’s going through, it’s me. Relax. I’m not going to push the boy, trust me.”

The wrinkled, slightly more crooked than it was twenty years ago smile on her husband’s face instantly reassured Edna Williamson. She loved Ed. She loved him as much as the day they were married, though for entirely different reasons. Love is funny like that, having the uncanny ability to morph into something completely foreign while still holding onto the things that made it so unique, wonderful, and safe in the first place. The sixty-three year old Edward Williamson was a good deal different from the twenty-four year old version. In his heart though, despite the changes brought on by age and experience, he was still the same man she fell in love with and still a comfortably perfect fit for her.

Reaching the door to the boy’s bedroom, Ed stopped for a moment to collect his thoughts. Rubbing his hand across his balding head covered sparsely with stringy gray hair, he sighed deeply. His mind wandered back many, many years to his own father, to the unresolved issues he allowed to remain unresolved until the day his father died. As frustrated as young Tommy Jarvis had occasionally made him over the last six months, he cared about the boy. In fact, he cared about the boy so deeply that it surprised him. When Edna suggested they become a foster family, the one thing Ed never counted on was forming any real, serious feelings for the children sent to live with them. After his own son’s untimely death so many years ago, he simply didn’t think he was capable of such a thing anymore. Having loved a child so deeply only to have that love taken away – he always believed it left him hollow and incapable of reaching that peak again.

The appearance of the Jarvis boys had proved him wrong.

After mustering up a bit of courage, he pushed the bedroom door open gently, “Hey pal, why don’t you . . .” Ed’s voice quickly trailed off.

The room was empty. Tommy was gone. The window on the opposite wall was wide open, loose drapes flapping softly in the fall breeze.

Shaking his head, Ed calmly called out to his wife from the top of the stairs, “I think Tommy is going to sit this one out, dear.”

SAMPLE CHAPTER - BOOK 2 - CHAPTER ONE

The released of Liars and Thieves is just around the corner, as is the Re-Release (Special Edition) of Fathers and Sons! Because I'm a really nice guy, I've decided to post a few sample chapters to wet your whistle. (Which is sort of a gross saying, but whatever.)

I figured it best to start with Chapter One.

Enjoy!

1. Traitor to the Cause

“Tell me what you’ve done with it, and I will consider sparing your life.”

For him, time ceased to have meaning long ago. How many days had he spent shackled in the king’s dungeon? Could it be weeks? Months even? Long enough that the heavy chains around his ankles sliced into his skin, merging with the muscle underneath and forcing the flesh to heal grotesquely around them. How often was he dragged from his cell and beaten? How many times had he teetered through a wobbly haze, barely conscious on the razor-thin line between life and death? Two hundred? Three hundred? Maybe four? His body no longer resembled the one he’d spent a lifetime becoming familiar with. Quite adept in the dealing of punishment, the guard’s fists had changed him into something else. Like a reflection in a broken mirror, he was shattered, distorted, and barely recognizable. Busted numerous times, his jaw dangled from his face, useless. All but a few of his teeth had been removed — some ripped out during hour-long torture sessions, others knocked loose during any one of the regular beatings. His skin, once a healthy dark green, had become a disgusting, blotchy mess of purples, blues, and deep grayish-blacks. Even the most minute of movements on his part brought forth worlds of agony. The gentle breeze from a window nearby instantly reduced him to tears. His limbs had long since ceased functioning, devolving his form a million years and making upright movement impossible. Having suffered through things no creature should ever be forced to feel, he found himself crumpled in a garish heap at the feet of the massive, stone-faced tyrant king of Ocha. A small part of him wondered if he’d made the right choice. This pain could have been avoided. He brought this on himself.

Gently nudging the broken, tangled body of the creature sprawled before him, the massive king sighed deeply. “How sad it is to see you like this, Krystoph. I had such high hopes for you. You were so very talented in the art of killing … so frighteningly, wonderfully talented. There was a time, not too long ago, when my opinion of you approached admiration.”

Shaking his head while flashing a disgusted look at the broken lump, the king turned swiftly, pacing back to his throne before reclining with yet another heavy sigh. “I gave you everything, and what did you offer in return — deceit, lies, and thievery? You’ve shamed your king. You’ve shamed your country and all those calling it home. You’ve shamed yourself.”

His ears smashed and barely of use, the broken lump of flesh that once answered to the name Krystoph was able only to make out half the king’s words, and even they seemed distant and jumbled. Despite this fact, his clouded brain managed to put the pieces together well enough to get a general idea of the point the ruler of Ocha was trying to make. Doing his best to ignore the unbelievable amount of pain shooting through every centimeter of his body, Krystoph lifted his weary, half-conscious face with a shaky defiance to the creature he once admired beyond all others.

While using a hand consisting mostly of broken fingers to hold his jaw in place, he grumbled, “Y-you … ki-killed m-my … my … family.”

Quietly the tyrant King Kragamel chuckled. “You are mistaken old friend. Long ago you gave you life to me, and in return I allowed you the privilege of serving as a general in the greatest army the world has ever known and will ever know. In doing so, your family became my family. You see, unlike what you’ve stolen from me, their lives were mine to do with as I pleased. They were mine to kill.”

In direct response to the words, Kristoph’s distorted excuse for a body lurched forward angrily. His broken legs awkwardly thrust the mass of wrecked bones and torn muscles in the king’s direction. Something more a guttural noise than a fully imagined word rose up from his belly, exploding from his mouth like searing magma. Despite the fact that his fingers had been shattered beyond the point of usefulness, Krystoph reached for the king’s foot, clawing at his thick leather boot. The rabid, snarling growl did little to frighten Kragamel though. His expression remained stoic. Many times in the past Kristoph had proven the most capable, the most willing, and the most vicious soldier his army ever produced. The snarling, sniveling mass of bloody flesh kneeling before him now – this was not Krystoph. Nothing remained of Ochas’s most feared general, and the revolting thing he’d become was of no threat. Placing his foot on top of Krystoph’s head, the king easily shoved the broken lump of flesh away as two beefy guards rushed in, pulling Krystoph further still from Ocha’s benevolent leader. The flow of adrenaline having passed, Krystoph began at last to feel the result of his outburst. His body was in no shape for such an act. Now he found himself struggling not only to reclaim his escaping breath but also to deal with the flashes of deep, searing pain tearing him apart from within.

“I will give you one more chance old friend.” The king offered sternly from atop his throne. “Tell me where you’ve hidden it. End this nonsense. You know I will locate it eventually; you will have suffered for nothing. Why take your misguided hatred for me out on the Ochan race? Should this great nation suffer because of your random loss of common sense? Tell me where it is … tell me where it is and this all comes to an end. Tell me where it is, and I assure you I will make your death quick and painless.”

Though one of his lungs was punctured months ago, Krystoph breathed in deeply, managing to momentarily gain control of the pain pouring over him like molten steel. His brain was on fire, his head on the brink of an explosion. Grimacing through eyes drowning in blood, he attempted for the first time in weeks to pull his twisted, mangled body upright. Seeing this, the two guards hovering nearby immediately moved close and shoved him back to the floor. With a flip of his wrist and a slight gesture of his fingers, King Kragamel ordered them to stand down. Managing successfully to maneuver himself to one knee, Krystoph bit down on his lower lip with the few reaming teeth in his mouth and grunted deeply, eventually hoisting his tattered, starved, frail body upward. Teetering atop wobbly, useless legs, he raised his shaky head, staring defiantly into the eyes of Ocha’s most feared king.

With a voice of whispered rage he choked out only a single word, “No.”

Overcome with the undeniable urge to rip the head from his former general’s shoulders and place it on a pike in the center of the castle courtyard for all to see, the king instead shoved his emotions down, successfully centering his rapidly expanding rage.

Krystoph would have loved nothing more than to see him frazzled, and because of this, frazzled was by no means an option. Calmly looking past Krystoph’s unsteady form, Kragamel called out to the back of the room: “Gragor!”

From the opposite side of the massive throne room, the then newly-appointed, still young, fresh, and anxious to please general of the king’s armies moved across the floor in long, determined strides. Stopping alongside Krystoph, the massive Ochan dropped to a knee, bowing his head in reverence of his king. “Yes sire?”

“We could torture this traitor until the end of our days, and it is unlikely he will ever tell us what we need to know; he has been trained too well. He has outworn his usefulness. I shall waste no more time on him. I want you personally to take him to the fire caves, open his throat, and watch the life bleed from his sad excuse for body. Do not burn his corpse though … let the combustion beetles make a meal of him instead. This fool is undeserving of a proper torching.”

Though barely noticeable to most in the room, Gragor grinned ever so slightly. “Of course sire. Consider it done.”

Still wobbling, his body shaking violently as a jolt of pain traveled up his spine, Krystoph managed to remain standing, his steely gaze never once moving from the king. Even after hearing the words from Kragamel’s mouth, at no point would his expression falter.

The king would have loved nothing more than to see him weakened and because of this weakness was simply not an option.

Gragor locked his muscular arms around Krystoph’s torso, tugging his busted, useless form backward across the cold stone floor. From his throne the tyrant king of Ocha watched intently until his former general was pulled from sight. He allowed himself only a moment to dwell on his choice before moving to the next order of business. The king had ordered many to die during his tenure. Krystoph was no different than any of the others.

Once dead they are gone and once gone they never come back – this was the way of things.

SAMPLE CHAPTER - BOOK 2 - CH.17 LIARS

I promised you a snippet from book 2 before the end of the week and that's exactly what I'm giving you.

Liars and Thieves is only a couple months away!

Which is Just in time for Christmas - go figure.

*wink, wink, budge, nudge*

Oh, don't worry about spoilers. The chapter I'm offering up is a flashback, so no major plot details are leaked. I'll save that for a little later.

Steven







Every breath was like a knife stabbing the twelve year old Tommy Jarvis in the chest. Even the most simple of movements sent a torrent of unrelenting pain flashing throughout the entirety of his body. Outside the cold window pressed against his shoulder, the darkened world passed by in flashes. Streetlights soared like shooting stars, dragging behind them ghostly trails that wagged across the blackness like the latent images of never-there monster tails. In desperate need of a tune-up, the car underneath him clanked and creaked, its engine struggling to maintain even the most average of speeds for any significant amount of time. Across from Tommy, only half awake and hunched over the steering wheel, was his father. The eyes of Chris Jarvis were wide, the stubble on his face at least two days old. Since the funeral for his wife earlier in the week, Chris had spent his days fading in and out of reality. This was due in no small part to the endless stream of mind altering, wonderfully numbing liquid consistently making its way down his gullet and back up again into his brain. Problems were easier dealt with when one had the help of friends – Chris had found his friends in bottles. Faced with a red light, Chris slammed on the breaks, bringing the car to a screeching halt. Briefly glancing to his right, he watched with the slightest bit of worry as his eldest son clutched at his chest, a strained grimace stretched across his boyish features.

Gripping tightly on the leather of the steering wheel, he looked away, his breaths coming in more rapid succession with every passing moment, “We’ll be there in a minute…”

The hospital was still six blocks away but it was not the time or even the amount of pain his son was in that worried Chris at the moment. There were much larger things at stake; things involving his personal well being and things involving the truth. The sweat pouring down his forehead seeped into the crack of his lips – salty and warm, he awkwardly swallowed it down. From two feet away, Tommy groaned deeply, the boy’s breaths seemed labored and anguished, as a barely there wheeze escaped his lips. Chris asked himself, ‘How did this happen?’ Sifting through the blurry memories scattered across his mind like debris from an explosion, he found little answers. How could he do this? How could he do this to his own son? Worse yet, what if someone found out?

Before he even realized what he was saying, the words were leaving his mouth, “It was an accident Tommy…you got in a fight at school…you didn’t tell me until just now…it was an accident.”

Tommy could only barely hear his father. Stretching his neck upward, he twisted his nose toward the fresh, moist air pouring through half-opened window next to him. The dewy smell of early morning entered his nose and traveled down his chest, caressing his injured ribs from the inside. The momentarily relief carried with it an all too brief moment of clarity, making it possible to once again put to use his other senses.

Again came his father’s voice, clearer this time, more insistent now with the hospital only a few blocks away, “Do you hear me Tommy? It was an accident, right? Look at me and tell me it was an accident…”

Reluctantly Tommy turned his head to his father, the pain in his chest moving outward once again and pouring over him like molten lava and scorching his insides. The person sitting across from him bore little resemblance to the man he’d known for the entirety of his young life. His father had changed. Whether by situations beyond his control or on account of a weak will, the father Tommy once knew and once loved was gone. In his place there sat a drooling, wide-eyed, frightened and confused monster – an only partially existent thing that had lost control of everything in its life, including itself. Pulling into the hospital, the rusty car at last came to a stop and the engine puttered off.

Again Chris turned to his son, “I’m not going to ask you again Tommy…look at me and tell me it was an accident…tell me you got in a fight at school…”

His voice barely a strained whisper, Tommy Jarvis at last relented, “I…got into a fight…”

“Into a fight where?”

“At…at school…”

“And you didn’t tell me about it until this morning.”

“No…I didn’t…”

“Didn’t what?”

“Tell…tell you about it until this morning…”

“It was an accident.”

“It…it…was…an accident.”

While escaping Tommy’s cracked lips, the words stung far more than the pain in his chest.

Inside the hospital x-rays were performed, showing beyond a doubt that the boy did indeed have not one but two broken ribs. While being pumped full of wonderful pain relieving fluids, the doctor asked him how such a thing occurred. Tommy recited his father’s story verbatim. The doctor was surprised the boy lasted as long as he did without telling anyone; he said the pain must have been unbearable while glaring at Chris questioningly for a moment - choosing for whatever reason not to voice his concerns. As if reading from cue cards or recalling a well-rehearsed speech, Tommy again fed the young doctor the story – again he lied. He didn’t know why he did it really – realizing that it made no sense whatsoever – and yet, the words existed. Traveling from his brain, they exited his mouth and were given form, becoming an independent part of the universe. Like the mad scientist’s monster, they were now alive, hungry and dangerous. This was only the first time Tommy would lie for his father. There were to be others – many in fact. With every one, the boy’s resentment grew. With every false truth, the pile of rancid, slimy blackness building in his gut expanded, pressing against his interior like a great cancerous tumor. Much the same as a virus, Chris Jarvis’ disease infected his son, twisting the boy into a distorted, grotesque funhouse reflection of himself. Eventually the day arrived when the lies came easier for Tommy, when he didn’t bat an eye or offer even a second thought. It is on this day that Tommy at last determined the price for years spent wading through lies, for time spent covering up his father’s misdeeds – forgiveness.

Perhaps not so strangely, he found some semblance of peace in this decision.

FORTS SAMPLE CHAPTER - Slaughter of the Innocents

Because I'm a nice guy I've decided to toss another sample chapter your way. If you haven't yet purchased book one, what exactly are you waiting for?

Get your butt in gear.

Don't make me tell you again, or else I might just have to tell you a third time - in a far sterner tone.

You don't want that and neither do I.






The pale-skinned children from the hundredth world brought with them an infectious feeling of possibility that permeated the streets of Tipoloo. It slid under every doorway, through every crack, into every home, and filled the city’s inhabitants with a wonderful, warm feeling to which they were not accustomed. This was an odd feeling, a new feeling, a beautifully strange feeling that some of the younger children, those who had been born inside the city walls, had never felt. On every corner of every street, large groups of vastly different species talked amongst themselves, hopeful smiles spread across their tired, beaten, war torn faces.
It appeared as if the prophecy was more than just words. It had turned to flesh and blood. It was real, and could put an end to the incredible hardship they had come to know as simply being alive.
As Zanell turned the corner on her way to her grandfather’s dwelling, she passed a family of Huerzo Snubs outside of a tiny dwelling cut into a section of the city’s earthen walls. In many ways, the four foot tall Huerzo Snubs resembled ladybugs. Their enormous oval shaped bodies seeming impossibly large for their spindly legs, and yet they managed to move with an inspiring gracefulness. This was mostly due to the aid of a pair of nearly transparent wings attached to their backs that constantly flapped, enabling them to maintain their balance. The mother Huerzo sat quietly on a rock outside of her dwelling watching her two young children playfully wrestle in the street a few feet away. Each time one of the children was knocked over it rolled through the dirt like a marble on a sidewalk, its tiny legs flailing wildly in the air. As Zanell passed, the mother Huerzo looked up at her, smiling a timid smile in a way only a Huerzo could do justice. Zanell hadn’t seen a smile of this nature on her face in a very long time, not since her mate was captured a few years back above ground while searching for food with a gathering party.
The tiny bit of happiness in the mother Huerzo’s expression momentarily warmed Zanell on the inside. How uncommon, how truly wonderful and uncommon. This was exactly what the boys’ appearance brought to Tipoloo. This was exactly what Tipoloo needed.
Zanell noticed similar smiles all day long. In fact, the smile of the mother Huerzo became the rule rather than the exception. A small group of four or five Ricardian children passed by Zanell. She could overhear them whispering to each other about the way Tommy Jarvis blasted a massive hole in the city’s wall just a couple of days earlier.
“I heard that he blew a hole in the wall, and vaporized four of the king’s guards with it!”
“Shut up…that’s not what happened…it was seven of the king’s guards! Afterward he opened up another hole in the ceiling and flew off into the forest. I think he’s on his way to take on Kragamel one-on-one!”
“Now you’re the one who needs to shut up. He can’t fly!”
“Can, too! I saw it with my own eyes!”
“You didn’t see anything, liar. You were with me when it happened!”
“Well…whatever happened, I know that crusty old king is in for a serious beating when Tommy and Pleebo get hold of him!”
Ricardians were well known as a race of wonderful storytellers, and wonderful exaggerators. Ricardian children, on the other hand, were known to take exaggeration to unbelievable levels. Zanell smiled slightly, laughing a bit on the inside at the sweet, overzealous innocence in their words. At the same time she couldn’t really blame them, because she felt it, too. She believed in her grandfather, she believed in the prophecy, and because of this she believed in the possibility that Tommy, Donald and the others might be the catalyst that ushered in a bright new world. Hidden deep beneath her hopefulness, though, she was worried about her older brother. Zanell had never been away from him for more than a day, and she already missed having him around. From the day their mother died, Pleebo was more than just a brother to her. In many ways he was her parent, and even more importantly her best friend. If anything happened to him – well, she simply wouldn’t have any idea what to do with herself.
If only her grandfather had let her go with them, then she could watch him. Then she could keep an eye on him and make sure he was safe.
Zanell opened the door to her grandfather’s dwelling, stepped inside and closed it gently so as not to frighten him. “Grandfather?”
She set a bowl of Fluto root she had brought on a small table nearby, along with a goblet of water. The room was dark, the air stuffy and stale. It smelled of age and experience and knowledge. From his bed in the corner of the room, the elder’s tired, creaky body pushed and pulled itself slowly into a sitting position. Each of the ancient creature’s joints cracked and popped.
Zanell quickly made her way to his side, and helped him sit fully upright. “You need to eat, Grandfather. I’ve brought you some dinner…Fluto root…your favorite. I even mashed it up for you so you wouldn’t have any problems getting it down.”
“Thank you, Zanell,” the old creature said as he finally straightened up.
Once she was convinced he wouldn’t immediately tip over, Zanell turned back to the mashed Fluto root on the opposite end of the room. The elder reacheed out, grabs her skinny arm and turned her to face him again.
“What is it, Grandfather?”
Reaching up, the old creature touched the side of her face, his eyes half closed, his lips forming a dry, dusty, ancient smile. “Don’t worry about the root, Zanell. Save it for yourself. I won’t need it.”
“What? What are you talking about? Its been too long since you last ate grandfather…you need to keep your strength up.”
With his bony hand, he gently ran his fingers through her stringy white hair. “You look so much like your mother, Zanell. Both you and your brother…you both look so very much like Lanell. I was so proud of her…so proud of the Fillagrou she grew to be. You’ll…. you’ll make me…equally as proud, Zanell. In fact, you already have. I only wish…that I could be alive to see the wonderful things your future will bring…”
Zanell tried to ignore her grandfather’s words. He often complained about his age, regularly making jokes or little comments about how much time he had left to live.
She convinced herself that this was exactly what he was doing now. “Shut up, Grandfather…you’re going to be around for a long time. You’re as healthy as a Subertivean Ox.”
The old creature sighed deeply. “Every journey comes to an end Zanell.”
“What are you talking about? You look fine. You’ll eat something, and you’ll feel much better, like always. Stop talking like that.”
Reaching up slowly with both hands, the elder placed them softly on either side of her face.
With a half sad, half contented smile he looked directly into her enormous red eyes. “There is a wonderful beauty in endings, Zanell. Were it not for the pain of endings, we would never experience the exquisite hopefulness that can come only with a new beginning.”
Suddenly Zanell no longer thought her grandfather was simply complaining for the sake of complaining. Every crease and wrinkle in his face screamed of stern seriousness. He knew something that she didn’t. A lone tear slipped from her right eye, rolling down the side of her soft, drawn skin. Her thin lips began to quiver as she tried to formulate words. She found only the sound of her increased breathing.
Pulling her forward, her grandfather kissed her gently on the forehead. “I need you to run, Zanell. I need you to run to the southern passage and keep running until you’ve entered the forest. I need you to do this right now, my dear.”
“Grandfather…I…I don…why?”
“Have faith in my words…this one last time. Go…go and don’t look back.”
Almost on cue, the ground beneath Zanell’s feet shook violently, sending her careening into a nearby wall. A few seconds latr the ground shook again – this time even more aggressively. The blue burning candle in the corner of her grandfather’s dwelling tipped over, and fell into the dirt, smothered into oblivion. Zanell forced herself back to her feet, and quickly rushed to her grandfather.
Wrapping her arms underneath him, she tried to lift him from his bed. “SOMETHING’S WRONG, GRANDFATHER! COME ON, WE HAVE TO GO!”
The elder’s body flopped around like a heavy, useless rag doll. Even if the ancient creature had desired to move there was no way he could ever hope to run. To escape what was coming was not his fate, and he knew this.
Using what little strength remained in his tired body, he pushed Zanell away from him. “No! I can’t go anywhere, Zanell! This is exactly where I’m supposed to be. You have to trust me! You have to run, now!”
Zanell wiped away the torrent of tears flowing from her face as the ground rumbled yet again. This time thick chunks of dirt fell from the ceiling. “NO! I WON’T LEAVE YOU! I CAN’T!”
Again she reached out for her grandfather, and again the old creature pushed her back. Suddenly the city shook with such incredible force that it sent her falling backward, slamming against the creaky wooden door. Massive amounts of dirt and stone came loose and fell from the ceiling. A few of the larger chunks hit her on the top of the head.
The entire room was covered in a thick brown mist. “GRANDFATHER!”
From somewhere inside the cloud of dirt came the elder’s far away voice. “RUN, ZANELL! TO THE SOUTHERN PASSAGE! GO NOW!”
As she attempted to stand, another violent shaking caused Zanell to roll backwards through the door and out into the street. Everywhere around her the inhabitants of Tipoloo were frightened and screaming, scattering in every direction without rhyme or reason. Some seemed to be looking for shelter, some for family and some for weapons. Near the end of the street the ceiling collapsed inward viciously, as if a bomb had been set off somewhere above. The head of an enormous gray beast blasted through the earth and slammed to the city floor, chomping away every ounce of soil in its path with its massive open mouth. It swallowed the dirt it had just torn away, shook its head from side to side wildly, and pounded against either side of the street in the process. The massive cranium maneuvered itself parallel to the ground, blowing the excess dirt and sand from its nose. Opening its gigantic mouth, the terrifying thing let out a growl so ear piercingly loud that the entire street vibrated. Zanell immediately covered her ears, her body now scooting backward across the ground, away from the growling, monstrous beast. As quickly as the enormous head arrived, it shot back into the sky leaving a gaping hole in its wake that led into the forest. The city of Tipoloo looked like a war zone. Mounds of dirt and rock continued to fall from the ceiling high above the street. Clouds of grainy, thick sand rose up around Zanell. It made it nearly impossible for her to make out anything that was more than three feet away. More crashes, shakes, and noises rose up from inside the destructive cloud. No doubt these sounds were the result of other massive holes opened up by equally angry beasts at various other points throughout the city. The incredible amount of noise drowned out the horrified voices of the city’s inhabitants, making communication of any kind between them no longer a viable option. The sounds, the sights, and the harsh reality of what Zanell was witnessing quickly became too much for her to process. Everything was happening fast. She had seen battle before. She has seen the dead and injured, but never in Tipoloo, and never on this scale. It all seemed unreal.
She stumbled back to her feet just in time to see armed guards with weapons drawn, repel downward through the incredible hole the creature’s head had opened up. A few of Tipoloo’s inhabitants grabbed clubs or crudely made spears and attempted to engage the guards in armed combat. They were no match for the well trained, massive bodied, angry and determined soldiers.
Everywhere around Zanell, their forms partially obscured by the clouds of dirt and dust, innocents were being slaughtered.
With deadly precision, without regret or remorse, the Ochan army was doing exactly what they were trained to do. They were killing everything. The city of Tipoloo had been the single stain on the legacy of their people for years – an embarrassment to the glory of the empire. Now, with the chance to take care of that which had eluded them for so may years, they were assuredly making the most of the opportunity.
Zanell’s tears were thick with sand and soot. When she wiped them, it smeared across her already dirty face, sticking to her skin in clumps. She looked in the direction of her grandfathers dwelling. It was now totally obscured by the smoky madness that had engulfed the city.
Softly through her shivering lips she whispered, “I love you” to her grandfather and turned and ran toward the southern passage as fast as her shaky legs would carry her. Behind her, nearly everything she had ever known and loved - died.

FORTS SAMPLE CHAPTER - THE PROMISE

Here's a little sample chapter from the upcoming book which is released on March 20th.

Hope you enjoy!

Steven







THE PROMISE

The long white hallway on the fourth floor of the Fairchild Medical Center was mostly empty and rather quiet. Occasionally a nurse or a doctor walked by with their head buried in a set of papers on a clipboard, their shoes clicking against the tile floor with every step. It was night, and with visiting hours coming to an end, most everyone, patients and family alike, had either drifted off to sleep or returned home. On an empty bench near the end of the hallway sat ten-year-old Tommy Jarvis. Too short to reach the floor, his legs swung back and forth over the edge of the bench. His hands rested softly on his lap as he twiddled his fingers quietly, trying his hardest to think about anything other than this place. Behind the door to his right are his mother and father.
For almost a year now his mother had become progressively sicker. At first the trips to the doctor were for small things like high fevers or sore throats or pain in her joints. In the last few months, the trips were more frequent. She was admitted to the hospital three weeks ago, and it was here that she remained. Every night like clockwork his father left him and Nicky with Auntie Carol and go to visit her. On the weekends – like today – he would bring them along. Nicky might be too young to really, truly understand every nuance of what was going on, but Tommy believed the young boy understood the basics of the situation. Their mother was sick, and she wasn’t going to get better.
She was dying.
No doubt Nicky couldn’t make total sense out of the concept of death, but he knew that a time would come very soon when he would never see his mother again.
Tommy looked up as the door to his mother’s room opened; his father stepped out with a sleepy-sad Nicky pulled tightly against his chest. He looked in Tommy’s direction. “Hey buddy…how are you feeling?”
Tommy didn’t know quite how to respond. The idea of summing up everything going on in his head seemed like a task more impossible than anything he had encountered in his young life. He saw no point in trying.
Chris Jarvis gently laid the half-awake Nicky down on the bench next to his older brother, softly brushing the hair from the boy’s eyes. When Chris looked down he noticed his hand was shaking. He could feel a torrent of emotions building up inside him, but forced himself to ignore them. He needed to be strong, even if he wanted so very badly to cry and scream, and denounce his faith in God, the universe, and whatever unseen force was putting his family through this. He wanted to yell at the doctors for not doing more, or curse the nurses for their pointless pitying looks, or simply run away and leave all the sadness and the stress behind, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t do any of these things or a number of others. Not in front of his boys, and not now. These were things better left to the nights alone, shrouded in the darkness of his room, spread out across his marital bed with soaking wet eyes. He had to be bigger than that; he had to be better than that, for them – even if it hurt more than he could stand.
After taking a deep breath and wiping away a single tear in the corner of his eye, he knelt down in front of Tommy, gazing into the soft blue eyes of his eldest son. “Hey big man, your mom…your mom wants to see you alone for a minute. Would you like to do that? Are you going to be okay, or do you want your ol’ dad to go with you?”
Tommy noticed the shaking of his father’s hands as well. He spotted the very faint glimmer of wetness, catching the pale glow of the fluorescent lights, in the corner of his eye.
Despite trying so hard, Chris Jarvis could not hide his emotions well.
Tommy wanted badly to see his mother - to hug her and kiss her and hear her tell him that she loves him…and that she will always be there for him…but he knows that isn’t going to happen. Maybe it was the look on his father’s face or the eerie, bordering on downright frightening, silence coming from his mother’s room, but something inside the boy told him that if he went through that door, it would be for the last time. After today he was never going to see her again.
“Well buddy, is that something you think you might want to do? I know your mom would really like to see you.”
Despite his brain telling him to say “no”, Tommy nodded his head yes. He carefully slid off of the bench and moved toward the door to her room.
Gently his father patted him on top of his head, mussing his hair a bit, whispering in a shaky voice, “It’s okay, buddy…everything will be alright.”
Despite his best efforts, Chris Jarvis wasn’t convincing anyone – least of all, himself.
Once he put some distance between his father and him, Tommy heard his father’s voice crack silently as he struggled to keep from breaking down right there on the spot. It was this very tiny, yet extremely telling moment that would stick with Tommy for years afterward, because his father’s voice would never sound the same again. Not only did Chris Jarvis’ voice crack on that day, but his soul did, as well – a crack so deep that it could never be repaired – spreading slowly, until the dam of his emotions shattered completely, devouring everything in its path.
The hospital room was dark, barely lit by the glow of a television set hanging high in the corner, the volume turned all the way down. As Tommy approached his mother’s bed he noticed how small and frail her body looked. The light blue sheet hung over her as if it were resting on a skeleton. Her breathing was labored, her face gaunt, her eyes sleepy, distant and dreamy. She looked far away, almost as if her mind were off somewhere floating above, just barely clinging onto the motionless form that had been left behind, propped up on pillows. Tommy saw her left eye move slowly to the side, independent of her face, as she spotted him standing next to the bed gazing up at her. A weary smile cracked to shape on her worn face, but even the act of smiling seemed a painful experience for her. Her mouth opened as if she wished to speak, but only a puff of air and a gentle hum, just barely a sound, escaped.
Somewhat ashamed at her inability to form sentences, she squinted, focused her mind and tried again, “T…Tommy…ho…how is Mommy’s…s…special little…guy?”
Her hand crawled across the bed sheets like a pale white spider moving toward Tommy. When it arrived at the end of the bed the boy reached up and held onto it gently. He wanted to squeeze it as tightly as he could, but didn’t for fear that it might cause her pain in some way.
“Mommy…is…g…going to go away for a while…bu…I don’t want you…to…ever forget how…much I…I love you…okay, baby?”
The tidal wave of emotions Tommy had been doing his best to keep inside started to make their way out of him in the form of hot liquid now streaming from his eyes. His face instantly grew balmy and tepid, his lip started to quiver uncontrollably and his neck felt wobbly, unable to properly hold the weight of his head. While trying to catch his breath and failing, Tommy looked up at the motionless form that only slightly resembled his mother.
In between deep breaths he did his best to form a sentence, “Bu…but I don’t want you to go.” It wasn’t much, but it’s the best he could manage before breaking down completely.
Megan Jarvis started instantly to weep uncontrollably, as she saw the tears pour from her little boy’s eyes.
She had cried so much over the past year that she found it amazing she had any tears left, “No…no…don’t cry, baby…you need to be strong for Mommy…you…you need to be st…strong.” Using every last ounce of strength buried within her, Megan leaned over the side of the bed, ignoring the incredible pain shooting throughout her body. Reaching down with one hand, she pulled her son toward her.
Tommy moved closer, his face now sobbing into the thin, flower-patterned fabric of her hospital gown.
“This is just part of life To…Tommy. Ju…just another part…” Megan stuttered softly, pulling her first-born’s head away from her shoulder so she could look him directly in the eyes, “All of life is beautiful…all of it. Even…the parts we hate, and even…when it reaches its end.”
Tommy wasn’t completely sure what she meant, but he absorbed her every word like a plant absorbing the life-giving energy of the sun, promising himself that he would never forget even a single one.
“You’re a very special…boy…Tommy Jarvis. I…I…knew from the moment I saw…your tiny little…face. Promise me…promise Mommy that you’ll enjoy life. Promise…me…that you’ll look for its beauty. Promise me, that…you’ll be happy. Promise me…that you’ll do…do…everything that…”
She stopped for a moment, her lips slowly opening as if she is thirsty before continuing, “Promise me that you’ll…that you’ll do everything you think…you can’t…” Her voice had begun to trail off. Her eyes slowly looked away from him toward something she could see that he could not. The hot air softly blowing from her mouth and nose became shorter and colder against Tommy’s skin. Her neck grew looser and her head heavier. Her hands slid off of his face, floating downward, weightless, and landed softly on the sheet covering her body.
Tommy climbed onto her bed, wrapped his arms around her, and buried his face in her shoulder once again. Deeply he breathed in the smell of her hair, relishing it as it floated into his brain.
In between fits of tears, he whispered softly into her ear, “I Promise.”

Sample Chapter - Forts

Been a rough couple of weeks for me. Nothing that I really want to get into, but lets just say that I've gone through better stretches in the past.

The bit of good news is that I am very near completion of the first draft of the novel that I've been writing for the better part of the year. My goal of finishing it before years end is looking like a possibility. Instead of scanning in, and posting an illustration this week, I've decided to put up a sample chapter from the book.

Remember, this is still a first draft, so don't judge me too harshly. Because if you do, I'll find you...

And send you a nasty email or something, I dunno.

That really was a hollow threat.

Anyway, enjoy.

Steve




The Promise

The long white hallway on the fourth floor of the Fairchild Medical Center was mostly empty, and rather quiet. Only occasionally did a nurse, or a doctor walk by with their head buried in a set of papers attached to a clipboard, their shoes clicking against the tile floor with every step. It was night, and with visiting hours coming to an end most everyone, patients and family had returned home. On an empty bench near the end of the hallway sat seven-year-old Tommy Jarvis. Too short to reach the floor, his legs dangled back and forth over the edge of the bench. With his hands resting on his lap he twiddled his fingers quietly, while trying his hardest to think about anything other than the hospital he currently found himself in. Behind the door to his right were his mother and father. For almost a year now his mother had been growing progressively sicker. At first she was making trips to the doctor for small things like high fevers, or sore throats, or pain in her joints. In the last few months the trips had become more frequent. Three weeks ago she was admitted to the hospital and it was there that she remained since. Every night like clockwork his father would leave both he and his brother with his auntie Carol and go to visit her. On the weekends – like today – he would bring both Tommy and his brother Nicky along. Nicky was too young to really, truly understand what was going on, but Tommy believed that the young boy understood the basics of the situation – his mother was sick, and she wasn’t gong to get better. She was dying. No doubt he didn’t completely understand everything about the concept of death, but he did know that a time would come very soon, when he would never be able to see his mother again.
The door to Tommy’s side opened and his father stepped out with little Nicky pulled tightly against his chest. He looked in the direction of his son, “Hey buddy…how are you feeling?”
Tommy didn’t know how to respond. The idea of summing up everything going on in his head seemed like a task more impossible than anything he had yet to encounter in his young life, and therefore he felt no desire to try.
Chris Jarvis gently laid the very sleepy Nicky down on the bench next to his older brother then softly brushed the hair out of his eyes. When Chris looked down he noticed his hand was shaking. He could feel a torrent of emotions building up inside him, but forced himself to ignore them. He needed to be strong. Even if wanted so very badly to cry, and scream, and denounce his faith in God, the universe, and whatever unseen force was putting his family through this. Even if he wanted to yell at the doctors for not doing more, or curse the nurses and their pitying looks, or simply run away and leave all the sadness and the stress behind, he couldn’t. He couldn’t do any of these things or a number of others. Not in front of his boys, not now. He had to be bigger than that, for them – even if it hurt more than he could stand. After taking a deep breath and stopping the growth of a single tear in the corner of his eye by wiping it away, he kneeled down in front of Tommy, and looked into the soft blues of his eldest son, “Hey big man, your mom…your mom wants to see you alone for a minute. Would you like to do that? Are you going to be okay, or do you want your ol’ dad to go with you?”
Tommy noticed the shaking of his father’s hands. He spotted a glimmer of wetness catching the pale glow of the fluorescent lights in the corner of his eye.
Despite trying so hard, Chris Jarvis wasn’t hiding his emotions well.
Tommy wanted so very badly to see his mother. To hug her and kiss her, and hear her tell him that she loved him, and that she would always be there for him, but he knew that isn’t what was going to happen. Maybe it was the look on his fathers face, or the eerie, bordering on downright frightening silence coming from his mother’s room, but something inside him told him that if he went through that door, it was going to be for the last time. After today he was never going to see her again.
“Well buddy, is that something you think you might want to do? I know your mom would really like to see you.”
Despite his brain telling him to say no, Tommy nodded his head yes. He slowly slid off of the bench and began moving towards the door to her room.
His father patted him softly on the top of the head, mussed his hair a bit then whispered through a shaky voice, “It’s okay buddy, everything will be alright.”
Tommy didn’t believe his words anymore than his father believed them himself.
Once he had put some distance between he and his father, he heard the old man’s voice crack silently as he struggled to keep from breaking down right there on the spot. It is this very tiny, yet extremely telling moment that would stick with Tommy for years afterward, because his father’s voice would never sound the same again. Not only did Chris Jarvis’ voice crack on that day, but his soul did as well – a crack so very deep that it would never be repaired – instead spreading slowly with every passing second, until the damn broke completely and drowned everything in it’s path.
The hospital room was dark. Only barely lit up by the light of a television set hanging high in the corner with the volume down. As Tommy approached his mother’s bed he noticed how small and frail her body looked. The light blue sheet hung over her skinny body as if it were resting on a skeleton. Her breathing was labored, her face gaunt, her eyes sleepy and dreamy. She looked far away, almost as if her mind was off somewhere, floating above, and just barely clinging onto the motionless form propped up on pillows in the real world. Her left eye moved slowly to the side, independent of her face, as she spotted Tommy standing next to the bed looking up at her. A weary smile formed on her worn face, but even the act of smiling seemed a painful experience for her. Her mouth opened almost as if she wished to speak, but only a puff of air, and a gentle hum that was just barely a sound escaped. Somewhat ashamed at her inability to form sentences, she squinted her eyes, focused her mind and tried again, “T…Tommy…Ho…how is Mommy’s…s…special little…guy?”
Her hand walked across the bed sheets like a pale white spider moving towards Tommy. When it reached the end of the bed he reached up and held onto it gently. He wanted to squeeze it as tightly as he could, but didn’t for fear that it might cause her pain in some way.
“Mommy…is…g…going to go away for a while…bu…I don’t want you…to…ever forget how…much I…I love you…okay baby?”
The tidal wave of emotions Tommy had been doing his best to keep inside started to make their way out of him in the form of the hot liquid now streaming from his eyes. His face grew hot, his lip started to quiver uncontrollably, his neck felt wobbly and unable to properly hold the weight of his head.
While trying to catch his breath and failing, Tommy looked up at the motionless form that only sort of resembled his mother. In between deep breaths he did his best to form a sentence, “Bu…but I don’t want you to go.”
Megan Jarvis started to cry almost instantly after seeing her son break down. She had cried so much over the past year that she was amazed she had any tears left, “No…no…don’t cry baby…you need to be strong for Mommy…you…you need to be st…strong.” She used every last ounce of strength buried within her to lean over the side of the bed while ignoring the incredible pain shooting throughout her body, and pull her son towards her.
Tommy moved closer to her and began to sob into the thin, flower patterned fabric of her hospital gown.
“This is just part of life To…Tommy. Ju…just another part…” Megan pulled his face away from her shoulder so she could look him directly in the eyes, “All of life is beautiful…all of it. Even…the parts we hate, and even…when it reaches its end.”
Tommy wasn’t completely sure what she meant, but he absorbed her every word like a plant absorbing the life giving energy of the sun, and promised himself that he would never forget even a single one.
“You’re a very special…boy…Tommy Jarvis. I…I…knew from the moment I saw…your tiny little…face. Promise me…promise mommy that you’ll enjoy life. Promise…me…that you’ll look for its beauty. Promise me, that…you’ll be happy. Promise me…that you’ll do…do…everything that…you think…you can’t…” Her voice began to trail off. Her eyes slowly looking away from him and back off into whatever it was that she could now see that no one else could. The hot air softly blowing from her mouth and nose became shorter, and somehow colder against Tommy’s skin. Her neck grew looser and her head heavier. Her hands slid off of his face and floated downwards, landing softly on the sheet covering her body.
Tommy climbed up onto her bed and wrapped his arms around her, burying his face in her shoulder once again. Deeply he breathed in the smell of her hair, and felt the softness of her skin on the side of his face.
In between fits of tears, he whispered into her ear, “I Promise.”