My next book, maybe.

Greetings my friends!

It has been some time since I have posted anything but I have a good excuse. I just didn’t feel like it. Been doing other things. I confess a little blueness because the Earth kept spinning as though my little blog doesn’t matter at all.

You may recall that I am the author of Women in Combat, Feminism Goes To War. I have added its link below.

Judging by the continued feminisation of the US military my efforts have had about the same impact on the subject as my failure to post here recently has had on gravity. However! I am proud of my little screed. It is an easy read if nothing else and received many good reviews from men whose good opinions are worth having. And the foreword as you can see was written by a man that won the Congressional Medal of Honor.

So! I tell you all this now because I am working on my next book which I intend to post here in instalments. I am doing this because I am seeking input from any of you that might read it and want to keep reading it.

The story is finished in my head from beginning to end and the outline complete. But I may be too close to it and I have always been prone to blindspots in all that I do and this is where you come in.

So what do I want? First, not praise, though I will accept it blushing. No, what I want is to tell my story properly. To create in the reader’s mind that which turns the pages. To create curiosity, but not head scratching confusion. To lay in proper order all the roads, bridges, and sign post where they ought to be.

Questions, comments, and ideas are all appreciated. Feel free to text or email me if you if you have my contact information. Or leave me your contact information and I’ll contact you. I am afraid of adding my own contact information lest some jerk adds it to the spam generator in the sky. Or is it possible to contact me privately via Word Press? I dont know. I do have a YouTube channel which I am in the process of revamping so maybe you could contact me there.

So here is Chapter One. The book is not yet titled.

Chapter I

Within the thick walls of the Dowdy House the first sign of the disaster came as distant cries in the yard.  At first it was the shrill cries of children, but within moments the baritones of men joined the confusion. Drawing nearer, increasing in number and intensity, they drew the women from their various quarters and the men from the shops and near fields.  Panic was in the air as the cries shouts crescendoed towards the house’s great double doors, which were naturally open as it was mid-morning in early June.

Along with a dozen others who had been at work in the great kitchen at the time, Mrs. Rawls joined the growing processions of women and children as they made their way towards the great parlor to see what the commotion was about.

The din had now reached the great porch in the form of a pack of screaming children now pouring into the parlor, gesticulating wildly back towards what followed.  In a moment the towering form of James Kennon strode through the open doors, drawing a collective gasp from the gathering matrons.  Hesitating, his burning eyes scanned those upon him and Mrs. Rawls’ heart froze when they settled upon her.  Making a furrow through the crowd, five great strides later he stood before her and presented his offering.  There lying limp in his arms was her daughter, draped in the remnants of what she had worn, filthy, battered and covered in blood.

For a moment Mrs. Rawls heard nothing and felt herself to be suspended and removed.  Panic reached for her.  But her daughter drew breath as one sleeping bringing her back to ground.

The great bell in the yard was now being rung furiously and the King’s Cry in the great kitchen had been struck.  The initial pandemonium would give way to generations of drill and experience, and the cries and exclamations to commanding voices that would be obeyed. The men would now pour in from their fields and shops to stand fidgeting at their kits or stations, or to quickly and expertly lock down the House.  As quickly as the women and children had come forth to see what the matter was, they now retreated rapidly deep within the bowels of the House to their respective lock down rooms deep within the mountain.  Likewise Mrs. Rawls.  Her daughter was alive, and thus the horror at the sight of her was overcome in an instant by the instinct inherent in every mother that knows no fear when she stands between her child and danger.  Followed closely by her immediate kinswomen she led James Kennon to her room, where he laid her daughter on her own bed.  Dr. Rainey was on his way.  

The Lowland Baptists were upon them.  It was the only explanation.  And with no warning whatsoever.  And so early.  They never came up during the light of the morning.