Showing posts with label Ghosts of Gannaway. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Ghosts of Gannaway. Show all posts

Saturday, May 19, 2018

I am...the Great Indoorsman by Stuart R. West

CLICK HERE FOR SPOOKY OUTDOOR SHENANIGANS
Let's get something straight. I don't camp. The closest to camp I come is watching the old Batman TV series.
I'm a civilized chap, rather fond of climate control and beds. Beds were created for a reason. I believe it blasphemous not to use them. And cable TV, a must for survival.

Several years back, my wife talked me into a camping trip. We're talking really roughing it. Staying in a cabin in the wild woods of Oklahoma. The sheer Jeremiah Johnson-ish of it all! Sure, the cabin had a hot tub and a VCR player, but, man, I felt so...primitive. I mean, honestly! A VCR player, for cryin' out loud!

It was at this savage cabin I saw my first "walkingstick." Totally freaked me out. I screamed like my name had been called on "The Price Is Right." Sticks aren't supposed to walk. And people can't understand why I don't camp. Duh.

I suppose my Great Indoorsmanship began at an early age. Against my better judgment (and because kids are never given a choice), I was set to go on a cub scout weekend camping trip. Thankfully I came down with a stomach virus and missed the "adventure." On that ill-fated trip, my fellow scouts blundered into a wasp's nest and rolled through a thatch of poison ivy. If I even look at poison ivy, huge blisters develop on my eyelids.

Invariably when people try to convince me how wonderful camping is they fall short of selling it. Usually, their tales are rife with horror (Mosquitos! Flooding! All sorts of Biblical plagues!), hardly a convincing argument.

When you wake up freezing or sweating (both equally awful sensations), I hardly see that as a bonus. Campers are just opening themselves up to the Zika virus or a Bigfoot ravaging. Not to mention the various demented serial killers who lurk in the woods. I know, I've done my research. I've watched lots of horror movies. 

I gained my Indoorsman legs the hard, practiced way...on the sofa. Many hours spent on many a different sofa have toughened me into the sofa-sitting man I am today.

And I have the best job in the world, too. Writing. I never have to leave the sofa again. (Well, maybe to wheel the mini refrigerator and microwave in next to the couch, but you know what I mean.) 


Thursday, October 19, 2017

Ghosts of Gannaway by Stuart R. West

Click for Stuart R. West's BWL author page!
Gather round the pumpkin patch, boys and ghouls! It's time to tell a lil' Halloween ghost story.

Can you hear 'em? The ghosts of old miners clambering down the road? Don't believe me? Go take a look at the local mining museum. Just make sure you visit in the daytime. And don't give no never mind to those moving pictures on the wall. And just what in the world's goin' on down in those mines anyway?

Ghosts of Gannaway. The perfect ghost story for Halloween reading.
Ghost whispers echo through the mines of Gannaway. They have a story to tell. It’s the story of a town torn apart by greed, pollution and vanity, by racial discord between the Native Americans and the invading miners, by the Great Depression, by the violent union strikes of the 1930’s. That’s not all that brought Gannaway to its knees, though. Not by a long shot. Because something—else—lives in the deserted tunnels of the mine, something dark and evil. Something that breathes life into the Ghosts of Gannaway.

'Ghosts of Gannaway takes the reader on a journey they won’t forget.' ~ Paranormal suspensewriter Gail Roughton

'Filled with tension, excellent characterization, suspense, ghostly presences and enough twists and turns to keep you glued to the last page.'   ~ Thriller author Catherine Cavendish

'Captivating...a ghost story full of surprises.' ~ Mystery writer Joan C. Curtis

(Psst...for more Halloween reading, try Peculiar County, a more gentle YA approach to the ghost story...)
CLICK FOR GHOSTS, THRILLS, CHILLS, AND MYSTERY!


*Stuart R. West’s brand-spanking new website!
*BWL Publishing author page.
*Stuart R. West's (totally inconsequential) blog: Twisted Tales from Tornado Alley
*And the rest: Facebook, Twitter

Saturday, November 19, 2016

Why Women are Smarter than Men by Stuart R. West

https://read.amazon.com/kp/embed?asin=B019BI3KUI&preview=newtab&linkCode=kpe&ref_=cm_sw_r_kb_dp_TP3kybRWQJ8RT
Okay, I have to admit, the title’s a “come hither.” Because I don’t know the answer. It’s just the truth, an undisputed fact of life.

Lord knows I never set out to be a feminist. It’s really not in my genetic chemical make-up, having been born and bred in the backward state of Kansas. Even my mom, who I used to think was the most independent woman ever, recently said, “Politics need men in office!”(She clenches her fists in a show of power.) “Someone who’s led by God. A man! A really strong man!”

I’m not gonna get into politics, let alone the silly, sexist rhetoric of her proclamation. But she’s wrong. 

Usually in my books, I begin with a male protagonist. But it’s the female characters who soon take center-stage, pretty much hijacking the action.  They’re shrewder, much savvier. They’re the characters who pull the clueless guy’s butt out of the fire . It just flows naturally, nothing I ever planned.

Because I write from proof. Maybe it comes from a deeply embedded mind-set that all men know but are unwilling to admit: women are more logical than men. Contrary to TV and movies, I believe women are ruled less by emotion. They can survive anything. If the movie, Rudy, played over wide-screen TV’s in a bar, the stool-campers would be reduced to tears in seconds.

And what do men like to do? Fix things! Heck yeah! Jump right in, make things right, no moss on us! But what happens when we can’t fix things? We get lost in a world that’s incomprehensible to us. After we’ve played out our ineffectual macho attempts to make things right, women swoop in and save the day.

So far this is all just theory. But based on my highly scientific research, here are the astonishing—yet absolutely true—findings:

FACT! While watching movies, I’m always the sobby mess by the end of it. I can’t even think about the kid movie, Homeward Bound, without fogging up. (Oh…that final scene…sniff). My wife asks if I’m alright. Totally embarrassing.  My “Man Card” should probably be revoked.

FACT! Outside of spider visits, my wife can handle any crisis. Made of steel. She’s more prepared for the End of the World, always thinking ahead, one foot set in the bomb shelter.

FACT! Our dog respects my wife more than me. Why? Because I’m the lovable playmate. Dang dog ignores me. But when my wife barks, the dog bows down. He’s no dummy.

FACT! Whenever confronted with a store or restaurant trauma, my wife’s the clean-up player. The way I “handle” the situation? I scream, shake and sweat like latter day Elvis. Heart attack in a Hawaiian shirt. Nothing good ever comes from my hissy-fits. My wife smoothly rolls in like a pavement layer and attains positive results with cool calm.

FACT! Women aren’t too proud to ask for directions. I mean, who does that, right?

FACT! Women live longer than men. Because, duh, they’re smarter.

If you’re a man reading this, I apologize, just ignore it. You'll forget about it soon enough. Women readers? You know I’m right.

For further FACTS, check out my “women are smarter than men books.” Every last one of ‘em features a woman as the hero. (Never mind the shirtless male model on the cover below; it's the character's wife who's the true hero).

Click on the cover below for a preview!
https://read.amazon.com/kp/embed?asin=B010KOI0SY&preview=newtab&linkCode=kpe&ref_=cm_sw_r_kb_dp_IY3kyb5NEJGKC
Sisterhood!

Wednesday, October 19, 2016

The True Meaning of Halloween, Charlie Brown by Stuart R. West



So many things frighten me. The odd thing is I love being scared. Just not by heights, serial killers, dirty bombs, nuclear fear, bio-chemical warfare, Trump, and shoe-shopping with my wife.

Maybe that’s why I adore dumb horror films. I know they’re not real, a vicarious and silly joy-ride. One I can easily recover from.

My wife doesn’t feel the same way. Recently, I somewhat hoodwinked her into watching The Babadook, a terrific Australian horror flick. I proclaimed it an art film to entice her into viewing with me. Not entirely a lie. Still, she hasn’t forgiven me.  (Hey, part of the fun of horror films is watching them with someone else, a communal experience. I love to hear people shriek in theaters...for all the right reasons, of course.).

Halloween is near. Spookiest time of the year. My daughter always says it’s her favorite holiday (a girl after my own heart). But, why? Where did Halloween spring from with its ghoulish visual aids and strange customs? 
As always, my faithful research assistant, Ms. Google, held the answers. 

(Read the following with Vincent Price's voice in your head; of course, for those spooky-challenged among you, you can always opt out for Morgan Freeman): Halloween was initially created to honor the dead. Somewhat like Memorial Day, only more morbid. Blame the Gaels for their ancient festival, Samhain, the origin of Halloween. The Irish would set out food and drink, offerings to the Gods for good health and livestock. Cheapskates would go door-to-door in costume looking for food. Back then, singing or poetry was recited for the food. No tricks. Not a bad gig.

Soon, pranking spread, instigated by the cheeky British. Call it door-to-door blackmail. “Gimme candy or I’ll do something rather naughty.” 

Christianity tried to adopt the holiday, turn it into a day of prayer for the deceased. I think they’re still trying to work the kinks out. 

To me, Halloween represents the time to embrace the spooky. Love it. The crisp falling orange leaves of Autumn fill me full of melancholy, a remembrance of my childhood and the horror films I used to seek out (which was quite hard to do when you only had three—sometimes four—fuzzy channels). Have you seen the Val Lewton produced films from the ‘40’s? Scary, yet subtle and artistic. A nice starter kit. Move on to the classic “The Haunting” from the ‘60’s (and, PLEASE, don’t even get me going on the modern remake). From there, the sky’s the limit. I broke my daughter in on “Abbot and Costello Meet Frankenstein” and Twilight Zone DVD’s. She hasn’t looked back yet.

So. Put out the kids. Tuck the cat in bed. Turn out the light. Fire up the chimney. Cuddle next to a loved one and get scared. Have fun with it.

In my book, Ghosts of Gannaway, I try to cover all spooky bases without being gross (the anti-scary). Kinda based on a true story, the book details the history of a small mining town in the ‘30’s. There are ghosts, murders, an evil mining magnate, claustrophobia, bad juju, nightmares, romance (gotta have romance), shadows, bigotry, pollution, photographs that move, a funny native-American, secrets, mystery, cancer, things that go bump in the night and the fear of being buried alive. Everything that scares me wrapped up in one book.
Click here for spooky Halloween thrills!
Happy Halloween! Boo!

Friday, August 19, 2016

"Ooooklahoma, where the winds come sweeping..." Enough! By Stuart R. West

Well, I imagine there aren't too many Okies singing that beloved song now.
Last week, a devastating, incredible wind storm blew through eastern Oklahoma. Some of you, not from the Midwest, might be scoffing, saying, "Oh my, Stuart, what's wrong? Afraid your hair will muss?"

A) I don't have any hair; B) people underestimate the power of wind.

How strong was it? It blew over a semi on the Turner Turnpike. Over 87,000 people were without power. One of the water suppliers lost some of their pumps, putting their customers on rations. A mobile home with a dog inside it was flattened (miraculously, the dog's okay). Finally, everywhere you look, trees are down, houses destroyed, people's lives in turmoil. And the local tree trimmer guys are set for life. The remnants of a war-torn battle zone.

Sadly, my inlaws were affected. The storm plowed through Broken Arrow, next to Tulsa, in Nature's indiscriminate and bullying way. (All photos are from their yard).


They live on a vastly wooded three acres and over half of their trees are down, some having fallen on the house. Karma smiled on them, though. Miraculously, the house is undamaged. My mother-in-law was out when the storm blew through but my father-in-law was at home. Apparently, he'd had no idea it'd happened. Maybe he had his TV headphones on. I'm sure when he went outside, though, he was in for a shock. Anyway...maybe it's good karma paying them back for the nice things they do. But the clean-up, ay-yi-yi!

My wife packed up her loppers and headed down. Her brother brought the chainsaw, his wife supplied tea and lemonade making skills. Unfortunately, I couldn't go because I wasn't supposed to make long car trips. Recovering from "major" surgery, don't you know. (Whew. Dodged that bullet).

But the clean-up crew could only do so much. One of the downed trees was thicker than a giant's thumb. No chainsaws could even begin to bite the bark. 
My inlaws had an estimate. Crikey. I need to get into that line of work. Sadly, the guy says he'll have to cut down another tree to get his truck into the backyard. Headache after heartache for them.

Still, the house is intact. So is their health. Unlike many other Oklahomans. My prayers and well wishes go out to them.

Never underestimate the power of wind. You can't do anything about it, I'm just sayin'. (And I never want to hear that happy song about Oklahoma wind again.)

Speaking of Oklahoma, my book Ghosts of Gannaway may take place in the fictional town of "Gannaway," but don't be fooled. It's loosely based (minus the ghosts, natch) on the town of Picher, Oklahoma, another nature destroyed town. Read it and weep and pull the covers up over your head!

CLICK HERE TO PURCHASE!
 

Tuesday, July 19, 2016

Phobias by Stuart R. West

Phobias are a funny thing. Everyone suffers one.
If you look up the word "phobia," it's categorized as an anxiety disorder; a fear of a situation or object blown way out of proportion to the actual threat. Try telling that to the phobia sufferer.

I have a friend who's deathly afraid of clowns. Why? Dunno. But I suppose it makes sense to him, his mind working overtime to try and persuade logic to over-take the irrational fear. Granted, serial killer/clown John Wayne Gacy didn't do too much to promote clown good-will, but I hardly think clowns generally pose a threat. Even so, there's even a name for it: Coulrophobia. The fact the fear is predominant enough to earn its own name implies its more widespread than I thought.

My phobia? Heights, aka Acrophobia. Which is strange. It didn't happen until later in life. As a youth, I'd recklessly climb aboard the most rickety-looking, splintery old roller-coasters with wild abandon. Absolutely fearless. But sometime, somehow things changed. I didn't even realize it until my daughter and I visited a (supposedly haunted) lighthouse in Florida. It wasn't the thought of ghosts that inspired my fear. At the top of the tower, I hugged the walls, too terrified to look down while other tourists found me very amusing. How do phobias build later in life? Is it like hair-loss?

The most outrageous case of phobia I've ever seen is my wife's (thank God she doesn't read this blog). A medical professional, she doesn't flinch at anything, even discussing gory details with a blase attitude over dinner. But...spiders. Yep, arachnophobia. The eight legged varmints turn my strong soldier of a wife into a quivering pile of jello. When she was in college, she took parachuting lessons. On the day of her big jump, she spotted a spider in the airplane. The instructor had to physically restrain her from jumping out early. Once, on a busy street, she jumped out of her car, leaving the passenger inside to deal with it. Anything to get away from the dreaded critters. At home, her screams are legendary. I'm used to the tiny, startled "eeks." Those are categorized as "Be there in a second, honey!" But the full-on, blood-curdling shrieks when she spots an arachnid? That hits the "Code Red! Jump over any obstacles to get there ASAP!" category.

There's a phobia for nearly everything and a correlating name to go along with it. Fear of hair (Chaetophobia), fear of cooking (Mageirocophobia), fear of smells (Olfactophobia), fear of long words (Sesquipedalophobia--which I think is kinda ironic, really), the list goes on and on. It's quite fascinating, really. If you're truly interested, look up The Phobia List.

I suppose everyone's allowed a phobia. And only the sufferer truly understands their own fears, even if they're at a loss for words how to describe it. And I have to say, a lot of times I write about some of my own fears in my books, I suppose as a form of therapy. Yep, even danger at heights!

What say you, folks? Let's hear about some interesting phobias.
Click Here For Many Phobias: Ghosts, Greed, Evil, Buried Alive, Moving Shadows & More!

Tuesday, April 19, 2016

The Big Book of Cliches by Stuart R. West



These days when I read a book and come across a cringe-inducing cliché, my first inclination is to hurl the book across the room. Of course I don’t do that since I do most of my reading now on an electronic device.
Even more troubling is when I realize, “Hey! As a writer, I’ve used that cliché on several occasions!” Oh, the shame of it all. Here’s the funny thing about clichés, though. Writers hate them; but sometimes, particularly in genre-based fiction, readers sometimes seek them out. Like a comfortable throw. There’ve been times when I’ve strayed from clichés intentionally, particularly in regard to protagonists. Gone are the rough and tumble, yet beyond handsome, confident he-men. Hello to insecure, troubled, baggage-carrying neurotics. No secret which type of hero is more popular.

Clichés offend me. No, that’s not quite true. They bore me. I want more originality. To help myself stay on the straight and narrow path and not stray down cliché alley, I composed a list of some of the worst offenders. (Keep in mind these adhere more to the noir/thriller/suspense genres than others).

*Heroes with macho names. Every writer’s featured one. Every reader has read many. Usually the names connote some sort of solid building material. Don’t ask me why. “Rick Broadbrick.” “Rocky Hardroad.” “Stoney Brawling.” “Captain Tug McLumber.” Personally, I’d like to see more Marvins and Miltons. But…those names don’t exactly encapsulate tough guys.

*The damaged goods male lead. Women readers love these guys. Throughout my life, I’ve met women who adore these guys in real life. They’ve admitted it to me; they want to change them. So many fictional detectives and cops are alcoholic, love-dented, chain-smoking, sloppy, death-wishing brooders. Every woman’s dream, right? Good luck fixing ‘em, ladies!

*The dreaded dream sequence. How I’ve come to loathe fictional dreams. I’m the first to admit I’d used them in some of my earlier books. But never again. I see them as the ultimate cheat. Nothing that happens in a dream ultimately matters. Sorta a waste of time. If I make it through the book, only to find out the entire tale was a dream? I call foul! No more! Use your clichés wisely and sparingly.

*The big revelation! Usually, the big reveal happens with our hero standing out in the rain. Not just a light sprinkling either. We’re talking monsoon weather. He drops to his knees, raises his fists to the sky, screams, “Noooooooo!” Or the variant: “Whyyyyyyy?” First? Get out of the rain. You’re gonna catch pneumonia. You can scream just as well in dry environments. Or at least prepare yourself and bring an umbrella. Second? Scream something original. How about, “Huh. I didn’t see that coming.” Or “What a day, what a day.” Okay, I know, right? Not as impactful. But…enough’s enough.

*Characters who have big emotional insights, but say them out loud when they’re alone. “Think of the kitties…oh, my Lord, what about the poor, poor kitties?” Who does that? Who are they talking to? Talk about damaged goods. Call up a friend, then chat about the kitties. Or see a psychiatrist. The only time I’ve ever talked to myself? When an accident happens. And it’s language no one should be privy to.

*The chatty, James Bond-style super-villain. Usually when the bad guy is unveiled, he holds the hero at gun-point (or some other perilous situation) and decides to make a lengthy speech. “You see, Mr. Broadbrick (they’re generally very polite, too), the reason I decided to poison the clown-car full of would be thespians is because I, too, once fancied myself a clown. Oh, I went to clown school, learned to juggle at the feet of the masters, excelled in the art of applying make-up and honking red noses. I wore baggy pants day in and day out. Every day for twenty years! Then they laughed at me…not a good kind of appreciative audience laugh either. For you see…”  Zzzz. Snurk. Wha? Sorry, I dozed off just writing that. The hero probably would’ve in real life, too. Or taken the time to unravel the ropes binding his hands, sweep the feet beneath the villain, claim the gun, the woman, the stolen money. Truth time? I’ve done this. Sometimes it’s a must, no way around it in murder mysteries.

There’re a lot more where these came from. I’ve just skimmed the top of the ol’ cliché barrel. But, as I said, some readers come to expect a few of these in books. It’s what they like, what they search out. And depending on the genre? Some are absolutely unavoidable. Depends on what you do with them, I suppose. But I’m striving to keep away. 

Um, starting right about now.

How about you? Any annoying cliché’s you’d like to add?
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Saturday, March 19, 2016

Dear Dog of Destruction by Stuart R. West

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(A personal letter to my dog, but everyone's welcome to read):

Zak, what did I ever do to you to fill you with so much rage? Didn't my wife snatch you from one of her students who found you pillaging in their trash? Didn't we take you into our house and offer you food, love and shelter? Haven't we set you up with a heated doggy pillow? So why do you repay us with such a disdain for our furniture?
Okay, you're not allowed on the sofas. I know that upsets you. I'm only allowed on them after a shower. Stuff happens. But you don't have human rights. You gotta stop ripping up the sofa when the mailman comes. Yes, he brings bills and fliers about hair removal. But you can't know that. Even if you did understand "humanese," it's still not a reason to wreck the house. (Let me rip up the sofa when I see the bills.)

One time you were so angry at the mailman, you put your paw through a glass picture frame. Who was there to rush you to the doggy doctor, terrified at the sight of all the blood? And who had to put up with the questions and nervous looks as to why I had blood stains all over the back seat of my car? I was nearly branded a serial killer, thanks to you, my furious, furry friend. But I've stayed with you through thick and tics.

You can be fun sometimes. Sweet, actually. It's a shame you don't like buses, joggers, motorcycles, trucks, trash men, door-ringing politicians (that one I agree with), the ice cream truck, and of course, mailmen. Everyone has their peculiarities. Other than that, you're a wonderful creature. Sort of.

Frankly, I'm at a loss why we humans put up with your furry kind at times. But I'm onto you. Took a while, though. When I try and load you into my car to go to your weekly doggy day care (I know, I know), you feign an inability to jump into my vehicle. You insist I lift all of your sixty-five pounds. Very stubborn. Huh. Of course, you have absolutely no problem jumping into my wife's car, do you? When my wife told me you were playing me, I grew furious!

I realize you see my wife (even my daughter) as your pack-masters. But c'mon! I'm the one who feeds you, walks you, hangs with you more than they do! Alas, I am but your play-pal. Sigh.

Why, in your honor, Zak, I even created a character in my thriller series, Killers Incorporated, who loves dogs. Sure, he's a sociopathic, hot-headed serial killer. But he will see no harm done to dogs. Can't be all that bad, right?

But here's the bottom line, Zak. Every time I get angry with you, I holler, rant and rave. Then I look into your golden eyes and melt. You had me at the facial licking.

P.S., chocolate's not good for you. It's like toxic lima beans. Only deadlier. One would think you'd get a clue by now.

Your play-pal,

Stuart

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