Sands of the Sea

R. Christensen John

Description

Sands of the Sea offers a sparkling collection of both current and historical fiction. Crisp, well-shaped stories, strong characterizations, a fast pace, and unusual locals combine to draw the reader in. Here you'll find absorbing journeys of adventure, mystery, and enlightenment. The story of Musstella takes you into a ghost town where much is revealed to Josh Tigglesworth. Unclaimed has us living with three orphans, each wrestling with their own identity. The Marmoset Monkey leads a neuroscientist down a rabbit hole of unforeseen consequences. The Interment of Rusty McTaggart doesn't go quietly, and in The Spirit Barn, the creatures have a lot to teach us. We realize in the story of Tom Caverley's Chicken that the fowl actually rule the roost. In Carnivalla, consultant Amy has reached a crossroad and takes matters into her own hands. A Brush with Death is a mystery of the supernatural, and in Ai, the daughter of a wealthy Chinese family is kidnapped and becomes a victim of a makeshift rescue plan. "Sands of the Sea" resonates with the kind of story a reader returns to, following that hidden "magnet" in expert storytelling.

Sujets

• Historical fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Date de parution: 30 novembre 2020
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781645752547
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

Sands of the Sea
A Collection of Captivating Stories
John R. Christensen
Austin Macauley Publishers
2020-11-30
Sands of the Sea About the Author Copyright Information © Acknowledgement Musstella Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Unclaimed The Marmoset Monkey The Interment of Rusty McTaggart The Spirit Barn Tom Caverley’s Chicken Carnivalla A Brush with Death Ai In Still Waters
About the Author
John R. Christensen in his professional life as an executive coach grasps the urgency of vital words in all forms of communication. The themes of leadership and self-development inform both his critical and creative writing. He lives with his wife, Hazel, in Burlington, Ontario.
Copyright Information ©
John R. Christensen (2020)
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher.
Any person, who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication, may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Ordering Information
Quantity sales: Special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the publisher at the address below.
Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication data
Christensen, John R.
Sands of the Sea
ISBN 9781645752523 (Paperback)
ISBN 9781645752530 (Hardback)
ISBN 9781645752547 (ePub e-book)
Library of Congress Control Number: 2020917605
www.austinmacauley.com/us
First Published (2020)
Austin Macauley Publishers LLC
40 Wall Street, 28th Floor
New York, NY 10005
USA
[e-mail]
[phone]
Acknowledgement
Special thanks to Edith K. Smith PhD and Hazel Sutton-Christensen.
Musstella

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Chapter 1
In the precision of time lies a certainty that can’t be changed. The truth never leaves the past. It hibernates like some over-indulged bear, only to be roused out of its slumber by the thawing of our protective covering or the thirst to know.
The brutal end came to light beneath the shimmering ribbon of October’s harvest moon. The specific year of the tragic incident was lost in the fog of the town’s lingering collective memory. If you were ever able to question the reluctant tongues of the townsfolk who survived the trauma those many years ago, rheumy eyes in troubled faces would quickly divert the conversation along with their gaze for fear you could discern their memories.
Their mendacious stories, instead, steered you away from the hard truth as they related superfluous tales of a town stitched together with seams of a benevolent community, generous in their spirit and sacrifice for each other. Broaching the past altered the mood, spawning deliberate distance from the tragedy of that night. The community clung to their secrets, disquieted by their possible demise, riding witness to their dread.
But I’m getting a bit ahead of myself. My name is Josh Tigglesworth, a man in the middle of my life. The turn of the road has driven me back to recover the journey that had eluded me.
Here is my story.
I was preparing for a trip north in answer to an invite from my friend, Dillon, to spend the weekend at his cottage; I had known Dillon since teenage days. Over the years, even though our lives gathered distance, we drifted in and out of communication but always kept the bond that grows from a young seed. This year was a touch point, where the stars aligned and the turns in the road had laid a plan that would bring us together. Dillon’s cottage was somewhat isolated; a choice for the serenity he needed to detach himself from a life of analyzing blood-splatter patterns from spent bullets, fingerprints on doorknobs, brain-soaked hammers, and strains of hair fibers in the weave of rancid rugs and car trunks. It was the territory and bloody demands on a forensic investigator that can crack one’s soul. I had always admired Dillon for his tenacity.
During our brittle teenage years, when dogged with a stubborn problem in math class or an intimidating personal challenge, he never feared them. He dedicated himself to understanding them. In that respect, we were similar in nature. He liked to probe under the skin for the minutiae of content. The structure of my interest by contrast was more ‘big picture,’ looking for the dimensions of context. The good natured ‘Dill’ had an outgoing personality that drew people to him. Admittedly, he could be prone to character flaws at times. When a biting wit from school-mates blossomed into sarcasm, his hospitality could turn hostile. Dill was tall and blockish in stature. I didn’t own the same real estate as my body could easily get lost in his shadow. Dill and I treasured our friendship; there was something missing in himself that he found in me. I never asked what it was. I presumed on him as my natural protector. The attitude gave me strength. He assumed the role on different occasions. During one of our reconnections in the years following university, he divulged that he had always been self-conscious about his towering height. But as he matured, he grew into his size. Age makes a difference. Along with the years, came thinning hair. He garnished his physical appearance with a glistening bald head, giving his craggy face a rugged attractiveness. He has remained resolutely unmarried, despite multiple girlfriends. His profile became his advantage in his work with the seedy underworld. Me, I’m somewhere between handsome and headstrong, which became a disadvantage when trying to keep a marriage together.
I needed to take a little time to think things over. Four weeks holidays had accumulated on my calendar that needed to be used up before summer faded. I was looking forward to the cottage get-together. It would fit in deftly with my extended road trip to explore parts unknown. At this time, I found myself single again. The burden and distraction of maintaining a failed marriage was gone. It had been a huge controller in complicating all aspects of my life. With the divorce decree, came the freedom to fit back into my own skin again. The junk man cleaned out most of my belongings. I decided to live a more simplified lifestyle. I can’t change the fact of a troubled past, but my focus now was surrendering to clarity. My unclouded mind was using time differently. As the clutter was gone from my physical life, it liberated mental space to think things through.
I was a history buff of sorts and during my marriage, a distracted life got in the way of pursuing this particular interest. Now life and commitments had changed. Before I left for my holiday, I sought out a book pin-pointing the location of ghost towns in the northern country. That became the itinerary for my spaghetti tour. I was also looking forward to driving my restored vintage, 1941 Ford pick-up. I had spent months bringing it into the 21 st century with all new components from the ground up. The last thing I needed to finish off the truck was the replacement of my wiring harness. Dillon, skilled in electronics, was more than happy to help install it. The plans fit neatly together.
I threw the essentials of camera, change of clothes, and shaving stuff into the bed of the pick-up and was ready to roll. It was a day blessed with an azure sky pinned by a brilliant sun. There was no notice of the dark clouds sulking below the horizon. I filled my lungs with the sweet breath of freedom and anticipation. My G.P.S. worked overtime in an attempt to recognize the specific directions to the remote cottage but finally lost itself in the wilderness of white space. I reverted to my well-travelled road map, its torn folds gripped by strips of scotch tape. As the miles unraveled, the built environment of corporate office towers and big box stores sprawled along the super highway. The route transitioned through farmland, which once supported thriving orchards and vineyards to huge farm operations sprouting cereal crops and silos. A hundred miles further presented forested native terrain, rocky outcroppings, and upheavals of scrub pine and spruce covering the Precambrian bedrock. The speeding truck blurred the lined asphalt as it swallowed the miles, a thoroughbred streaking out of the gate for the first time. Life was good. I felt glorified in my new world of singleness as the suburbs dwindled and pristine farmland emerged among the forests.
The wind blasted through my window, yanking my sleeve and breaking across my face. An affectionate sun vaporized morning haze assailing my senses with the fragrance of hayfields and meadows. A sharp bend in the road caught the sun. A flare of light blazed through the windshield, blinding me for an instant. The road descended through a grove of Tom Thompson pine, scattering the sun and my retrospective about relinquishing the pain of divorce.
The cultivated fields brought forth the poetry of her body, dancing through our vegetable garden in the prime of morning. I had really loved that woman. We were building a love and a dream together. When love is young, there is glory and goodness in everything. When we were apart, I missed her. But my desire went flat after her affair. A restlessness crept in between us. The expectations we had of each other didn’t matter anymore. We held our breath navigating our marriage like boats hugging the shore in dread o