They feared how the truth might alter Llad Fleck. No one ever told him about his talented ancestors, their extraordinary heritage, or how they died. He never learned that a powerful research institute in London considered him a lethal threat. Other than the need to move on to the safety of a another big city every few months, the only thing Llad knew for sure was that the men he played ball against said he had “mad skills not suitable for a fifteen-year-old.”
When Llad meets an eccentric parapsychologist, Dr. Jemma Rask, she explains that she has waited decades just to teach him how to expand his mind and utilize the unique traits she thinks he inherited. Even though Dr. Rask and her stories come across as way too weird for Llad, he begins studying her techniques. He quickly realizes that just because the link might be there, it doesn’t mean he actually has the talent or the patience to develop his abilities.
After multiple killings shatter Llad’s life, he still doesn’t know who is behind the brutal murders or why he’s involved. He knows now that he’s fighting for his life against a fanatical enemy and that he needs to discover more about his family-tree to learn the secrets on how to control his psychic gifts―if he has any. Alone with his grief, Llad takes off searching for clues about his cryptic lineage while being haunted by reoccurring dreams of a mysterious girl trying to help him master the bizarre talents he needs to survive.
What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
Having known people gifted with such marvelous talents that they almost seem mystical, I needed to further explore the paranormal aspect of our human condition. Every day, all around the world, ordinary folks accomplish feats mental and physical which are astounding to those of us lacking those unique gifts and traits. Many of the top Universities in the USA and Europe now have paranormal studies departments trying to somehow quantify the mysteries of the humankind that science has yet to breakdown and expose with scientific reason.
For most of the time on this earth since humans have been able to record their thoughts and deeds, anything people couldn’t understand was attributed to the gods, or to the occult. Regardless of each of our individual belief systems, we love to read and contemplate the ‘what ifs’ of our universe. And that is why I needed to create the Powers Meant for Gods series with the premise that some people actually do have talents that are god-like― some used for good, some used for evil. That age old battle still continues even today.
I have always loved reading the fantasy genre, but wanted to create a story where these talents could be real— within the realm of the practical. Wave Links is book number one of the series and starts the story of Lladnar Fleck learning to come-to-grips with his extraordinary talents and stay alive long enough to defend himself from malevolent force intent of his death. Book number two, Soul Links will be released late December 2014.
How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
I have been involved in playing sports my entire life. Experiencing players with remarkable talents that places them beyond the norm is to feel the awe as we witness their greatness. And where does this talent, these gifts come from? My character Llad Fleck has these extraordinary gifts in rugby and basketball. At fifteen, he embarrassed the men he played against in these very demanding, physical sports. From there, his gifts kept expanding to include a genetic traits of his ancestors from who legends were created.
Copyright ©Randall Boleyn–2014
They said sadists created this ritual to humiliate overachievers, but Lad Fleck felt certain that all these so-called adults concocted this deal just to bust his stones. Lad raised his hands in surrender, “I can’t believe I’m going to do this.” Lifting his right foot, he rested it on his other knee and untied the laces. After tugging off his mud-spattered rugby boot, he stood gripping it from under the cleated bottom with the toe pointed at the crowd.
Seventy-five thirsty revelers spread out into a semi-circle around the pool table in middle of the old bar to watch their unanimous MVP suffer through his award. The players waited for Lad to get this last party started, but as he continued ignoring their razing, they began a slow cadence of loud insistent claps.
Locked in a rigid stance of attention and holding his chin high, Lad stared beyond the crowd at the seven nicotine-stained beer signs hanging above the tattered dartboard awash in their yellowed glow. Grimacing that he held the sweaty old shoe too close under his nose, he pushed the shoe farther away as he tipped his head back thinking… I’ll never get through this without spewing!
He glanced across the throng and spotted his mentor laughing at him. Lad yelled out over the din, “Ian! You’re a freaking doctor; you are supposed to have some sense. Who the hell does crazy crap like this?”
Ian pushed his hands up over his head continuing to clap in time with the group as he shouted back. “Only the best, Lad, only the best. And winners! You are both. Cheers!”
Lad smirked shaking his head and looked back into the crowd again, locking onto his friend who would be most affected by all of this. “Yo, Bubbles?” He shouted. “This is going to ruin your shoe that I borrowed. Tell me not to do this and save these good cleats! ”
“Those spikes never enjoyed a game like you had today. And they were never voted to be the boot to shoot. They can die proud. Fill’em up, Lad. Drink it down, then throw’em away. And do it now—everybody’s thirsty as hell!”
Judging by the increased volume of creative taunts and the claps mocking his manhood, Lad realized everyone was enjoying his reluctance way too much. His challenged masculinity finally demanded to just get this over with. Knowing that any further wavering was fruitless, Lad nodded and both team captains approached from opposite sides. Their faces were solemn in the spirit of the tribute to Lad and serious in their apprehension over the multiple Virginia laws they were all about to break. They poured from their red cups into his shoe until the beer overflowed, sloshing onto the floor. The instant they stepped away from Lad, the packed bar erupted with the booming chant of crazed men shouting; “shoot-the-boot, shoot-the-boot, shoot, shoot, shoot-the-boot!”
After catching another whiff reeking out of the shoe of the sweat-tainted beer he was about to drink, Lad paused. He knew Bubbles had sweated in these cleats for years before loaning them for today’s match. Lad’s prize as the teams’ unanimous selection of today’s Man-of-the-Match for his five long darting carries for scores achieving the biggest upset-win in his club’s history: was to ‘shoot-the-boot’—take the first drink of the party by chugging the beer filled into one his stinking cleats. He scowled at himself—just do this fool―it’s supposed to be an honor.
Lad twisted his head around in a low roll in a complete circle cracking and popping the stiff joints in his neck. He inhaled a deep breath, carefully lifted the shoe to touch the heel’s upper edge to his lips and started guzzling. Drinking beer from a nasty shoe while not gagging posed its own challenge, but the irreverent words in the obscene song his teammates started singing had Lad laughing in spasms while slopping beer over his chin. After drenching the front of his blood-stained jersey, he finally slugged down the last few swallows of his boot-full. He yelled, “done!” and flipped the empty shoe upside-down over his head.
His dramatic finish ignited the bar. A roar exploded from all the men as they shouted heartfelt cheers of, “hip-hip, hip-hip, O’ Man-of-the-Match, hip-hip.” Lad scanned across the room and couldn’t help but laugh at the scene, thinking… how absolutely nucking futs! Me, the center of attention in a bar packed with badass men, mostly twice my age from both rugby clubs! What could top this? The concept grew stranger as the group whooped in unison with a sacrilegious chant praising the bartender for tapping another keg. Then they all began to sing again.
Not quite certain what such a collection of cumulative bacteria he’d just chugged out of Bubbles’ old rugby cleat might do to his digestive system; Lad figured the only cure would be a medicinal chaser. So he broke out from the center of the group searching for his own cold beer as the boisterous throng linked their arms together, swaying from side-to-side as they sang a lewd rugby song peppered with rhyming obscenities to the tune of ‘Onward Christian Soldiers’.
Scavenged stuff nobody else wanted had satisfied most of the needs in Lad’s life up until then. But the eleven full cups of cold Sam Adams parked on the old tables in the dim lit corners of the grungy bar proclaimed Lad’s new status. That his teammates cared enough to provide such an illegal supply validated that he’d finally made some true friends. They cared. That revelation elevated this gathering beyond being just another party.
Even though it probably wasn’t necessary, Lad turned his back, shielding his movements to the crowd as he stepped into the corner and swiped a red cup off the corner table. He lifted the cup chugging the cold Sam and tilted his head back to quicken the flow when a piercing vibration stung into a spot behind his left ear. The zap released a surprising sharp stab of energy exploding into his mellowed senses. He flinched backwards as if a wasp had just landed on his nose while jerking his head to the side as he yanked the cup away. As his beer sloshed across his face and neck, Lad leaned over, tossing his head side-to-side with quick shakes like a doused Sheepdog.
Wiping most of the foamy brew off his nose and cheeks with the back of his hand, he peeked over to his left trying to figure out what had just happened. He suddenly realized he’d just been blasted with a telepathic bump. He looked around again… damn! That was a freaking whack―not a bump. Son of a bitch, that smarted! That was no message… that was somebody screaming HEY into my ear from six inches away! I don’t know what I was expecting with mental touches, but that sure as hell wasn’t it.
Blotting at his chin and neck with his forearm, he twisted his head around with a quick glance back over his right shoulder scanning the crowd. He searched the room from side-to-side, expecting to find somebody watching. No one seemed the least bit interested. The gathering continued on, appearing pretty tame versus everything he’d heard about end-of-season rugby parties. After spending a few more moments appraising the eyes and faces throughout the room and assessing his level of his unease…he thought, maybe I overreacted a bit.
Lad shook his head. This whizzing that just zinged into the back of his head packed a peculiar potency, striking strong and specific—like a vague threatening alert flickering just beyond the edge of his sight. Someone close-by sporting some serious mental-oomph had focused a thought directly his way with an icy-intensity keen enough to be unsettling. Lad glanced over this crowd partying and shook his head again.
He thought back to mid-summer after he began testing at the Paranormal Activity Lab at University of Virginia. The parapsychologist had talked about telepathy as though everybody used it and challenged him to learn how to defend against mental intrusions. He still didn’t get it… intrusions?… what intrusions?…like someone else getting inside my head? How can that happen?
He had worked at learning the techniques… but it’s too much like listening to people speaking a foreign language, and I’m the outsider without a clue about what’s going on. He knew he had to give it a shot, but interpreting brainwave-pulses by lowering and raising his mental filters just never got through… what flipping filters? Most of the ambiguous mini-jolts he had picked up on were fleeting at best, and he had never felt any kind of specific mental touch—nothing to be concerned about… but that was before this blast that just hit me! This changes everything. I’m just not sure in what way.
He had been instructed to classify the timbre and feel of a touch in the same way as remembering the sound of someone’s voice—in case it occurred again from the same source. Lad had slacked on the practice-work, figuring that maybe he was just tone-deaf to this kind of stuff. He hadn’t succeeded in identifying a first touch, much less any repeat touches. Studying the methods to sense when someone close formed thoughts directly about him seemed no better than guessing—and hardly worth the effort. The practice sessions only resulted in frustration—along with the feeling that all of this psychic stuff seemed like a steaming sack of mystical hooey.
From his failure to verify a real incident, he questioned whether he had the talent or patience to even bother with all this. But today’s pluck across his senses had been different—and all too real. He realized it was the first incident where he had been physically and intellectually distracted… once this kind of thing happens, how could anybody think of anything else?
The thought that someone could stop him in his tracks with a mental slap finally brought the realization that learning this stuff might matter. That this intrusive sensation materialized while he engaged in doing something he shouldn’t made it almost impossible to identify the origin or intent of the puzzling mental touch. He was frustrated now, the edge blunted on his goodtime… this strike ranked in a category by itself for weirdity, more like a slap than a shout, more of a physical distraction.
And then he laughed out loud… wierdity? Gotta be the beer, that’s it―this is all just a touch of paranoia from hoisting a few beers in public… Stop it! Don’t dismiss this like nothing happened. Somebody here just zapped you, dude, and you better be ready if it happens again. Now deal with this… only… how?
Frowning, he slugged down the last swallow of his beer, which turned out to be mostly foam. He slam-dunked the red Solo cup in the dented trash can and belched a deep manly rumble, saying, “my bad” blended into his drawn-out burp. He shook his head while looking down, muttered, “dumb ass” and ambled around the fringes of the loud celebration while still searching through the crowd as he headed towards the table in the far corner newly restocked with full beers.
Checking out the front of the room, he caught two attractive thirty-something women sitting together at the far end of the bar staring his way. One abruptly averted her eyes when he surprised her with direct eye contact. The other lady stared back, slowly wet her lips with the tip of her tongue―then winked.
Lad turned away shaking his head… hell, that lady is about the same age my mother would have been. Creepy.
Then he sensed a more intense gaze.
Scanning back across the bar to the center of the room, his scrutiny settled on a stunning girl with a rowdy heap of dazzling red hair. She sat at one of the tables and leaned over a bit while holding one hand covering her ear amid the noise as she pressed a pink iPhone tight to her other ear. The instant he made eye contact, she latched onto his gaze with her amused green eyes. She grinned and intensified her stare, questioning him with her eyes as though she was expecting some kind of answer. Then she tilted her head slightly to the side with a little nod of acknowledgment and flashed a dynamic smile.
“Whoa!” Lad said as he took a step backwards, but immediately wondered… did she really smile at me or at something she’d just heard from her cell phone conversation. He nodded back, forcing an almost-smile, hoping it wouldn’t look stupid or needy. He then searched the room again―feeling frustrated at not being able to solve this confusing brain-touch thing.
He finally dismissed the peculiar strum across his nerves that had ruffled his mood a bit, knowing how this odd sense-bump feeling generally played out; he’d turn around searching the area only to spy some female embarrassed at being caught gazing at him. Lad glanced back again at the redhead. She still stared, but scrutinized him now as though she might be making a buying decision. Her blunt appraisal set off an awkward twisting in Lad’s gut.
He reluctantly tore his thoughts away by turning and stepping on into the far corner, grabbed another beer from the four full cups sitting on the table and sucked down several long swigs. When he turned back around, she had vanished. He searched thoroughly looking at every group in the room and couldn’t find her.
“That’s just about right for how my deal goes!” Lad said under his breath.
He combed through the crowd one more time for her. He’d already decided he’d earned being bad by leaving it all on the pitch today. He intended to savor every drop of his success, but he had an inkling he’d just missed out on something important— probably really screwed this one up… and that young goddess had merited a little worshiping. Well, maybe later, after a few more cups of courage.
As he turned back to his supply in the corner to further prime his bravery, a gentle hand rested on his shoulder. Lad spun to his left with a smile, expecting the redhead.
“Ah, the Wonder Lad… the loner in the corner… defying society’s laws while baptizing himself with cold beer as everyone else in the room talks about his miraculous feats.” Ian Poulan leaned in close, examining Lad’s nose and eyes while ignoring Lad deftly hiding a pilfered cup of beer behind his back. “But that’s what real heroes do, I suppose,” Ian said, stepping closer. “I thought it earlier during the match, but I’ll officially confirm it now! You are now the owner of a thoroughly broken beak! Your once perfect aquiline nose now resembles a mean crescent moon.”
“I’ll be okay. It’s been said that the magic elixir in these red cups will heal anything. And it just so happens, I’m really thirsty,” Lad said and laughed.
Ian moved in closer to mere inches from Lad’s face to further explore the damage. He stepped back a bit, held up his own cup. “Then I feel the need to turn this into a teachable moment. Your thirst will be slaked quicker if you pour the beer in your mouth instead of on your face. Watch and learn.” Ian drained his beer and turned his attention back to appraising Lad’s after-match condition: busted nose, facial contusions, bloody ear and an ice pack wrapped around his dinged-up shin.
Ian stifled a belch and pointed at Lad’s face. “Though I must admit, your hard earned boo-boos do lend a bit of lived-in character to your annoying youthful beauty. What doctor do you go to?”
Lad flashed a cocky smile and shook his head with a quick twist that tossed his long black hair swirling down to spread out in a lush cape on his back. “I’m still pretty enough. I just caught a few of these old-babes checking out my junk,” he said, laughing again until he reached up, touched his nose and grimaced at the tenderness. He faked a smile and stepped back from the physician, who also wore a blood splattered green jersey as though he’d spent a long afternoon in an operating theater. Lad knew Ian was a doctor although he wasn’t sure what ENT meant. “I don’t need a doctor. It’ll be a great conversation starter with the ladies… they’ll think me worldly.”
“They’ll think you thuggish. Don’t forget the fine-line of perception from the fairer sex can be quite fickle; bad boy look—good, thuggish look—bad. Rugby is a beastly game played by gentlemen; soccer is a gentleman’s game played by beasts; and American football is a brutish game played by future bartenders with memory retention problems. You’ve a lot of life and matches in front of you, Lad, and we’d have you appearing more the gentleman.” Ian gently took hold of Lad’s chin, turning the boy’s head to the side so he could scrutinize the swollen nose in profile. “We need to get this taken care of tonight. Is your Mom or Dad coming to pick you up?”
Lad glanced down at the bluish swollen middle joint of his misshapen little finger. He flexed his hand twice, looked up to stare Ian dead in the eye, gave a slight shake of his head and then grinned. “I’m okay, it doesn’t hurt that bad, really. I’m self-medicating as fast as I can forage. Trust me, I’ll be alright.”
Ian reached out and touched Lad’s shoulder. “Lad… this is not like skinning your knee. You might have life-long problems breathing…”
A sudden roar interrupted every conversation throughout the old bar and the disturbance grew louder as a stream of men headed their way, led by five players wearing the opponent’s Old Blue club-jerseys. The tight wedge of players weaved around the broken coin-slot pool table and charged directly towards them. Before Lad could back up, the big winger he had battled with throughout the entire match suddenly spun out of the formation into a quick attack mode towards them. The big man roughly slipped his arm around Ian’s neck, pulled the doctor in close and then kissed the bald spot on top of Ian’s head.
The man released Ian, rotated around to study Lad for a few moments and abruptly turned back pointing an accusing finger at the doctor. “You conniving quack of a barber, where in sweet Jesus’ sack did you come up with this magnificent ringer so brilliantly disguised as an adolescent? Cardiff? Johannesburg?” He paused for effect with his hands raised in question and then rejoiced punching the air as an epiphany arrived. “I know, I know… Edinburgh! He’s an ancient highland warrior.”
The man turned away from Ian back to Lad and extended his hand.
“Lad, I am Brite Timmons. It is my absolute honor and pleasure to meet you in a more civil ceremony, sans the futility of chasing you down the pitch while you mercilessly rumbled over my mates. And this is far healthier than you trying to detach my bloody arm for the sin of carrying ‘your’ freaking oval ball.” Once he had Lad’s right hand in a shake, he gripped it warmly with his left hand and then moved in to encompass Lad in a giant bear hug. The other men closed in clapping and patting Lad on the back.
“Be easy on the Wonder Lad,” Ian shouted over the din of all the congrats. “You hooligans roughed up our boy beyond the call today.”
“Well, he gave a hell of a lot worse than he got, I’ll assure you.” Brite shouted back as he moved in and wrapped his arms around Ian with a bear hug. He quickly pushed Ian away to arm’s length. “Look at my eye! It’ll be black for a month. Judges aren’t allowed to get black eyes! I’ll have to use make-up.” Brite took another swallow of beer and cocked his head, setting his full scrutiny on Lad. “He looks a hell of a lot older than fifteen to me!”
Lad straightened as tall as he could stretch, puffed-up flexing and smiled at his opponents. “I am older! I turned sixteen last week… eh… I mean…Ian told me he was pretty certain I was about twenty-five for today’s match.” They all laughed, and Lad held up his hand with the crooked little finger for attention. “And … Ian told me this morning that y’all were a bunch of godless heathens who would be stealing our ball today and to do whatever was necessary to take it back.” The group groaned a collective laugh and threw partially empty beer cups at Ian while rendering friendly punches to various parts of his torso.
“Well, young Lad,” Brite said, emoting in a heavy Scottish brogue while holding up both hands like delivering benediction to the group, “I’ve played with and against the finest rugby clubs and players on our wee planet and I nae to espy one among them anywhere that might surpass you. You are unequivocally the fastest, most talented, nasty-assed mother rucker I’ve ever witnessed… and I mean that in a good way.” Brite held up his cup in salute. “Another toast for our ‘young’ Man-O’-The-Match!”
The whole room of players and guest halted their conversations and toasted Lad again with three loud “hip-hips,” and then everyone but Lad drained their cups.
“I wish I could buy you a beer, Master Lad,” Brite said, “but alas, even in this bar today, I am still an officer of the court of our beloved Old Dominion and I continue striving to pave the path of rectitude as an example to the unwashed masses.”
Lad laughed as he tucked his head along with an embarrassed shrug and looked sideways to Ian for a cue.
“Brite intruded into my life as a roommate at UVA about the year you were born, Lad.” Ian placed a proprietary hand on Lad’s shoulder. “He played League Rugby while at Oxford in the UK for three years and is now a Juvenile and Domestic Court Judge in Richmond.”
“What?” Lad said, his voice raised and cracking in pitch as his eyes roamed darting over their shoulders towards the exits. “A flipping judge? Seriously?” Lad snorted a cynical laugh and pointed at the door. “Later guys… my ride just showed up!”
His comment came off a joke, generating a new roar of laughter from the men, but Lad started sidling to his left away from the group…I knew there were lawyers and probably a cop or two that played, but a fucking JD Judge? What a buzz kill! What the hell was I thinking? That I could come in here with these men partying like one of the guys and not get caught?
“It’s alright, Lad.” Ian said, smiling at the boy before laughing at Brite. “Even though you terrorized his pompous ass throughout the entire match, you’ve earned his respect. He’d cut you some mega slack if you landed in front of his bench.”
“Easy, Lad.” Brite said in a soft voice only the boy could hear as the big man moved in and gently folded his arm over Lad’s shoulder to lean in as though sharing a secret. He could tell the boy verged on a real panic attack. “You’re Ian’s friend and now you’re mine. We’re rugby mates. Relax. We’re here to have a good time. Let’s go grab a slice of pizza.” They moved towards the end of the bar, where twenty boxes of pizza had just arrived, with Lad limping and searching the room’s escape options as Brite looked to Ian with questioning eyes only to see Ian’s clueless shake of his head.
~ ~ ~
“I don’t know… nobody’s sure where he lives.” Ian answered while packing away the rest of his medical supplies into the old leather valise he toted to all their matches. “I’ve given him rides home a few times after practices, but he always asks to be dropped off in front of some store or at a corner downtown, saying he’s got some errands to run. The address he gave us for our roster is at this derelict antebellum-type mansion on the wooded outskirts of downtown owned by an eccentric old woman who is certainly not his mother. I rode by it and that big old house is a cliché out of some Hollywood screamer flick.”
Brite sat on a stool propping his elbow on the bar while resting with his chin in his hand, his fingers spread partially covering his face as he peeked into the bar’s cloudy mirror studying Lad standing behind them across the room. “He’s certainly a handsome, statuesque young man. Abercrombie or Fitch would consider that stud quite the catch for their teen-porn ads. What do you guess… about six-two, tipping the scale around a buck ninety? Zero percentage body fat. He hits more like a two-hundred-fifty pound NFL linebacker.
“I’m guessing he’s a sophomore having just turned sixteen… and probably totally
oblivious that he vexes the vixens at his high school.” Brite sat up straight with a startled expression and glared at Ian. “And why in the hell isn’t he playing football for a high school or prep team? With his unique speed and talent, he’d have his choice of athletic scholarships at the best universities in the country, regardless of his grades.”
“I’m not sure he’s even enrolled in school.” Ian stepped in closer to Brite. “Actually, I think he works somewhere… maybe landscaping or something. But he’s a lot like talking with you, ask a personal question, and after two or three sentences, you find you’re discussing something entirely different and he hasn’t answered your question. It’s like interviewing a sleazy politician with something to hide.” Ian looked over at Lad entertaining three ladies in their mid-twenties who were probably some of the other player’s girlfriends. One of them reached out and touched Lad’s chest as she laughed at something he’d said.
Ian smiled and turned back towards Brite, shaking his head. “He just started showing up every evening back in August to watch us practice. After about the fifth session, one of the guys asked if he wanted to play, and so this strange goth-looking kid with the pale skin and the black-dyed shoulder length hair flowing down his back starts to run some drills with us.
“It was really weird; he was wearing these tight-assed jeans and a too small white tee shirt—and I’m telling you—this kid is chiseled and looks like some kind of counter-culture super hero. Oh… and he does it all barefooted, and it’s immediately evident he’s sporting some serious speed and blessed with a vicious natural talent. So a few weeks later, we’re scrimmaging and he rips the ball from me as he throws me down, dodges four tacklers and scores. I was thinking this kid was twenty, twenty one, and probably at the University.
“It wasn’t until after the third game when we drove to Blacksburg and he dominated the match and we win when we shouldn’t have, that I find out he’s really young. I’m bandaging a cut on his neck, notice the slight blond peach-fuzz on his jaw and realize this kid has never shaved. So I ask him to ride back with Yates and me, and after a couple of hours under my fifth-degree, he finally admits he’s fifteen. Hell, I’d been giving this kid freaking beers! I was panicking I’d end up in jail and lose my medical license.” Ian sat his bag on the floor, threw away a plastic bag full of bloody bandages, pulled off his surgical gloves and picked up his cup of beer. “By the way, my kids and wife thank him for safeguarding my longevity a little earlier.”
“I thought he was going to send you on to the other side of the veil when you re-set his nose. I’m pretty sure he thought you were only going to examine it.” Brite laughed. “That was the quickest damn thing I’ve ever witnessed when he swung at you—even though I was expecting it. If we hadn’t been ready, you’d be in the ER right now.”
Ian nodded and looked back to his friend. “Brite, that kid is scary smart. He’s not like talking with an uneducated drop-out, or even a teenager. He was quizzing me the other day on brain-wave functions, sonic vibrations and psychoacoustics; their effect on physical and psychological responses. He wanted to know more about tones and using electronically disguised nature sounds such as the ocean, wind, and animal songs, like from dolphins, processed electronically in different octaves, speed-ed up or slowed down like drum beats, and how they might stimulate under-utilized sections of the brain to actually grow and expand one’s intellect. He knew a hell of a lot more about it than I did.
“But I think he’s fallen through the cracks somehow. No one has ever seen his parents and he won’t speak of anything to do with his personal life. We know absolutely nothing about him, and I wouldn’t be surprised to find out he’s living on the street.”
Brite put on a sad smile and looked down the bar, watching Lad laughing with two other ladies. “Even though everything seemed light-hearted at the time, I was sure he was about to stroke-out when you said I was a J and D Judge. I’ve seen the same scared look on kids in court. We’ve got to try and help.” Brite stood and held out his hand. “As always, Ian.”
Ian shook hands watching Lad receive a little piece of paper from each of the girls. “As always, Brite. Let me know if you come up with a plan. I’m hooked into a lot of resources here in Charlottesville that could help … if he’ll let us.”
Randall Boleyn – Writing as a Reader.
When those first few novels transported Randall into the intrigue of other cultures and the complexity of foreign lands, his life changed forever. He wanted to experience those kinds of adventures and ended up traveling the world doing international business while living his own bizarre experiences. Realizing he wanted to create the same kind of stories he loved to read, Randall coaxed the Muse by writing, studying and learning the craft.
After years of toiling with the words, the stories suddenly just seemed to happen. It was startling! It was the same joy and surprise he had relished as a reader in guessing how a plot might unfold affecting the characters’ lives. He now writes with the eye and passion of creating that next great story like he would want to read.
Randall now lives in the hills of the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia and is focused on completing the Powers Meant for Gods trilogy to publish by December 2014.
Have you read this book or others by this author? Tell us in the comments how you liked it!