Rescued By That 
      New Guy in  Town

            by Jeff Salter
           
       My sixth novel completed, this comedic romance was my second to be published (about six weeks ago).  This excerpt comes from just past the  middle of Chapter One — right after the mysterious stranger makes his way to the  latched wooden cage that Kristen is trapped inside — the fund-raising  jail  ... in the old Armory building.   They’ve exchanged a few words as he has stumbled closer in the  pitch-dark, but she knows absolutely nothing about  him.             
           Think about what YOU might do in such a situation. 

—--
             
       With a few stumbles, another splinter, and some uncreative curses, the  mystery man finally reached the cage door. “Okay. I’m  here.”
       I already knew that because I smelled his breath as he panted from the exertion. “Can you un-do this latch thingy?”
      “Where is it?”             
      I realized he couldn’t see my hand pointing directly at the fastener.  “I’m holding it. My arm’s through the bars and I’ve got the thingy in my hand.”  I realized that could sound, um, unusual if overheard by anybody. I heard his  hands roam over the outside of the cage door. He was too high. “Lower.” Suddenly  his fingertips touched my forearm. He yelped and  recoiled.
      It startled me too, but I wasn’t going to act like a sissy. “That’s  nearly my elbow. Go the other way about a foot or so and my hand’s on the latch  dealie.”
      “Okay. It threw me a bit to touch flesh.”
      This stranger was tall — I could tell from the source of his breath,  which surely needed a mint. His hands gently explored my forearm to re-establish  the location of my elbow. Then he walked his fingers the other direction. If he  intended to grope me like this, he owed me dinner. Large hands and long  fingers. Short nails. Some calluses on his fingers and the pads of his palm,  but not like a lumberjack. Just a man who knew how to work with his hands but  probably didn’t rely on those skills for his  paycheck.  “Will you get on to the latch?” I truly needed a restroom.             
       “Well, let go of it and give me a chance.” A slight bit of spittle when  he sighed again.
      Not sure I wanted to share spit from a tall stranger in the  dark.             
       “Okay, I have it in my hands, but I don’t understand how it  goes.”             
       I thought men could undo anything except left-handed buttons. “It felt  like a doo-hicky that latches the overhead door on a rental van or  something.”             
      “Oh!” The light came on — in his head, that is. “One of those. Okay. No  sweat.” Two smooth movements and it was open.             
       I pushed on the door, apparently before he’d moved away. It caught him  somewhere on his trunk.             
       “Ooof!”             
       “Sorry. Like I said, I need a powder room.”             
       He made noise backing up. “Okay, take off … for wherever.”             
       “Where are you going to be?” Didn’t want a strange man lurking in the dark.             
       “On your tail or as close as I can, without  tripping.”             
       “I don’t want a stranger following me.”             
       “I need to use that same facility.”             
       “Whatever. Well, the door ought to be way over there where that exit sign is.” It was the kind with three or four small bulbs normally, but that  particular one had only one dim lamp glowing. The signs over the other doors  must have burned out completely.
       “Oh, yeah. Switch by the exit door. Makes  sense.”             
       So the tall man also had some cognitive powers. Wonder what he looks like? “Do you remember what’s between us and that  door?”             
       “Nope. Never been here before. I’m new in town. Plus, I don’t know what  part of this place we’re at right now.” His feet made a shuffling sound as he  changed the subject. “So how come nobody let you out of that  cage?”             
       “Karla was supposed to call my brother, but I guess Eric couldn’t be  bothered to drive over here from Marrowbone.” I’d moved forward a few careful  paces as we talked. “So what are you doing here ... and how’d you get locked  in?”             
       Another heavy sigh, from slightly farther behind me. “Long  story.”             
       I focused on the dim, distant exit light and the restroom not far beyond  it. “Yeah, well, I’d like to hear it sometime. But for now, we need to speed up  before I bust open a bladder gasket.” My arms stretching forward, I remembered a  dunking booth against one wall and a huge overhead door nearby. Several small  booths around the perimeter. A large inflatable castle dominated the middle of  the space.             
       Whap. My right hand grazed  something and my fingers felt coarse rubberized fabric. “Found the castle. I  think the area right around this is clear, unless somebody stacked something on  the floor. We’ll bear left to reach the corner.” I sped up a bit, figuring we  had a good forty feet after turning the corner of the  inflatable.             
       Suddenly his hand touched the side of my neck and gripped my shoulder!  “What the…”             
       “Sorry. I’m a little dizzy and my head’s pounding. Just had to steady  myself a bit.” 
       “Well go steady with that castle wall. I don’t want strangers groping me  in the dark.” Actually his touch made my heart beat faster, but the extra  adrenaline didn’t help my bladder any.             
       He’d pulled his hand away quickly. “Good grief. You act like I grabbed something.”
       “You did. My neck and shoulder.”             
       “I meant something else.”             
       Hmm. Interesting conversation. But I’d need to see his eyes before I let  him anywhere near my else… or my others.

—--
  
Blurb:             
       When Kris awakens in a costume, behind wooden bars inside a pitch-black  community center, her only available rescuer is the hung-over new guy in town
(who’s dressed as a pirate). Problem is: she’s sworn off men, especially  buccaneers.

Buy Link:
http://www.amazon.com/Rescued-That-New-Town-ebook/dp/B009L90HZO/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1351913806&sr=1-1

Rescued By That New Guy in Town
by Jeff Salter 
             
My sixth novel completed, this comedic romance was my second to be published (by Astraea Press, about four weeks ago).  Though not the very beginning, this part of the scene occurs during the first half of Chapter One.

Think about what YOU might do in such a situation  --

— 
 
So, how on earth did I get left behind? And exactly how would I get out?

 “Hello?” I knew it was too tentative, but somehow it seemed yelling into that vast darkness could make me feel even more vulnerable than I already did.

 Dilemma.

 One of the big festival fund-raisers was to lock up attendees until someone donated enough money to bail them out. At first I was steamed to be imprisoned since I’d spent two weeks working on that stinking event. But once I sat down exhaustion took over, plus the spiked punch, of course. But that didn’t explain why I was still there in the dark with everybody gone… all alone.

At least I think I’m alone. “Hey! Hello?” Louder. “Anybody here?”

Silence could be good or bad. But I wished somebody would come turn the lights on and get me out. Plus, I need a restroom. Why did I leave my cell phone locked in the car? Not that there was any point waiting on a rescue. When you wake up behind wooden bars in real life, no handsome stranger comes to your aid.

 My forefinger hurt but I couldn’t extract a splinter in the dark. Stood up. Oh, still a bit woozy from that long nap. Fumbled my way from the back of the jail. Straight ahead should get me to the door. Tripped on something.

 Just a few more steps. Yikes!  Bumped my head on something hanging from the top of the wooden jail.

One more step. Fingers brushed the bars of the front wall. Good. Door couldn’t be far away. Sideways to the left. Nope.  Other direction. Ah, door frame.  “Do you remember which way it opens, Kristen?” No, I didn’t. And I was talking to myself again. I reached one hand through the bars and felt the mechanism. Angle was wrong. In order to flip this latch, my entire forearm (past my elbow) had to get through.

What kind of latch? Metal. I felt a handle… it moved. But the door didn’t open. “What did the latch look like, Kristen?” I asked myself. A freezer door? No.  Gate hasp? Nope. It was like those rental trailers. Have to lift something and swing something else to the side, or vice versa. Tried that. Okay, I could lift or swing, but couldn’t do both with one hand.

 “Hey! Anybody here who can help with this latch before I wet myself?” Multiple echoes. I’d forgotten how big the main armory space was. “Looks like I’m stuck here.”Needed to stop talking to myself.

 Tried the latch again from the other side. Ouch. Tight fit. My left elbow must be thicker. Wished I hadn’t drunk all that punch earlier. I should have known somebody spiked it because I’d seen lots of folks got tipsy. But I’d just said, “Whatever” and drank another cup. That’s how I slept through the abandonment by my formerfriends and the people I’d worked with on the community extravaganza. “Memo to Kristen,” I muttered, ”don’t ever nap in a bustier. It pinches the girls and probably leaves bruises.” Ha. Not that anybody would see them.  Wally the Weasel was out of my zip code and my life.
Wally-who’s-now-ancient-history-and-I-hope-he-dies-before-I-ever-see-him-again.
Hmm, sounds awful. Not a good time to scare up bad karma with another curse on the Weasel. The last curse I put on Wally had to do with shriveling up his--

 Okay, it was up to me. If I flipped up that gizmo, the handle pulled the thingy out of the what’s-it. Great theory. Still needed two hands. “Hey! Anybody in this stinking armory who’ll let me out?”

What was that noise? Something fell over! Somebody fell over? Better be a “good” somebody. “Hey! Over there… out there. Who’s there?”

 “O-o-ow!” From the left of me somewhere. But what? It must have been near the refreshment area not far from my prison pen. “Who’s here? If you can speak, you’d better say something real quick, ‘cause I’ve got a big ole magnum gun pointed right at your head!” Bluff ‘em, Kristen.

 “O-o-ow! Stop yelling! My head’s about to explode.” Closer. Man’s voice. Could be good news…or bad.

“Well, you’d better show yourself. And get some light over here.” Take charge, Kristen.

 “I don’t know where the stinkin’ lights are. And stop yelling.” Closer… I could almost smell him.

“Don’t you have a lighter or something? I thought all guys carried lighters.”

 He groaned a bit more. “Only the ones that smoke.”

“Terrific. The one non-smoker in Verdeville has finally arrived to let me out.”

“Out of what? Where are you? Ow!  Crud! What is this?” He’d finally found the left side of my cage.

“I’m in the fund-raiser jail.  Quit stalling and get me out. I need a restroom. Come around to the front and watch out for the…”

“Ow! Splinter!”

“…splinters.”


 
Blurb:
             When Kris awakens in a costume, behind wooden bars inside a pitch-black
community center, her only available rescuer is the hung-over new guy in town (who’s dressed as a pirate). Problem is: she’s sworn off men, especially buccaneers.

Buy Link:
http://www.amazon.com/Rescued-That-New-Town-ebook/dp/B009L90HZO/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1351913806&sr=1-1


 

                 ... My Scariest Costume
                                  By Jeff Salter 

Clear winner for the scariest costume I ever WORE goes back to the Halloween of 1979. My wife was in the Junior Guild, which hosted a large part (if not all) of the Halloween Festival at the local high school gym. My wife’s involvement was chiefly the ‘horror house’ … which occupied the entire, fairly spacious, back-stage area. Naturally, I was enlisted to help.
           
I must have had my choice of spooky characters, because I ended up with one of the scariest — the Frankenstein Creature. And I went all out. I took a pair of my military boots and cut-out pieces of wood four-inches-thick … which I glued and taped to the soles. Now that I had the Frank-Creature’s footwear settled, I borrowed a set of shoulder pads from the football coach. The only thing left was the mask itself. Nowhere in that small town could I find anything close to what I needed so I drove some 100 miles (round-trip) to a mall. This is significant because in those days, every nickel counted and it was unlike me to ‘waste’ gasoline or spend fifteen precious dollars on a (non-essential) mask. But I did. I wanted to be the scariest Frank-Creature those kids would ever see in real life.
           
With my built-up boots, I was about 6’ 4” … with those shoulder pads, I was nearly three feet wide. And, when I looked in the mirror, that mask scared even me!


Night at the Horror House
           
Fast-forward to the evening of the Carnival. It was warm and I was sweating like a hog inside all that clothing (and extra padding). The mask made my glasses fog up, so I had to take them off.
           
Besides me, the ‘cast’included a mummy, a wolf-man, probably a ghost or two, and a vampire inside a REAL coffin. There was also a mock-up electric chair (with no power, fortunately).
           
A steady line of kids waited to get in, but only about half a dozen were admitted at a time. As each group of kids entered the ‘horror house’ they would encounter a new monster at every turn of the twisted ‘path’ in that large back-stage area.
           
The youngest kids came with parents and if they got really scared – or began crying – we’d get out of character and tell them who we really were. I even lifted my mask for at least one upset child. But most of the kids wanted to be SCARED!
           
Most of us monsters merely stayed in-place for the younger children, but we’d growl, or reach, or do something especially spooky as the older kids neared us. [We probably looked scary enough even without moving!] As kids neared the vampire’s station, he would sit up in his coffin! That was enough to send most of these groups on through the rest of the Horror House very quickly … many with their eyes closed.


‘Please don’t kill me!’
           
But one particular group happened to be older girls. I mean several years older than most of the kids we’d entertained. These were clearly high school girls … all in a cluster. For their special entertainment, the mummy moaned and moved … the wolf-man growled and lunged even farther than normal. By the time they reached me and I stepped a few paces in those platform boots — one of those girls literally begged me,
“Please don’t kill me, mister!” Before I could explain that I was not the real Frank-Creature, but actually the county librarian, ole Dracula reared up in his coffin!
           
In their frantic effort to escape, those shrieking girls jumped over the coffin, causing the lid to slam down on Dracula! The girls tore past the huge, heavy ‘theater’curtain and hurled themselves into the concession area right in front of the stage … and a good four feet below. They landed where the popcorn was sold …and freshly-filled bags went flying
everywhere.
           
I was certain we’d never see them again.
           
All the commotion as those terrified older girls ran and screamed was terrific advertising — even more kids lined up and waited to enter our Horror House.
           
Funny that the oldest ‘kids’would scare the worst … yet return for another dose.
           
Yep … that’s what I said —within about 15 minutes, those same girls came BACK through our Horror House!
           
My performance as the Frank-Creature has gone down in family lore.


Question:
           
What was the scariest costume YOU ever wore for anything related to Halloween?


Note:  My true story first appeared on Four Foxes One Hound on 10-27-2011

                                           By Jeff Salter

I’m sharing one of my  real-life experiences: something I observed at our Veterinary Clinic around May 2010. I learned something important about others and about myself — and I realized how it can (or should) tie-in to our writing.

—--

A heavy-set man was in front of me in line at the Veterinary Clinic counter— he looked pretty rough and dour. I didn’t pay all that much attention except to note the receptionist had him sit to wait for Dr. B.

I began my business with the receptionist and also had to wait [I was picking up my mother-in-law’s dog]. I didn’t really resent having to run this errand, but I was NOT
happy about it. I fiddled with my phone camera because I’d been instructed to take a pix of ‘Ginger’ (after her grooming). Nobody else was in the waiting room, so I tried to engage that man by verbalizing my difficulty in getting the camera to function. No response.

It seemed odd. Usually most people at the Vet seem eager to engage. So I chalked him off as somebody who also didn’t want to be there; I guessed he’d been coerced into
running this errand and really wanted to be off somewhere pounding nails or pouring concrete.

Shortly, Dr. B. appeared in the waiting room’s doorway. I didn’t catch everything he said
because I wasn’t really paying attention. But I heard Dr. B. ask if the man wanted to go ‘back’ to the office to go over the results. Or would he like to have ‘her’ – I presume wife or daughter – call Dr. B. later for those results. Difficult to tell what the man replied. I still had him pegged as not giving a hoot either way.

Shortly a clinic employee appeared with a little frou-frou dog like a Bichon. Now I had assumed the whole story: the guy was coerced into running this errand, he was impatient to leave, and the frou-frou dog was his wife’s pet. He just wanted to pay and
get on with his real interests.

Then Dr. B. began going over the results … right there in the doorway.“These readings are literally off the chart, that’s why you don’t see a mark. The other levels are way high.” More medical detail about the test results.

It was then I noticed the man (his back to me) wiping tears from his eyes.

Dr. B. kept on explaining with no visible emotion [I guess Vets have to be that way]. Soon the man began sobbing … but he never said a word.

Why do I share this story? [Depressing as it is]. Because most of us have been there —
hearing that bad news from a Vet. But mostly because I stood there and ‘judged’ this man as an uncaring bum … when all the time he was grieving (clearly knowing that this little dog would have to be put down).

He left with the dog and Dr. B. gave him some private phone numbers. “Have your wife call me when y’all make up your minds. Any time.”

With tears streaming down his face, the man left … without saying a word.

Me too.

—--

Just as I learned a heart-breaking lesson about this actual individual –that he was a LOT deeper than I had assumed (by his appearance and lack of interaction) – it’s often too
easy for us to write characters with a similar lack of dimension. That man was a lot deeper than I gave him credit for.

I realized that I’ve written characters who were too shallow because I took the easy way out and just propped up some one-dimensional cut-outs … to move along my story.

For me, the lesson is: be attentive to your characters and look for something which
can sneak up on your reader … just as this man’s tears sneaked up on me.

Your characters may be – or perhaps should be – deeper than you may realize. Don’t
short-change them … or your readers.

QUESTION: Have you ever written a character who does something much deeper than you’ve led the reader to expect?

—--

 Jeff Salter has completed seven novel manuscripts, two of which have been published by Astraea Press.

Note:  this column of mine appeared on chicklitwriters.com/blog on 6-8-11.