Category Archives: Kindle

Zombie series from W G Sweet

I have been absorbed in the world of Bear, Beth, Billy, Cammy and the other Zombie characters. When I write, that is the way it is for me. I jump in and it is as good as a movie for me, in many ways even better. The craft, or art, of writing is like that for me…

I imagine it is like that for other writers, I know several, but I have never really asked. So, for all I know, it is only me. That sort of brings me to my topic for this week. Writing and writers.

I thought about this the other day. I do not have any non-writer friends. And, I realized the other day that I live in a bubble. I don’t purposely live in a bubble, but, a bubble is a bubble, purpose built or not.

Some of it is unavoidable, because of the way I am, the rest is how it becomes because of that same thing. My time is my own. there is no one at all to put designs on it, make me feel guilty about how I spend it, and, I have lived that way for so long that I am pretty sure I could not be housebroken now.

Not all of my writer friends do that to the same extreme that I do, but nearly all of them do it to at least a lesser degree. To me eighteen hours of writing is no big deal. To me pounding out a novel in fourteen days, also no big deal. But ask me what day it is? That isn’t a joke. I can not tell you how many times one of my friends has said, ‘Hey, it’s Friday,’ and I’ll look at them like they’re speaking Russian. ‘What do you mean Friday?’ ‘Ha Ha.’ ‘No, it really is Friday,or Tuesday, or the 28th, or whatever.’ Of course I’ll look at a calendar, watch, something, like they would really take the time to lie to me. They’re writers but their imagination isn’t that good, is it? Nope. It’s me. I fell into this world or that one and the time slipped away. It’s that simple.

What is pretty cool, what makes it so addictive, as a writer, is watching something come from nothing at all. No, I do not know where it comes from. I can not force it to come if it isn’t there. I have rarely been able to write exactly what I choose to write either, but when it shows up and it’s right there at the tips of your fingers, pouring out onto the page, and I am reading it, it is amazing. When that happens I don’t want to stop. I am afraid that if I do the words will go someplace else. To someone else, and they will write my story, only it will no longer be my story, it will be their story. So I hang in there, type, let the magic pour out of my fingers, and then someone says, ‘Uh, you do know it’s Friday, right?’

That is writing for me. And there are times when it has to stop. When sleep has to take over. And in the old days I would come back from that break for sleep, slouch back to my chair, stare at my monitor, and think. Well, that’s that. My head is empty. The story is gone. Shouldn’t have gone to sleep. Two seconds later the words are pouring out. The story is back from where ever it went to and I am along for the ride again. So when my other writer friends ask me about how I wrote this or that I really have no answer. In fact, usually I’ll look at them like, well, where do you get your stuff? Walmart Writers Aisle? Or I’ll get the writer I don’t understand who will give me the song and dance about how he or she plotted this out, and then did this and then pulled teeth to write it, and then… I have no idea what he or she means. The process is not that way for me at all and I have tried it, writing on demand, the same way they do it, and I turn out stuff that seems like cardboard.

That is not to say I can not write something off the cuff. I can. But, it works this way: Someone says, ‘Hey. Could you write me a story about a three legged dog that stops to sniff at a dead cat on the interstate during rush hour traffic, gets run over by a Semi and comes back as a Vampire dog that sleeps in the woods, flags down Semis on the highway and kills the drivers as retribution?’ … ‘Uh,no… Sorry. And, if you can find someone who can, well, you should hire them.’

But, I will go back and think… Hmm a three legged dog… Dead cat… What the hell happened with that cat anyway? And why didn’t the semi driver stop?… Hmm…Maybe he didn’t stop because he was distracted by the truck stop cutie he had picked up… Right, and the cat… The cat had been on the way to it’s kittens which were across the highway… Hidden in the woods… And I’ll work it out in my head like that. But then I’ll set down and the story just shows up. It ends up being about the Truck Driver and his drug addicted Daughter and it turns out the Cat and the Dog were simple distractions. Huh, I’ll think as I write it. I’ll be damned. Then, just at the end, the damn Cat comes back, abetted by her three legged dog friend, and kills the trucker. And I’ll think ‘Son of a bitch, I never saw that coming.’

Let me give you an example: In the  Earth’s Survivors series, Molly and Nellie, major characters, are along on a resupply trip. Nellie gets shot and killed. I am shocked as I write it. I stop writing and think, ‘Wow, That sucks.’ I wonder about undoing it. In the old days I would have highlighted the whole scene and then deleted it. Kill a major character? No way. So I would then spent hours, days, weeks, re-writing it. And all to no avail because after that period of time I’ll see it had to happen that way because that was the story. Now, I may stop, look, but then I’m back at it. I am curious to know where it is going now. What will Molly do? Well, if you read it you know; Molly could not deal with it. She turned her own gun on herself before anyone could react fast enough to stop her. Another shock to me. But, that is writing to me. That is the gift God gave to me, and the way it comes out of me.

I suppose people will read that and think, bullshit. But it really is the process for me. And for all of the writers I know too, at least the ones I hang out with. And, hang-out is a loose term for me. I don’t hang out with anyone at all, not really. Hanging out to me is giving up that time I was talking about earlier, and I don’t like to give that up. So hanging out might be a 3:00 AM Skype conversation. No, no camera, just chat. If the conversation lasts more than ten minuets before it lags, then something is really wrong, and that is not just me talking.

The other person has some sort of project open on their desktop, same as I do, and they are either writing as we talk or thinking about writing as we talk, or actively wishing I would shut up or get to the point, so they can go back to writing. I know that because after the ten minute mark that is what I am doing, and the few times I have asked a writer friend honestly what they are doing they say those things, or, they are not as diplomatic as I am and just tell me to get to the point or shut up. No, that doesn’t offend me.

That is the craft of writing for me with all of the mystery and magic stripped off. I guess it is about as attractive as that dead cat in the road, huh? I wonder how that cat got there…

Have a good week…

Yellowstone, a preview from the author

YELLOWSTONE

Copyright 2018 W. G. Sweet all rights reserved.

Cover Art © Copyright 2018 W. G. Sweet

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your bookseller and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

LEGAL

This is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places or incidents depicted are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual living person’s places, situations or events is purely coincidental.

No part of this book may be reproduced by any means, electronic, print, scanner or any other means and, or distributed without the author’s permission. Permission is granted to use short sections of text in reviews or critiques in standard or electronic print.


This excerpt contains graphic language and situations and has NOT been edited for content


    Jack and Maria

They had both been bothered by a feeling that they had been followed, or were being watched. It was unsettling, and they were constantly glancing around themselves as they walked, but they saw no one.

They were standing on the pavement of a car lot looking over a long line of vehicles, trying to decide which one to take, when the first shot came.

The side window of the truck directly in front of them imploded, covering the interior in small jewel-like chunks of glass. They both reacted instantly, dropping to the ground and rolling towards the rear of the truck.

When they reached the rear of the truck they both crouched low and sprinted deeper into the lot. Another shot rang out as they ran, and Maria watched as a wide hole was suddenly punched through the fender of a truck just a few inches ahead of her. She dropped to the ground and rolled over on her back, raising the machine pistol instinctively in front of her. It was all that saved her life.

Jack was still running deeper into the lot, not realizing Maria was no longer beside him. The sound of the machine pistols chatter behind him stopped him cold, and he turned and ran back toward the front of the lot.

When Maria had fallen, a tall dark haired kid had appeared from in front of the truck, and directly into the steel sight of the machine pistol. He raised what looked to be an automatic rifle, but before he could fire Maria began squeezing the trigger of the pistol, and it jumped and began to bark in her hands. Jack had just come up beside her, and watched as the man toppled over, nearly cut in two. The sound of screeching tires out on the roadway dragged his mind away from the still twitching body of the young man, and as Maria jumped up into a low crouch they both began to run towards the road. Jack stopped only long enough to pick up the automatic rifle from the ground where the man had dropped it.

When they reached the road a small Jeep was moving rapidly away from them, and a blond haired man, not much more than a kid, Jack realized, was crouched in the back aiming a rifle at them, while a dark haired young woman sat behind the wheel. They both dropped once more to the ground, and opened up on the Jeep as the young man began to fire. The slugs from the young man’s rifle ripped into the pavement, tearing huge chunks out of it close to Jack’s face as he fired back at the Jeep.

The blond haired kid suddenly bolted upright, and seemed to jump from the rear of the Jeep. He landed on the roadway, rolled, and then was still. Both rear tires blew out on the Jeep as Maria’s gun continued to speak, and before it had traveled far the young woman lost control, and it flipped several times rolling down the middle of the road. The young woman fell headfirst in a heap on the pavement where she had been thrown, and had then been rolled over by the Jeep as it continued to flip down the road.

Smoke curled up from the overturned Jeep. Within seconds it attracted a small circle of flames from under the hood that grew and began to curl up and lick at the rubber of the still turning front tires.

“You okay?” Jack asked, in a panicked voice as he looked at Maria.

“Aún estoy un poco… conmocionada… Good… A little shaken,” she amended.

They both walked slowly down the road to where the bodies of the young man and the young woman lay, they were perhaps twenty feet apart. Maria had thought that possibly the young woman might still be alive, but she was not. Her neck was broken, and they had quietly carried both bodies off the road and into a field before returning to the lot. They had debated briefly whether they should bury them, but had decided not to. It was not a decision made out of spite, but out of necessity. They had no idea whether the three were alone or not, and if they were not, and there were others close by, it might be best to get back to the lot, pick up a truck, and head back out to where the Chevy had broken down as quickly as they could.

They walked calmly back to the dealership, and went inside. They both felt safer inside despite the wide glass windows that fronted the road.

A huge four wheel drive Suburban sat on the showroom floor nestled in between other cars and trucks that surrounded it. It was obviously a heavy duty truck. It sat much higher than the pickup had, and the tires were much more aggressive, and the open cargo space behind the driver’s area would be an asset to them, Jack realized, much better than the open pick-up bed had been with its flimsy vinyl cover. He walked around the truck, noticing that it was also equipped with a winch as the pickup had been, but this one looked to be a lot sturdier to him, strictly heavy duty.

He walked over to a slightly raised area, where a board filled with keys spanned most of the rear wall behind a small, but long counter top. He gave Maria the keys to a convertible that was between them and the doors, and she moved it while Jack jockeyed the truck around until he managed to get it aimed at the wide glass doors set into the side of the building. He drove it outside, checking the gas gauges as he did.

The truck had dual tanks, and both of them were full. Not that they’ll last any longer than the pickups single tank, he thought, but he was still glad that they were full. They edged carefully around the still burning Jeep, and made their way slowly out of town and back to the pickup, watching the side roads as they went. They were both spooked.

When they were still more than a hundred yards from the pickup, they could tell that they’d had visitors while they were gone. Jack edged the Suburban up carefully to the truck and they searched the surrounding countryside, but decided whoever had been there was gone.

The truck was demolished. Someone or some-ones had attacked it with a vengeance. All the windows were smashed, and the black vinyl cover that had spanned the bed of the truck was slashed to ribbons. The tires had been flattened, and they had dented or punctured nearly every body panel. The camping gear, along with the rest of the venison, was gone. The map they had been using lay ripped and shredded across the front seat, which had also been slashed.

They only walked around the truck once, but it was enough. They both turned without speaking and walked back to the Suburban.

“Doesn’t matter,” Jack said once they were safely back inside the Suburban. “We can pick up more gear down the road. I saw a small sporting goods store about a mile back, it had a little shopping center right next to it.”

“I guess we don’t have to deal with the dead here because these people are here and killed or chased them off. But then we got to deal with people alive trying make more dead out the living… One or the other and no in between, I guess,” Maria said.

Jack shook his head slowly as they drove away.

When they reached the small sporting goods store he pulled as close to the front doors as he could. The parking lot looked deserted, but the dealership had also looked deserted, and he was taking no chances. They looked the huge lot over for better than ten minutes before they left the truck. He wished they didn’t have to stop at all. The sooner they were on the road the better, as far as he was concerned. He supposed it probably wouldn’t be any better stopping somewhere else though. They entered the store and took turns watching the lot as they picked up what they needed. Besides a handful of dead, all head shot, the store was empty. Maria looked over the bodies.

“I guess some archaeologist is going to dig all this up in forty thousand years, if we all survive and have to come up with some explanation as to why so many skulls show evidence of bullet holes… Makes me wonder what they’ll say… Religious practice? Sacrifices to Dios?” She asked.

“Hopefully they’ll never know what this was really about,” Jack said quietly.

By the time they had re-outfitted themselves it was nearly dark. The setting sun casting the lot in deep shadows, and Jack was glad he had parked the truck close to the doors. They debated staying. They could sleep right inside the small shop Maria argued, but Jack didn’t want to, and Maria’s argument was halfhearted at best. They both decided they would rather put as many miles as possible between them and the small town. In the end they left despite the descending darkness, and they did not stop that night at all.

Jack drove while Maria slept, and towards daybreak as they were nearing Fort Deposit the road disappeared into the water. They had stood looking as the sun rose higher into the sky. It was water as far as the eye could see. The air carried the tang of salt. They were both at a loss for words. Finally, Jack angled the truck down off the pavement, turned it around and drove back to an old logging road he had seen a few miles back. He dropped down off the pavement and followed the rutted road into a quiet, forested area and killed the hot motor.

They quickly set up a small camp in the sparse morning light, and then crawled into the tent. They held each other tightly as they drifted off to sleep.


         

Yellowstone: A disaster that may bring humanity to its knees. #Yellowstone #Volcano

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07K62RMV3

iTunes: https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/yellowstone/id1441067513?mt=11

KOBO: https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/yellowstone-6

NOOK: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/yellowstone-wg-sweet/1129809358?ean=2940155864776

Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/904314

Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1730871143



 

Deliverance

I read the book Deliverance. Between the movie and the book I was completely influenced by the movie; having seen it long before I read the book.
The movie, I thought, followed the book very closely, except that there was much more background information in the book, and of course characters I could not relate to as deeply because Burt Reynolds, Jon Voight, Ronny Cox and Ned Beatty are stuck in my head, and as a result the characters in the book seemed a little lack-luster, a little duller, but had I read the book first I would probably have believed that the movie characters were overacted.
All in all, though, as far as following the plot I thought they did a good job, and I like that the author (James Dickey) played the sheriff in the movie.
 
 
 

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Rocket

Feb 27, 2018

Kindle Edition

Get it TODAY, Mar 18


Star Dancer Free Preview from Dell Sweet

Star Dancer Free Preview from Dell Sweet


STAR DANCER

Copyright 2017 Dell Sweet all rights reserved.

Cover Art © Copyright 2017 Dell Sweet

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your bookseller and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

LEGAL

This is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places or incidents depicted are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual living person’s places, situations or events is purely coincidental.

No part of this book may be reproduced by any means, electronic, print, scanner or any other means and, or distributed without the author’s permission. Permission is granted to use short sections of text in reviews or critiques in standard or electronic print.


03-19 06:33:02

Twenty Seven

Main Trap

The main trap was exactly as it sounded a trap between the free world and one of the largest prison colonies in the known worlds. Two officers in separate bubbles, both outside the trap itself, controlled the comings and goings. All entrances and all exits were announced to shift sergeant’s colony wide, no access in or out was granted without documentation.

As Far as Superintendant Sam Ellison was concerned Twenty Seven was a super max facility classified as a max. That meant that it went well over the threshold of security for a max prison and came in just under the official super max classification: Lacking the certification because they did not possess a thirty foot wall that completely surrounded the facility.

Superintendant Ellison had petitioned to be moved to the super max classification despite the wall. His argument was short but eloquent: Although they did not possess the necessary wall they did have an absolute barrier, an atmosphere that could not sustain life. Anyone breaking out of Twenty Seven may not have to then scale a thirty foot wall, but they would die in seconds from the lack of oxygen and most likely they would begin to freeze to death before that occurred; or find themselves burning up, dependent upon the phase of the Martian day.

Four soldiers decked out in full riot gear; including fully loaded laser rifles stepped from an el lift at the end of a transport hall just outside of the main trap and looked over the area. Another group at the opposite end of the hall came to attention, spread out across the front of the entrance to the trap, a two story steel monstrosity made of chrome carbon-steel bar work that could not be moved without the machinery that had been specially designed to move it. Before that machinery could be activated both of the bubble officers would be in radio contact with one another and reach complete agreement as to the authenticity of the orders for the movement.

The four officers stepped back into the el, took custody of the prisoner from two other officers that had remained in the el to secure the prisoner and got him moving.

Kenneth Rowland shuffled forward, the chains that bound him and the heavy footfalls of the soldier’s boots were the only sounds in the short hall. He wore a chain around his waist: A second chain ran down to the chain on a set of ankle cuffs and was joined to that chain via a heavy double keyed padlock. His hands were chained with a few short links to the waist chain, also joined with a heavy double keyed padlock. He wore finger spanners that kept his fingers separated and spread apart as well as disabling flexing more than two fingers at one time. A final chain snaked away from the waist chain to an appliance truck that carried a small, metal file cabinet stuffed with files pertaining to his charges and cases, both on Earth and here on Twenty Seven. A soldier pushed the truck. A lawyer representative walked beside Rowland carrying a small camera to record the procedure live to courts on Earth and Twenty Seven. It would also be retained as part of the permanent record.

The ungainly crew moved quickly down the short hall, the soldiers hustling Rowland along faster. When they reached the gate the soldiers there parted and formed a complete circle around Rowland, the lawyer was cut out; left standing on his own. Two soldiers separated from the group and faced the lawyer, watching him carefully: It was not unknown for an attack to occur from a lawyer that had been planted for just that purpose. In 2099, to protest the end of a half century of Fed rule, a Martian law representative had detonated a half ounce of fiber-gel explosives he had combed into his hair in this very trap killing thirty two people. With the rebuild had come the bug lights which could deal with all known manner of electronic and bio bugs, explosives and tagging equipment. The Feds had many enemies.

A series of bug lights in the overhead ceiling came on and almost simultaneously grills mounted in the walls came to life. The air current was stiff and steady. The first lights killed everything biological, and the air movement kept the contaminants moving out of the space. After three minutes the lights died down and a second set of lights came up bathing the hall in blue light. The second set of lights carried destructive electronic impulses within the light wave that would destroy any electronic circuitry. The total time was just under seven minutes. The lights cycled down once more and the regular lights came up. Shorty after that the big doors began to move.

Rowland looked around the narrow hallway. There would be no chance of escape. If he tried anything at all he would most likely wind up dead: And if you were dead it was all over with anyway; so he would bide his time and wait. There would be something. Some mistake and when it happened he would be ready for it.

“Move your ass scumbag!” One of the soldiers gave him a quick shot to the kidneys. The lawyer was blocked and would never see it he knew. Rowland bit down hard, a slight trickle of blood running away from his lip where he had bitten it. He refused to cry out. The door finished its travel and he shuffled into the center of the trap, the lawyer left behind.

03-27 02:20:09

Star Dancer

Mike clicked his Log-link on: “Intra System Cruiser Star Dancer. Present: Michael Watson chief operating officer: Petra Stanovich Navigation officer. Two hours ten minutes and fifteen seconds out of Mars Twenty Seven. Contract FQHPX2879 concludes. U.P.T crew Twenty Nine, one additional crew, see addendum CL44988 per U.P.T crew manifest… Stop two will be Mars One for a tech drop… Contract 771926F… Our last drop will be IO Six… Prefab buildings plus one, to total three now, see addendum 279916BX… Out.”

Petra looked up from where she was programming her navigation interface and smiled. They were at slow speed, orbit maintenance speed; and Mike watched the surface of Mars slip by far below as Petra prepared to break orbit and head for docking at Mars One. He took one last sip of coffee, drained the cup; popped it into an in-seat holder and belted himself in for descent…

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Introducing America The Dead from Dell Sweet, Geo Dell and Jay Watson

Introducing America The Dead from Dell Sweet, Geo Dell and Jay Watson…



THE ZOMBIE PLAGUES: BOOK 7

America The Dead The Zombie Plagues. The dead begin to rise faster and the world falls to them Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1549696831

America The Dead book 7: The Zombie Plagues. Show down with the dead as the living push back. Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01DCFSNMG


ZOMBIE FALL BOOK 6

Zombie Fall For some there is safety but to keep the safety some must sacrifice and risk everything Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1549697129

America The Dead book 6: Zombie Fall: A supply trip nearly spells the end for the Nation Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01DCG6WR8


WAR AT HOME 2

The group of survivors looking for peace and a place to rebuild comes closer to what they seek Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1549697315

America The Dead book 5: War at Home 2. The survivors are on the road looking for safety Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01DCF3KHE


WAR AT HOME 1

In a top secret facility a virus is created that brings on the #Zombie  Paperback from Amazon Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/154970415X

America The Dead book 4: War At Home 1. The end comes, few are ready, fewer still survive Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01DCPQ1IO


MANHATTAN

America The Dead Manhattan, The city is a landscape of gangs and the risen dead. The living are safe nowhere Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1549704303

America The Dead book 3: Manhattan. The city falls to the plague. A group of survivors fight their way out. Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01DCF3WI6


LOS ANGELES

America The Dead Los Angeles. A couple finds there way through the deconstruction and death of L.A. Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1549704419

America The Dead book 2: Los Angeles. The city of L.A. is shaken, Beth and Billie find their way out Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01DCFSPHO


BEGINS THE END

America The Dead Begins the end. A series of events begins that will bring all of society to its knees Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1549704559

America The Dead Book 1: Begins the end. A small New York town hosts the beginning of the end Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01DAIPT54



 

Zombie Kindle Edition by Dell Sweet

Zombie Kindle Edition

Johnny:
I am here in this farm house that Lana and I found a few weeks back. By myself. Lana is gone. I sat down here to write this story out before I am gone too. Maybe that sounds melodramatic, but it isn’t. I know exactly what my situation is.
We have been to Manhattan, outside of it, you can’t go in any longer, and we came from Los Angeles, so we know: It’s all gone, destroyed, there’s nothing left.

The Graveyard:
The moon rode high in the sky. Moonlight gleamed from bits of gravel in the dirt road that lead into the barn. Silence held, and then a scraping came from the ground, muffled, deep.
At the edge of the woods, eyes flashed dully in the over-bright moonlight. Shapes shifted among the trees and then emerged from the shadows onto the gravel roadway. One dragged a leg as he walked, clothes already rotted and hanging in tatters. A second seemed almost untouched, a young woman, maybe a little too pale in the wash of moonlight. She walked as easily as any woman, stepping lightly as she went. The third and fourth moved slower, purposefully, as they made their way to the freshly turned soil. They stopped beside the grave, and silence once again took the night, no sounds of breathing, no puffs of steam on the cold night air.
“Do you think…?” The young woman asked in a whisper.
“Shut up,” the one with the dragging leg rasped. His words were almost unintelligible. His vocal cords rotted and stringy, no air in his lungs to move his words. The noises came once again from the earth and the four fell silent… waiting…
A hand broke through into the moonlight. A few minutes later a young woman’s head pushed up, and then she levered her arms upward and began to strain to pull herself up and out of the hole. She noticed the four and stopped, her pale skin nearly translucent, her black hair tangled and matted against her face and neck. Her lips parted, a question seeming to ride on them.
“It’s okay,” the young woman whispered, “it’s okay.” She and one of the older ones moved forward, fell to their knees and began to scoop the dirt away from her with their hands.
“It’ll be okay,” the young woman mumbled in agreement through her too cold lips.
“It will… It will,” the other woman repeated…


Get a free preview at Amazon right now!

https://www.amazon.com/Zombie-Dell-Sweet-ebook/dp/B0759TD7XK



 

War. Verse by Geo Dell. Book Links…

War. Verse by Geo Dell. Book Links…

WAR Copyright 2017 Geo Dell…

What if you were standing in your own yard and the world was the same. Great. Safe. Comfortable. And you were standing there in your yard. Just a kid, a man, a woman, the day right there before you. Feeling like the world would always be the same.
And this safety was all that you had known, ever. And the sun was shining in the sky. And then the tanks rolled in. And the soldiers with their guns. The noise incredible. The soldiers glancing at you as they walk past you. Like they know your name.
And everything changed. Your yard was not your yard anymore. Just a piece of dirt and grass with tank tracks running across it. But the sun is still shining… How can that be? And the soldiers are soldiering, they don’t speak. It’s like they don’t even care.
And you turn away but it is the same all around you. Your friends in their yards. Looking at the same blue sky, the same bright sun. The same tanks. The same soldiers with the same guns. They don’t speak either, but the same questions are on the air.
And you feel like the black clouds should move in and blot out the sun. The bright day should not exist in this world that your eyes see. You blink but it doesn’t go away, refuses to change. Your whole world has changed and a minute has not expired.
The tanks, clank, clank, clank, on their way to where, you wonder. And the soldiers step, step, step, one foot follows the other never questioning where. The children begin to cry. You think to wipe your own tears from your eyes, but find you are too tired.
The tanks, the soldiers, the sun in the blue sky. The day that started as your own…
The noise, the fear. Time is moving, but you don’t know where it’s going…


Addiction Conversations with my fathers 

The mental health unit: Age thirteen, suicide attempt three. I can’t remember when it all changed between my father and me. There was a time in childhood where I was still willing to forgive the fact that his sister molested me for a very long time, he knew about it and did nothing, as a kid it’s easy to overlook those things. Those are things you think about later in life. Things that will destroy you or cause you to try to destroy people around you if you don’t get them fixed. I know we were okay. We owned a house. My mother and father were together. They were successful I thought, but then my Dad used to take me for rides with him. He’d pick up friends, then girlfriends then they would do sh*t in the back of the car. Right in front of me. We had one of our few conversations and it ended with him telling me, “Don’t tell your mother.” I didn’t, ever. Not even now. I think in my kid brain everything worked: Was working. Why mess it up? But then he left; leaving us with no money, car, nothing. Just left. I tried suicide for the first time the year before at about twelve, or just turned twelve. The time before that had been accidental. Sniffing glue and I passed out and stopped breathing for a few minutes. It was funny because my friend did nothing. Didn’t call for help, nothing. Squeezed some more glue into the bag and went at it. I have his word that I stopped breathing, but he was high and I have always wondered if that part was true. I tend to be a show me and I’ll believe it type of guy. If I don’t see it I don’t believe it. Maybe I’m not so much like that anymore, but I absolutely was for many years. The thing is I started breathing again on my own and when I came out of that I had this fascination with death. It just called to me. I can’t explain it any better. Maybe the release of all responsibility, pain, hatred. Maybe. So not long after that I tried suicide again. I took every pill I could find and swallowed them. Prescription pain pills, aspirins. A few hundred pills or so. And I washed it all down with alcohol. I nearly died, but while I was in that place of waiting where my body was away from me, I had no pain. There was no one that was hurting me, using me, trying to rape me. Nothing. I wanted to stay there so bad, but they got enough stuff in me to make me puke most of the pills back up and I lived. Sick for a while, stomach permanently messed up, but alive. They sent me to the Mental Health Unit after the second attempt that year, my third try at suicide. I was there for thirty days; an automatic hold, but they were constantly telling me that if they didn’t want to let me go they could keep me. My parents had signed the paperwork they needed. I can remember one or two groups. It was my first experience with group and I hated it. I was disruptive, refused to talk; told people to go f*ck themselves and generally didn’t make any friends on the staff or any of the people there who were actually trying to get better. I had two sessions of one on one counseling. I remember the counselor’s name, although I won’t include it here. A nice guy: Honest, straight forward. The second session is when things went bad. We were talking along and I felt comfortable with him so I told him I had been sexually abused. Everything stopped. He went and got his supervisor, the supervisor and he got into an argument outside the door, the up thrust of which I heard through the door: There is no money in this, no way to pay the bill, we’re letting him go, so don’t explore that. To be honest I wasn’t that surprised. I spent my last few nights on the Mental Health Unit getting to know a girl a few years older than me. I was surprised at how alone they left us when they went off to do whatever they did. We sat in the cafeteria while she slipped her panties off and let me peek under the table. No one came in at all. Just a few short months later I was living on the streets. Addicted to speed and alcohol…

https://www.amazon.com/Addiction-Conversations-fathers-Dell-Sweet/dp/1549541366



 

About the Legend of Sparrow

Dell Sweet: About the Legend of Sparrow

I began the Legend of Sparrow in a creative writing class several years ago. There were a dozen of us in the class, but only a small core of five who actually took the class to learn. The others were there to be entertained, get credits.
The first day of class the ones who were there to pass the time began to act up and a few of us shut it down by offering to read what we were writing. That set the tone for the entire semester and they were good and well behaved after that.
What I decided to share in that brief instance of bravery was a short-short story about a man having these odd dreams. He would wake up and find himself in a familiar place, yet no matter how hard he tried to find his way to home from there, although it should have been easy he could not.
That short story came from dreams I had had for years. I would find myself in a factory or train station, bus station, park: The place didn’t matter so much except it was always known to me. I knew that home and safety were a short way away. I could almost see it from where I stood, I could see the path worked out in my head. All I had to do was move my feet in the right direction and I would be set upon the right course. I could never do that though. For some reason I would turn the other way or someone would interrupt me and by the time I turned back everything had changed and I was lost.
I had written the short-short story based on that. Since we had both volunteered we were on the chopping block. Every day after that we would be reading updates to the stories we were writing. The other guy was writing a crime story; very complicated, people double crossed over and over again. One of those stories where you had to ask for clarity. And of course that was his offering while mine was this weird dream book where everything happens out of sequence and nothing made sense at first. Even so the class listened and eventually got into both stories and it seemed like the semester burned up it moved so fast.
About ten years back I found those stories and made them into a novel. I sat down one day with the stories, about 6000 words and a week later I was edging out a 100 k novel. I finished it at 125 thousand words and jumped into a sequel immediately. That sequel is still sitting in a composition notebook, two actually and I hope some day to write it into the word processor.
That is how I wrote back then. I wrote in composition notebooks. Even now I have composition notebooks and some days it is all I can do to stop myself from jumping into a story line and writing it out in one. That is because I wrote something like 30 novels that way.
I guess my point is you take them as they come. I started this novel as a Little dream sequence of my own and it became a book that is centered in the dream worlds of two Native American people…

The Legend of Sparrow: Laura must travel the trail of death to reach the city of the dead and free Sparrow Spirit…

THE LEGEND OF SPARROW
I had come back to spend time with Laura. I could not tell her my real reasons. That I was afraid of leading the Dream Killer to her. Or I was not sure even whether I was coming back in the end, so I had wanted to see her one more time. She asked me…


Get a FREE extended preview right now at Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/LEGEND-SPARROW-Wendell-G-Sweet-ebook/dp/B06XRM98LP


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