Man’s need to express himself has, throughout the years, taken many forms, not the least of which is the written word. Whether the format is within the confines of a sticky note or an attempt at the Great American Novel, effective self-expression is paramount to good communication. My grandfather had a favorite expression: “I know you think you know what you thought I said, but I’m not sure that what you thought you heard is really what I meant.”
Writing is therapeutic. Whether you are writing in a diary, a journal, or a blog, getting your thoughts on paper relieves stress and helps organize your thinking. Even the simple act of penciling repetitions of your name can strengthen the communication between the left and right sides of your brain. So start writing as each week we explore how to better communicate our feelings, share our thoughts and ideas, provide accurate information, and increase our creativity through the art of writing.
In the novel, Detective Chief Augustus Mallory moved to Tyler, Texas to get away from the big city. Now, a serial killer is staking his quiet town. To make matters worse, his old-time friend, FBI agent Demetri Ranoir, has informed Mallory that he believes the murderer is an extremely elusive killer on the FBI’s most wanted list.
With the bodies piling up and his niece, Pagan—newly graduated from the police academy—thinking she can solve the case, Mallory is knee deep in worry.
The novel begins with the killer…at the gorge.
I moved toward the body and shivered. The fall sky had darkened—angry, black clouds ready to burst. I turned up my collar. A wet coolness oozed over me, chilling me to the bone. Damn this weather. Okay, so it was more than that. I didn’t want to do the next part—the grunt work. I stared down at her. What did this empty shell have to do with me? Damn stiff. I hoisted the body over my shoulder—throwing out my foot for balance. Steady—don’t lose it now. Man, she was heavy. Did she weigh this much before?
I locked the car. It was all about equilibrium, wasn’t it? The bundle hung mummy-wrapped—braced by my left hand. I staggered, mindful of tripping on roots and fallen logs—disregarding the noise of crunching leaves. Almost home free. Ollie, Ollie Oxen Free. The childhood ditty flashed through my mind. What the hell did it mean? We didn’t care back then. We were young.
Left, right, left, right. Fifty, fifty-one, fifty-two. I counted off two hundred and twenty-six steps before I reached the gorge. Big scooped out hunk of earth, overrun with growth and covered in fall leaves. Perfect place to ditch the bitch.
I bumped the guardrail and somer
saulted her over the edge. She flew—limbs helter skelter, then plopped against the damp ground in a heap—arm sticking out askew. ..
The incline was steep. I vaulted the guardrail and held fast. Inching down, I was soon beside her—her torso lodged against a log. Grasping the trunk of a young tree, I worked my foot underneath the corpse, near the middle of the lump, and heaved. It resisted. I strained harder. The body released what sounded like a loud sigh and began to roll down the hill. At one point it was airborne, and the soft thud of its landing blended nicely with the swooshing and crackling of scattered leaves.
Today, the Gorge looks like this. After the heavy rains of the last few weeks, a big washout took out a large chunk of the roadway. The Rye Killer squirms as all eyes focus on a section of land he holds sacred.