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While [...]]]>

Death of a Dean ($12.95, 202 pages, ISBN: 978-1-60381-142-2) is the seventh of Hazel Holt’s Mrs. Malory Mysteries. It was first published in 1996 and has been out of print for several years.

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While in Stratford, widow Sheila Malory always stays with her old friend, actor David Beaumont. On this visit she finds him in dire straits: his career is on the skids and his finances are in ruins. Unless he can convince his penny-pinching brother Francis to sell their jointly owned family home in the seaside village of Taviscombe, the bank will repossess his cottage.

Francis, Dean of the Culminster Cathedral, does not believe that charity begins at home. He refuses to put the house on the market or provide a loan. Mrs. Malory offers David a place to stay in her own home in Taviscombe so that the two brothers might meet in person to find a solution. Even if Francis can be persuaded to sell, one impediment remains: their ancient and addled nanny has been told that she can stay in the home until she dies.

Even after Nana’s sudden death, Francis insists that they hold on to the property. When he dies from consuming high tea laced with poison, the police conclude that both deaths were murder. Unfortunately David is their prime suspect. Determined to clear her friend’s name, Mrs. Malory applies her considerable skills as an amateur sleuth to identify the real culprit.

She has seen her share of evil, but even Mrs. Malory is shocked by what her investigation turns up.

Keep reading for an excerpt:

“Now then …”

One of the two telephones on his desk rang, the sudden, shrilling noise seeming strange and unsuitable, somehow, in such a place.

“Excuse me.” Francis picked up the instrument. “Yes, yes, I quite understand, Archdeacon. I will see you later …. Yes. Good-bye. I’m sorry.”

He replaced the receiver and spoke to David. “Cathedral business. I may conceivably have to go down to sort something out with the archdeacon later on, and then, as I told you, I must see the precentor—but I should be able to deal with them both quite quickly. We have plenty of time, since Evensong is, as you are aware, not until five-fifteen. Now then,” he turned to me, “here are the lists I mentioned of gifts promised, valuations where available—perhaps you could fill in the gaps there by consulting suitable authorities…” He broke off again as there was a tap at the door. “Yes, come in! What is it?”

Monica Woodward put her head around the door and said apologetically, “I’m so sorry to bother you, Dean, but the man from the printer is here about that new brochure—you said you wanted to have a word with him about those mistakes you found.”

Francis made an exclamation of annoyance. “How tiresome, but, yes, I will see him now—if I don’t I really hate to think what sort of muddle they will make. Excuse me.”

He bustled out of the room. I made a face at David and said, “Goodness, how pompous! I suppose the world might conceivably stop turning on its axis if he wasn’t in charge …”

I got up and went to the desk to look at the papers Francis had got out for me. Some of them were mixed up with the computer printout and I had to sort them out. The roll of computer stuff seemed to be lists of shares, which I took to be part of Francis’s restoration campaign until I saw that one sheet was headed “Francis E. Beaumont: Main Portfolio,” so I supposed these were his own shares. I don’t understand stocks and shares at all—they seem to have very peculiar names, some of them—and I haven’t the faintest idea which are valuable and which are not or why they go up and down and cause such grief and anxiety to people like my friend Rosemary’s husband, Jack. Still, judging from the list, Francis seemed to have a great many of them and it made me really furious to think that he had all these assets and had refused to lend a relatively small amount to his own brother when he knew that it was practically a matter of life and death.

Francis came back into the room and seemed rather irritated that I had picked up the lists from his desk.

“I hope you haven’t disarranged any of the papers there,” he said sternly. “I do like to keep absolute order in all things—one thing out of place and the whole system is in jeopardy!”

I was aware of David stifling a giggle and I quickly apologized.

We went through the lists and I received my instructions.

“Yes, that’s fine,” I said, “I’ll see to that tomorrow.”

“Very well, then, Sheila.” He looked at his watch. “Joan will be waiting for you.”

Having unmistakably received my dismissal, I gathered up all the papers and put them into a shopping bag I had brought with me. I could see that Francis considered it an unworthy receptacle, but I’m really not the sort of person who feels comfortable carrying a briefcase.

“Now then,” Francis said, “will you both be staying for Evensong?”

I looked inquiringly at David, who hesitated for a moment and then said, “Yes, I’d like to, if that’s all right with you, Sheila?”

“Yes, that’ll be fine. Will you come over to the deanery and collect me about five? Good-bye, Francis. I may see you later, then.”

“Splendid, splendid,” Francis said. “Now, David, if you would be kind enough to switch on that electric kettle on the desk beside you, we will have our tea.”

I closed the door carefully behind me, encouraged by the almost benevolent tone in which Francis addressed his brother.

“Wasn’t that David Beaumont?” Monica Woodward demanded. “The actor who used to be in that thing with the detective, on the television.”

“Yes,” I replied. “David’s the dean’s brother.”

“Really! I never knew that! An actor! It seems unsuitable, somehow.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” I said. “The church and the stage have much in common, and, after all, the theater had its origins in religious ritual.”

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The sleepy seaside town of Taviscombe has more than its share of gossips [...]]]>

Superfluous Death (ISBN: 978-1-60381-140-8, 194 pp., $12.95), originally published in 1995, is Hazel Holt’s sixth mystery featuring amateur sleuth Mrs. Sheila Malory.

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The sleepy seaside town of Taviscombe has more than its share of gossips and schemers. It also has Mrs. Sheila Malory, a widow whose gift for judging character and unmasking murderers is as impressive as her knowledge of nineteenth-century literature. Mrs. Malory’s sleuthing talents are tested once again when she comes upon the body of one of her friends, a sweet elderly lady. Miss Graham’s death by poison is quite convenient for a local doctor of dubious reputation; the dead woman’s refusal to move thwarted Dr. Cowley’s plans to build a nursing home. But Mrs. Malory knows that nothing is as simple as it seems, especially when it is revealed that Miss Graham left a considerable fortune. Another suspicious death during a fireworks display further complicates matters. These two very different murders—one furtive, the other violent—can’t possibly be related. Or can they?

Hazel Holt was born in Birmingham, England, where she attended King Edward VI High School for Girls. She studied at Newnham College, Cambridge, and went on to work at the International African Institute in London, where she became acquainted with the novelist Barbara Pym, whose biography she later wrote. She also finished one of Pym’s novels after Pym died. Holt has also recently published My Dear Charlotte, a story that uses the actual language of Jane Austen’s letters to her sister Cassandra to construct a Regency murder mystery. Holt wrote her first novel in her sixties, and is a leading crime novelist. She is best known for her Mrs. Malory series. Her son is novelist Tom Holt.

Bookstores and libraries can purchase Superfluous Death wholesale through Ingram and Baker & Taylor.

Read on for an excerpt:

‘Miss Graham!’ I called. ‘Are you there? It’s me, Sheila.’

The silence in the flat seemed a very positive thing, oppressive and unnerving, and I had to make a real effort to move forward and open the sitting room door. After the cold wind outside it was pleasantly warm and the flames of the gas fire flickered cosily. Miss Graham was sitting in her usual chair by the fire. Her eyes were shut and she seemed to be sleeping. I went over to her and said, ‘Miss Graham, it’s Sheila. Are you all right?’ But somehow I knew she wouldn’t reply; there was a feeling of emptiness, as if I was the only person in the room, talking to myself.

I moved towards her and, remembering my Red Cross classes, felt for the pulse in her neck, but there was no movement. I took out my handbag mirror and, kneeling down beside her chair, held it to her lips, but the glass was not even faintly misted. As I touched her face, the skin felt slightly chill and clammy and I knew that she was dead.

As I got stiffly to my feet my knees felt wet, but there was nothing to be seen on the carpet, which was fawn, patterned with large dark brown spirals. I bent down and touched the carpet beside the chair and it was wet, though with what I couldn’t tell. The shock suddenly got to me and I sat down quite abruptly on the sofa facing the fire. I was shaking and I suppose it must have taken me a good ten minutes before I got hold of myself and thought about what I had to do.

I went into the hall and found Miss Graham’s address book by the telephone, looked up Dr Cowley’s number and rang the surgery. His receptionist, a nice middle-aged woman whom I knew slightly from the WI, answered.

‘Oh, hello, Miss Watson, it’s Sheila Malory here. I wonder if Dr Cowley could come round to Miss Graham’s, you know, at Kimberley Lodge. I’m afraid she’s—she’s died.’

‘Oh dear.’ The voice at the other end of the line sounded distressed. ‘Dr Cowley will be upset. But I’m afraid Monday’s his day for the Dulverton surgery and he isn’t usually back until quite late. Dr Barton always covers for Dr Cowley on his Dulverton days and he’s actually here in the surgery now so perhaps I’d better ask him to go round to Kimberley Lodge. Are you there yourself? Can you let him in?’

‘Oh, yes please, that would be best.’ I was relieved that I would not have to face Dr Cowley in these circumstances. ‘And yes, I’m in Miss Graham’s flat. Actually I found her. It was quite a shock.’

‘Oh, that must have been most unpleasant for you! Don’t you worry, Mrs Malory, I’ll send him round right away.’

While I was by the telephone it occurred to me that I should ring Miss Graham’s nephew Ronnie. As her only close relative he ought to be told at once. I found the number of the shop and after a while a girl’s voice answered.

‘Can I speak to Mr Graham, please?’ I said.

‘I’m sorry, he’s not in today,’ she said. ‘Can I take a message?’

‘It’s really very urgent,’ I persisted. ‘Do you know where I can get in touch with him?’

‘Well, actually,’ the girl’s interest was aroused and she sounded more animated, ‘he’s got this flu thing that’s going about and he’s at home. You should be able to get him there.’ She gave me the number and then I suddenly thought of something.

‘Perhaps I could speak to Mrs Graham,’ I said, ‘to save bothering him when he’s not well.’

‘Oh, she’s gone to Taunton to see one of our suppliers. She won’t be back this afternoon.’

I thanked the girl and dialled Ronnie’s home number. The phone rang but there was no reply. Presumably he was in bed and it seemed rather unkind to make him get up when he was feeling rotten just to hear upsetting news. I decided to wait until later when Carol would be home, and put down the receiver.

The silence closed round me again and I began to walk about the flat simply to create some kind of movement. Consciously I avoided the sitting room; I didn’t feel I could face the still figure by the fire. I opened the door of the bedroom and looked inside. Everything was immaculately tidy. Even in her eighties and hampered by ill health, Miss Graham kept up the standard of housekeeping that she had evidently learned from her rather formidable mother. The bed was covered with a fine patchwork quilt (I remembered Miss Graham working on it over the years). The dressing table, with its embroidered mats, was innocent of any cosmetics and held only a silver-backed brush and mirror, a photograph of old Mrs Graham, a bottle of Yardley’s lavender water and an old-fashioned ring-tree. There was a kettle and a tea-tray by the bed, a book (Rebecca by Daphne Du Maurier) and a bottle of tablets. I wandered out into the kitchen. Here too everything was spick and span. The work surfaces were clear except for matching storage containers and a wooden bread bin, so unlike my own clutter of jars, half-empty packets and old cat and dog dishes! The sink was spotless, the dishcloth wrung out and carefully spread over the taps and a washed cup, saucer and plate upended to dry on the draining board. A sudden humming noise made me jump, but it was just the motor of the refrigerator starting up. While I was still in this nervous state the front doorbell rang and I greeted Dr Barton rather incoherently. He stared at me curiously as I haltingly explained how I had let myself into the flat and had found Miss Graham dead.

I’ve known Dr Barton for years. He was one of Peter’s clients, but neither of us liked him very much, since he is an austere, humourless man, with a precise manner. He’s as well known in the town for his finicky obsession with detail, with a meticulous adherence to the last letter of the law, as he is for his meanness and love of money. It was presumably the latter that had brought him in to cover for Dr Cowley, a man whom he personally disliked and whose methods he had been known to criticize. Glad though I was not to have had to face the oleaginous Dr Cowley in this distressing situation, I felt chilled and repelled by the sight of Dr Barton’s gaunt figure and severe manner.

He cut short my disjointed remarks with a terse, ‘Yes, yes,’ and going towards the sitting room said, ‘She’s in here, is she?’

I followed him in reluctantly.

‘Has that fire been on for long?’ he asked me sharply. ‘I don’t know,’ I replied. ‘It was on when I got here and the room was quite warm then.’

He moved across and felt for the pulse as I had, and laid his hand on her forehead.

‘Difficult to tell how long she’s been dead, since the room is so warm.’ He looked at me accusingly, as if it was somehow my fault.

‘She was alive this morning,’ I said. ‘She telephoned to ask if I’d come and see her.’

‘Yes. Right.’ Dr Barton began examining the body so I went out into the kitchen again and wandered aimlessly about, peering into the refrigerator (almost empty), opening and shutting drawers (splendidly tidy), turning a dripping tap off more tightly, and generally fidgeting about until Dr Barton called to me from the sitting room.

‘Mrs Malory,’ he said as I went into the room, ‘do you know if Miss Graham had seen Dr Cowley in the last few days?’

‘I don’t know,’ I answered. ‘I shouldn’t think so. I mean, she hadn’t been ill or anything. She sounded perfectly all right this morning. I suppose it was a heart attack?’

‘That I am not in a position to say,’ he replied reprovingly. ‘But if she didn’t see her general practitioner within the last forty-eight hours then there will have to be a post-mortem.’

He spoke with a certain grim satisfaction, as if he was delighted that Dr Cowley would be inconvenienced by the bureaucratic process.

‘There is no need for you to remain,’ he continued. ‘No doubt you have things you wish to attend to. I will do all that is necessary here.’

‘Oh, well, thank you, that would be kind. I’ve got the dogs outside and they’ll be getting a bit restless, you know how it is …’ My voice trailed away in the face of his barely concealed contempt for people who kept animals and I picked up my handbag and shopping bag, in the bottom of which the now unneeded pot of jam rolled about forlornly, and prepared to leave.

‘Just one more thing,’ Dr Barton said. ‘Are there any relatives?’

‘Just a nephew,’ I replied. ‘I tried to ring him while I was waiting for you, but he’s got flu. I’ll try again this evening when his wife’s in.’

‘He should be informed. Thank you, Mrs Malory.’

Thus dismissed, I made my way slowly out of the flat. The air struck cold but I welcomed the boisterousness of the wind as something positive and alive. I was shaken and upset, finding poor Miss Graham like that, and chilled by Dr Barton’s bleakness and lack of warmth and human sympathy. As I approached the car the two dogs started to bark and when I opened the door they greeted me with a frenzied excitement that suddenly brought tears to my eyes. I drove down to the sea front and we all three ran like mad things as fast as we could along the beach.

Murder on Campus (ISBN: 978-1-60381-138-5, $12.95, 288 pp.), originally published in 1994, is the fifth of Hazel Holt’s Mrs. Malory mysteries.

Click here to see the redesigned editions of the first four Mrs. Malory mysteries.  All five books (and the two to come: Superfluous Death and Death of a [...]]]>

Murder on Campus, or Detective in Residence

Murder on Campus (ISBN: 978-1-60381-138-5, $12.95, 288 pp.), originally published in 1994, is the fifth of Hazel Holt’s Mrs. Malory mysteries.

Click here to see the redesigned editions of the first four Mrs. Malory mysteries.  All five books (and the two to come: Superfluous Death and Death of a Dean) are available at the standard discount/returnable through Ingram and Baker & Taylor. Bookstores in the UK can now also order from Ingram at the standard discount.

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Superfluous Death will be available in January and Death of a Dean in February, 2012.

A small university in Pennsylvania has engaged Mrs. Sheila Malory to teach a course on Nineteenth-Century Women writers, and so, with some reluctance, the widow leaves her home in the charming seaside village of Taviscombe to experience academic life in America. The semester will prove even more challenging than she thought, for no sooner does she arrive than a colleague is found with a bullet in his head. The victim is particularly nasty, a man many would like to see dead. Lieutenant Landis, the lead investigator, just happens to be divorced, available, and eager to discuss Shakespeare. When he asks Mrs. Malory for help, he puts her in a difficult position. Should she assist him in his investigation, even if her efforts encourage his romantic interest? Sheila, who can’t resist a good murder mystery, forges ahead. What she discovers will make her regret that she ever left Taviscombe.

Hazel Holt was born in Birmingham, England, where she attended King Edward VI High School for Girls. She studied at Newnham College, Cambridge, and went on to work at the International African Institute in London, where she became acquainted with the novelist Barbara Pym, whose biography she later wrote. She also finished one of Pym’s novels after Pym died. Holt has also recently published My Dear Charlotte, a story that uses the actual language of Jane Austen’s letters to her sister Cassandra to construct a Regency murder mystery. Holt wrote her first novel in her sixties, and is a leading crime novelist. She is best known for her Mrs. Malory series. Her son is novelist Tom Holt.

Keep reading for an excerpt:

‘Would you like to see upstairs? It’s a fine house in its own right. Not old by British standards, of course, but very typical of the large mansions being built by the great industrialists of the day.’

I love looking over houses, large or small, and this was a really remarkable one. Upstairs, most of the twenty or so bedrooms were now divided up into offices and study rooms for the Research Center, but Theo Portman’s office still had its original splendour.

‘It was Mrs Whittier’s boudoir,’ he said, ‘and a bit feminine—though not quite as frilly and fussy as Mrs Theodore Roosevelt’s boudoir at Oyster Bay, Long Island. Have you seen that house yet? You really should. But I kept the Louis XV furniture and that Greuze and that particularly fine Nattier—oh and the Van Dyck, of course.’

Hanging behind his desk was a portrait of a seventeenth-century gentleman who bore an extraordinary resemblance to Theo Portman himself, small pointed beard and all.

Linda and I exclaimed delightedly and he smiled with pleasure.

‘My little joke,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t resist it.’

‘It must have needed an enormous staff,’ I said, ‘to keep all this up.’

‘Indeed. Practically the whole of the top floor was servants’ quarters. We keep the computers and so on up there. Would you like to have a look?’

We ascended a smaller and plainer staircase than the handsome, ornately carved one leading up from the great hall. The top floor was a warren of corridors, the labels on whose doors proclaimed them to be study and photocopying rooms or, more simply, ‘Administration’. Theo Portman opened a few doors to reveal an impressive array of electronic equipment, which had Linda asking eager questions. She’s a terrific computer enthusiast and actually seems to understand them and, I must admit, when I see her making an index, say, on her own machine I do see the point of them and feel very much that I’m living in the Stone Age with my own cards-in-a-shoe-box method!

‘Oh yes,’ Theo said, ‘there is something up here you might be interested to see.’

We went down yet another corridor and he opened a door into a large room which, in addition to the usual complement of computers, had walls lined with shelves, laden with files.

‘This,’ he said, ‘used to be the linen room. All those shelves used to hold linen. Smell the wood—it’s all cedar, anti-moth, you see. And this,’ he unwound a sort of roller affair, ‘was how they stored those enormous damask tablecloths, so that they didn’t crease.’

‘How gorgeous,’ I said, sniffing at the wood. ‘The cedar smell is still very strong. And what marvellous quality it all is and how beautifully made, everything just so and splendidly planned!’

‘Oh, yes,’ Theo said, ‘a lot of thought went into the smallest detail.’ He moved to the far comer of the room towards what seemed like a couple of enormous chests.

‘These were blanket chests, also lined with cedar, of course. You see, this looks like a drawer, but actually it swings outwards on a pivot just below waist level so you don’t have to stoop to put things in.’ He put his hand on one of the chests, pulled gently and the side section swung out revealing a deep box.

But the box wasn’t empty. Lying inside it was the body of a man.

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The Deification ($16.95, 358 pp, 6×9 Trade Paperback ISBN: 978-1-60381-134-7) is a picaresque novel by Seattle author Jack Remick that pays homage to the legendary San Francisco beat poets. Some of Remick’s influences include Kerouac’s On the Road and The Dharma Bums and Burroughs’ Naked Lunch.

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Writes author Robert J. Ray, “The language, the timing, the humor, the strong verbs, the concrete nouns, the world beneath the world–all wrapped up in one novel … You gotta read this book!”

Remick’s novel, Blood (Camel Press, 2011), earned extravagant praise:

Wayne Gunn wrote on LambdaLiterary.org: “For an author to choose as his explicit models Camus, Genet, and de Sade … and to earn the right to be mentioned in their company is [a goal] that perhaps Jack Remick has indeed achieved.”

A critic for the San Francisco Book Review wrote that Blood is “one of the best books I’ve ever read.”

Author Priscilla Long calls Remick “the Jean Genet of the 21st Century.”

To be a writer in America, you have to bleed. Eddie Iturbi, a young car-thief obsessed with the dark magic of Beat culture in a mythic San Francisco, sets off on a spaced-out crusade to connect with the Beat gods. En route Eddie links up with living legend Leo Franchetti, the last of the Beat poets. Leo sends Eddie to the Buzzard Cult, where a mysterious mentor reveals the writer’s ritual of blood and words. Changed and invigorated and back in the City, Eddie falls in love with a snake dancer at the Feathered Serpent. She can’t save him from Scarred Wanda, jealous bad-girl of literature, whose goal is to destroy Eddie before Jack Kerouac relays all the magical secrets of the literary universe. Immortality is just a book away. Will Eddie live long enough to write it?

Jack Remick at Jack Kerouac's grave

Says Remick, “I grew up in California’s Central Valley. The Valley was huge but stifling. If you climbed the water tower one foggy night and the cops hauled you down, it made the local newspaper. Your one goal was a customized car with a flame job and flipper hubcaps. You wore Levis or Chinos and you cut your hair short. And then along came Jack Kerouac and On The Road. Right behind him came William Burroughs, Gregory Corso, Allen Ginsberg …. On The Road and the Beatniks set me free. Get out of the Valley, they said. Go find your America. And some of us did. …. This novel, The Deification, pays homage to those wild men whose vision of the world opened up the social revolution of the 1960s. They changed everything.”

Jack Remick is a poet, short story writer, and novelist. The Deification is the first book of a series, The California Quartet. More volumes will be released by Coffeetown Press in 2012: Valley Boy, The Book of Changes, and Trio of Lost Souls. Blood, A Novel was published by Camel Press in 2011. Also coming from Coffeetown in 2012: Gabriela and the Widow. You can find Jack online at blood.camelpress.com.

The Deification is currently available on Amazon.com, the European Amazons and Amazon Japan. The Kindle edition retails for $5.95. Other eBook versions can be purchased on Smashwords and through most major eBook retailers. Wholesale orders can be placed through info@coffeetownpress.com, Ingram, and Baker & Taylor. Libraries can also purchase books through Follett Library Resources or Midwest Library Services.

Keep reading for an excerpt:

He looked at the shelf—Rimbaud, Baudelaire, Mallarmé, Rilke, Verlaine, Valéry, Plath, Shakespeare, Whitman, Schiller, Christine de Pisane, Sexton, Goethe, Aiken, Stevens, Gunn, Hughes. Eddie closed his eyes and rubbed at the fire in them.

They hurt. He rubbed them, still burning, and when he opened them he started because squatting in a half-circle in front of him were Rimbaud and Christine de Pisane, Marie de France and Goethe, Milton and Walt Whitman, each of them wearing a gold name plate on a gold chain. The loft door opened and Sexton and Plath entered wearing name plates and white skirts printed with florals and hair done up in beehives. They joined the circle.

You’re Eddie, Baudelaire said. Villon told us you hang out up here.

You know who I am, but are you who I think you are?

Who do you think I am?

I think you’re Baudelaire. Why do you have name plates?

We need name plates, Baudelaire said, to keep things straight. Some of us are famous but completely unread. There are some of us you all read and keep on reading, and there are the ones you all say you’ll read some day but you won’t, and there are those of us you all lie about having read. Joyce, for example. Proust. And Mann. Tasso. Pound. Eliot. Saint-John Perse.

Saint-John Perse? Eddie said.

You’ve read him, haven’t you?

Not yet, Eddie said. But I will. What do you want from me?

Gut check, Sexton said.

Gut check? Eddie asked.

To see if you’re keeping to the schedule, Goethe told him. We want to see how you’re working, to measure your progress.

Eddie got up, reached for his notebook and pen and laying his Baudelaire down on the bed roll, he said, Do you mind if I write all this down?

Schiller snatched the notebook away, ripped it to shreds, then, pointing at Eddie said,

You should know it all by heart. Take dictation ….

It’s too early, Christine de Pisane said, I can see that. Too early for him.

Eddie reached for his precious notebook, pages falling like snow, and he felt like his heart had stopped beating.

How does it feel, Eddie? Sexton said. To lose it all? Every word and there’s nothing you can do about it.

We’re getting a little bit harsh, Plath said. He’s only seventeen.

Merde, Verlaine muttered, Arthur quit writing when he was nineteen, and you were dead at thirty.

I know that, Plath said, but I didn’t mean to do it.

Rimbaud scoffed. Well, you’re the one who stuck her head in the oven and turned on the gas, chérie. No one else did that for you.

Enough, Goethe said. He rose from the circle and gathered the pages of Eddie’s notebook and spliced them together with god-glue and he read page after page after page in silence and without moving his lips until, scowling over the whitest teeth except for one large cavity in the second incisor buccal, he said, Not an allusion in the whole works. It’s like you’re inventing the wheel again and again.

You mean he hasn’t read us, the ten said as one.

Hey, Leo shouted from below, what the hell are you doing up there, Eddie?

I’m reading, Leo.

Sounds like you’re pounding your pud. Not in the classics section, all right?

Sorry, Leo.

Goethe, eyes on fire—You don’t yet know scheisse, boy. You want to be a poet but you haven’t learned to create myths and you know nothing about ritual. Why do you think all these writers are on the shelves? Tell me. Why?

I don’t know, Eddie said.

Because they all spilled blood.

Especially Sylvia, Rimbaud said.

Stop, Goethe shook a finger at him. Everybody makes mistakes.

She meant do to it, Verlaine said.

She didn’t mean to do it, Whitman said.

Then why did she stick her head in the oven and turn on the gas? Rimbaud asked.

She made a mistake, Goethe said. A mistake. This one, pointing at Eddie, has a spark but he doesn’t have the fire yet and he doesn’t have the hammer.

Good thing, Rimbaud said, ce petit sal con would probably bash his thumbs if he did.

Let’s stick to the business at hand, Goethe said. Ritual and myth. Ignore Arthur. He’s angry because he wrote only two pieces anyone remembers … but what pieces they are.

And with that you redeem yourself, Rimbaud said. I was worried you’d sold your soul to the devil.

Le Bateau ivre, Eddie blurted out.

What? Christine de Pisane said. Is there a glimmer of hope here?

Le Bateau ivre, Eddie said again, and Une Saison en enfer.

Well, listen to this little boy, Whitman said.

What about Une Saison en enfer? Goethe asked.

A foundation piece, Eddie said. Like Leaves.

You’ve read Leaves?

I’ve read Leaves. Without it there’s no Howl. Without le Bateau ivre there’s no Coney Island of the Mind. There’s no On the Road. Le Poète maudit, the outlaw poet, the modern poet.

Villon, Anne Sexton said, and Burroughs and Corso and Dugan.

You’re light, Goethe said, but you’re making progress. What’s the verdict?

He raised his hands. The poets nodded and shrugged.

Progress, he said. This boy’s spark might ignite. He might yet become a hoard-hammerer.

If the rats don’t eat his feet, Rimbaud said.

Eddie, Leo shouted.

Yes, boss?

How about a little help down here?

Eddie looked up. In his hand only his notebook and on the floor, beside the bed roll, his Fleurs du mal.

On the shelf above his head, the books—Schiller, Whitman, Sexton, Ferlinghetti, Kerouac, Rexroth.

He closed his notebook, noticed spots of wet glue on the pages, spots reeking with the vague odor of sulfur.

He went downstairs.

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“Pete’s creative [...]]]>

Risk Teaching: Reflections from Inside and Outside the Classroom (250 pp, $13.95, ISBN: 978-1-60381-106-4), by Peter G. Beidler, is a retrospective of an award-winning college professor’s teaching career.  Both students and teachers can learn from its valuable insights.

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“Pete’s creative teaching, probing questions, and passionate stories about teaching have inspired me and Lilly conference-goers for over twenty years,” writes Milton D. Cox, director of the Lilly Conference on College Teaching and editor-in-chief of the Journal on Excellence in College Teaching. “Peter has changed my way of teaching and that of so many others.”

Must we always teach from the inside of a classroom? Do periodic exams encourage learning as well as daily quizzes do? Do you schedule individual conferences with each student at the start of the term? Is lecturing an effective way to teach? If a student falls in love with you—or vice versa—are you doing something right or something wrong? If you have a pedagogical idea that will probably fail, should you try it anyhow? How do we know when it is time to retire from a profession we love? Such questions may make readers uncomfortable, but they may also lead them to change the way they think about the profession. Teachers may reconsider their methods, causing students to reconsider their attitudes.

In choosing the title Risk Teaching, Peter G. Beidler hopes to convey multiple meanings of the word “risk.” “Risk” the verb, as in “take a chance on an amazing profession.” “Risk” the adjective, as in “risky”—teaching that diverges from the safe and traditional path. “Risk” the noun, as in “teach students to take risks” and learn outside their comfort zones. Beidler’s book, like his teaching, is saucy, innovative, and challenging.

“I wanted to challenge teachers to listen to their wild whispers,” Beidler says, “to encourage them to walk away from the safety of traditional pedagogies. I wanted to jolt them into fighting boredom—their own and their students’—by taking risks. Learning should be a barefoot trek in the jungle, not a cruise in the Caribbean.”

PETER G. BEIDLER recently retired from Lehigh University as the Lucy G. Moses Distinguished Professor of English. Widely published in both British and American literature, he has won a number of teaching awards. In 1981 he was named National Professor of the Year by the Council on Advancement and Support of Education and the Carnegie Foundation.

Risk Teaching is available in Kindle ($6.95) and 6×9 trade paperback editions on Amazon.com, Amazon.co.uk, Amazon.de, Amazon.fr and Amazon Japan. Bookstores and libraries can order through info@coffeetownpress.com, Ingram, and Baker & Taylor. Other eBook editions can be purchased on Smashwords, Google Ebooks, BN.com and all major eBook retailers.

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Critics have high praise for Freeman’s poetry:

“Gritty and real, full of [...]]]>

The Boulevard of Broken Discourse ($11.95, 140 pp, ISBN: 978-1-60381-136-1), is a book of poems by St. Louis poet Matthew Freeman. Coffeetown published Freeman’s collection, Darkness Never Far, in 2010.

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Critics have high praise for Freeman’s poetry:

“Gritty and real, full of personality (and personalities), urban St. Louis scenery and experience”— J. Gordon, Nightimes.com

“Simultaneously hip, funny, and sad”—Dorothea Grossman, Poet

“A microscope into the world of an extraordinarily talented schizophrenic”—Suzanne Shenkman

Matthew Freeman’s poems explore the difficulty of navigating and making peace with an environment that is both mentally and physically confusing. For many years Matthew struggled with mental illness and his experiences have fed his unique perspective. Thanks to the newest treatments, he is able to give voice to subjects that in the past would have been consigned to silence. His home of St. Louis, Missouri provides the setting for many of his poems and is a constant source of inspiration.

Matthew Freeman discovered he was a poet in high school, at the outset of a tumultuous time that would eventually see him hospitalized and diagnosed with schizophrenia. After he began his recovery, he went on to graduate from Saint Louis University, where he was twice awarded The Montesi Prize for his poems. The Boulevard of Broken Discourse is his fourth published collection. He is Poet in Residence at Adapt, Missouri.

The Boulevard of Broken Discourse is available in Kindle ($4.95) and print editions on Amazon.com, Amazon.co.uk, Amazon.de, Amazon.fr, and Amazon Japan. Bookstores and libraries can purchase books wholesale through www.coffeetownpress.com or Ingram. Libraries may also contact Follett Library Resources and Midwest Library Services.

TYPICAL

We were riding toward the East Side

me and Hollander and Al—I was sitting

up front between them—Hollander was fuming

but Al was cool (which is another poem—

why Al is always so cool) and I felt that

hatred void coming from Hollander—hey

Hollander, I said, what is it, man, hey,

can you ever forgive me—I don’t think so,

he said, I don’t think I ever can—oh damn,

I was rollicking, what did I do wrong, Hollander—

he turns to me and explains—

you called me “avocado numb nuts!”

“Avocado numb nuts!” Oh, man, we were

just kids, Hollander, we were fucking with each other,

we were busting each other’s chops, and

plus I don’t even know what “avocado numb nuts” means!

Nonetheless, he posits, you called me it. So then

he went back silently fuming and all hope aside

I knew I would never get forgiven—I’d

crossed some symbolic chaotic line, I’d

accidentally given voice (when we were just kids)

to something that dove into the tight structure of reality and exploded—

Hollander would never speak to me again—Al was

cool and hadn’t said a thing—what would become of Al—

he’d go on to buy a mansion—

but this all arrested me terribly and I tell

you that night I was completely

unable to enjoy myself at the strip club.

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“In [this] fascinating exploration [...]]]>

Gas Drilling and the Fracking of a Marriage ($13.95, 230 pp., ISBN: 978-1-60381-114-9), by Stephanie C. Hamel, is a memoir about an environmental scientist who is tempted to betray her ideals by the promise of extravagant royalties.

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“In [this] fascinating exploration … Hamel is unflinching in presenting her own conflicted feelings and the difficulties that crop up from disagreeing with her husband. Much like gas companies do drilling and fracturing (‘fracking’) of shale below the earth’s surface, the contract and subsequent discussion between the Hamels taps into each person’s belief system and causes some toxic energy to be released.”

—Elizabeth Millard, ForeWord Digital Reviews

“An honest, straight-forward, thought-provoking and well-written account …. I admire the courage and thoughtfulness it took … to write this book. As she says in these pages, [Stephanie] wants to be the heroine of her own book. How could she write it if she was thinking about giving in and taking the money? But she did write it. By using diary entries and notes from phone calls, Stephanie was able to portray the push and pull she was going through both externally and internally at this time in her life. She told her story honestly and did not hold back in an effort to make herself look better in the end. That makes her a true heroine.”

—April Sullivan for Reader Views

After receiving an offer to lease the farmland of her idyllic childhood summers for natural gas exploration, Stephanie Hamel saw her hitherto strong convictions rattled by dreams of royalties and signing bonuses. With a PhD in environmental health sciences, she could not ignore the possible ill effects of gas drilling and fracturing (“fracking”) of the shale beneath the surface. Her decision was complicated further by Pennsylvania’s Law of Capture, which would allow energy companies to collect gas from her property via the neighbor’s well without paying her a dime.

Dr. Hamel’s search for answers turned into an in-depth examination of her responsibility to the earth, her spouse, her neighbors and her children. As she consulted friends, colleagues, officials, and online sources and recalled stories from childhood vacations, she faced hard truths about the inconsistencies of her beliefs. She also tested the patience of her husband, who had no qualms about signing the lease.

A poetic, heartfelt, honest yet light-hearted memoir, Gas Drilling and the Fracking of a Marriage will strike a vein for anyone who has played weekend farmer or agonized over their role as steward to the earth’s resources. How much sacrifice is required of us? What if our sacrifice means little in the general scheme of things? Dr. Hamel may not have the answers, but she poses the right questions.

“The book began as diary entries and e-mails,” says Dr. Hamel, “and as a way to learn the facts about gas drilling and untangle my feelings about the difficult ethical decision I was facing. I was offered a large sum of money that would be paid at the expense of the local environment and potentially by the health of the community, and while I initially refused to allow natural gas drilling on my land, I soon learned that my sacrifice might not protect either. As I researched the impacts and consulted other landowners, I discovered that they, too, had initially said no, but then ‘reconsidered, since all the neighbors were signing gas leases.’ It was a relief to learn that I was not alone in my dilemma.

“But also, I simply felt compelled to write this story, and quickly, too, because it could be lost in light of new information that is now becoming  available. In hindsight, with facts spreading on a lighted table, decisions are easy and blame falls on those who don’t foresee outcomes. It’s not so easy to make wise choices when one is grappling with them.”

Stephanie Hamel, PhD, grew up in southeastern Pennsylvania. After earning her BS in Chemistry from Grove City College and her MS in Chemistry from Lehigh University, she worked as an organic chemist in the pharmaceutical industry with The BOC Group and at Robert Wood Johnson Pharmaceutical Research Institute. She taught Chemistry part-time at community colleges, then returned to graduate school to study environmental health issues, earning a Joint PhD in Exposure Assessment from the UNDMJ Robert Wood Johnson Medical School and Rutgers, the State University of New Jersey, where she also performed post-doctoral research in the Department of Plant Sciences. She now resides in northeastern Pennsylvania with her husband, Tom, and their two sons. This is her first book. You can find Dr. Hamel on the Web at www.hamel.coffeetownpress.com.

Gas Drilling and the Fracking of a Marriage is available on Amazon.com, Amazon.co.uk, Amazon.de, Amazon.fr, and Amazon Japan. The Kindle edition retails for $5.95. Other eBook versions can be purchased on Smashwords and through most major eBook retailers. Wholesale orders can be placed through info@coffeetownpress.com and Ingram. Libraries can also purchase books through Follett Library Resources or Midwest Library Services.

Keep reading for an excerpt:

During the first years of ownership, our visits featured repairs to the little house, with Mr. Penney hobbling over to offer advice and tools. Dad soon had water running into the little house; he upgraded the electricity to accommodate a hot water tank and salvaged an old oil burner.

My brother, Mark, pried rows of nails from the huge old timbers we discovered under the old wallboards and my mother wore rubber gloves as she scrubbed the massive beams with a bleach solution. The strange porch accoutrement of multi-colored shingles was discarded, and on a sunny Saturday afternoon we repainted the floor with fresh white paint. My siblings and I began to spend our summers learning to fix things: to shingle roofs, mix cement, and spackle sheetrock.

On weekends we climbed into the loft of our own barn, and scattered the grass seed found in the corncribs for our pretend chickens. Mr. Penney showed us the wild raspberry brambles and reported a recent sighting of “an ol’ black bar.” My sister and I were pleasantly frightened at the possibility of seeing one for ourselves.

We picked mint by the spring and caught tiny pollywogs in the neighbors’ pond; mud squished between our toes as we waded in the muck. On hot afternoons, Natalie and I used the dark, damp springhouse as a playhouse. On the upland, Mark and I hacked away the scratchy brambles clinging to an ancient, dilapidated pickup truck. Decaying amid the tall weeds, its rusty doors could be wrenched open enough to allow us to climb inside. We bounced on the cracked leather seat, imagining we were steering and shifting; however, the cab was protected from the wind, allowing volatilized oils in the grease to permeate everything, and their stomach-grabbing odors caused us to try—in vain—to crank the windows open. When the smell became unbearable, we would clamor over the wooden sides to the truck bed, or run down the hill to find something new to explore.

When I lay on the lawn, the wind made funny sounds in my ears and I watched fluffy clouds separate the blue sky into different shades. I picked the prettiest blue. The sky was bigger, the land was wilder, and my imagination traveled so much farther here than at home in the suburbs.

There is probably little need, then, to state that I have a sentimental attachment to the place. Those childhood memories are really why it is mine today. There could be no other logical reason, after my father’s illness and death, to purchase the property from my mother. The land—some wooded, some hayfield and the rest scrub—was not farmed, and the buildings were, by then, run-down and nearly worthless. Our farm’s value was that it held many of the happy memories of my lifetime, and that was enough.

— Carol Hoyer, PhD, for Reader Views

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“With this writing, [...]]]>

“From the first page of Between the Two Rivers, your attention will be captured. Readers won’t be able to put the book down. You will hiss at the villains and cheer for the underdogs.”  Read more …

— Carol Hoyer, PhD, for Reader Views

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“With this writing, Kouyoumjian joins authors Thea Halo and Peter Balakian, whose finely penned accounts of family members’ survival of the Ottoman atrocities are essential reads for the understanding of these genocides.”  Read  more …

—Elissa Mugianis, ForeWord Digital Reviews

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Between the Two Rivers (302 pp, $18.95, ISBN: 978-1-60381-111-8, 2nd Edition) is the account of the real-life saga of Aida Kouyoumjian’s mother Mannig, who as a young girl was one of a small minority of Armenians who survived the massacre and deportation from the Ottoman Empire during and after World War I. Historians estimate that 1.5 to 2 million Armenians perished.

Watch the Book Trailer, created by Beth Sanders, of Athena Video Arts:

“Aida Kouyoumjian’s rich memories of her mother will be a source of great fascination to anyone interested in the Armenian Genocide.”

—Dawn MacKeen, Award-Winning Freelance Journalist

“The book reads like a chapter from One Thousand and One nights. An absorbing account that confirms the adage, ‘Truth is stranger than fiction’ … The author’s visual descriptions touch the senses.”

—Mary Terzian, Author of The Immigrants’ Daughter

“Anyone who has traveled in the Middle East will recognize the authenticity of Aida Kouyoumjian’s voice. This story is told with the deep cultural understanding of one born, raised and educated within sight of the minarets of Baghdad. Aida’s writing launches the reader into the exotic land of pre-Saddam’s Iraq, overflowing with vibrant colors, sights, sounds—and dangers.”

—Joyce O’Keefe, Writer and former Foreign Service Officer

“Mannig’s spirit, resourcefulness and courage captivate the reader.”

—Genie Dickerson, Journalist, Washington, D.C.

“It is the stuff of oral history,” Aida says. “My work is ‘creative nonfiction.’ Every scene in the book is a story she told us. Every single one has a line or paragraph that I remember word for word. At the beginning, she sing-songed the loss of her family members into lullabies at bedtime. As we grew up, she incorporated the details that haunted her throughout her life. I heard the stories so many times in so many different ways. All that remained was to make it flow—the smells, the sights, how it came about.”

The first edition of Between the Two Rivers won first place (Washington State) in the National Federation of Press Women (NFPW) At-Large Communications Contest in the nonfiction: history category.

Orphaned by the Armenian Genocide in 1915, Mannig and her sister Adrine struggle to stay alive in what is now eastern Iraq. Mannig lives on the streets and trades camel dung for bread; her sister works as a servant for an Arab family. With the help of Barone Madiros, a wealthy philanthropist, Mannig and Adrine eventually find their way to an orphanage for surviving Armenian children. In this refuge, after years of hardship, the two sisters find compassion, joy, safety … and love. Told by Mannig’s daughter, Between the Two Rivers is a candid and moving account of a mother’s triumph over adversity. This revised second edition includes a map and photographs.

Aida Kouyoumjian was born in Felloujah and raised and educated in Baghdad, Iraq. In 1952 she came to Seattle to attend the University of Washington on a Fulbright Scholarship. Aida married an American and eventually settled in Mercer Island. You can find Aida online by visiting her blog.

After her father died in 1965, Aida was finally able to bring her mother Mannig to this country. At the age of 69 Mannig was hired by the UW to tutor graduate students in Turkish, Armenian, and Arabic. She retired after seven years, dying at the age of 79. Just before her death in 1985, Mannig was one of 90 survivors who attended the 70th commemoration of the Armenian Genocide in Washington, D.C.

The second edition of Between the Two Rivers is available in Kindle ($6.95) and print editions on Amazon.com, Amazon.co.uk, Amazon.de, and Amazon Japan. Other electronic versions can be purchased on Smashwords ($6.95). Bookstores can order wholesale through Ingram  or by contacting info@coffeetownpress.com.

Aida Kouyoumjian is available to speak at civic and community organizations’ meetings.

Keep reading for an excerpt:

Seeing a mob of milling children in the courtyard, Dikran gave a surprised look and then stepped forward with Mannig in tow. He shoved to the left and scooted to the right, jostling his muscular and tall physique above the figures of the emaciated orphans. The sun grew high, and rancid moisture mingled with the fusty smells of poverty.

Two effendis sat at a small table in front of the carved, tall mahogany entrance to the sanctuary, each jotting names in a ledger.

An orange-and-black-spotted butterfly fluttered and perched on the shoulder of the hatless one. He slanted a tender look at its quivering wings, stroking its tiny head. His honey-colored eyes below a wide forehead attracted Mannig. He looked like a favorite person in her life. But who?

“The butterfly is good luck,” she heard him whisper, barely moving his lips, lest he startle it. Nevertheless, it spread its wings and flew out of sight into the sun. “She’ll bring good luck to someone else,” he said, his thoughts seemingly in flight, too. He dipped his pen into the ink well and narrowed his gaze at the ledger. “Who’s next?”

“Good morning, Barone,” Dikran said.

Surprised, he asked, “Shouldn’t you be searching for lost orphans in Mosul?”

The second effendi scanned the horde of children and slanted his chin to the right. “You think we need more?”

“Every one of them, lest they perish.”

“Here’s an orphan from my khan,” Dikran said, positioning Mannig in front of him.

The effendis scrutinized her from head to toe. Each puckered a curious lip. The man with the receding chin spoke first. “Your khan must be a palace and she the princess.”

“Healthy, groomed, and well-fed!” asserted the Barone, in a voice matching the gentleness of his honey-colored eyes.

Dikran stuttered, “She has no family. Nobody. Nothing.”

“Look at them flocked in the courtyard,” chided the first effendi, and thumbing rapidly through the ledger, he slammed its black leather jacket closed. “Our mission is to save the abandoned, the strayed—before evil grips them. Can’t you see how well off this girl is under your care? She is clothed, fed, and certainly safe from being converted to Islam. You make us Armenians very proud. We need more fellows like you.” The effendi then motioned to Dikran to move aside and, shaking his head, added, “She does not qualify under our mission guidelines.”

He then pointed to the next girl. “What’s your name, child?” He prepared to enter it in the ledger.

They want her—not me!

Mannig’s heart sank into a suffocating pit. She wanted to rebel, yell, and hit; to beg, tug, and plead her case, but she froze, except for glaring at the next girl’s raggedy garb, tangled hair, and stink-veiled face.

Dikran pulled Mannig aside. “Things work out for the best,” he said, shooing her off to the khan. “I will bring food for you when I finish my work.”

Mannig wept all the way back to the khan. Her eyes still shone with tears when Dikran returned at dusk. “The Barone noticed your disappointment and gave these raisins to comfort your soul.” He stuffed a handful into a pocket bread and broke it in half. Before he bit into his share, he said, “I am sad for you, just as much.”

Barone! That meant Mr. in Armenian—easy to remember. Was he the one with honey-colored eyes? He looked the kinder of the two. She bit into her sandwich, but each swallow induced more tears. They rolled down her cheeks. Will I ever go to school?

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“This timely [...]]]>

Destination Tent City, AZ (ISBN: 978-1-60381-109-5, $11.95, 168 pp), is an account of one woman’s experiences after she is arrested for drinking and driving, “as told to” Mark Feuerer.

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“This timely book should serve as a document to hasten the end of Arpaio’s brutal reign and Arizona’s overzealous policy of making money from—and routinely ruining the lives of—people who’ve committed victimless crimes,” writes Brandon M. Stickney in ForeWord Digital Reviews. “Going so far as to say that Arpaio’s tactics create a new generation of career offenders—in that moving beyond this form of incarceration is difficult, to say the least—Feuerer’s look at the real story behind a government that manipulates ‘criminal’ statistics for its own profit is well written and highly recommended.”

“Each year thousands of Americans are killed by alcohol-impaired driving,” says Kenneth Sharp, Host of Ridin’ Dirty, the Radio Show. “This must-read will help you understand how the book’s subject lost her life too—following a casual Sunday drive.”

“Reading Destination Tent City, AZ is a white-knuckle experience,” says licensed counselor Shannon Madden. “You have to keep turning the pages. This book is a must-read for anyone facing DUI charges, because it demystifies the unknown. It takes courage to tell a story like this one.”

One day a young woman—a productive member of society—stopped for a few beers, then drove on. She was a middle-class offender, so the law came down hard, sentencing her to ten days in Tent City, a prison of tents as fetid, repressive, and scorching-hot as any POW camp. The bad news went on and on: steep legal bills, endless fines, a malfunctioning interlock device … In the end she was broke, humiliated, and everyone in her new social circle had a criminal record. Did the punishment fit the crime? Is this really the most effective way to keep problem drinkers off the road? Ever since Tent City was established in 1993, this jail in Maricopa, Arizona, has been making headlines. Destination Tent City, AZ chronicles a two-year period of a young woman’s life after she, like so many Americans, made the fateful decision to drink and drive. This “as told to” account of the practical and psychological repercussions of receiving a DUI should give readers pause the next time they decide to drive away from happy hour. Especially if they happen to be in Arizona.

“My inspiration for writing the book came from my desire to turn the process of my friend’s DUI into a positive experience,” says author Mark Feuerer. “Although we can all agree that drinking and driving is dangerous and must be stopped, we should be debating the severity of the penalties; our present system is so punitive that it often leaves offenders completely crushed and therefore more likely to reoffend; they simply have nothing left to lose. I do not believe that the woman who told me her story will ever drink and drive again. I’m willing to bet she’s one of the exceptions. If we really want to help problem drinkers and alcoholics and prevent them from driving under the influence in the future, why are we throwing them in prison over one infraction? We should at least ensure that our primary goal isn’t filling the state’s coffers by keeping its prisons occupied.”

Mark Feuerer was born and raised in Menomonee Falls, Wisconsin, a small town just northwest of Milwaukee. He is the youngest of eight siblings. Mark headed off to Princeton University in 1984, where he played baseball, football and graduated with a B.A. in Psychology. After a short stint playing professional baseball in Australia in 1989-1990, he settled into a career in the heavy construction equipment industry, working on both the manufacturing and dealership sides of the business. He received his MBA in 1998 from Keller Graduate School of Management and spent 2003 in law school at New England School of Law. In 2008, he married his wife Kelly (nee Weigand), managing attorney for a healthcare network provider. Mark, Kelly, and their three cats and one dog live in Scottsdale, Arizona. Click here to read Mark’s blog.

Destination Tent City, AZ is available in trade paperback on Amazon.com, Amazon.co.uk, Amazon.de, Amazon.fr, and Amazon Japan. The Kindle edition retails for $4.95. Other ebook versions can be purchased on Smashwords and through most major ebook retailers. Bookstores and libraries can order through info@coffeetownpress.com and Ingram.

Keep reading for an excerpt:

“Did the guards give you ice to put in the drum?” one of the girls asks me.

“No.” She turns and walks toward the guard, who is about fifteen feet away.

“Sir, excuse me, but is there any way we can get ice for the water drum?” she requests in a very respectful way.

“Too busy. Sorry. Maybe tomorrow.” The guard answers sarcastically as he stands there motionless, arms folded, as if conserving energy for his trip home. The brief glance she gives him as she walks away is priceless. I have a feeling that the continuous friction between inmates and guards often results in this type of interaction. I’m sure I’ll be sending my fair share of angry glances as my time here stretches out. As I fill the water drum, the three women I shared the intake process with arrive. No rhyme or reason to the processing time. It can take anywhere from twelve to eighteen hours for inmates to complete the intake process. We acknowledge each other as I keep the hose in the barrel. Before I can finish filling it, the women begin to line up to fill their bottles. I get in a line of about five women, waiting my turn to drink hose water from a plastic barrel. One day you’re ordering a Silver Oak cabernet from a swanky restaurant, the next … well, you get the picture. Still, I step up to the barrel during my turn, fill the bottle, and drink the entire thing. What have I just done? The aftertaste and smell literally make me ill. A nearly lethal combination of rust, minerals, and shit is apparently on tap today. Now I know what my friend’s dog is expecting as she makes her way to my toilet to get a drink.

I speed walk to the bathroom, thinking that if I’m going to get sick, at least I have the decency to find a toilet. As I walk in, a small dry heave stops me dead in my tracks. The unsanitary conditions just about make me toss my cookies … literally. Maybe that’s how the phrase “toss my cookies” got started. An inmate, forced to eat the prison food cookies, heads to the bathroom to give them back … Eight filthy sinks, with the same number of open stall toilets, several of which are unflushed or plugged. C’mon people … it’s already disgusting in every other corner of this place … should we really suddenly ignore the post-defecation flush reflex to add to the stench? Prison movies are spot on when they depict open, high school style shower quarters off of the bathroom. If you can stand the smell and are comfortable being spotted naked by a toilet user, then the shower area is for you. A couple of dry heaves and I begin to feel a bit better. I have learned my lesson—sip the hose water or it will find its way back out. By 8 p.m. the drum is empty.