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If you like thrillers with a slightly weird twist, this book is for you. It has some weirdness (hence the “supernatural” part) but I think it could also work as a straight thriller. Book two (The List of the Temporal, coming late summer) will be more of a “super hero” action thriller, however.
I would rate it as PG-13. Coarse language is at a bare minimum, and the violence isn’t described in detail, but there is some violence. The prologue below will give you a taste of what I mean.
About the book:
“Concise, action-packed chapters that really keep the pace moving. … CJ Martin will thrill you while making a surreal world seem so plausible.”
ETERNITY: Existence outside time
The Temporal, a supernatural thriller by CJ Martin
After his wife leaves him for a former friend, Sam Williams moves to Japan to start his life over.
But a quiet life for Sam was not to be.
A devastating earthquake in central Japan sends eternity crashing into time, enabling Sam to hear echoes of the past and even the future. Through the echoes, Sam and a mysterious Japanese woman learn of a terrorist plot that could plunge the world into turmoil and position a murderer as the leader of the free world.
They alone have the knowledge and ability to stop the plot.
But even with eternity on their side, can they stop it in time?
This novel has 62,000 words, 48 chapters (plus prologue and epilogue), and is about 250 printed pages.
And here is the Prologue in its entirety:
Four Months Ago…
With his right hand, Fakhr al Din reached for a large chunk of white cheese. He had lost his little finger, but was blessed by Allah to still have retained the full function of the other three and his thumb. The explosion had been greater than anticipated. In the end, however, the mission was successful. He allowed his hand to momentarily hover over the cheese, giving him a chance to admire its marred form—his small sacrifice for the cause.
The lighting in the room was dim and set primarily above the food on the table. His periphery was completely in shadow, but that shadow was not void of eyes watching and fingers gripping weapons. There were two guards ready to give their lives to protect the great imam of the Bushehr Province in Southern Iran.
He took a generous bite into the cheese while enjoying the heavy aroma of garlic in the air. The garlic paired surprisingly well with the hint of fragrant mint and thyme flowing from a gift basket in front of him. He had received many such gifts since an anonymous spokesman from his Warriors of the Sword had, through Al Jazeera, publicly taken credit for the latest bombing in Sderot, Israel. Of course, on CNN International and in English, Fakhr al Din himself had categorically denied any involvement in the “atrocious and unfortunate event.”
Even with the local popular support and the current pleasant refreshments, the imam hated to be kept waiting. Hamim, his head of security, was due for a report on local threats and was twenty minutes late.
Last week at Hamim’s request, the imam had ordered the killing of an innocent boy to remind the locals of the holy mission with which they were all entrusted: to protect Fakhr al Din. The boy’s parents had been quite cooperative. It was amusing to him how quickly planted evidence persuaded the father to disown his son, the infidel. As the child was dragged away to sentencing, his father led the frenzied chants of condemnation. The whole matter, of course, had not been the imam’s personal desire. But he had to periodically remind the neighborhood of their sacred duties.
Where is Hamim?
The Americans had taken an increased interest in him. He, however, felt sure his current safe house was secure. Two dozen loyal guards were on the grounds. The latest surveillance equipment continuously monitored every inch of the compound. A tunnel that exited into the kitchen of a nearby house was an escape route of last resort. In addition to all this, he had a more traditional security system stationed at the three entrances and trained to discover explosives, his Belgian Malinois dogs. These precautions would afford him the precious minutes needed to facilitate an escape if necessary.
Fakhr al Din grabbed his pita filled with lamb shawarma, but before he could bite, the door flung open.
“Hamim, where have you been?”
But it wasn’t Hamim.
Two strange men—Westerners wearing sunglasses and dark suits—stood in the doorway. He could see another shadowy figure in the distance beyond the men. A woman?
Two of the imam’s men, unseen and hidden by the shadows, stepped into the light. Brandishing their AK-47s, they let off a few rounds before they were silenced no more than two seconds later.
Fakhr al Din was left with his mouth open and without comprehension of what just happened. He had heard the rat-tat-tat of the weapons to his left and right, but what he saw straight in front of him defied understanding. Instead of blood and flesh ripped by bullets, he saw, for the briefest of moments, the two dark men’s hands go from their sides to a level equal with the incoming bullets. The motion—if it could be called motion—was quicker than his brain could process. It was as if their arms were in one position and then in the next moment, up to meet the bullets.
He heard the sounds of a dozen rounds ripping into and ricocheting off of the walls, furniture, and glassware around the room—but not into flesh.
In the next instant, the cleric, still looking forward, saw only the figure that had been behind the two men. The two black suited men had vanished, leaving what he could now confirm to be a woman. Her fiery-red hair was free and not held back by the traditional hijab head-covering. She was beautiful and terrifying.
Where are my men?
He turned left and then right to see his men held by the throat and off the ground, struggling to breathe.
Fakhr al Din looked at the table. His SIG P226 was next to the cheese. With the quickest of motions, he jerked his hand out, slapping it on the hard wooden surface where the gun had been a second ago. The woman had closed the two dozen feet within that timeframe and now held his weapon; its muzzle was directed at him.
He heard the sound of bodies pounding into the floor and turned to his left and then right. His guards were on the ground. Their throats were still tightly held by the intruders who were now down on one knee and had their heads turned toward the center of the room. Although the dark sunglasses hid their eyes, they both were clearly looking to the woman, waiting for her command.
“What—what do you want?”
“A chat. A private chat,” she said with a smile, causing the Iranian man to shudder. “Tell your men not to disturb us.”
The imam was at a loss. He felt her cold fingers gently lift his chin. Her motion first closed his opened mouth and then raised his entire head to meet her eyes. With the other hand, she held up his gun. Depressing the magazine release, she let the clip fall with a clunk onto the table.
“Tell them to go.”
Before he realized it, she had the gun lifted directly above her head. A single shot expended the remaining round, ejecting the spent casing and filling the small room with an explosive sound. It somehow seemed louder to the imam than had the bursts of the AKs. Bits of clay and plaster rained on Fakhr al Din, covering the table and cheese.
“Tell them to go—now.” The woman, having moved to his side away from the debris, startled him. Her voice was soft, silky even. If it weren’t for those eyes that seemed to drill violently and deeply into his soul, she might appear peaceful and sublime, like an angel.
“D—don’t disturb us,” the imam said to the men, keeping his attention fixed on the woman’s face. As terrible as they were, he feared to wander too far from those dark, piercing eyes. “Tell the others to not disturb us!” Dirt and plaster dropped from his beard as he shouted the order.
She nodded. Her two men immediately released their prisoners and returned to a standing position. In an instant, the two dark suited men were standing with their hands cupped in front like pall-bearers awaiting their duty. The guards on the floor rolled away from their captors, coughing.
“Go!” the woman shouted with a force beyond what seemed humanly possible.
The two men jumped to their feet and made for the door.
“Now,” she said as she walked casually to close the door, “I have a job for you. A job that I’m sure you will find to be mutually beneficial.”
The Present Day…
“Donata desu ka?—Who are you?”
Her hand darted up, grabbing air as if she could touch the visage of the man standing in front of her in her dream.
She only required five or ten minutes of sleep daily and yet this dream had continued for over half an hour. She had already kicked off the top futon and her head was far from the pillow. Sweat dripped from her brow.
“Do you not see me?”
She always remembered her dreams which seemed to begin immediately with her loss of consciousness and end when her body’s need for sleep was sated.
Particularly vivid were the dreams with him in it. His name was a mystery to her, but his face—she could recall it with exquisite detail and on command.
Her eyes fluttered, then opened with the full realization that she was not awake. Her mind projected the dream world onto the wooden ceiling above.
“Who are you?” she repeated.
The man stood two dozen feet or more away and was enveloped by an obscuring cloud—a first for a dream with him in it. Even still, her keen vision discerned a panic within his eyes.
How different this dream was. The man had always brought peace to her heart—not conflict and now… this horror. In previous dreams, the man recognized her. But now, she was invisible to him.
The man began to run. He was running from something and in her direction, but his position remained unchanged as if on a treadmill. He craned his neck over his shoulder in search of someone—his pursuer.
She sharpened her vision and dared to peer beyond the man to see the nightmare from which he was escaping. A moment later, he vanished. She realized she had moved ahead of his position and was seeing what he saw. She faced his nightmare directly.
As the scene gradually came into focus, she saw a street. It was in slow motion, but people were fleeing from some terror. She squinted her dream eyes hard until she saw what they saw. A fireball.
Then it all disappeared. There was nothing but white.
“Sam,” chanted some disembodied voices from the whiteness. It was a calm, sweet sound but with a multitude of voices singing in unison like a well-trained choir. It was as pleasant as the gentle whoosh of the ocean at eventide.
She answered, anticipating the voice. “Samuel Williams, the one at the hospital.”
She understood the meaning and allowed it all to slip away.
Well, here I go.
I have had a reoccurring dream (meaning, I start, then stop, then start…) of writing a novel. I do enjoy writing–I won’t say I love it–but the reason for my stunted writing career is, quite simply, money. I love my family too much to spend hundreds of hours on a writing project that never gets published. In the past “never gets published” meant to never get paid. I figured my chances of being published was one in a million at best.
But now things are different.
For years, the internet and blogging systems like WordPress have given individuals a voice and a platform for that voice to reach thousands, if not millions. But only very recently has this same opportunity presented itself for for-profit authors. Amazon’s Kindle is doing what the blog did but, and this is the kicker, authors actually get paid by their readers.
No longer is an author at the mercy of some New York publisher. No longer does an author have to wait months or even years for her book to come out. Everyman can upload his Great American Novel on his own terms. Obviously, this means more crap and a crap load of crap (I promise I won’t use that word again–it has been cleared out of my system!). But people are smarter than politicians and self-appointed philosopher kings give them credit for. People gravitate toward quality whether it be a blog or a $2.99 Amazon ebook. Self-interested people make informed and deliberate choices that inevitably means better books will rise in sales rank, have better ratings, and will gain better than average visibility.
Back to my introduction… I read Joe Konrath’s inspirational blog about how he has made an impressive living for himself mostly from self-publishing. If you haven’t read any of his stuff, forget this blog and spend an afternoon over there while downing a full pot of coffee.
Mr. Konrath has been very open about his earnings, successes, and failures. This has inspired me to do the same with this blog. I am about to release my first short story (which may turn out to be the beginning of a series of short stories or the beginning of the end of a writing career) and I will post the good with the bad at least until my attention turns elsewhere (what a way to leave an out, CJ.).
I actually have a few non-fiction ebooks selling both at Amazon and BN.com right now; so I’m not going into this totally blind. I’m not making much with those (about $200-300 a month) but for the purpose of this blog, I’m pretending like they don’t exist. This blog will record the successes and failures of what’s new to me, fiction.
I have no illusions of making $50,000 a month like Mr. Konrath, but I do believe–if the readers like what I have to offer–I can create a decent passive income. My first goal will be $500 USD a month. Considering I’m starting with only one short story done (almost), I realize this will take some time (a year?) if I’m diligent. But that is one of the purposes of this blog. In addition to recording sales and feedback data for others to be inspired or laugh at, I also want it to be my daily New Year’s resolution reminder. This blog will hold me accountable to my goals and promises I make to myself.
So, with that, I begin this blog full of hope, but as Benjamin Franklin once wisely said, “He that lives upon hope dies farting” (Yes, he actually wrote that: Almanack, 1736) I’ll take that advice and start writing. Now.