Elaine Faber

ON CE upon a time, or so the fable goes, there was a colony of mice who were tormented almost daily by the tattered old cat that lived down the way. Almost daily, as the less wary mice fell prey to the tattered old cat, the colony diminished in size. On a dreary day in the month of May, having heard yet again of the demise of another citizen, the mayor of the mouse colony called a town hall meeting to discuss this disturbing matter.

The mayor stood tall upon the top of a match box and shouted to his diminutive mouse constituents. “What can be done about this conundrum threatening our health and welfare?”

The towns-mice had no solution, having discussed the issue ad-nauseum and laying the blame to everything from feline over-population to unemployment.

One small mouse spoke up. “You all agree that the sly cat has made our lives miserable by the treacherous manner in which he sneaks around on padded feet. If there was a way we could be forewarned of his approach, we could scamper away and avoid his murderous attacks. Therefore, I propose that we break open the General Disaster Fund and purchase a small bell, string it to a ribbon and attach it to his tail.”

“Can’t happen,” said the Mayor Mouse. The General Disaster Fund is reserved against the day of a natural disaster, like a flood or famine. This is neither flood nor famine. We’ll have to raise a new tax to meet the demands of this monstrous issue.”

The towns-mice applauded and shouted in unison, “Let’s do that. Raise a new tax.” A motion was made and carried to tax each mouse according to his means, laying the highest tax on the worker-mouse as the wealthiest among them had tax breaks and the poorest received cheese subsidies. The motion was voted on and passed. They would announce a tax, purchase a bell and proceed with the plan. Faint music could be heard in the background as an old mouse stepped forward, “But who’ll tie the bell on the old cat’s tail,” said the wise old mouse. “Who’ll tie the bell on the old cat’s tail, so we’ll know when he’s around the house?”

The towns-mice, having no answer, and with meetings to attend, scampered away.

Then the old mouse said. “Foolish mice. It is easy to propose impossible remedies, harder to accomplish the goal, when you ask for volunteers.”

People sometimes ask me why I am a writer when my books aren’t best sellers and have limited financial rewards.

If I questioned one hundred random people, at least seventy-five would claim that someday they will write their memoir, sure to be a best seller. The remaining twenty-five would likely claim they may never get around to writing their memoirs and, sadly, the world will be the lesser for it.

Yet an alarming number of books are published on Amazon every year where they are buried as deep as a sticker in a cow plop beneath a zillion other books. Occasionally, one actually sells!

A few years ago, I decided there was a book in me that the world would be deprived of, should they miss the opportunity to read. Black Cat’s Legacy. After thousands of hours of writing, editing, and rewriting, my first cat mystery was available to the millions of folks clamoring to be amused, entertained, charmed, and delighted by my captivating characters. In this sure-to-become-a-New-York-Times-best-seller, the cat, with his ancestors’ memories, helps his inferior persons solve a cold case murder… and it is scintillating. I promise. Trust me. I’m an author.

My next book was a WWII humorous mystery adventure with an eccentric elderly lady, Mrs. Odboddy–Hometown Patriot. Agnes sees black market conspiracies and Nazi spies running amok as she fights the war from the home front, volunteering, knitting argyles for the troops, and planting a Victory Garden. It involves stolen ration books, missing money, the return of an old wartime lover, chickens in the bathroom, and a smattering of downright no-good-niks. When Mrs. Roosevelt comes to town, Agnes’s fears become a reality, and she must prove, indeed, she is a home front warrior. And yes, it’s available on Amazon in e-book for only $3.99.

I’m now up to 13 published novels with two more in the hopper.

So, why do I continue when it involves thousands of hours writing, editing, and rewriting, the glory is nonexistent, and there are less-than-exciting financial rewards? Irrelevant!

I write because the characters in me are screaming to get out. Folks who read my books often return and tell me that for just a little while, they left their troubles behind and experienced my make-believe world where the bad guy gets his due, and the good guy wins. Then my friend says, “I loved your book! When will you publish the next one?” There’s a smile on her faceWriters. And I know that reading my book put it there!

That’s when I know. It’s all worth it. That’s why I write.

This is a short story printed in my anthology of 'cat' stories, All Things Cat. It will also be included in my upcoming anthology, Beyond the Garden Gate. Hope you enjoy.

I live in Dead Bush, a small town in Texas. Our town sports three saloons, a general store, the bank, one church without a steeple, a blacksmith shop, and another establishment such as nice folks don’t talk about in mixed company. Modern wooden-slat sidewalks were added this spring in deference to the request of those specific ladies who live in the aforementioned and unmentionable establishment.

On Founder’s Day,   the local farmer’s wives bake pies and hams and sweet potatoes for a giant banquet and sponsor a dance out behind the Blacksmith’s shop. Bright and early this morning, neighboring families trickled into town, ready for a good time.

Several soldiers still wearing ragged Civil War uniforms rode into Dead Bush on worn-out horses. The soldiers commenced to drink and gamble, and ordered steak dinners at the Dry Spell Saloon where, among other things, such entertainment and libation was encouraged.

I sleep in the back of the saloon, ever since the town sheriff found me, the lone survivor of a wagon train where every soul was massacred by wild Indians.

I don’t belong to nobody, but Shorty, the barkeep, saves me leftovers from the day’s leavings. That, added to my hunting prowess, fares me well. Since I’m the only cat in town, the regulars at the bar adopted me as a mascot. I’m a fine figure of a feminine feline, though some might say somewhat on the portly side. The compliment is validated by the roaming tomcat that comes through town every spring. Up until now, I haven’t given him a tumble.

These days, cats are almighty scarce and considerably valuable in this neck of the woods. Several local farmers have offered Shorty big bucks for me, beings as cats can keep a barnyard free of varmints by barely lifting a paw. Some unscrupulous fellows are known to have hauled cats in a sack tied to their saddles all the way from the big cities to small farming towns, assured of a quick sale and a $20 gold piece.

Well, seems these soldiers what came to town sat and drank well past noon. I caused quite a stir when I wandered through the saloon. One soldier took a notion to buy me, having heard about cats being worth big money up the river. Shorty declined, saying I couldn’t be sold since I was a free spirit and didn’t belong to nobody.

As the gambling and drinking commenced, the soldier plied Shorty with enough palaver and drink that he was cajoled into a card game with me as the stakes!

I sat near the potbelly stove, preening my whiskers, warming my backside, somewhat amused by the stupidity of these humans what thought they could buy and sell another living creature. Wasn’t that what the Civil War was all about?

The poker game progressed, and it seemed my future as mascot at the Dry Spell Saloon was dependent on the turn of their cards.

Four players hunched over the table, cards fanned in their hands, empty glasses lined up in front of them. Shorty’s chips were going fast. Holding on to the Dry Spell Saloon mascot didn’t look promising.

The height of Shorty’s chips rose and fell as the afternoon wore on. I sat on a nearby table, commiserating with Mr. Casper, an old codger who operated a small gold claim in a nearby river. The old man was a fool, but he didn’t smell quite as bad as the other miners, as being tipsy a good deal of the time, he fell into the river more often than most, washing away some of his natural man-stink.

In the late afternoon, the ladies announced that their Founder’s Day supper was served. The saloon emptied except for the four poker players, who found it harder to sit up straight. Heads lolled, and cards tumbled from their hands. More whiskey landed on the floor than in their glasses. Never in the history of Dead Bush had such a game gone on for so long, or the stakes so roundly coveted. It seemed I was, indeed, a prize.

Eventually, Smitty Rosenblatt passed out. George Waddlebaker went broke. Shorty hung in there, though blurry eyed, he continued to fight for his meezer. Unfortunately, poor Shorty’s stack of chips grew smaller.

Seeing the inevitable handwriting on the wall, I slipped out the front door and headed out onto the prairie, intending to be absent for a few days. I have found that an occasional vacation is wise and often essential to one’s health.

Besides, there weren’t no sense being around eventually, when Shorty went broke, and one of the soldiers attempted to claim his prize. I didn’t plan to spend the next week strung to the back of a saddle in a burlap sack until the old soldier found a farmer with a barn full of rats and a $20 gold piece.

I’m the only cat in Dead Bush, and I intend to keep it that way. At least until next spring, when that ole’ tomcat comes back to town. Maybe we’ll talk.

***

A fiction story written to represent a holiday. I chose Founder’s Day. This is one of my favorite ‘cat’ stories, also found in my other anthology, All Things Cat!

One day, when my cat, Truffie, was very young, she stopped eating. She lost weight. I’d already taken her to the vet twice. My credit card charges were over $600. All the lab tests and X-rays were. Normal. The vet suggested more tests. I couldn’t afford to spend more money if he didn’t even know what was wrong.

Truffie was sick for five days. If something didn’t change soon, I thought she would die. She still wouldn’t eat or drink water. She had a fever. None of her prescribed medications were working.

I worried and wondered. Does God care if Truffie is sick? We know He cares about our health and our finances and foreign affairs and the troops in faraway places. But, does God really care if my cat is sick? Does He have time to hear my prayers, considering His busy schedule healing folks and protecting our loved ones? You see, I’ve prayed about all those things for a while, but what about Truffie’s fever? Did I dare pray for God to heal her and expect a miracle?

I asked my pastor, “Do you think God answers our prayers when our animals are sick?” He described a certain Catholic holiday, where people bring their animals to be blessed, but he couldn’t think of a verse in the Bible that specifically mentions God caring much about cats.

I searched the Bible to find something to suggest that God cared and would answer our prayers when our animals are sick. I found the following:

(Matthew 10:20 NIV)' 'Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? Yet not one of them will fall to the ground outside your FATHER’S care.’ Humm… Sparrows? Cats? Not quite the same, but if He loves sparrows, maybe He loves cats, too.

We’re all familiar with God’s blessings and promises. God gives us everything we need. Our home. Our loved ones. A job... well, most of us have a job, or we had one, before the company downsized, and now some of us have unemployment. But, not many of us are going hungry, so even on our worst days, God supplies our needs. That didn’t answer my question. Could I really expect Him to hear my prayers to heal Truffie? I read more about prayer and faith.

(Matthew 7:7 NIV) 'Ask and it will be given to you.” Really? Just asking? Was that the key?

(Matthew 17:20 NIV)' 'For truly I say to you. If you have faith like a grain of mustard seed, you will say to this mountain, ‘Move from here to there,’ and it will move, and nothing will be impossible. That sounded promising.

(Matthew 7:11 NIV)' And lastly… 'How much more will the Father in Heaven give good gifts to those (his children) who ask Him?’ Now, we were getting somewhere. Perhaps it was a matter of prayer with faith, not the specifics of what we pray for. What did I have to lose?

So, I prayed for Truffie. “Lord, you know how much I love her. You know how it would grieve me to lose her. I’m calling on Your promise, 'Ask and it will be given…'. I place this little cat in Your loving hands, Lord, and ask You to heal her and raise her again. I’m asking because You’ve promised if I have faith…”

Now, I’m not going to tell you that a bright light surrounded the house or that Heaven opened and God’s voice rang out, “Truffie. Rise up and walk,” but the next day, Truffie started to eat. Her mood brightened. She purred. She was on her way. She would recover! And she did! (She’s 17 years old now and still going strong.)

I know that God cares for our cats and dogs and rabbits and horses and all our pets. Not because there’s a specific verse in the Bible that says so, but because we love them and He loves us enough to want our joy to be complete. He promises that if we ask and have faith, we can move mulberry trees into the sea, or move mountains from here to there, or maybe it’s all about teaching us to take all our cares to the Lord, no matter how big or small. And many times, according to his will, our prayers are answered.

Truffie is living proof. God answered my prayer, and yes, I’m convinced. God loves cats.’

As adults, we enjoy different written materials, from Hot Rod magazines that expound on the attachments of an experimental 400 hp motor car that runs on Black Flag bug spray, to the latest dirt in Hollywood magazines. More sophisticated readers read actual books. We read mysteries, thrillers, romance, westerns, etc., according to personal taste. More recently, reading has expanded to reading “e-books online” on Kindle and other electronic devices.

I collect vintage books. I buy them for the book jacket – something usually with gold gilt lettering or an embossed cover. I have vintage books that range from Faulkner, George Elliot, Dickens, Kipling, Jack London…to fascinating studies of Audel’s Answers on Refrigeration (1914)…but you should see the beautiful bindings! Some of them are utterly fascinating.

A vintage book I found interesting was Janice Meredith, A Story of the American Revolution, by Paul Leicester Ford (1899). It is the story of a nation at war. Imagine the British Army invading a small community of 673 farmers and shopkeepers. They “appropriate” 27 horses, 81 chickens, and 23 pigs, and threaten to hang any traitor who is loyal to George Washington. Everyone in town becomes an instant loyal British subject. The British army leaves. Six days later, George Washington rides into town. His army of 412 hungry men finishes off the remaining 4 pigs and 9 chickens. Everyone swears allegiance to the “rebel cause,” and Washington rides away. A month later, another contingent of British soldiers rides back into town, hunting a rebel spy. Everyone points north where Washington disappeared over the hill, dragging a pig at the end of a rope, and the town’s last three ducks in a sack tied to his saddle.

The loyalty of the people depended upon who was holding the gun that day. Throughout the story, the main character changed his allegiance several times to survive. There were no true British loyalists. There were no true, “so help me God, I’m a Yankee and proud of it” patriots. There were just hungry people trying to survive in the middle of a giant battlefield.  The book was a fun romance as well as a historical novel. It gave insight into the mindset of what people had to do to survive during the American Revolution. This book is still available at Amazon.

As an author of 14 mystery novels, I wonder if my mystery books will be read and enjoyed 125 years from now? If you like cats, humorous mysteries, or a bit of paranormal, check out my books NOW on Amazon.

This short story won an Honorable Mention in a writing contest several years ago.

The Slobaviakinsky Golf Course and Convention Center was located in a small, undeveloped country called Slobaviakinsky, somewhere north of the 23rd Parallel. A United States grant funded the golf course as an entrepreneurial endeavor to improve the lives of the 1,673,489 Slobaviakinsky citizens. The convention center employed 312 individuals, ranging from groundskeepers to bartenders, chefs, and maids.

As it happened to be the largest and finest golf course and convention center within 3,000 miles, it was chosen as the location of the annual European golf tournament. News of Tiger Woods’s attendance had spread far and wide, assuring the event would bring financial and national attention to the ‘not so thriving’ country. As a result, every room in the convention center hotel was reserved.

Wanting things “just as he liked it,” our boy, Tiger, had shipped his accouterments ahead of his arrival time. This included an all-electric golf cart with leather seats, a titanium steering wheel, a state-of-the-art sound system and beverage center, and his gold gilded golf clubs. The cart was now covered with a tarp and parked on the lawn beside the CEO’s office, lest anyone should attempt to pilfer same and sell it on eBay.

Unbeknownst to the tournament’s organizers, or anyone on the board of directors, including the CEO, long before the golf course was built at this location, a secret society had created a maze of tunnels connecting the 1st through the 18th hole beneath the manicured grass. The secret society had held its covert operations in this location for years and did not want to risk discovery.
Discussions were underway beneath the turf, as to the best way to scuttle the impending tournament, lest the location of the secret tunnels be discovered and future doings of the participants thwarted. At last, a plan of how best to wreck the event was voted on and passed.

Three days before the tournament, the CEO found his distraught head landscaper waiting outside his office wringing his hands. He blurted out his story. During the night, someone had torn out the sound system in Tiger’s golf cart. The leather seats were shredded. The golf bag holding his precious gold gilded clubs was slashed with marks that looked like the teeth of a wild animal. Knowing Tiger Woods’s erratic moods, the CEO feared that such a personal attack might result in his refusal to attend. In such a case, the tournament, itself, was in jeopardy.

Much to their surprise, Tiger grudgingly agreed to play with a standard golf cart if they promised to provide a cooler for his favorite beverages.

Two days before the tournament, the CEO found his head electrician awaiting his arrival. During the night, someone had destroyed the wiring to the PA system, making it impossible to announce the events over the loudspeakers. Could the tournament proceed if Tiger’s adoring fans could not hear about his prowess on the field? Since the hotel was booked solid and news media from around the world were already on their way, the hotel management and staff were determined that every effort must be made to fix the system and save the tournament.

Upon hearing the news, the secret society called another emergency meeting. Scuttling Tiger’s golf cart hadn’t worked. Destroying the PA sound system hadn’t derailed the tournament plans. Drastic measures were needed. Another plan was suggested, voted upon, and passed. The timing of the plan had to be perfect.

One day before the tournament, the CEO found his head chef awaiting his arrival. Upon coming to work that morning, he found what appeared to be rat droppings all over the kitchen, on the stove, and in the pantry. Bags of cornmeal were torn open. The freezer had become unplugged during the night, thawing hundreds of pounds of meat. He found the refrigerator’s electric cord torn in half. The hotel had been invaded by rodents. With the health inspector due today, the kitchen would likely be shut down, again, putting the tournament in extreme jeopardy.

The clever CEO snapped his fingers. “Have the maintenance crew jimmy up barbecues on the patio with bricks and screens. We’ll BBQ all the meat for the hotel guests’ dinner tonight. Have the local markets and bakeries bring freshly baked bread, fresh fruit, and pastry for breakfast tomorrow. We’ll bring all the portable microwaves from each room to prepare whatever else we need to feed the guests. Contact another dozen food trucks from around the county. They can serve the tournament guests tomorrow. We’ll make it work.”

The secret society gave up in despair. None of their efforts had derailed the tournament. They would have to take their chances of discovery.

On tournament day, Tiger Woods faced the world’s top ten golfers. On the 17th hole, he was one stroke from winning the tournament. He eyed the ball, drew back his club, and swung. His foot slipped on a leaf. His ball sailed into the air, then diverted to the left and landed in the trees next to the 18th hole. The crowd erupted in a collective moan. TV cameramen trailed him and his caddy into the woods. Tiger’s ball lay on the top of a mound of dirt, evidence of a major gopher hole.

Tiger stomped down the mound, creating a level surface, and smacked his ball onto the course where it slowly rolled across the green and plopped into the hole. Tiger turned to his caddy. “Better notify the CEO about this gopher hole. He should set out poison before they get onto the green.” He stepped onto the course to the adulation of his adoring fans.

In the tunnel below, several ground gophers cringed in trepidation. As they had feared, Tiger Woods’s attendance at the golf tournament had resulted in the discovery of their secret location. Their existence was doomed. It was only a matter of time until their secret tunnels would likely be destroyed. They held another emergency meeting, voted, and passed a new plan. There was only one solution. They would move their network of tunnels next door into the International Culinary Institute the United States had recently built, intended to generate good will opportunities to under-privileged Slobaviakinsky bakers.

Unbeknownst to the gophers, Wolfgang Puck was scheduled to hold his world-renowned annual Cooking Show at the Culinary Institute next spring.

The old woman, Broomtilda, took me in when I was a wee kitten and named me Tinkleberry. Her idea, not mine…Over the years, it became increasingly difficult for her to provide us with bread and cheese. Were it not for the old cow in the byre, we would have no milk for our breakfast.

One night, Broomtilda tucked her shoes under her bed and pulled the covers up to her nose. Come dawn, being too weak to rise, she called me to her side. “I have provided all your needs until today, Tinkleberry. Now, you must go, my friend, kill a small beast and bring me meat, for I can no longer work to feed us.”

That she should ask me to kill a living creature went against my very soul, for unlike my feline brothers, I have long been a conscientious objector. “You know I would do anything for you, dear Broomtilda, but I cannot kill even the smallest living creature. Please do not ask me to pay such a price for your kindness.”

“How can you answer thus, when I am ill and hungry?” she replied. “Have I not always provided for you?” Her tears wrenched my heart, and yet I trembled at the thought of killing the smallest vole.

“Isn’t there another way to meet our needs?”

She wept. “Only one, but I fear it’s far too dangerous.”

I bowed my head, my fur bristling in dread. “I will do as you command.”

“You must make your way to yonder mountain. High on the top beside a river, is the cave of a wicked leprechaun,” she said. “Perhaps you can trick him into revealing where he hides his gold. Even one small coin would feed us for many weeks. Go, now, Tinkleberry. My life is in your paws, small friend.” My mistress fell back upon her pillow, her voice a bare whisper. “If you fail to bring back a piece of gold, I shall perish.”

I set out to do what must be done in hopes I could match wits with the evil leprechaun and live to tell the tale.

The mountain trail was steep. With each step nearer the cave, I had no clear plan for how to trick the leprechaun out of his gold.

As I stepped on the log that spanned the river, shrill words chilled my heart. The wicked leprechaun! “Halt. Who goes there? Answer, Cat, or I’ll turn you to stone.”

Panic seized my heart. “Hold! A thought popped into my furry head. “I’m just a harmless pussy cat out for a stroll in the woods. My, what a lovely river you have here, Sir Leprechaun. I love what you’ve done with the place.” I sashayed across the log, humming an Irish ditty, and bowed low. “My name is Tinkleberry. Her idea, not mine. What might I call you, kind sir?”

The leprechaun stepped from his cave, his demeanor softened. “My name is Merichandrick. What do you seek?”

“A spot of tea would be lovely. I’m weary from my travels.” I looked wistfully toward the creature, an attempt to convey abject vulnerability and candor. To my great surprise, he agreed.

“Come on in, then, and I’ll light the fire.” I followed him into the grotto, suspicious of his intent. Once inside, did he plan to toss me into the stew pot? My nerves tingled, prepared for the worst.

“Sit over there.” The little man shuffled toward the fire.

Fearing treachery, I kept a wary eye on my host as I gazed around. A green-and-red parrot squawked in a cage hanging from a golden hook. “Oh, what a lovely bird,” I said, sidling closer to the cage. Where was that blasted pot of gold? Near the back of the cave, something bulged beneath a red blanket.

The little man turned. “Will you be after spending the night?” says he, with a wicked glint in his eye.

“If I’m so invited,” says I with a yawn, patting a paw against my mouth. He likely plans to kill me as I sleep. “Let us drink our tea, and I’ll curl up on yon lovely red blanket for the night.”

He shook his mop of green curls. “Not there,” says he. His wicked eyes glittered. “Best you should sleep closer to the fire.”

“A perspicacious idea!” says I. Oho! The gold is under the blanket. Once the little man sleeps, I’ll snatch a coin and be on my way.

My host set out two mugs, shoving one toward me. Expecting a trick, I sneezed, and as he reached for a Kleenex, I switched the mugs. Indeed, the mug was drugged, for the evil leprechaun drank and soon fell into a stupor. As I snatched a gold coin from the pot beneath the blanket, the parrot began spewing vile curses. Murderous rage filled my heart as I became a conscientious objector no more. I leaped and knocked the cage from its golden hook. The now repentant parrot squawked and flapped on the ground. One swift snap of my jaws, and the bird would curse no more.

Broomtilda traded the gold coin for six chickens and a second cow. That gives us enough milk to trade for bread and vegetables. Since I’m a recovering conscientious objector, only occasionally do I venture into the woods, highjack an unsuspecting rabbit, and fetch it home for the stewpot. If our fortune changes or the old cow dies, the wicked leprechaun still has a pot full of gold coins, and I know where he lives.

****

See my humorous 'cat stories anthology', All Things Cat at Amazon. (e-book is $2.99) http://tinyurl.com/y9p9htak

CREATING A SELF-PUBLISHED NOVEL

I just published my latest Black Cat cozy mystery/adventure, Black Cat and the Immigrant Child. In this novel, Grandmother has passed away, and Black Cat and his family return to Texas to settle her affairs. On the first day there, the body of a young immigrant, likely carrying drugs, is found murdered on the prairie. A little girl is found beside him. The family takes in the child and cooperates with the Border Patrol in an effort to locate her family. Of course, Black Cat overhears a stable hand confess to the murder with the intent to harm the child who may be able to identify him. Black Cat, Angel, and the huge Maine Coon barn cat, Murphy, join forces to protect the child and bring the killer to justice.

So, what went on behind the curtain, before the books were published?

I spent hundreds of hours writing and editing the final manuscript. With the help of 3-4 beta readers, an intensive editing process is done to identify typos, punctuation issues, storyline snags, expand certain scenes, and generally look for anything that needs to be changed.

(Other types of editors are available to the author at this point who can suggest changes or give advice.)

As I self-publish, further steps toward publication all become my responsibility. I’ll envision a general cover concept, and as I prefer photographs, I'll search Shutterstock, Fotolia, and other online photo sites for one or two photos to be used on the front cover. Once I’ve selected and purchased the rights to the images, they are sent to my mentor/editor/cover design genius to create an approved design.

Acknowledgments, back cover blurb, character description, and dedications are assembled. The manuscript is returned to my editor/mentor, who formats the manuscript for publication. She returns a printed copy to me, where, after reading it through again, often 40-50 further corrections or changes are made. My local publisher acquires an ISBN. Finally, the completed manuscript is sent to Amazon to be printed into a paperback.

A correctly formatted e-book version is sent to Amazon. where, if the moon and stars are in the correct alignment, they upload it correctly so folks can purchase the e-book for $3.99.

So, small wonder that a paperback novel costs $16. After many hours before publication, you now know what a self-published author must do to complete the process and provide a wonderful reading experience. I hope you'll enjoy all my books and look forward to presenting this latest novel filled with intrigue, a touch of romance, and plenty of laughs from Black Cat as he engages with the horses, the barn cats, and a rat named Cedric.

If this sounds intriguing, go to Amazon and plug in the title. You'll be glad you did.

The days grew shorter, the air crisper, the nights longer, and the whisper of leaves falling on the roof began to awaken each Christmas bird.  Something sang to them, calling them, until they wiggled with joy, crinkling their crepe paper walls. Soon, the Christmas ornaments would be lifted from their crepe paper beds where they had slept since last Christmas.

As the special Day grew nearer, the Christmas tree birds felt a thrill in their springy wire clips and gold porcelain bodies and their bright, feathered tails.

The youngest Christmas tree bird lay warm and snug beneath Gold Bird. Soon he would be on the Christmas tree with his Christmas bird friends and the others. Some of the round ornaments had beautiful paint, but weren’t as beautiful as the Christmas tree birds with their springy wires and pinchy clips. He closed his little red eyes and dreamed about Christmas Eve. He would look down from the Christmas tree at the family gathered by the fireplace, singing Christmas carols. Being part of the Christmas Eve celebration made him feel alive.

Perhaps today was the day. He imagined being taken from his box and hung on the tree. It would become a thing of beauty. “I’ve been thinking that I am the most beautiful Christmas bird,” he whispered to Gold Bird, his voice trembling, filled with self-admiration.

Gold Bird’s tail feathers quivered. “Oh, really. What makes you think so? Blue glass bird is made of exquisite hand-blown glass, and it has a fine blue feather tail. The antique bird is missing some of its tail feathers, but its glass is so fragile, you can see through it. For that matter, most of us are more beautiful than you.” He fairly shook as he scolded the young bird, lying in the tissue below him.

“Well, I don’t care what you say. The Christmas tree would not be nearly as beautiful if I weren’t right near the top.”

Gold Bird, being older and wiser, turned his head away.  “You conceited fellow, it would serve you right if you got left behind this year. You obviously don’t know the true meaning of Christmas. You don’t deserve to be included in the holiday events.”

The young Christmas bird trembled. Thinking he might be left behind scared him a bit, but not enough to change his opinion of himself. With a slight tremble, he added, “You don’t think that could happen, do you? I don’t mean to sound conceited. It’s not that I think you aren’t very handsome, but my tail feathers are longer and softer and fluffier than yours, and…my paint is much shinier...”

“Tut tut,” replied Gold Bird. “I won’t listen to hear another word.”

For several uncomfortable days, the young bird lay in his soft cocoon of crinkly wrapping paper. Gold Bird’s words haunted him. “You conceited fellow, it would serve you right …” Not to be part of the Christmas Eve celebration?  He could not bear the thought.

The days grew shorter and the nights longer. A soft sprinkle of snow blanketed the roof. The wind whistled through the trees, their bare branches just visible through the tiny window at the end of the attic. The long dark days of November edged into December.

Footsteps on the attic steps awakened the Christmas birds early one morning. They held their breath as their box was carried down the stairs. “It’s time! It’s finally Christmas! Soon we’ll be on the Christmas tree!” the Christmas bird whispered. The young Christmas bird lay in the box under Gold Bird, wrapped in soft white tissue paper. His friends were lifted, one by one, from beside him. He heard them squeal as they were hung on the tree. He could faintly hear the music. He could hear the children laughing; he could even smell the cookies! “It’s nearly time,” he whispered to Gold Bird.  “It’s nearly my turn.” Gold Bird’s fluffy tail no longer tickled his nose. His box was tossed into the corner; empty except for the little Christmas bird. He was alone.

His comfortable bed was now a prison, his beautiful body lay swaddled in crinkly tissue paper. Muffled Christmas sounds reached his ears. A tiny plastic tear formed in his little red eye. “I’ve been conceited and proud, and now I’ve been left behind.”

He lay alone and forlorn through December. The Christmas season was nearly over, and he had missed everything. On Christmas Eve, the family gathered to celebrate the birth of Jesus. The Christmas tree bird lay in his box in the corner, imagining the tree with his Christmas bird friends hanging on its branches, along with the round ones he had scorned. “They may not be as beautiful,” he thought,” but they are on the tree, and I’ve been left behind.”

The little girl read the Christmas story. “They wrapped him in swaddling clothes and laid Him in a manger.”

Christmas bird thought, “I’m wrapped in swaddling clothes, like the baby Jesus,” and he imagined the tiny baby, sung and warm, lying in a manger. He heard the daddy telling how Jesus came to earth as a tiny baby, and if we loved and trusted Him, He would take us to heaven and we would not be left behind. The Christmas bird sniffed, “I know what it’s like to be left behind. How much worse if I should be left behind in Heaven.”

He felt his box jiggle, the crinkling tissue paper lifted away, and he felt the warmth from the fireplace. “Look, Mommy! It’s another Christmas birdie. He has a tear in his eye. Can we hang him on the Christmas tree?”

Daddy helped her hang the little bird near Gold Bird.  Looking down, the joyous Christmas bird saw the family gathered around the tree. He felt the love in the room. Finally, he was where he needed to be. Gold Bird gave him a loving glance. “Welcome to Christmas. Did you learn anything?”

The tear in his eye had turned to gold, glinting in the firelight as he swung toward Gold Bird. “I understand,” he whispered. “Christmas is not about who is most beautiful, who is round, or who has a springy tail. The true meaning of Christmas is God’s gift to everyone; the birth of Jesus. When we accept His Gift, we will never be left behind.”

An edited scene from Black Cat and the Lethal Lawyer

Wilbur parked his Jeep about a quarter mile from the barn behind a pile of boulders. He stuffed a pair of black gloves and a lady’s stocking into his jacket pocket. He crept along the desert, moving from one clump of shrubs to the next until he heard music coming from the barn where the dance was already in full swing. The aroma of spicy barbecued chicken drifting through the air made his mouth water.

Wilbur swallowed and licked his lips. It had been a long time since lunch. His stomach growled. Waves of nausea spread through him, partly from hunger and partly from nervousness, thinking of what he was about to do.

The shrubs and garden structures concealed his movements as he circled the yard and approached Mrs. Milton’s house. Wilbur opened the screen door and tiptoed through the kitchen. He paused to listen. No sound except for the faint music drifting from the barn. He crept up the back stairs, knowing Mrs. Martin hadn’t attended the barn dance due to a sprained ankle.

The hallway was in semi-darkness except for a small scented candle burning on the hall table. Wilbur removed the stocking from his pocket and pulled it over his head. He tightened his fingers around a heavy metal flashlight as he approached Mrs. Martin’s room, where a thin stream of light shone beneath her bedroom door. The sweat felt sticky inside his gloves as he reached for the doorknob. He paused, hearing voices inside the bedroom. She was awake, and someone was in there with her.  

Wilbur hurried across the hall into the bathroom, left the door slightly ajar, and peered through the crack in the door, willing the person to leave so he could get on with his task.

He stood in the dark, thinking about what he must do. It was a shame he had to kill her. He actually liked the old woman, but now she was talking about leaving her fortune to one of her grandchildren and he had to act before she changed her will.

It seemed like hours until the housekeeper came out the door, carrying a dinner tray with the little marmalade cat winding around her feet.

“Alright, little one. Come with me to the kitchen and I’ll get you a treat,” he heard her say. The cat turned and looked back. Wilbur froze. Had she heard something? Would she come back and give away his hiding place? Wilbur closed his eyes. Within a few seconds, he heard the kitchen door click. He let out his breath with a gasp and realized he’d been holding it.

The hallway was quiet. Mrs. Lassiter’s light went out. He stood in the dark, counting to 1000, waiting for her to go to sleep, going over every detail; how he would kill her with the flashlight, then run down the back stairs to his Jeep, rush back to the motel, and pretend great shock and disbelief tomorrow when he heard of her most unfortunate demise.

When he felt enough time had elapsed, he gripped the flashlight, held his breath, slowly turned the doorknob, and pushed open Mrs. Lassiter’s bedroom door.

****

The big black and white cat lay snuggled close to her side, drifting between wakefulness and sleep, comfortable and warm, listening to the music drifting through the window. The sound of the doorknob turning brought him fully awake. His ears pricked forward. He jumped silently from the bed onto the floor and then eased to the top of the dresser by the door. He crouched, his gaze riveted on the doorknob as it gradually turned. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end. His muscles tensed.

He waited.

The door inched open.

The next moment, the door flung open and a dark figure rushed across the room to Mrs. Martin’s bed. The intruder swung the flashlight, striking the sleeping woman’s temple. Blood flowed from the wound, and she lay still as blood seeped into the pillow beneath her head. Thumper shrieked and leaped from the dresser onto the killer’s back, digging his claws into the man’s shoulders.

Wilbur screamed and dropped the flashlight. He jerked from side to side, trying to dislodge his attacker. Thumper’s fangs sank deep into the flesh of his neck. Wilbur grabbed the squirming cat around the throat, yanked him loose, and flung him across the room. He screamed again as the cat’s teeth left a gaping hole where his teeth had been embedded in the flesh. Blood poured from the bite, dripped down his back, and spattered across the bed. Thumper’s body whacked into the dresser, and he lay still on the floor. Wilbur rushed from the room and down the back stairs. His heart pounded as if it would explode through his chest.  The scratches around his ears stung, and the bite in the back of his neck throbbed. From time to time, he reached up and touched the wound in his neck, cursing the beast.

All his plans were in ruins. His alibi was in shambles. His blood and DNA were at the crime scene, thanks to the cat. It wouldn’t take the police long to connect the dots, and his alibi wouldn’t hold water. He had planned that by the time the body was found, he would be safely out of town.

Now the cat was literally out of the bag, and the house was in an uproar, and he was nowhere near his motel and an alibi.

Wilber clenched his fists and gritted his teeth, furious that a cat had foiled his plan. He hoped the damn thing broke its neck when it hit the dresser. He smiled at the thought and stumbled on through the darkness. He felt a sense of relief when the shadow of his jeep loomed in the distance.

Now he had to decide what to do. Should he go back to the motel and tough it out? No, they would be able to test the blood in the bedroom and prove he was the attacker. There wasn’t any choice. He had to leave the country.

He smiled at the sight of his 1945 Jeep. A smile flitted across his face and quickly disappeared when another stab of pain surged through the back of his neck.

He grabbed the steering wheel and flung himself through the open door into the driver’s seat. He turned the key and pressed the starter on the floor. There was a click as the solenoid tried to engage the starter motor, but it didn’t have enough power to turn over the engine. He pressed it again. There was a click and then silence as the battery went completely dead. Vintage cars were always temperamental.

Wilbur slammed the steering wheel with the butt of his hand. Now what? The Mexican border was only four miles away. And how would that work? They’d be watching for his car at the border. Oh, look there. Here comes the only 1945 restored Jeep in the state of Texas. Do you think it's Wilbur Breckinridge, the guy with no alibi, a chomp out of the back of his neck, and blood all over his clothes? Do you think?

Forget the border. Wilbur scooted down in the seat to sleep, stifling a yawn. He’d make a better plan in the morning.

He awoke with a start. For a moment, he wondered what he was doing, sitting in his jeep in the middle of the desert. He shuddered at the memory of Mrs. Martin’s blood-soaked head. My God, I did it. I killed her. 

Pain pulsed through the back of his neck. He touched the cat bite, and his hand came away with tinges of blood on his fingers. He wiped his hand on his pants and cursed.

Wilbur’s heart leaped with the thought that maybe the Jeep would start this morning. He turned the key, hit the starter, and crossed his fingers. Click. Click. Nothing.

He stepped out of the Jeep and pulled his rifle from its vintage scabbard by the front fender. He slammed the bolt back and then forward, chambering a round, and set the safety. With the sharp metallic clank, all the desert sounds went silent. Wilbur ran his hand lovingly over the front fender, bidding his beloved vehicle farewell forever, and started walking toward the canyon and the destiny that awaited him.

***

You can purchase the novel, Black Cat and the Lethal Lawyer at Amazon (e-book for $3.99) at..   http://tinyurl.com/q3qrgyu