Hello Friends & Readers
Many of you have already purchased my book, taking it one step closer to getting published on Inkshares. Thank you. I’m working hard to deliver something worthwhile of your support.
And as many of you already know, we’re competing in the Launch Pad Manuscript Competition, which ends tomorrow (Friday) at noon PST. The top 3 projects get published. We’re sitting at #4, only a few orders shy of the coveted spot.
For those who have not yet pre-ordered the book—I ain’t mad ‘atcha! I’ve only had time to pre-order a few books myself, but after receiving such generous support, I know I must pay it forward.
For now, I’d like to offer you a short excerpt from The Loving Wrath of Eldon Quint. If you like it, please share with your peers.
Much love to all,
Chase
https://www.inkshares.com/books/the-loving-wrath-of-eldon-quint
Excerpt:
The mortician’s office sat adjacent to the Hazelwood Cemetery grounds. It was the warmest day all month; nearly all the snow had melted and the sodden whiff of decaying leaves soaked the air. The mortician was a short, bulky creature with a shaggy vandyke and a fraudulently soft-spoken manner. It seemed we had interrupted a late lunch, but he was not vexed. He ushered us into his shop and began with a tour of the display coffins. He was an eager salesman and at every turn pushed for a more expensive item. Eldon was unimpressed and settled on a modestly priced but handsome wooden casket. He made the mistake of calling it a “casket” not a coffin to which the mortician started quoting Hawthorne. But I recognized the language and called him out. “You are quoting, sir,” I said.
He looked quite astonished. I thought he might get angry and prepared for the response but instead he demurred. “Excuse my dumbfounded visage, but it is not oft I meet one of your shade in possession of an education.”
“Get used to it,” I said.
He did not smile and turned dryly to Eldon. “As you will likely be storing the deceased for up to three month, I assume you will require a Bateson?”
“What’s that?” asked Eldon.
“A popular device of proven efficacy that promotes peace of mind for the bereaved.”
“Would you be so kind as to untangle your language?”
“I mount an iron bell inside the lid of the coffin, just above the allegedly deceased’s head. The bell is connected to a cord that is placed in the hand—”
“A bell?”
“Should this be a case of premature expiration, the faintest tremor would sound the alarm.”
Eldon laughed in astonishment. “Sir, my son has surpassed even Duke Wellington in his time above ground. No such device will be necessary.”
“Then you believe him to be sufficiently deceased?”
“He’s frozen solid.”
“Understood. Still—might I suggest leaving the body with a crowbar? Just to be safe. I have one available for a reasonable sum.”
We left the mortician and headed across the road to the cemetery. Eldon stopped to talk to the director and he informed us that the earliest burial would be at least two months away. Sometimes the ground didn’t thaw until April, this being one hell of a winter already. Eldon seemed to expect such a response and took it in stride.
Under the sun and the dripping icicles I took charge of Ian while Eldon ventured on down the hill toward his wife’s grave. The cemetery spanned some eighty acres, but it was relatively new and much of the land was still pasture. Eldon was not sure of the location of the grave but thought he would have no trouble finding it. I watched him wander a bit without success. After a thorough search of the grounds, he went back to the office. When he emerged ten minutes later he looked like the starch was taken right out of him. I left Ian and Walter to amuse themselves with a mud puddle and went to speak with him. But he was too incensed to make words. He simply shook his head in a daze. “She’s not here,” he barked.
“Who’s not here?”
“My wife.”
“What do you mean?”
“They have no record.”
“Record of what?”
“Of what? Of her being buried here.”
“There must be some mix up. Perhaps they’ve misspelled her name.”
“She died last August. She was buried the same month. But the director just informed me that not one single soul was laid to rest here in August, or September for that matter, because of problems with the groundwater and the old sewage lines.”
“Could it have been that they meant to bury her here and then had to change locations and you simply didn’t receive notice?”
“I received a telegram from the marshal of this county informing me that my wife had been buried here, at this place, in August of 1882. I received a bill for her headstone and ecclesiastical fee. Overall I spent near four hundred dollars.”
“Then we must go see this marshal,” I said. Then I touched his arm, so he’d know that he wasn’t alone. We were in it together. Some white folks passed by, staring at us. I kept my hand right where it was.
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