Big Blog Hop–The Next Big Thing

Thank you, Beverly, whose novel Telling Stories–“Stories lie. Truth hurts. Secrets can be deadly.”–is NOT for children. Beverley, I enjoyed your blog post at http://bevjoneswriting.wordpress.com, so I wrote up one like it. But something strange happened last night­­–something I don't understand and can’t explain. It seems that 10-year-old M-Man and 7-year-old T-man (Story Boys http://storyboys.wordpress.com/2012/10/25/sea-cutter-by-timothy-davis-book/) got in email contact with Nathaniel Childe. I’ve called M-Man and T-Man, but they won’t say a word about it. No doubt Nat made them spit on their hands and shake on not telling. Don’t take my word for it. I managed to hit “print screen” before it disappeared….

M-man: What was it like to grow up without a dad?

Nat: My heart felt hollow and aching. The nights hit me hardest. I tossed and turned through nightmares about Father. He clung to a beam while the sea washed him to an unknown island. He called, “Nat! Nat! Nat!” while Mother and I stood at his plaque, saying, “He’s dead. He’s dead. He’s dead.”

T-man: What was it like going to sea for the first time?

Nat: Father must’ve had the salt sea in his blood and passed it on to me, for I could feel my own blood sing in our rhythmic rise and fall over the sparkling swells that stretched in unbroken splendor to all horizons. The tang of the salt wind that whisked over my face was more delicious than the aroma of any spice. The splash of our bow, the snap and rustle of our sails, the creak of our mast, all seemed the loveliest music.

M-Man: What was your favorite place in New Bedford?

Nat: The docks. They always swarmed with men: ship owners in satin frock coats, tough-looking sailors covered with tattoos, and expert whalers with their favorite harpoons slung over their shoulders. Some sailors swapped stories over their long clay pipes and talked about newly discovered trade routes. Others scrambled up masts, dangled from the rigging, and even dived into the water to clean the submerged hulls. Their shouts, commands, and coarse laughter competed with the screaming gulls.

T-Man: What was the scariest part of your journey?

Nat: A pistol shot rang, an impact hitting my back. Time slowed. My dagger fell, flipping leisurely. Then the green water slowly came to meet me as I tumbled over. The sunlit roof of water closed above me like slow curtains. The bullet in my back throbbed as I sank deeper into the darkness. Then I remembered what lay at the bottom of that darkness—Snake’s corpse. My foot hit sand and, terrified, I shoved myself upward. A cold dead hand gripped my ankle. The last of my air went out in a silent scream.

And there you have it, Beverly. By the way, Sea Cutter is now out in paperback through Amazon (http://amzn.to/RkseQX), and I'm giving away a signed copy. To enter the drawing, just leave any type of comment. I'll pick the winner from a hat on Friday, Nov. 9.  

Now I have the great pleasure of handing The Next Big Thing Blog Hop over to fantastic children’s novelist Michelle Isennhoff http://michelleisenhoff.wordpress.com.

Sea Cutter Wins 1st Place Award

Sea Cutter won 1st Prize in the International Digital Awards for short YA fiction. Here are links to the reviews of the two finalist judges, Calisa Rhose and Anna Kittrell. Thank you, IDA!

Read the First Four Chapters of Sea Cutter

The first four Chapters of Sea Cutter, a tween (9+) historical adventure novel, are up on the web! Go to http://www.timothydavisauthor.com/ .

A Sample of Sea Cutter

I woke in blackness, the Sea Cutter tossing every which way, while the bell rang with a mad clatter. Lightening flashed and thunder roared. I’d left Wayland alone to sail the storm!

I dashed up the companionway, forgetting to tie the line about me, just as a vicious wave broke over the Sea Cutter.

“Nat!” Wayland let go of the tiller and leaped toward me.

A freezing giant hand slapped my body off the boat, knocking my air out. It crashed me down into the roiling water, twisting and turning me as if it were a cat playing with a mouse. Fireworks exploded in my lungs.

I kicked and clawed at the wave, but it sank me head over heels. The fireworks turned to cannon shot. In another moment I’d breathe water.

A line rasped across my side and I grabbed it.

I flew yards in the air, the Sea Cutter yanking me out of the wave. I drew in a breath like a bellows. The line thrashed down into the trough of a wave, then flung me in the air again, the furious giant snapping his whip to flick me off.

I held on, my hands burning, my shoulders aching, the ocean plowing into my face, the rain pouring over me. Lightning flashed, and I caught a glimpse of the Sea Cutter.

 “Wayland! Wayland!” I screamed.

He couldn’t hear me above the roaring waves and wind. I pulled myself forward on the whipping line inch by inch, until one wave finally bruised me into the Sea Cutter’s side.

“Wayland!” No answer. He wasn’t pointing the Sea Cutter’s bow into the waves. She broached aimlessly, the waves hitting her at dangerous angles.

One banged me against the side of the boat so hard that for a moment all was a spinning darkness. Another smack like that would knock the line from my grasp.

I pulled myself upward, crying “Ah!” at the top of my lungs, and with a last effort tumbled over the gunwale just as a bolt of lightning made everything brighter than day.

The tiller thrashed from side to side.

Wayland was gone.

My Dad Died

Jack C. Davis (1923-2011) was an abstract expressionist artist, who painted until the day he died. You can see his work at http://www.glowingstar.net/jackcdavis/ . He lived in Connecticut and we live in San Francisco, but we spoke on the phone two or three times a day. He had a great sense of humor. We miss you, Dad.

BTW the C. stands for Coville in his name, my name, and in my son's name. This tradition of giving the middle name Coville to the eldest son of the eldest son goes back in my Dad's family for generations.

Airport Hitchhiking

In my teens, as I was doing one of my cross-country runs, I decided to hitchhike through Canada to the East Coast.

One sunset, I had my thumb out on a Modesto, CA highway, but the cars kept zipping by. Looking around for some sign of hope, I spotted the Modesto Airport. Why not fly?

I went in, asking the pilots if any were heading north.

“You want to go north?” asked a lanky, sallow guy, without smiling. “I’ll fly you to Seattle.”

“Hey! Great! Thanks!” I enthused.

We walked out toward a lovely Cessna, but went right by it. Behind it was the oldest, smallest, plane I’d ever seen. Its canvas cockpit was faded like an overused tent.

“Your door doesn’t really lock,” he said, as I slid onto the miniscule ripped seat. “You’ll have to hold it closed.”

He fired her up and we bounced along the runway, the plane starting to take off and then jolting down again.

“Interesting plane.” I said. “How long have you had it?”

“I just got it today,” he answered, finally pulling the contraption into the air.

“Oh, that’s great!” I tried to hide my alarm. “How long have you been flying?”

“I just got my license today,” he replied.

Oh. I sat paralyzed, half from the numbing cold that poured in my door, and half from fear. Things couldn’t be any worse.

Abruptly he clutched his chest. “Geez. I’ve been having these pains.”

Criminy!  Worse?  What if he died?  Where would that leave me?

Trying to sound casual, I began quizzing him how to tell where an airport was among all the lights on the ground, and then how to fly and land the plane.

You’d think he’d be delighted to share his knowledge, but he was a suspicious type. “Why do you want to know?” he asked. “Are you planning to push me out?”

Now we each flew in fear, and I made no protest when he said he needed to stop for the night. He swooped down at an airport. But we were going much too fast. I closed my eyes.

“Oops. Not this time,” he murmured, and up we went again. He tried again. Same thing. On the third try the plane came bouncing to a stop. My door flew open.

             That was the last of my airport hitchhiking.

A Sample of Sea Cutter

I disappeared into my cabin, opened the hatch, and crawled down to Snake.

“Now’s the time,” I whispered, slitting his bonds.

With my dagger at his back, I made him climb topside and drove him to the side of the Sea Cutter.

“Tell me where you hid the letter, then jump off.”

He turned around and folded his arms with a cocky expression. “I’ve changed my mind.”

“You can’t change your mind!”

“I can’t swim. I’d rather face Wayland.”

“You’re not going to see Wayland.”

“I could shout for him.”

“Go over.” I held the dagger to his chest.

“You see, Nat,” he grinned, “we are alike. You’re ready to drown a man. You’re a murderer like me.”

“I’m not at all like you!” I hit him across the jaw with the flat of the dagger.

His head snapped back, his eyes rolled up, and he fell backward into the water. A minute passed. Three. Five. He didn’t rise.

My fury vanished. What had I done? I’d knocked a man out, sending him to die.

A pistol shot rang, an impact hitting my back. Time slowed. My dagger fell, flipping leisurely. Then the green water slowly came to meet me as I tumbled over. The sunlit roof of water closed above me like slow curtains. The bullet in my back throbbed as I sank deeper into the darkness.

Then I remembered what lay at the bottom of that darkness—Snake’s corpse. My foot hit sand and, terrified, I shoved myself upward.

A cold dead hand gripped my ankle.

The last of my air went out in a silent scream.