Meteor Falls
Nestled at the foot of mystical and majestic Mt. Shasta, the small town of Meteor Falls is host to the Barrel Shoot, a yearly event whose participants ride outlandish, homemade barrels over a fifty-foot waterfall on the Castle River.
Ian Twickham, an environmental engineer with a troubled past, leaves his home in London to begin a job with Castle River Restoration.
Kayla Brandt, a horticulturist looking to reinvent herself after her failed marriage in Baltimore, arrives in Meteor Falls a short time later to build her own barrel.
Unaware of each other at first, they find the town polarized between the progressive eco-tourism trade and conservative ranchers. Pollution from the ranchers’ cattle is clogging the Castle River threatening wildlife, recreation, and local revenue generated by the Barrel Shoot. Castle River Restoration offers to build riparian setbacks and cattle bridges, but the conservative landowners are resistant. Escalating tension between the producers of the Barrel Shoot and the ranchers creates a power struggle that takes a deadly turn.
Here's an excerpt from Meteor Falls:
Just then there was a shout from further up in the ravine. “It’s coming!”
More voices joined in, until a loud roar filled the canyon. Kayla looked up from her salad to see the waterfall, which had previously been reduced to nearly a teapot’s pour, come alive. Water came hurtling over the edge of the falls as if a dam had burst upstream. It plunged into the pool below, creating a splash so big as to drench the people closest to the beach. They stood with their hands aloft, screaming, “Yesssss! Yesssss!!!”
The rest of the crowd joined in, shouting “Yes! Yes! Yes!” until that’s all anyone could hear. Days later, people hiking on Mt. Shasta would swear they could hear it.
Water filled the swimming hole, its foamy waves lapping furiously at the water’s edge. More water spilled over the falls until the pool was filled beyond capacity, churning up to the rope swing. It forged downstream with great alacrity.
“Look!” someone yelled, when a rainbow trout flew over the edge at the top of the falls. Then another. The crowd cheered with delight as a flurry of steelhead and rainbow trout found themselves swept up in the flow of the newly liberated river, flipping over the falls like tiny gymnasts.
“I hope somebody gets a good close-up of that,” Kayla remarked.
Order from Amazon - Available in paperback and Kindle.
A note about the cover:
The picture of Mt. Shasta is a print that was taken by my friend, Dana Conant, circa 1998. The "bee" is from a picture I took of a ride at Coney Island, circa 1984. Hence the antiquity.
Nestled at the foot of mystical and majestic Mt. Shasta, the small town of Meteor Falls is host to the Barrel Shoot, a yearly event whose participants ride outlandish, homemade barrels over a fifty-foot waterfall on the Castle River.
Ian Twickham, an environmental engineer with a troubled past, leaves his home in London to begin a job with Castle River Restoration.
Kayla Brandt, a horticulturist looking to reinvent herself after her failed marriage in Baltimore, arrives in Meteor Falls a short time later to build her own barrel.
Unaware of each other at first, they find the town polarized between the progressive eco-tourism trade and conservative ranchers. Pollution from the ranchers’ cattle is clogging the Castle River threatening wildlife, recreation, and local revenue generated by the Barrel Shoot. Castle River Restoration offers to build riparian setbacks and cattle bridges, but the conservative landowners are resistant. Escalating tension between the producers of the Barrel Shoot and the ranchers creates a power struggle that takes a deadly turn.
Here's an excerpt from Meteor Falls:
Just then there was a shout from further up in the ravine. “It’s coming!”
More voices joined in, until a loud roar filled the canyon. Kayla looked up from her salad to see the waterfall, which had previously been reduced to nearly a teapot’s pour, come alive. Water came hurtling over the edge of the falls as if a dam had burst upstream. It plunged into the pool below, creating a splash so big as to drench the people closest to the beach. They stood with their hands aloft, screaming, “Yesssss! Yesssss!!!”
The rest of the crowd joined in, shouting “Yes! Yes! Yes!” until that’s all anyone could hear. Days later, people hiking on Mt. Shasta would swear they could hear it.
Water filled the swimming hole, its foamy waves lapping furiously at the water’s edge. More water spilled over the falls until the pool was filled beyond capacity, churning up to the rope swing. It forged downstream with great alacrity.
“Look!” someone yelled, when a rainbow trout flew over the edge at the top of the falls. Then another. The crowd cheered with delight as a flurry of steelhead and rainbow trout found themselves swept up in the flow of the newly liberated river, flipping over the falls like tiny gymnasts.
“I hope somebody gets a good close-up of that,” Kayla remarked.
Order from Amazon - Available in paperback and Kindle.
A note about the cover:
The picture of Mt. Shasta is a print that was taken by my friend, Dana Conant, circa 1998. The "bee" is from a picture I took of a ride at Coney Island, circa 1984. Hence the antiquity.
The Spaghetti Afterlife
Young Julia Lloyd has a gripping fear of sunken ships coming back to life, rising up beneath her when she swims in Long Island Sound. Drawn to tragedies at sea which both haunt and fascinate her, she becomes a church organist, hoping to emulate Captain Nemo as she navigates coming of age. When her father takes a drink after a fifteen-year hiatus, revealing his struggle with alcoholism, her world begins to list. Accompanied by a cast of droll, often outrageous characters, Julia embarks on a series of cross country maneuvers through late 20th century pop culture as a musician on a quest to salvage her self-esteem and disrupt her attraction to destructive, alcoholic lovers.
Here's an excerpt from The Spaghetti Afterlife:
Her breathing sped up, and she realized she was so parched with thirst she could barely swallow. She headed to a natural spring she remembered. Right near the reflecting pool with the two guys spitting water through conch shells at each other. The crouching white statues began to emerge from the darkness and Julia hurried toward them. She walked straight into the figure of a satyr, bumping her head on the hard stone. Stumbling back, she took off her glove and felt her forehead. Good. No blood. Feeling dizzy, she knelt to put her head between her legs and fell backwards onto the snow. The world spun.
The satyr sighed and gave her a nudge with one cloven hoof. “Come on, get up. You’ll freeze to death down there.”
Julia sat up and nodded toward his bare chest. “You should be the one to talk.”
“I’m stone and not obligated to feel anything,” he answered with a huff.
Julia thought she must be either dreaming or dead, yet felt compelled to speak to the granite man. “I’m a little envious,” she said. “Sometimes I wish I could just turn my feelings off and on at will. Give ‘em a little gas when I’m painting or playing music, then turn ‘em off when I worry about my family."
“Good luck with that. I’m solid rock and I still have a problem standing here for all eternity watching Spit and Spat get all the attention over in the fountain,” he said, adjusting his loincloth.
One of the crouching statues grunted, stretching himself. “Complain all you want. At least you get to stand up.”
“And you don’t have to preside over a pool where people toss their wishes,” said the other. “Then watch while the vagabonds come and fish them out later. People place far too many expectations on us, and then lose heart when the myth fails them.”
“Well, at least the fountain’s turned off for the winter,” Julia offered, trying to be helpful.
“Now we just hang around bleaching in the sun and touting perfection all day,” said the satyr, flexing his muscles. “But we’re not much of an influence, really.”
Julia regarded his sculpted muscles. He reminded her vaguely of Michael. “I know what you mean,” she said. “People watch ridiculous parodies of themselves on TV every day and still don’t get it. Seems like most of them would rather emulate the crazies than the heroes—in fact,” she said, beginning to warm up, “we’re probably so lost in shallow, commercial crap that the Second Coming could’ve come and gone without anyone even noticing!”
"Which one? Oh..."
Order The Spaghetti Afterlife on Amazon!
Here's an excerpt from The Spaghetti Afterlife:
Her breathing sped up, and she realized she was so parched with thirst she could barely swallow. She headed to a natural spring she remembered. Right near the reflecting pool with the two guys spitting water through conch shells at each other. The crouching white statues began to emerge from the darkness and Julia hurried toward them. She walked straight into the figure of a satyr, bumping her head on the hard stone. Stumbling back, she took off her glove and felt her forehead. Good. No blood. Feeling dizzy, she knelt to put her head between her legs and fell backwards onto the snow. The world spun.
The satyr sighed and gave her a nudge with one cloven hoof. “Come on, get up. You’ll freeze to death down there.”
Julia sat up and nodded toward his bare chest. “You should be the one to talk.”
“I’m stone and not obligated to feel anything,” he answered with a huff.
Julia thought she must be either dreaming or dead, yet felt compelled to speak to the granite man. “I’m a little envious,” she said. “Sometimes I wish I could just turn my feelings off and on at will. Give ‘em a little gas when I’m painting or playing music, then turn ‘em off when I worry about my family."
“Good luck with that. I’m solid rock and I still have a problem standing here for all eternity watching Spit and Spat get all the attention over in the fountain,” he said, adjusting his loincloth.
One of the crouching statues grunted, stretching himself. “Complain all you want. At least you get to stand up.”
“And you don’t have to preside over a pool where people toss their wishes,” said the other. “Then watch while the vagabonds come and fish them out later. People place far too many expectations on us, and then lose heart when the myth fails them.”
“Well, at least the fountain’s turned off for the winter,” Julia offered, trying to be helpful.
“Now we just hang around bleaching in the sun and touting perfection all day,” said the satyr, flexing his muscles. “But we’re not much of an influence, really.”
Julia regarded his sculpted muscles. He reminded her vaguely of Michael. “I know what you mean,” she said. “People watch ridiculous parodies of themselves on TV every day and still don’t get it. Seems like most of them would rather emulate the crazies than the heroes—in fact,” she said, beginning to warm up, “we’re probably so lost in shallow, commercial crap that the Second Coming could’ve come and gone without anyone even noticing!”
"Which one? Oh..."
Order The Spaghetti Afterlife on Amazon!
© LJ Zinkand • 2012-2024