Tag Archives: More Deaths Than One

Lazarus Barnhill Interviews Pat Bertram

Lazarus Barnhill: In December, I posted an article on this blog called “How to Tell if You’re a Writer.” If you can answer yes to three of the questions in that article, it means you’re a writer.

Pat Bertram: I don’t fit into any set definition of a writer. What does that make me? Is there a definition for one who has written and who will probably write again?

Lazarus: A whole bunch of the characteristics on that list must apply to you! Do you mind if I ask you the questions?

Bertram: No. Ask away.

Lazarus: Do you have the ability to tell what a character in a book, play, movie or TV program is going to say long before it’s actually said; or the ability to tell what’s going to happen to each character before the story is half-over; or the desire to rewrite the ending of the story before it’s over?

Bertram: I usually know early in a book what the ending will be, but that has nothing to do with being a writer and everything to do with being a reader. After having read more than 20,000 books, I seldom find a story or a twist that hasn’t been done before. That’s why when I write, I’m more interested in telling a good story than in trying to be original. As for the rest of your question: no, I never have any desire to rewrite the ending of a book. A book is complete in itself. I accept it as is, even if I hate it.

Lazarus: Does it irritate you that professional critics often don’t understand the most basic elements of the books, movies, plays or stories they are critiquing? 

Bertram: No. I don’t read critiques. And even if I did, it wouldn’t bother me if they didn’t understand the basic elements. Sometimes it seems as if the author doesn’t understand the basic elements.

Lazarus: When you sit down to write a story or to describe a character, does he or she take on a totally unexpected life or “say” something you never consciously intended?

Bertram: No. My characters never do anything I didn’t intend. They are my creations and are totally dependent on me for their very being. Sometimes the preponderance of information I have about them gives me only one way to make them act, but it’s never more than that.

Lazarus: Have you ever had difficulty “killing off” a character in your story because she or he was so intriguing and full of possibility for you, his or her creator?

Bertram:  No. For me, story is sovereign. Everything must serve the story, and if the death of a favorite character will serve the story, then that’s the way it has to be.

Lazarus: Have you ever been unable to sleep because a character or story was creating itself in your mind; or awakened from sleep because a character or story needed your consciousness to develop itself; or stayed awake and focused for hours while you were driving, walking, run or pretending to work as a story wrote itself in your mind?

Bertram: No. When I lose sleep, it’s because of real life concerns, not bookish ones, though I have to admit, I have lost sleep trying to figure out how to promote my books.

Lazarus: Did you ever write or create a story and afterwards discover that it fit a genre you had never written in before; or created a character who was totally unlike anyone you had ever known, and yet was totally believable?

Bertram: I’m not sure that this question fits with what I write. Though they are being sold as mystery/crime, my books are basically genreless in that they encompass many genres — suspense, mystery, romance, thriller, bits of science fiction. And while my characters may not be like anyone I know in real life, they encompass bits of characters I have read in books or seen in movies. Is it possible to write a character totally from scratch? I don’t think so — everything we do and have ever done is part of us, and comes out in the work in some way or another. As for believable characters — that’s for readers to say, not me. (Even as a reader, I don’t really relate to characters. I relate more to stories.)

Lazarus: Do you consider the finished stories you have written to be creations you value somewhere between children and friends; yet do you yearn with each new story to “get it right this time?”

Bertram: I work on each book until I get it right; so no, I have no such yearnings. Each book is what I want it to be. As for my finished books being somewhere between children and friends — not really. More Deaths Than One and A Spark of Heavenly Fire have been released, which means that they no longer belong to me, and I no longer feel a connection to them. Like all books, they now exist complete unto themselves.

Lazarus: Do you have mental list or a computer file or a spiral notebook with the ideas for or outlines of stories that you have not written but intend to one day?

Bertram: I do have a file, but it’s mostly ideas a friend suggested, and I don’t intend to write the books. Ideas come slowly to me. It’s a good thing, because I also write slowly. I can’t imagine writing a hundred books like some authors do.

Lazarus: Have you ever had the experienced of a family member, acquaintance or friend being totally amazed at the world you created in a story you wrote and then regarding you differently; and then did you feel as if you had “exposed” yourself?

Bertram: Since no family member has yet read one of my books, no. As for feeling exposed, I don’t know how I’ll feel. Actually, I do know – it won’t matter. As I said, I no longer see the books as having anything to do with me.

Lazarus: You didn’t answer “yes” to at least three of these questions; so according to this survey, you’re not a writer. But I know you are. There is another test. It’s been said that a writer writes; always. Do you?

Bertram: No, not at all. For me, writing is a choice, not something I am compelled to do. Right now, I am more interested in promoting my books, so that must mean I’m a promoter, not a writer.

Lazarus: Yet you now have two books published.

Bertram: There is that.

Lazarus: Next time, I’m going to ask you some tougher questions!  You handled these a bit too adroitly.

Lazarus Barnhill is the author of Lacey Took a Holiday and The Medicine People
Pat Bertram is the author of More Deaths Than One and A Spark of Heavenly Fire
All four books are available from Second Wind Publishing, LLC


Filed under books, Pat Bertram, writing

A New Era in Publishing

March is Small Press Month, and I am celebrating it with two book releases.

When I was studying the publishing industry, trying to figure out how to get published, one thing bothered me. There you are, a debut author, and because the publisher does not promote you — spending their promotion dollars instead on the big names — your books sit on bookstore shelves or in warehouses until finally the publisher gives up on you and remainders your book. That is the best scenario, because if it is remaindered, at least it will still be available for a time. Generally what happens is that it is pulped. 25% of a publisher’s total output (including your beloved book) is destroyed. This after shipping costs incurred to and from the publisher’s warehouse.

My books, More Deaths Than One and A Spark of Heavenly Fire are being published Second Wind Publishing, which uses print on demand technology, and because of it, I do not have to fear my novels succumbing to such a fate. Nor do I have to fear an inadvertent error showing up in thousands of volumes. As soon as an error is found, it can be corrected. Because of POD technology, there is no reason to destroy unsold merchandise. There is no reason to stop publishing a novel because it does not live up to the bottom-line demands of the traditional publishing houses.

Small presses today are where independent movie producers were in the late eighties and early nineties. They have the ability to publish books that need time to reach an audience, books that might not appeal to the masses but could still be loved by many (and turn a tidy profit in the process.)

Though POD still has the taint of vanity press, my books did go through a submission process, and I like knowing I was chosen. I also like having a say in the editing, the cover choice, the arduous copy-editing. I even like promotion — what I’ve done of it, anyway.

So, new era in publishing? Good for us all. And I am pleased to be a part of it.

Pat Bertram is the author of More Deaths Than One and A Spark of Heavenly Fire, available from Second Wind Publishing.


Filed under Pat Bertram, writing

“More Deaths Than One” Contest Entries

These are the top entries (listed by word count) to Pat Bertram’s More Deaths Than One contest. We hope you enjoy them as much as we did. You are also welcome to help us pick out the top three. The only thing we are judging is imagination. Which of these entries do you think are the most imaginative?

Entry by Kerri Gallion:

I believe I would write this with the plot line that this person was actually from a parallel time period and had gone through the time slip and entered the present day.  In doing so, they took on the identify of someone else in order to stay and elude the person trying to kill them.  They might not actually have the same number of children and live in the same area, but have taken on that information as a ruse.

Entry by P.L.J.:

Bob looked at or more aptly through the obituary that he had torn from the newspaper at the coffee shop. His own mother’s name, dead “again” eighteen years later. The dull thud of the pain at the nape of his neck added to his trance like stare. Suddenly he found himself on his knees reeling at a searing pain that tore through his calf, had he been shot?

He felt as though he was then floating in a warm dark place and in his ears a reassuring repetitive thud, something? someone? reached out and touched his arm. A wave of nausea and eerie Déjà vu swept over him and that familiar and wrenching sense of loss. Who was torn away from him, a second self?

Entry by Sheila Deeth:

It wasn’t his mother; he’d been talking to her on the phone just yesterday. But the online obituary had her name, was in her local paper, and even included David’s own name and age, correctly stated, as the closest surviving relative.

That was the first one. Soon David Elson finds himself almost afraid to use his computer. Online references to death, murder and mayhem fill his search results. But when he turns to his wife’s machine, the pages are murder-free, and his mother, very much alive, is still writing articles for her local rag.

As reality and computer-reality diverge, David finds himself trapped between two lives, uncertain which is real and which imaginary. And the key to his recovery lies buried in that first, long-lost obituary, and his mother’s cause of death.

Entry by Merrimon Crawford:

I would not develop the story. I am a reader, not a writer. I read and analyze books, not write them. Quite frankly, I am much more interested in seeing how the author Pat Bertram develops the story rather than how I would. How does she make the coincidence believable? How does she maintain the level of suspense throughout the novel? How does the story differ from other books written in the genre? How is the book innovative? How does the story adhere to more traditional conventions of the genre? It is often said that those who can’t write, teach. On the contrary, writing and analysis (and teaching) are completely different skills, each worthwhile in its own right. I am not a writer. Rather, I am a reader who enjoys reading other authors’ books and using my imagination and analytical skills to review and share books with other readers.

Entry by D.B. Pacini:

Dr. Ryan Larson, a young blurry-eyed emergency room intern, is taking a short coffee break. He thumbs through a day old newspaper and is startled by the obituary for Rosemarie Ann Hope, age 72, who died from congestive heart failure. Rosemarie Ann Hope is survived by her daughter and son-in-law, Belinda and Lyle Carson, and two grandchildren, Sadie and Brian.

Dr. Larson’s 72-year-old grandmother Roseanne Marie Hope died from a heart attack when he was twenty-two. His parents are Glenda and Kyle Larson and his sister is Katie. What if this Rosemarie Ann Hope and her family were cosmically connected to his  family? What if they were a nearly exact mirror images of each other? Grandma was adopted. What if she wasn’t an only child? What if a person could have more lives than one, more deaths than one? He sets the newspaper down and calls Katie on his cell phone.

Entry by Sally Christie aka K C Morlock: 

Jake snapped the morning paper and Laura turned away to gaze out the kitchen window and wonder how her life had become cliché.  Jake snapped the paper again and made a strange croaking noise.

“What?” Laura feigned interest.

“Look at this.”  He splayed the  newspaper on the table, absently pushing his cup aside and traced the name with his index finger.  “Arizona Hayes.”

“I know that name, I found it on the ancestry program, I can’t remember how far back she was, but she was there.”

Laura jabbed a few keys on the laptop and brought up the program.  “Spell that for me and I’ll pull it up.”


Research and family sleuthing turns up information that reveals Jake’s mother has been adopted by an Aunt.  The story takes the reader back in time where single mothers are taboo and choice is a dangerous option.  It chronicles the extent of secret keeping and dysfunction of a middle class American family.

The story unites and vitalizes a stale worn out marriage and changes Laura’s assessment of her run of the mill life.

Entry by Christopher James Heyworth:

My protagonist is a National Gallery curator called Benjamin. A friend alerts him to the “name-alike” in Obituaries, and, fascinated, he traces the Funeral Director listed for further information, Thruxton, Biddle & Relph.

He is ushered in to meet one of the partners who produces a rather worn multi-pocket cardboard file, believing him to be a relative as he was introduced by the receptionist only by name. Deciding to play along, Benjamin begins to rummage in thefile.

In no particular order, he finds large brown envelopes titled: Fernande Oliver; Jacqueline Roque; Dora Maar Francoise Gilot; Eva Gouel; Marie-Therese Walter, and Olga Kohokhlova.

Inside each are papers recording diary-like entries for each of the named women. 

Benjamin finds it difficult to breathe – in his lap he has the lifetime of Muses in the lifetime of Pablo Picasso.

How he manages to work into the forthcoming Picasso Retrospective Show at The National these bundles of gold-dust is developed in the course of the faction – not a detective mystery, but a curator-mystery.

Entry by A.F Stewart (Death in the Mirror Image):

The morning mail arrives with a strange, large manila envelope.Carl notices there is no return address, but opens it out of curiosity. Inside, neatly folded is an obituary page from a newspaper, with an obituary circled in red ink. Carl reads it, and realizes the obit is for his still-living mother. He thinks this odd, a bad joke by one of his friends until he notices the date on the paper. It is for one week in the future.

Fearing a threat, Carl confronts his mother. The very existence of the obituary fills his mother with terror; she breaks down and spills the secret of an old family curse, complete with murder and vengeful spirits. Carl finds out the truth behind his family’s fortune and the legend of the Doppelganger.

This truth plunges him into into a dangerous odyssey to stop the obit from coming true; he must summon his courage to save his mother (and himself) from certain death. Poor Carl comes face to face with his own Doppelganger to settle dark, ancient grievances.

It is a showdown where only one can come out alive.

Entry by Patricia Appelquist:

I awoke to my usual Sunday morning routine, throwing on sweats, t-shirt and faded red uggs, grabbing my apartment keys and twenty dollars from my wallet. I begrudgingly walked toward my breakfast burrito at the mom and pop store, a cup of nicely brewed coffee and Sunday morning paper. I nosh on my steaming hot burrito reading the Sunday funnies. I get to the Living Section and read through where my eyes stopped, fixated on the name in bold typefont. My Name, Patricia Anne Appelquist, 36. The force of my throwing the paper down on the table tips the coffee over the side of the table as coffee flowed I emmitted an unearthly scream of shock. I could only do one thing as I read the details of my life that I thought was mine. Feeling the blood curling in my veins, my breath quickening, and my vision blurry I look up around me to the faces of horror at my reaction.

“April Fool’s Day” friends yelled aloud. I then checked the date on the paper, it was indeed April 1st. So, I asked the newspaper desk clerk “Why is it reported again, today?”

He looked at me then the paper, ran his hand thru his curly brown hair and sighed, “Misprint?”

Entry by Denny Vos:

What if she was my mother? I had already lost mine so many years ago. The story I was told was almost a movie. It had all of the elements needed. And I swallowed it all. I had to. I saw my father get buried but I never did see my mother. I was only told of her demise.

She was a beauty, the rare kind that looks great even when waking up. There were rumors of people killing for her if she would only ask. She was beyond anyone’s love, even my father’s. I was told that in a fit of rage and love, my father and her lover exchanged words and bullets. Gun fire rang out and when it was all over, all three were dead. I always had questions but I only got brief gossip before someone else would give the eye to whoever was telling me anything. I did piece together that the lover was not a man, but a woman. I also found out that there were divorce papers served. Nobody has ever seen them. There was always a piece missing in every story I heard. Now there is a woman who fits my mother’s description and there will be a wake tomorrow at noon. I have to be there.

Entry by kattomic:

A man wakes up and is his custom, reads the paper, including the obituaries.  A familiar name catches his eye. It’s his mother’s death notice. He’s devastated but not surprised that no one called him. He has been estranged from his family for awhile. He goes to the funeral home to pay his respects. In the visitation room there are a few middle-aged mourners sitting quietly in folding chairs, no one he recognizes. He approaches the closed coffin, which has a photographic portrait of his mother on top. Upset, the man pours out his grief and his apology for not being around the last few years. He tells her he loves her

Moments later, one of the “mourners” grabs his arm. He and the other “mourners” are actually detectives who have been tracking him ever since he became a “person of interest” in the murders of his wife and children. The obituary was an elaborate ruse to lure him out of hiding. The cops convinced his family (who were horrified by his crime) to go along.

He’s being escorted from the room when another man enters.  He has the same name as the man just arrested and he expects to see his own mother laid out in the casket. When he sees the portrait on the coffin, he is elated.  It’s just a coincidence that the dead woman had his mother’s name and that his own name was listed among her survivors. Relieved, he turns to a funeral director and embraces him.

“Thank you,” he tells him and leaves.

Entry by George Wright:

Sometimes jack wondered about life after death. What if he would come back as a different person?

He did. Jack died and came back as Fred. The odd thing about Fred was that he could remember being Jack and all of the wrongs he had done to others. He was also a full-grown adult.

Fred was a different person than Jack in that he had a great sense of right and wrong. He determined to correct the wrongs of his former life so he decided to  meet his former wife and court her. The difference between Jack and Fred was that Fred was a lot more attentive and kind. He had drive and ambition whereas Jack was a rather lazy individual that ignored his loved ones as a rule. He would marry his own wife and give her a life of love and contentment.

Jack had children that had never been given the guidance of a loving adult male so Fred decided he would take on the task of teaching them how to be responsible adults with a desire to attend college and make something of their lives. Jack had discouraged education and responsibility in both word and deed.

Fred’s third project would be to get a job at the same place he had worked in his former life.  Instead of being a slacker he would be ambitious and efficient. He would do his best to “climb the corporate ladder” and become successful.

With these three goals in mind he set out to put feet to his desire.

Entry by Linda Moss:

 Trying really hard to find a witty response to the question “What if her son really is you?”, Hancock filtered through the deepest crevices of his brain looking for an answer. With a sharpness in his voice that surprised everyone, he said “When I was young I created an imaginary friend, he grew into an alter-ego, in some ways just like me, but one that I could not control. He (or I ) took on another life, all on its own, a magnificent creation dwelling in another dimension but only just a breath away. Now, dammit, thanks to her dying, all hell is going to break loose. We cannot survive in the same dimension.” Then Hancock dropped his head, almost as if in a reverant attitude, he sighed and then quizzically looked around as a small child would. Showing all the apparent signs of a victim. But of what? Hancock and Pat Bertram had been best friends since the third grade of elementary school. Nothing bad had ever happened to him. He had never been abused, abducted, or neglected. Pat would have known. Looking dead-on at Pat in a no-nonsense gaze, Hancock lifted his chin and said in a cocky tone “Now, Pat Bertram, how do you know that I am not the ‘other’ Hancock? Perhaps I crossed over and YOUR Hancock is sitting at the funeral parlor mourning the passing of our dear Mother”. Harshly and loudly spoken the three words hung heavily in the air, lingering with a sense of urgent despair . . . “our dear Mother”.

Entry by Judi Jorgensen:

Dante picked up the newspaper and as usual went to the obits to see all the people who were older than him that passed on. It was a daily ritual to him.

“Dante, one day you are going to pick up that paper and see your own name in there,” commented Louisa as she was preparing breakfast. She was shaking her head and trying to hold back the laughter thinking that Dante has never missed a day of doing this for 20 years. One day during a snow storm and the paper was not able to be delivered, he walked 9 blocks to the convenience store to get that paper. Louisa had to hold making breakfast until he got back. Their six kids thought this ritual was either funny or morbid, depending on their age.

Dante Michael Collection, born Feb 10, 1967 in Hixson, TN went to be with the Lord on Feb 11,2009. He is survived by his wife, Louisa of 20 years, six girls all at home, Sarah, Isabella, Alivia, Corina, Darien, and Skyler.

“OH MY GOD!  I am in the obituary. I better call my mom.”

The phone rings and Dante’s boss is on the phone asking to talk to Louisa.  Louisa goes to the phone and hears these shocking words, “Louisa I am so sorry to hear about Dante.  He was one of our best workers and I was going to announce his promotion today.  If there is anything I can do . . .”

The phone rang all day like this. How did this nightmare start and how can we make it end???

Entry by Malcolm R. Campbell:

They have aligned the chairs in even rows for the mourners of whom there are none. A white ribbon blocks all but the family from the row closest to the coffin where beneath the shut lid Edythe Monroe Johnson, 98, of Woodville rests in a state unknown, dead now the paper said at 98, survived by her five sons Walter, James, William, George and David, four of whom are not in evidence.

You sit in the second row, not wishing to offend the absent whom you hoped to meet in spite of the circumstances, brothers your foster mother told you about, “the ones they saw fit to keep, David,” she told you when you were old enough to feel the hurt.

“The Lord has called our dear sister home,” the minister is saying, and you are wondering why you were never called, by Walter who would have known you best or by your mother who was said to have cried when they took you away 68 years ago to live with Jim and June Nash in another universe, one behind veils where you died in fits and starts long before Edythe.

You wonder who remembered your name, thought to include it in the obituary, no doubt a formality executed by a survivor who does, not some cruel synchronicity of light and dark brought you to this city, brought you to the obituary column two days ago and places you here and now in this hard chair one row removed from those who were kept close to home. If not for the unusual spelling of your mother’s first name, you would be home now with your dogs and your garden out of sight and out of mind.

Entry by Darlene Warner:

Zachery Cane examined the sand along the rivers bank for any sign that his twin brother, Maxx, had passed this way. He lifted his head and inhaled deeply, detecting a faint scent lingered in the air. Maxx had been here, and quite recently. Maxx enjoyed visiting his old slaughter sites prior to his next victim. Calling them murder scenes or kill sites did not due the carnage justice.

He’d been too late a month ago to save the human female on this particular, extremely isolated, location. Zachery’s thoughts had moved elsewhere that night, with her. Against all odds and at the most inopportune time, he had discovered her.

Samantha Taylor knew something was wrong the moment she stepped out of her tent, this night is not going to go as planned. With a sense of foreboding, a chill ran down her spine. Even the insects’ were quiet tonight, and that’s when she felt him. He was close this time. She just had absolutely no idea who he was. She was alone tonight by the fire. How she longed to share this night with her sister, but Mary was not here any longer. A familiar wave of heartache washed over Samantha. Mary Grace would never share anything with her again.  One month ago her body had been found mauled and mutilated, killed by a rogue lycanthrope.

She remember reading a story once . . . What if death resembled your family? For every friend you knew you were losing what they lost. Coincidence or something bigger? The Devil or destiny . . . you just have to know.

Was this happening to her? Her best friend lost her own sister just weeks before Mary Grace was killed. She was here in this isolated forest because she just had to know.

Entry by Pam Webber:

Oh, “what a day”. . . isn’t that a song or was it “what a night”?  Well, today, I see a near duplicate obituary of my Mother saying that this lady had the same number of children with one of the children having almost the same name as mine, as well as many other similar things.How can this be? It is so strange, almost eerie! It is a near perfect match of my own Mother’s obituary.

There has to be a reason for this . . . perhaps, it is just a coincidence, but I think there is some reason that this happened that is unbeknownst to us “little human beings”. Perhaps, GOD figured it all out. I must do some research to try and find out why this has happened. Should I go to the library, should I search the Internet, just where should I go to solve this mystery?  It may take me awhile to come up with answers to my questions, but there just has to be a reason for this near duplicate obituary. Of course, GOD does many things without a “reason for the season”. AND, we are not to question his workings. Perhaps, as some may see it, we are living in a 2nd life and this duplicate obituary of my Mother is telling me that I have been here before . . . my goodness, has my Mother come back and died again? I am sure that many have felt that they have been in a certain time and place before in their lives. Is this it or am I losingmy last marble?

HA!  Life is surely a mystery and quite interesting at that, but ALWAYS GOD knows BEST.  Friends, DO keep SMILING and DO keep wondering about life, but most of all keep your faith in our Heavenly Father!!!

Entry by Sherri Meyers:

What if one day you were scanning the obituary column just out of curiosity to see if anyone had passed away that you knew and lo and behold, a familiar name jumped off the page?  Not only a casual acquaintance, but your mother’s name.  As your heart begins to pound and your mind begins to race, your eyes quickly scan further down the obit to confirm it really is someone else’s mom and not yours.  As other names, her location, and other details zing their way from the page to your brain, you frantically try to remember the last time you talked to your mom. Was it just yesterday, or no, maybe last week?  Could your mother — the woman who gave you life — really be dead and you didn’t know about it?  How could this have happened? Why didn’t anyone tell you? Is it even possible that somehow you were overlooked when the death notice calls were being made?  It couldn’t be true.  Or is it?

I would start off with a scene similar to what I wrote above with him casually reading the newspaper and then bam, out of nowhere his mom’s name jumps off the page. As he compares the details in the obituary with the facts of his mother’s life and realizes it could very well be his mother’s death notice he is reading, his mind would begin to race with questions. Is it possible his own mother died and no one even told him? Then I would send him off to call his mom to see if she answers the phone, and when she doesn’t, I would send him to her home only to find no one home. Then it would become a frantic search for his mom–and some answers that may not be quick in coming.

Entry by Sy G.:

After reading the obituary, 28 year old Jack Williams calls his mother and tells her about the amazing coincidence. To his surprise she is not amused. At his folks house for dinner the next Sunday, he makes a joke about it, saying, that perhaps that really was his mother who died. His parents do not laugh, and he catches the worried look between them. So does his 26 year old sister Danielle.

This is the start of a three week adventure for Jack and Danielle. First they discover that Jack was adopted. This leads to Danielle’s confession that she has always loved him more than a brother, and a passionate love affair ensues between them, spiced by the hint of forbidden fruit. The ex siblings, now lovers, then embark on a quest to find the truth of Jack’s origins. This leads them to the two sons (one also named Jack) of the woman in the obituary, the woman with the same name as their mother. More and more shocking revelations emerge. The dead woman was in fact his mother, and the two Jacks are identical twins. The other Jack is now an Islamic terrorist, and his parents (both deceased) were once KGB sleeper agents.

The reason that  this couple gave one of their infant twin boys up for adoption to another couple living nearby, was part of an elaborate KGB plot to provide cover for the  deadly sleeper cell. This is also why the  spy couple changed their names to mimic those of the cover family, and named both boys Jack. As our hero and heroine continue to investigate, with the help of a wise cracking NY PI, (who will steal the show in the film), they uncover a crazy ex-KGB manager, a terrorist nuclear bomb plot, several murders, and of course they face many  dangers, miraculous escapes and hidden perils.

Since this premise is so totally absurd, the tone of the work will be lighthearted and somewhat self ironic. There will be lots of action, just barely making sense, but lots of fun, somewhat like the premise itself. And of course there will be a happy ending, with true love triumphant, brothers reunited, and the bad guys duly punished.

Entry by Barbra L.:

“Jeanette Lyons. You know this lady, Andrew? The headlines say she’s a well-known musician, and her last name’s the same as yours,” William Evans, friend of Andrew Lyons, asked as he peered across the table at Andrew wolfing down the last of his breakfast remains.

“Jeanette Lyons! That’s my mother’s name. What’s her name doing in Allentown’s newspaper? She lives in Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania.” Andrew washed down the last bite of his tasty blueberry waffles with a fresh cup of steaming hot coffee.

William laid the paper down near Andrew’s arm. “Maybe you’d better take a look at it.”

Andrew sensed the seriousness of William’s tone, and picked up the paper. There at the top of page 5B was the obituary of Jeanette Lyons, his mother. He dropped the paper, put his pallid face in his hands and moved his head from side to side.

“Andrew, I’m so sorry.” Noticing Andrew’s facial expression changing from shock to fury, William asked, “Are you all right?”

Andrew looked William in the eye, and responded with caustic suspicion. “My mother never had a musical bone in her body, and if she’s dead, why did I just talk with her this morning before meeting you for breakfast?”

“More coffee?” they heard. Their waitress poured before they could answer . . .

 Andrew and William left the diner, and hurriedly drove to his mother’s home. Mrs. Lyons, horrified by their intrusion, was sitting at her desk. “Mother! You’re alive!” Andrew shouted as he ran to embrace her then quickly handed her the paper. She gasped in horror. “Who would do such a thing, Andrew?” she shouted as she scanned the unsettling read. After pondering a moment, she murmured, “This explains why Elaine called me yesterday before she left for Europe. She knew this would be hitting the papers today.” Elaine was Jeanette’s twin, the musical talent in the family who lived in Allentown, Pennsylvania. “She’d called a few weeks ago to tell me she had a surprise for me. Told me I’d know about it before the end of the month. Some surprise, huh? I noticed in my email this morning that my account was penniless. I was just getting ready to call the bank when you burst in.”

“You mean you think she’s swindled you?” Andrew asked.

“It wouldn’t be the first time. You know how savvy she is. Remember two years back when she hacked into my computer, and wiped out my bank account.”

“Yeah, I remember, but since she paid you back, you didn’t press charges.” Andrew said.

“I will this time.” Mrs. Lyons said rising from the sofa to call the police.

Entry by Joylene:

John Davies spent Saturday night at home with his wife, Maggy instead of using the hockey tickets his boss had given him Friday. John hiccups won’t stop, even after seven hours. Fifteen minutes to midnight, Maggy swore if they’re weren’t gone by midnight, she was taking him to Emergency. Surprisingly, her suggestion worked. John hates Emergency, he said his goodbyes to his mother, father, and kid brother after a drunk hit them at an intersection when John was thirty-two. He hasn’t been to Emergency since, and if he has anything to say about it, won’t be going again.

At midnight his hiccups cease.

Relieved, they go to bed. John had a restless, sleepless night. The next morning, he read the Saturday paper after a late Sunday breakfast. He’s secretly been checking out the Obituaries since he turned 56. That was the same age his dad was when he died. John doesn’t think too much about the reasons, except he was surprised by how often one of the departed was somebody he knew.

Sure enough, he recognized a name.

Davies, John Murray. Huh?

He laughed.

“What’s so funny?” Maggy said.

He showed her the obituaries. Maggy didn’t find it so funny. Maggy is all about serendipity and nothing-happens-without-reason.

“Did you read the entire article?”she said.

He laughed. “No.”

She decided to fill him in. Turned out that not only did the deceased have the same name, place of birth, and birthdate, (Maggy now had John’s full attention), the mother, brothers and sisters all have exactly the same names as John’s mother, father, brothers, and sister.

“Bullshit,” John said.

“We should go to the funeral,” Maggy said.

“It starts at one.”

“What? No way.” He grabbed the paper out of her hands and threw it aside as if it was laced with anthrax. “That’s just too weird.”

Maggy stared at him.


“We have to go.”

He shook his head. But …

Maggy was right. He’ll never rest until he knew what their connection was. That was just the type of guy John was. He couldn’t sleep for a week after they saw Julianna Moore in “The Forgotten.”

He refused to wear his black suit. His black pullover and jeans were good enough. Maggy shrugged and flung her hands in the air. “Okay, fine. It’s not my funeral.”

“Ha, ha, very funny,” John said on the way to the car.

They arrived early, took a seat at the back; John wanted a clean getaway after he proved to Maggy this is just one weird coincidence. Mourners arrived. That horrible music funerals are notorious for started playing in the background. John can’t locate the speakers, but he’s pretty sure one is right over his head. Maybe he could talk Maggy into moving.

He was still searching for it when a man walked in. Right behind him was an elderly gentleman. Then a woman about seventy-five. John felt faint. Oh my God . . . !

“John, what’s wrong?” Maggy whispered. She glanced at the arrivals, then back to him. “Honey, what is it? You’re scaring me.”

He stuttered, cleared his throat and said, “That’s my dad. My mum. And my kid brother.”

Maggy turned as white as a ghost. “What do you mean?” She grabbed his hand. She was trembling.

“I mean…” he said slowly, “that’s my dad, my mum, and my brother. The same dad, mum and brother that I buried twenty-four years ago.”

Entry by Janeene Lemieux:

Have you ever wondered what your life would be like if you made different choices during your life? Pat Bertram’s friend, Jerry Bassett, has had a month of tough choices and feelings of vulnerability after deciding to quit his job, break up with his girl friend of two years and move 30 miles away. Things have not been going as well as he planned. Jerry is questioning his usually self-confident nature.

Yesterday Jerry blew out the candles on his 40th birthday cake and made a wish. What if he had stayed in his supervisory job position at Spectrum Chemicals, Inc. His decision to leave was based on the discovery that the company was disposing of biohazard waste in questionably legal sites. Jerry’s girl friend Hailey, couldn’t understand why Jerry had to give up a perfectly lucrative position in the company just as they were about to begin making marriage plans. Couldn’t he just look the other way? The argument that occurred afterwards continued for a week. Jerry decided to leave everything he knew and move 30 miles away to start over. Yesterday he spent his birthday with family. The day was a little awkward since all felt Hailey’s absence. The long moments of silence during Jerry’s birthday dinner caused his inward doubts about life and logically gave rise to the unusual wish. The day ended an hour later when members of Jerry’s family scattered to their own homes; their own lives. Jerry kissed his mother goodbye and left for his own private existence. The wish was all but forgotten-until this morning.

Jerry spent the first hour of every morning reading the newspaper from first page to last. Although he skimmed over many articles, Jerry had an unusual curiosity with the obituaries. He fantasized about the lives of those unfortunate enough to have died. His imagination was piqued with the information derived from the facts supplied to the newspaper. Today Jerry’s attention was riveted on a name in the column that jumped up from the page and hit him square between the eyes. Angela Bassett, 61, died of pancreatic cancer. She was survived by her two sons Jerry, 40, and Clint, 35; and a daughter, Melanie, 33. Her husband of 40 years passed away a year earlier from the same type of cancer. The memorial service will be held at St. Francis of Assisi Church in Trenton on Wednesday at 10:00 a.m.

The words echoed in Jerry’s head. This had to be wrong. All the information in that article was exactly the information he would give to the newspaper if his mother had died. But she was alive and well. He just saw her yesterday. The names were all the same. The ages of his brother and sister were accurate. Even the Church where the service would be held was the same church his family had attended for the last 25 years. How could this be happening? Was someone playing a cruel joke? “Just my luck lately,” thought Jerry. “That’s what I get for making a wish like that yesterday,” he said jokingly. My wish!! No, it couldn’t be!! The thought played on his mind for two days, until, finally, Jerry decided to go to the memorial. Just to observe quietly in the back pew.

Wednesday came and Jerry awoke to the same thoughts that occupied his mind for the past two days. He started to get ready for the funeral, changed to jeans, changed back to his suit. “This is nuts” he argued with himself. “You’re vacillating with decisions like you don’t have any confidence with yourself” he thought. “Just go and then you’ll see that it can’t be a wish — just a huge coincidence.”

Jerry approached the church at 9:45 but didn’t take his seat for the service until 10:15. It took him 30 minutes to talk himself into going in. What he observed was phenomenal. The date on the memorial holy card was 30 days into the future. His usually stoic brother had long hair and an earring and this version of Jerry looked happy! Truly happy, even though his mother had just died. Maybe this wish thing was somehow true. “I guess my observations will have to continue a little longer.”

What followed changed Jerry’s opinion about his life and his impact on other peoples lives.

Entry by Janice Campbell:

I wouldn’t have known if Aunt Celie hadn’t called Wednesday morning.”Robert? Why didn’t you call us? You knew we would have come.”

I pushed the pillow off the alarm clock and squinted at the time. Six forty-two, no doubt a reasonable time to an old lady. “What’s up, Aunt Celie?” She sounded so distressed, I didn’t have the heart to point out that “coming” meant that someone would have to go and fetch her, as she’d quit driving at 87 when she’d survived driving three blocks on the wrong side of a divided road. “What happened?”

Moist snuffling on the other end of the line– good grief, as she crying? Or had that goofy mutt, Nicholas, gotten hold of the phone? “Aunt Celie, what’s the matter?”

“I would have thought you’d feel your mother’s death a little more than that, Robert. The funeral is tomorrow, and you sound like you don’t even know it. You haven’t been drinking, have you?”

I was beginning to wish I had been drinking– coffee, at least. What was Aunt Celie talking about? I’d talked with mom just yesterday, and either she was home as usual, or the hereafter had mighty good cell phone reception. “Aunt Celie. Listen to me– I just talked with mom yesterday, and she’s fine.”

The silence on the other end wasn’t reassuring. Paper rattled, and Aunt Celie started reading. I could tell from her tone of voice that she was offended, but I forgot that almost immediately as I realized that she was reading an obituary. “McLean, Laura Jane Hewitt, 76, of Mechanicsville entered eternal rest on February 10, 2009. She was predeceased by her husband, George Robert McLean, and is survived by her son Robert James McLean of Tappahannock…” I sat up abruptly at the shock of hearing the familiar names.

Later that morning, after Aunt Celie had been soothed by a quick conference call with mom, my thoughts turned to the oddity of the coincidence. It wasn’t just that the deceased couple bore names that were exactly the same as my parents’ names, or that they lived in Mechanicsville, as my parents had for years, it was the fact that they had a son bearing exactly my name, living in the tiny town where I lived, and I’d never encountered him. Never even heard of him.

I really needed to get to work, but I pulled out the Tappahannock phone book. There was only one McLean, and that was me.

Later, I couldn’t explain why I decided to skip work and drive to Mechanicsville to the visitation. A discreet notice just inside the funeral home door directed me to a small room with an open casket, and a few senior citizens murmuring softly to one another. Nothing prepared me for the shock of seeing my graduation photo, along with other pictures from the family album, posted on a remembrance board just inside the door. Legs shaking, heart pounding, I took a step toward the open casket. A black-suited gentleman was speaking to me, but I hardly heard him. Another step, and I looked into the casket at a face that was strange, yet familiar. It definitely wasn’t the woman I called “mom.”

How I got out of there, I hardly knew. I remember soft old-lady hands patting my sleeve and murmuring condolences, but I don’t know how or if I replied. The woman I’d always known as mom opened the door to let me in, and her face told me she knew where I’d been. “I knew you’d eventually get here,” she said. “Would you like a cup of coffee?”

“What I would like is to know what’s going on, and who is who. Who are you, and who died? And who am I?”

“Let’s sit down, Robert. There’s no point in getting upset.” I could definitely have argued that point, but I let her go on.

“The Laura Jane that died was my sister and your mother. She was married to your father, but left him when you were small. He was running for Congress at that point, and couldn’t afford a scandal, so I stepped in to be Laura Jane for the duration of the campaign — I’d always admired your father — and after he won, there was never a good time for me to go back to being Linda Michelle. It wasn’t as if I had much to go back to. I was single and just scraping by before I started being Laura Jane, and then I had a husband and son, a home . . . ” Her voice trailed off, and I sat back, staring out the window, trying to absorb it all. 

Entry by Stephen Clark Bradley:

“I never cease to be amazed how one can be mesmerized while driving down an empty interstate, thinking about things having nothing to do with driving, and still find my way, in one piece.” Jean Michael Presque thought. “I know where I’m going, but why I am headed there is a story all its own. Staring out of this clattering window, I am still replaying it all back in my mind. Did it all come to this, an obscure obituary?” But, JM, as he was called by anyone who even slightly knew him, knew this was no dream.  He wished he had not gone to that cursed restaurant and for sure he’d delete having read that strange obituary.  She was gone, dead, just like his mother had remained, for that past twenty-five years. He had seen her there, lying silently, giving him the starkest feeling of being totally alone.  Yet, after having read the thing and thinking about it for the past week, loading up his car and heading down the road, across half the country seemed to be the only recourse he now had.  “The damn thing’s what got me driving down these backwoods highways to this one stoplight town, in Podunk Indiana, remembering all the things I spent years trying to forget. How many Ethel Presques could live in that poor excuse of a town, anyway?”

He’d not be shocked by the change he’d find there, though he had not visited ‘his people’ for years.  He knew there would be almost nothing different, because things never changed in Knox, Indiana, except the accumulating lines spread over the faces he had known as a child, including his own.  “We always choose to know or disbelieve, down the road that we weave, what will ultimately lead to peace or strife, those mental critters that dutifully troll as friends or foes, as guides to death or life.  We shall all give an answer, for we are certainly not silently alone.” He sought to convince himself. While we toil and travail to plant our presence, to give a sign that we were here, though it inevitably gets relegated to nothing more than a temporary dwelling place, not at all our home.

He thought about his mom and dad and that very dysfunctional, extremely tumultuous family that he had not cherished, in his youthful years.  Now, close to seeing where he had grown, where he had lost his innocence, which he was not at all sure he had ever possessed, he remembered a lot and longed for it afresh.  “As we pave the path that ultimately led to either peace and boredom or stress and early retirement from the fields of fodder in which we only leave footprints to show our wandering journey, in no distinct direction.  Yet, we are not alone, I am sure of that…almost.

JM glanced over at the green fields of stalks that seemed to have just simply appeared, year after year, in his youth.  In spite of himself, the damn corn fields actually excited him.  It all took him back to the years that he had hated, but which had moved into the region of his mind that warehoused his cherished memories.  He saw a small green sign just up ahead, ‘Knox, Indiana – population 3500’ only slightly larger than when he had left it in his mid twenties.  JM slowed down and entered the city limits.  It wouldn’t be far before he’d be forced to exit the town again, but he saw the Price-Fields funeral home, and turned right. The place was now under different management, Mr. Price and Mr. Fields having practiced what they preached, long ago.  It was there, in that sterile-smelling last place he had ever seen her, before she was placed in the ground.  The old Yellow River was still there and he wondered why he was surprised to see it, like somehow it wouldn’t be there. He crossed the bridge and turned right and parked in front of the old last stop of the dead.  His mind raced and his heart pounded.  He had utterly refused to remember this place for the past twenty-five years and he knew he had good reason to.  “Who’d want to remember his mother that way?  Who’d want to think about a father who had placed her there?” He rubbed the sides of his head as though in pain as forbidden thoughts reentered his mind’s eyes.

They were always so big, crowding out his rational thoughts. “I reckon that was a world view from the perspective of a child.  It was so awesome to ride my little camouflage jeep across my mom and dad’s linoleum floor.  I remember her face so well.  His face is so blurry but so right there.”  He was consumed with thoughts of his past that were so close he felt as if he could reach out and touch them.  “Man, it was self-propelled, that camouflage jeep, that is to say, by my own two little feet.”  He recalled looking up at the walls all around him.  They were so massive and covered with splattered collages of faces.  “Mom had painted one whole wall with her treasures.  She had placed the family pictures on the wall in staircase formation; family portrait at the top and each and every sundry tableau of time descending downward on each side, like a descending staircase into nothingness.”  Then, he was there, that man he had called dad, the only picture that remained hazy, but JM remembered where it had hung, but he shook himself loose of it all, got out of the car and heard it, just like the day she had died. “Jean Michael…Get outta my way, boy!”…


Filed under fiction, fun, writing

“More Deaths Than One” Contest. Win Free Books!

Win an autographed copy of More Deaths Than One by Pat Bertram (her very first autograph!) and your choice of two other titles from Second Wind Publshing LLC.

The premise:

A friend of Pat Bertram’s found an obituary in the paper that could have been for his mother — the woman had the same name, lived in the same general area, was the same age, had the same number of children, and one of the children had approximately the same name and age as the friend. There was no relationship, merely coincidence but, joking, Bertram said, “What if her son really is you?” That “what if” eventually became Bertram’s novel More Deaths Than One.

Write at least a paragraph and no more than a page, telling us how would you develop a story using this scenario. The three most imaginative entries will be posted on the Second Wind site for readers to vote on. The top entry will win an autographed copy of More Deaths Than One and your choice of two other books from Second Wind Publishing.


One paragraph to one page of your own version of the “What if?” from above.
Submitted by Midnight (12:00) EST Monday February the 16th 2009.
Only one submission per person.


Pat Bertram and Second Wind management will read over all the entries and decide which three are the best – -completely subject to our personal opinions as publishers and writers. The three best will be published on the Second Wind website on or around February 23rd 2009. From then you will have a week to vote on the best of the three entries. The top voted entry will receive the books.

Please submit your entry in the form at: http://secondwindpublishing.com/bertramcontest.html

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Write Intelligently. At Least Until You Become A Bestselling Author

I’ve been reading the novels of a bestselling author, trying to figure out the secret of her success, and for the life of me, I don’t see it. Perhaps it’s hidden beneath her appalling writing style, but most times her poor writing dims any possibility of my enlightenment.

Even a neophyte writer knows that any action a character undertakes must be motivated. Although in life we often act on a whim or a hunch, when a character in a novel does it, it comes across as too slick, too much author convenience, as if the writer couldn’t be bothered to take the time to come up with a plausible motive for the action.

For example, in one book by that bestselling author, she has someone searching the character’s house for a set of papers that weren’t there because the character had removed them on a hunch. You and I could never get away with that! We’d have to come up with a motive, and it’s not that difficult. The character could have taken the papers to a diner to peruse them during lunch. Or maybe taken them to a safe deposit box. Or any reason other than a hunch. (Unless, of course, we establish that the character often acts on hunches, which this author didn’t.)

Even worse, when the character found out her house had been searched, she was stunned. Then why the hunch to remove the papers? Maybe she was expecting rats to eat them.

In a roundabout way, I suppose I did learn something: write intelligently.

At least until one becomes a bestselling author.

Pat Bertram is the author of More Deaths Than One,  and A Spark of Heavenly Fire now available from Second Wind Publishing, LLC.


Filed under books, fiction, life, musings, Pat Bertram, writing