North Wind

by

Michael Tyler

Copyright 2008

North wind sets me free

To fall weightless and disappear

Amongst forgotten multitudes

I've had an interesting life, so far, no doubt about that, and one of the more interesting chapters was a little old lady who would have whipped Satan into shape, given half a chance.

From the time I started kindergarten until after third grade, I spent every afternoon during the school year, some Saturdays, and every day of my summer vacation in the care of a frail, shrunken old hillbilly lady I came to love--at least in a fearful, scared-love kind of way.

Mrs. Doris lived in the middle of nowhere, back when Central Florida was much more country than urban and suburban, like it is now. She owned several hundred acres inherited from her family on the St. Johns River a few miles east of a tiny town called Enterprise. Back then, there was nothing to Enterprise but a gas station straight off the Andy Griffith Show, a feed store, an elementary school, and the Enterprise Children's' Home, where my Mom worked.

The old house in which Mrs. Doris was born (literally) and raised probably hadn't changed much between the time of her childhood, which I'm guessing was in the 1600's, and the time I found myself stranded there on an almost daily basis hundreds of years later. It was a wood-framed, two story farm-house with a tin roof, wood-burning cook-stove, rattly windows, and Palmetto Bugs from hell. It was surrounded by a couple of miles of live-oak forest, fallow fields and, to the front, the beautiful St. Johns River. In their time, I'm sure the huge, Spanish moss-draped oaks surrounding the house had seen Seminole war-parties, Spanish explorers, monstrous gators, and maybe a hundred kids like me, left in the care of a no-frills, heavy-handed, hot tempered old hillbilly woman with no tolerance for sass--Mrs. Doris. I don't know her first name. Never did. I'd be afraid to ask, even now.

Mrs. Doris was unique. She was all of five feet tall. Okay, maybe more like four feet eight or nine inches. But she was a giant, at least in spirit. And she was a woman of enterprise. Well, yes, of Enterprise the town, but also of business-type enterprise. She raised chickens, both for food and to sell the eggs they produced. And she raised children, though not her own, and also for profit. She also raised pigs, but as far as I know she only ate them. My favorite pig was a sow named Bessy, after my first grade girlfriend. I fed her every day. She was delicious.

Mrs. Doris was a great cook--and good with a hatchet. Most days, around lunch time--she called it "dinner"--she would tell me to "git a bird" and I would go out to the expansive chicken house and select the upcoming meal. I hated the chickens because they often pecked and complained when I stole their eggs in the morning, so I usually picked the one who was meanest or scariest on a given day. I would deliver the unhappy bird to Mrs. Doris, who would lop off its head on an old piece of log that served as chopping block. It's one of those endearing memories that stay with a kid. I'm sure it helped keep me in line.

Anyway, Mrs. Doris would cook the chicken and whatever else was on the menu--cornbread was a daily staple--on a huge wood-burning cook stove, and it was good. Anything she made was good. It had to be. Because it didn't matter: if she made it and put it on your plate, you ate it. Period. Picture five or six kids at a big table in a country kitchen with a wood-burning stove in a house with no air conditioning on a day that's ninety-five degrees with ninety-five percent humidity…get the picture?

Sweat dripping onto your plate…not hungry with the heat…chicken of the day with a dumpling or two, green beans, tomatoes, cornbread--and eat it all or suffer the wrath. Mrs. Doris was a believer in both cooking and eating. Oh, and discipline. In fact, perhaps discipline should come first on her list of beliefs. In retrospect, delete the "perhaps". Discipline came first. Yup, the old lady would have done well in the army. Our army. Hitler's army. The Roman army. Any army.

One of my daily chores was sorting papers. Newspapers, to be exact. Now, enough years have passed that I don't remember what I was supposed to accomplish in my newspaper sorting endeavors, but sort them I did. This usually occurred during Mrs. Doris' afternoon One Life To Live or General Hospital soap opera break. I did my chore in the (friggin) hot upstairs hallway, and all I know is that if I sorted wrong, somehow out of whack with Mrs. Doris' view of properly sorted paper, I received a whack or two of a different sort, and I was sentenced to a hot upstairs cot for an enforced nap time. I learned from that: Do a job right, the first time, or suffer the consequences. Discipline.

And firewood. Firewood was important. Firewood provided all the heat during Central Florida's surprisingly chilly winter. And firewood produced heat to cook the daily chicken and occasional Bessy--God rest her porky soul. So firewood forays were frequent. Mrs. Doris hired a man nearly as old as she was to cut up the abundant deadfall in the woods around her farm--I think his name was George…I sometimes wonder if they didn't have a little something going on--and us kids of the chain gang, I mean the kids she watched, loaded the firewood onto a trailer pulled by an old tractor I think Moses built but which was piloted by—yes, Mrs. Doris.

Now, for some reason I don't understand, the extensive woods surrounding Mrs. Doris' property were home to a large number of wild dogs. Real wild dogs. They ran around in packs. And Mrs. Doris had no patience for these beasts. While us young'ns loaded firewood, Mrs. Doris would blast away with an old single barrel 12 gauge at any wild dog unwise or unlucky enough to enter her limited visual range. I don't know how many dogs she killed, if any, and I'm not sure, either, whether they were in more danger from her semi-blind shooting than we were. All I know is that this crazy woman would see a dog and "kaboom!" That shotgun would knock her back a few feet--I don't know how her brittle old shoulder stood up to it--but as soon as she recovered, she would reload to be ready for another crack at the pesky varmints.

So this was in…oh, the late 60's, early 70's, and Mrs. Doris occasionally ventured into town to pick up feed for the chickens. I'm not sure what kind of car she drove…it was like a boat from the forties. A Hudson, maybe, or a DeSoto. Whatever it was, it was huge, and she parked it in a tumble-down barn about a hundred yards from the house. She would load us kids into the mouse and palmetto-bug infested behemoth, power the old beast up, and drive into town. This isn't amazing, I know, except that she was sitting on pillows, hunched up close to the steering wheel, and I know damn well she still couldn't see over the lengthy hood of the car! She'd wander from side to side of the winding two-lane road into town, load up, and wobble her way back. Not much scares a seven year old, but that did.

Sadly, the years passed, as years tend to do, and my mom changed jobs. We moved further away, and though we visited from time to time, we eventually fell out of touch with the cantankerous old woman. I grew up. We moved to North Carolina. I graduated, then did time in the Marines and Army. In 1987 I found myself in Florida for the first time in many years. I was headed south for a job interview in Broward County when I decided to swing past Mrs. Doris' homestead. With the so-called "progress" of the area, I wasn't sure the old place would still be there, but surprise, surprise, it was. And more surprising still, I spied Mrs. Doris immediately upon pulling into the dirt drive--she was in the yard with a shovel in hand and a scroungy mutt by her rubber-booted feet.

Manly-man that I'd become, I got out of my car and strode boldly forward. Apparently I'd caught her burying dog poop.

"Hello, Mrs. Doris," I said in my deepest manly-man voice, "Don't suppose you remember me?" She didn't look a day older...than the pyramids.

Well, the mutt sniffed me and growled, but didn't bite, and Mrs. Doris gave me a squinty-eyed look that I couldn't interpret--but she never was much open to interpretation.

"'Course I remember you. Think I'm daft?" She pushed the shovel into my hands. "Bury that. Dang dog can't do it hisself, can he?"

She started walking toward the house. "And when you're done, y'kin come in and sign the book. All you young'ns stop by, sooner or later…"

*************************************************************

While I was writing this I got up to get a beer, and Christina, my wife, asked what I was writing about this time. I told her "Mrs. Doris", about whom she has heard before, and she chuckled.

"Do you think she is still alive?" she asked.

"I'm not sure," I answered. "Probably," I said as I grabbed a cold Ice House. "I'm not sure anything could kill her."

And that's the truth. Mrs. Doris lives, if not in the flesh, then for sure in the hearts and minds of the children privileged enough to spend time in the calloused and capable hands of a character who could have stepped straight off the pages of a Mark Twain story. She never had one child of her own--she had all of us, instead.

See you one day, Mrs. Doris--and yes, just hand me the shovel.

THE REAPER

Silent I travel

In darkness or light

I move with no shadow

I feed on your fright

I come at His bidding

Despite my dark deeds

I take what is owed

From all fertilized seeds

I'll make you immortal

With my special skill

You'll dodge my great purpose

But I've a quota to fill

I am the collector

Of all debts past due

I bring in the harvest

But no crops you grew

Cold is my touch

Fast is my blade

I'll send you to heaven

Or hell's fiery glade

For I am The Reaper

And we have a date

Have not a worry

I'll not be late

Michael Tyler

Copyright September, 2008

Today is Mary's birthday.

Mary is four years, three hundred sixty-four days older than me and lives in North Carolina. I haven't spoken with her in almost ten years, but I think about her every day.

Mary is my sister, and despite our lack of communication, I still love her. I hope she had a nice birthday.

So, given the somewhat limited communication between Mary and I, I'm going to send one out in the blind:

Happy Birthday, Mary!

There. I feel better.

Secrets

your secrets fall

softly

into friendly ears

and die inside

uspoken

I love women, almost everything about them, from the silkiness of their skin to the way they smell, and it must be something that started early with me, because I remember every female I've been infatuated with as far back as kindergarten.

....

Kindergarten through second grade at Enterprise Elementary I was torn between Bessy (I am sorry, Bessy, but your last name is gone from my brain) and Polly Ann Sabo—I guess the monogamy bug hadn't fully developed inside me. Bessy was the first girl I ever held hands with, we walked back to the children's home together, and she liked to chase me on the playground…I don't think I really minded getting caught.

....

Third grade was all Suzanne Joyce at Lake Mary Elementary. She wore white go-go boots almost every day--give her a break, it was 1970--and she liked to kick. An odd way of showing her affection, I suppose. It never even occurred to me until just now that maybe she didn't like me back? Nah…couldn't be.

....

Fourth grade at Hopper Elementary was Kim Sumula, a gorgeous gal I'm guessing was Filipino, and an older woman—a fifth grader. I'm not sure she liked be, but she was semi-friendly and didn't kick.

....

Fifth grade at Southside Elementary was Cindy Clark, the typical blond-and-blue Barbie-doll type--as was sixth and seventh grade at Liberty Christian. She liked me back. Sometimes. I think.

....

Eighth was pretty much a loss. I liked Kellie McLaughlin, but she liked another. Or several anothers. In fact, I think she liked every male at ....Sanford.. ..Christian ....but me that year. Still, I bounced back in ninth and found myself involved with Kellie. She was my first real romance. She looked like Valerie Bertinelli, rode a scooter to school, and was far smarter, far more mature, and much too good for me, a skinny, rather homely kid squarely in the middle of an immature ass-pain-jerk stage. My mom hated her. Still, she taught me to kiss, really kiss, and probably took me from boy to young man. One of my favorite memories is going to ....New.. ..Smyrna.. ..Beach.... with Kellie and my cousin, Maurice, who died the next year. She got so sun-burned her mother called to give me hell.

....

Tenth grade delivered me to Seminole High with some small amount of maturity—and into the velvet and iron clutches of Ivonne Riestra.

....

Anyone who does not believe in love at first sight has never experienced it.

I saw this girl and my world stopped. She was dark. Sloe-eyed. ....Latina..... Exotic. Love and lust fought for control inside me, and I still don't know which won. It was hopeless from the first: She was gorgeous—I was not. She was ....Latina...., with almost exclusively Latin friends--I was not. She was a junior--I was a sophomore. All in all, my situation was screwed. But this did nothing to diminish my ardor.

For two years, Ivonne was the girl of my dreams. I saw her almost every day—it was painful. And fantastic. She did not ignore me, she just didn't see me. I was invisible, as most gangly sophomore boys are to beautiful older girls. I only heard her speak a few times, in passing, and only in Spanish. I wasn't even sure she could speak English. I only spoke to her once: I asked my Spanish teacher, Sr. Monserratt, how to say this, and I mumbled it in her general direction as we passed between classes:

"Hola, Hermosa. ....Como.... esta Usted?" (Hello, beautiful. How are you?)

This got no response, except maybe an eye-roll.

....

Still, I did not give up, and it took my family's move to ....North Carolina.... before my senior year to kill my hopes. Senior year? New guy as a senior? Dorky? Kind of poor? It was pretty much a zero. Go figure. You would think hot gals would have been all over me, right? And so I leaped --or maybe stumbled--from high school into my future, my life, adventures good and bad, marriage to a fantastic woman, awesome children, and other stories we'll save for other times.

....

Almost thirty years gone. Where did they go? Well, they got swallowed by the time-monster, like all years do, but they've been good years, for the most part, and I have no complaints. Complaints don't work anyway. Just try one at Wal-Mart—you'll see.

....

Anyway, not long ago I found my cyber-path crossed with that of Ivonne Riestra. Cool. Strange, but cool. It's an odd thing to touch base with someone with whom you were infatuated, but didn't know. I'm glad I did. Ivonne is married with children, just like me and my hero, Al "The Man" Bundy. She has a good life, and this makes me happy. Am I still enamored? No, but I love those ancient memories, so perhaps I am enamored of those special moments from my youth that have drifted so quickly into the past.

....

Pleasant memories are like pictures we can take out to admire, from time to time, aren't they? So I can still see Ivonne walking past in my mind, smiling and laughing with her best friend, Yadira, and I can remember how seeing her made me feel inside, and this is good. And you know what's even better? She is just as sweet as I always thought she would be. She is a genuinely nice, sweet woman. I'll bet her daughters are just like she is. Her husband, God bless him, is probably awesome. I might hate him a little. Okay, not really. That was humor I couldn't resist. From what I hear, he is a great guy.

....

So where did I end up in this deal that started so long ago? With a friend, and friends are few and far between. I have many ex-girlfriends, but not so many friends, and friends count.

....

Am I glad we crossed paths? Absolutely. If nothing else, she confirmed my good taste—she's a sweetie. A lady in every sense of the word. A class act.

....

If I had my choice between knowing her then and knowing her now, which would I take?

....

I'd take now. I'm happy. She's happy. All good. And more importantly, she is one of the building blocks that made me who I am, led me to where I am, and I wouldn't change that.

....

Where am I going with this? I'm not sure. I'm deep into the Evan Williams at this point, so it's hard to say. The keys are blurry, it's late, and I'm tired. I guess I'm saying that in this day and age of instant cyber-com, we can reach out and touch anyone. And that is good. Or bad, depending on who that person is. Still, for me, it's been great. I value the old friends I've found—gems found in a field of times long past—and the new friends, as well.

....

So: Bessy, if you're out there, give me a yell. You smelled good, had soft hands, and were a good playground chaser.

Polly Ann—you were all looks. You're probably a super-model. I don't remember your hands, so in retrospect, I shift all my early allegiance to Bessy, and thus solidify my monogamous nature.

....

Suzanne, I hope you tossed the go-go boots—though I thought they were pretty hot at the time—and I hope your husband has strong shins.

....

Kim, my first exotic infatuation, I hope all things golden have come your way. You probably think about me every day, I know, but please maintain control.

....

Cindy, I hope you're having fun. I'm not overwhelmed with memories of you, so perhaps it was an underwhelming infatuation. My loss, I am sure.

....

Kellie, I'm sorry I was so jerky. You were a great kisser. Drop me a line so I can apologize, and remember your sunscreen.

....

Ivonne, you'll never age a day in my brain, and you're as sweet as I'd hoped.

There it is, my love-life, or lack thereof, prior to the age of eighteen. It's not exciting, I know, but it's the only story I've got for tonight.

Off I go. Night-night. Sleep tight, and may the force be with you.

In 1988, I was a police officer. My best friend and frequent partner was Eric, a fantastic guy who should never have become a police officer, not because he lacked the skills, but because he was too big-hearted.

Eric and I went from uniform to narcotics together, and we both did well, but Eric...well, Eric carried the weight of bad things with him, while shallower, less kindly folks like me put them aside. Or maybe we just think we do, it's hard to say.

We did a search warrant one Friday night, came back to the office, ate Chinese takeout, and joked around as we finished up our paperwork. The norm. I remember it clearly, even now. Eric teased me about how I'd danced (badly) the last time we'd gone out. He was a brother from The Bronx, and he could really move.

Somehow it came out during our fun that he'd been drinking, which shocked me--Eric never drank. At all. I asked him about it when we had a private moment, asked him if he was okay, but he just shrugged it off. He said he was fine, and asked me to stop by his apartment that weekend, something I did most weekends.

But I was dating someone new at the time, and she had the majority of my attention, as young women do of young men that age, and before I knew it, Monday arrived and I was preparing to do another search warrant. But no Eric.

It could have been a hundred things that made him late, from court to personal time, but my gut told me that something was wrong, and my gut was right. Long story short, Eric killed himself sometime Sunday.

Eric was one hell of a guy, and his suicide is one of the hardest things I've ever dealt with. Death I understand. Death in the line of duty I could have handled, but Eric's suicide and the guilt I carry for not showing up at his apartment have plagued me.

No more than daily, I wonder what might be different if I had taken leave of that woman for a couple of hours to visit with my friend. Would he have waited? Would he have done it anyway? Would he have opened up about what was troubling him (a woman)? Would he be a dad, with children of his own, looking forward to pulling the pin?

I don't have any of these answers. I never will. I can only ponder the idea that if I had shown up, things might have gone differently. I can only live with the certainty that I failed my friend when he needed me most.

It's like a wound that never heals.

Robert

I grew from young boyhood into my mid-teens on a quiet country road in Central Florida, back when Central Florida was largely rural. My humble little road sliced through farmland that seldom left my family in want of watermelons, squash, or green-beans, and ended at the deep woods and swamps that border Lake Monroe and the St. Johns River. It was a great place to grow up, especially for a kid like me, who loved little more than fishing and freedom to wander the woods and swamps near my home.

Whether by nature or circumstance, I was a bit of a loner, but over time I became friends with the three other boys who lived on my road. Robert was a year older than me, Lloyd, his half-brother, a year younger, and Donny, who lived across the road from Robert and Lloyd, was my age. Over time, we became as regular a band of rapscallions as ever there was. Fishing, exploring, building forts in the woods, riding our bikes into town to visit the library, the marina, or the drug store for french fries covered in ketchup, there wasn't anywhere we couldn't go if we were willing to peddle or hoof our way. Those were better times, it seems to me, when boys like us could leave home in the morning and not return until dark without our parents going into a panic. We could camp in the woods or spend the night away without background checks or police-organized search parties, and for several years I lived a life that, looking back, I would be pleased for my own sons to enjoy.

Of course, life wasn't perfect for me or my friends, but what life is? We didn't have much money, nobody on our road did, but I don't think we noticed it much, at least not amongst ourselves. But my parents were going through a difficult time, back then, and I did notice that. My dad worked out of town most of those years, coming home only on weekends, and when he was home, the tension between him and my mom was…high. Thankfully, my parents' marriage survived, but back then it didn't seem likely, and home was often a place I didn't want to be. Still, if my home-life was less than ideal, Robert and Lloyd's was downright unpleasant.

Robert's step-father was an over-the-road trucker, seldom home for more than a day or two every few weeks. When he did come home, it was a battle, loud and long, between mother and step-father. I never knew Robert's step-father to be pleasant, and I never knew him to have a kind word or anything else for Robert. When the step-father was gone, Robert's mother was gone, too. Where, I don't know. Wasn't my business, and this information wasn't offered. That's how it was. Maybe things would be different, now, but back then we didn't talk about problems at home. We had personal boundaries, and we respected those. Or maybe such personal exchanges were taboo. I don't know, I only know that Robert's home-life sucked.

Robert was probably the best friend I've ever had. For several years, there weren't many days I didn't spend a big chunk of hours with him, and for the most part, those were good times. We were a well-matched pair, he and I. I was athletic, an outdoorsman, reserved and less prone to troublesome adventure than Robert. He was bold, tough, cynical, and far more mature than Lloyd, Donny, and I. And Robert had balls. He would fight at the drop of a hat, didn't mind dropping that hat himself, and broke any and every rule he could find to break. He was a natural leader, always of Donny and Lloyd, and less often but sometimes of me--I still had a tendency to go my own way. We had fun, our little band, as we grew from young punks playing guns or swimming in the river to older punks chasing girls and causing minor mischief.

But things change.

I don't know everything that went on with Robert or at Robert's home, but as we grew into our mid-teens, he changed. We were best friends still, but Robert grew…darker. He was moodier, even more cynical, and angry at just about anyone outside our small circle. I saw less of him, much less, and when I did, he seemed…I don't know…edgy. Somehow, word got back to my parents that Robert was involved in a large-scale shoplifting operation led by his mother. This was true, I know, because he told me. He was proud of it. They would hit the malls and come home with hundreds or sometimes thousands of dollars in merchandise. He got arrested. Then he stole a car, crashed it, and got arrested again. My parents, doing what most parents would, forbade me to associate with Robert. Maybe, over time, things would have cooled down with my parents, and things between Robert and I would have been okay, but probably not. I think he was sliding away, even then. Didn't matter--Robert took my parents' move to protect me as a personal affront, a betrayal, and the fuse was lit.

Over the next year or year and a half, I fought a lopsided battle with Robert, Lloyd, and Donny, that frequently left one or more of us bleeding and bruised. If they caught me off guard, I paid. If I found one of them alone, it was payback time. And so it went. This probably sounds weird to most, but it was normal for us, or seemed normal at the time. Maybe it's an ingrained Southern thing, feuding, I don't know, but it's hard to break free of once it begins. And we never did. The first time my nose was broke, it was Robert's left knee that did it, and I can still hear the crunch of it in my head and taste the blood in my mouth. My dad tried to straighten it, but it never worked so well after, and I had to have it fixed when I was in the service a few years later. It's been broke since. Oh well.

Anyway, I missed my friends, especially Robert, but I got along. I went my own way, as is still my habit, and I kept to myself. Robert's family moved, and though I went to the same high school with him for a year, the gulf between us had become too wide to bridge. I would nod in passing, he would nod, and that was pretty much it.

Thirty years. Thirty years gone in a blink, so fast I don't know where they went. I've done a lot, seen a lot, and for the most part, wouldn't change much. I have a great wife, great kids, an okay job, and my health. Not bad. Oddly, my e-tracks crossed paths with Lloyd's e-tracks not long ago, and I dropped him a line. Didn't know if I would hear back from him, but the feuding was long past, and I wanted to know about Robert. Lloyd must have had to think about it, because it was a few weeks before I got a note back, and it wasn't what I wanted to hear. I wanted to hear that Robert was fine, that he'd picked himself up, married, had oodles of kids and a great job--You know, fairy tale stuff that makes for happy endings.

But fairy tales only happen in books.

Robert was dead, of course. He died in 1993. Of Aids. He was gay. And a junky. He died far from home. Lloyd said he hadn't seen Robert, but for once, in fifteen years. That meant Robert must have skipped out before finishing high school. And gay? Robert? How did that happen? He'd been as girl-crazy as the rest of us, or so it seemed. This all hit me hard, much harder than I thought it should, much harder than I've shared with anyone. Robert was gone. Not just gone, but long gone. And not just Robert, I suppose, but a large chunk of my youth with him.

So I've been thinking about this for more than a week, and I'm still rocked. Does it bother me that Robert is dead? Yes, but I can't say it came as a complete surprise. I'd known in my gut it was more than possible. He'd seemed bent on self-destruction, and so angry at the world it came off him in waves. Does it bother me that Robert was gay? No, but it surprised me, and I've wondered if that wasn't part of his anger. Was it a burden to carry that secret inside him, never sharing it with his friends? Or did he not know until after we'd parted ways? I don't know. Would I have dealt with it well if I had known? I don't know. Probably not, back then, if I'm honest. Not because I have anything against gays or lesbians—I don't, I have a lesbian sister I love dearly—but because the times were different, and that wasn't something heterosexual boys of my generation knew much about.

So where does all this leave me and my memories of Robert? Despite inherent shallowness, I looked deep inside myself for answers and, surprisingly, I found a few:

It leaves my memories unchanged. Robert was still the best best friend I've ever had. Robert was still Robert; bold, cynical, ballsy, and ever-ready to drop that hat. He was a hero to me in many ways, because he was all the things I was not. My fervent hope is that Robert did not die alone, that he had friends, people he cared about and who cared about him. I hope he didn't die in pain or afraid. I refuse to think about him sick and wasted by disease and drugs. Instead, I think of him grinning a hard grin as he and Donny and Lloyd caught me half-stepping, flipping me off, or breaking my nose. That was the Robert I knew.

So tonight's blog is for Robert, and the bourbon in my belly is for him, too. This isn't much of a memorial, but it's all I've got, for now, and he would just give me the finger, anyway.

Cheers, Robert, you were a damn good friend.

Dark Reflections

By

Michael Tyler

June 2008

Smiles come not easy to my lips
When I think upon thoughts
Best forgotten
And left in the past.

Joy visits not my heart
When I consider feelings
Best abandoned
In the wake of distant memories.

Fear grips not my soul
When I confront dangers
Oft ignored
In the shadows of my life.

Cold touches not my hand
As bony fingers grasp
Lost hopes
Without trepidation.

Light banishes not the darkness
When I seek that distant night
Fast approaching
Astride death's pale horse.

THE VENDETTA by Michael Tyler

Reality ain't pretty.

His extensive history in military and law enforcement gives author Michael Tyler the experience and believability to make his debut novel The Vendetta a realistic and gritty drama about a take-no-prisoners cop on a destructive path of vengeance.

Michael Griffin is a narcotics investigator who gets the job done; the hard way if necessary. Two of his friends turn up dead – one tagged a suicide, the other discarded like yesterday's garbage, and no one seems to care.

But Griffin cares about his friends, no matter what paths they have chosen in their lives. When the system fails, Griffin opens an unauthorized investigation that plunges him into the murky depths of the underworld. His street-smarts, determination, and don't-give-a-damn courage keep him alive when he becomes the hunted, but will it be enough to finish what he started?

The Vendetta is entertainment at its finest, combining the best of the mystery, suspense, and police procedural genres. Mary Menzel of AllTheseBooks.com calls The Vendetta "…everything a crime fiction novel should be." 

"I think people like my stories because of their gritty, harsh edges and the ugly realities they dance around--something I hope my readers will enjoy in The Vendetta," Michael Tyler told BookHuntersBlog.com

Having served in as a US Marine Infantry and Army Special Forces NCO, as well as a narcotics investigator and SWAT member in law enforcement, Michael Tyler knows tough and gritty and projects his experiences onto his stories. Written with an authenticity reminiscent of the groundbreaking, award-winning TV show The Shield, The Vendetta seamlessly blends the harsh, visceral flavor of the street with believable human drama to deliver a stunning debut novel.

About the book:

The Vendetta by Michael Tyler

·  Hardcover: 284 pages

·  Publisher: ArcheBooks Publishing (May 9, 2007)

·  Language: English

·  ISBN-10: 1595071733

·  ISBN-13: 978-1595071736

About the author:

Michael Tyler lives in small-town Ohio with his wife, Christina, and two of his five children—three have left the nest. Six days a week he manages a small business, but when he isn't working or shepherding his boys to and from sporting events, he tries to write a page or two. He shares his house in the country with three dogs, two cats, and two snakes.

Feel free to contact Michael or check out his info at www.authormichaeltyler.com, www.AllTheseBooks.com, or www.myspace.com/MichaelTyler1234.

Read the full interview with Michael Tyler and review of The Vendetta at www.BookHuntersBlog.com.

Please send all inquires to Michael Tyler @

www.authormichaeltyler.com

www.myspace.com/MichaelTyler1234

michaeltyler@authormichaeltyler.com

or

AllTheseBooks.com

Marius Menzel

P.O. Box 191

Brunswick, NC 28424 USA

Email: webmaster@AllTheseBooks.com