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KASS 12 ‘The Nancy & Rick Show’ Discusses THE BARGAINS BELOW

The short fiction story THE BARGAINS BELOW is discussed on ‘The Nancy & Rick Show.’ NOTE: This is created as raw audio (10.09 minutes) without editing or interlude for the commercial break.

Author Note 10/3/2024: After this audio, in the story I made a protagonist name change to Kathy (from Laurie) to prevent confusion–during future discussion–with mention of my last name.Dennis Lowery

Listen to the audio:

Created using NotebookLM Generative Audio.

The Girl Who Haunted Dreams [Creative Nonfiction]

When your eyes met hers, she looked deeper into you than you could ever see into her.


One autumn morning, I had selected my morning brew when Spooky by the Classics IV played. “Great songs on my Pandora shuffle this morning!” I told Alpha and Beta, who were at the kitchen table eating their cereal. Beta was mad at me for making her wear something other than a black Batman t-shirt. I sat across from them with my coffee and turned the volume down on the Jambox speaker as the song ended on my phone.

“I was 17, and in 11th grade, the year the new girl came to my high school.”

Alpha looked up at me, but Beta didn’t.

“She was in the same grade, and I had English and World History with her. She was pretty, slender with straight honey-blonde hair, blue-eyed, but quiet. I guess that was to be expected… being new to my school and all.”

I could tell Beta was trying not to listen.

“After about a month—early October—she seemed friendlier but still not outgoing. She had an air about her… the way she moved and carried herself. She didn’t seem awkward being at a new school and around unfamiliar people. Just quiet. Sometimes she’d be in the parking lot after school. Snow flurries—winter came early that year—in the air as she stood and stared at people. When your eyes met hers, she looked deeper into you than you could ever see into her. One of my friends, Josh, talked about asking her on a date. And he did. I had to work at Piggly Wiggly the Friday night he went out with her. So, I didn’t spot him and her as I would when guys and girls made the rounds where we all hung out and cruised down Central Avenue from Burger Shef all the way downtown to the fountain in front of the Arlington and back.”

I got up for more coffee and leaned against the counter. Alpha’s eyes followed me, but Beta’s didn’t.

“I worked that Saturday and Sunday, too, and didn’t see Josh over the weekend. Monday at school, he wasn’t there. That’s when I found out he hadn’t come home Friday night.”

Beta now had her head turned toward me.

“The police came to school to talk to his friends, me included, and they walked the girl to the counselor’s office. That day after school, I stopped to check on Josh’s parents, who were freaking out. It was now three days, and no one could find Josh. More days passed… then a week.” I took a drink of coffee. “We never saw Josh again.”

Beta was definitely listening.

 “One of my other friends told me he, too, had asked the girl out. I shook my head at him. The girl had talked to no one about Josh going missing after their date. She didn’t seem to care. It was—she seemed—weird. At school, she had the same manner… quiet, watching people, sometimes with a smirk on her face. ‘You’re crazy, man.’ I told him. But she was with Alex that night. Later, after the game, I heard they had headed to West Mountain—a favorite make-out spot—to park and overlook the lights of Bathhouse Row and the illuminated fountain in front of the Arlington.”

Beta turned more toward me.

 “The next day, early Saturday morning, the phone rang, and no one answered. This was long before cell phones, and some people still didn’t have telephones in more than one room. We had a single phone on the desk next to the kitchen across from my bedroom. The only room on that side of the house. It kept ringing, and I got up and answered. ‘Alex didn’t come home last night,’ my friend Rob said. ‘His dad called my dad to ask if I’d seen him!’ I hung up, dressed, and left. A group of us searched all over Garland County.

“Monday came, and no one had seen or heard from Alex. The police were at school again, talking with me, all my friends, teachers and others… and the girl. My friend Beth was working her way down the hall, spreading the news that an FBI agent from Little Rock was with them, and they were speaking with the girl.”

Beta was attentive. She and Alpha had stopped eating.

 “Another week went by, and Josh and Alex still hadn’t turned up. My friends and I couldn’t believe it. We lived in a small town. Nothing like this had ever happened. The girl still came to school. No one talked to her. No one wanted to be around her. I know that sounds mean, but something about her bothered me and others. She stared at people too long, too much, rarely talked, and sometimes from nowhere came a half-grin on her face. Like a joke was in play for her enjoyment or some secret she kept that amused her.

 “One morning, as the halls cleared for first period, I turned from my locker to see she was walking toward me. Books clasped to her chest and that half-smile on her face. She stopped in front of me and brushed a long, straight lock of hair from her face. ‘Would you like to go out with me?’ The fingers left her hair and pulled at her bottom lip.

 “I stuttered, ‘I have to get to class… talk to you later.’ But I didn’t and made sure I kept on the move. Away from wherever she was for the rest of the day.”

 I went over to the table and leaned down, my elbows on it between Alpha and Beta, and continued.

 “That evening—Halloween—I was about to go out when my mother opened the front door to call out before I got in my car. ‘Dennis, phone…’ I went back in. Mom whispered and smiled; her hand cupped over the phone’s mouthpiece. ‘It’s a girl.’

 “I took the phone and waited for her to step away, which she did. Slowly. ‘Hello?’

 “I recognized the slight lisp, THE girl. She asked, ‘Would you like to go with me to a movie?’ I gripped the phone and couldn’t speak. Her breathing got heavier in the dead air on the line. ‘Alex,’ she said, and there was a thrashing, choking noise in the background, ‘finally gave me your phone number.’”

 Beta and Alpha looked wide-eyed as I paused and held the moment. “Dad…” Alpha poked my arm. “Are you making this up?”

I studied her and Beta for a heartbeat, giving it a good pause, and grinned. “Yep.”

 Beta shouted. “I knew it!”

 I smiled and patted her shoulder. “But I made you forget being mad.” I straightened and walked away, singing… “She called me up and asked if I’d like to go with her and see a movie….”

THE BARGAINS BELOW [Fiction]

A little horror humor….


Nahanni, Maine

Kathy Pace had followed the roadside signs: FALL SALES FOR NEWCOMERS. Maybe targeted for the Leaf-Watchers, she thought. She had read about visitors that traveled through the state end of September through the end of October to witness the autumnal turn of color before November’s winds stripped the trees bare as they braced for winter.   

The savings are worth the crowds, Kathy rationalized as she entered the mall from the second parking garage level. Hundreds of shoppers moved about, some solo, some with friends, wives with husbands carrying bags, and some displaying frowns and ‘I don’t wanna be here’ expressions. Kathy looked forward to shopping, checking out the sales, grabbing some new books to read, and returning to their new apartment to unload the rest of the U-Haul with Sam. They both needed real winter clothes, and she needed her decorations to prepare for the holidays.

A big-city Southern girl, new to the town—new to New England—she was surprised at finding a mall in such a rural setting. Located just the other side of an extensive memorial park called Winding Grove or something, she thought, that formed an arched northern border for the small town. Maybe the Native American casino, located the next county over, had something to do with it. As Kathy neared making an entire circuit of the second floor—her recon Sam called it—she came to a Down escalator. Floating on two red balloons—tied at the upper corners—rising from the well of the escalator was a sign with bold lettering that stated: The Newcomer Bargains are Below.

Kathy studied the other shoppers, moving past her or onto the Up escalator a few steps beyond the Down. She glanced below, where the balloons were tethered, at a swirl of colors. Somewhere down there, close enough to reach this high, must be some carousel-mounted Kaleidoscope projector to shower the space with a rainbow spectrum. The noise below was distinct enough to announce someone having a great time. The newcomers, she wondered.

That feeling came over her. The pleasant prospect of finding something on sale she wanted. A dopamine-fueled tingle that power shopping always gave her. “Let’s check this out,” Kathy murmured. As the escalator went down and down, her surroundings grew darker. An eddying drift of chilled air penetrated her too-light jacket and prickled the flesh on her arms. She gripped the rails.

Gray light showed below. Finally, coming to the first floor, Kathy thought. She saw someone near the foot of the escalator as she passed from the darkness into a pale light. The slender figure in an ankle-length, stained-ivory-color dress and long black hair that shrouded the lighter oval of a face proved to be a young lady, maybe in her late teens or early 20s.

The girl—Frida, stated on her askew nametag—smiled glossily. Red lipstick prominent against pallid flesh, so different from Kathy’s dusky skin. As the girl’s smile broadened, the lights behind her bloomed, revealing a bright corridor leading to an open, festive area filled with the sound of bustling consumers. “Welcome to the Super Shoppers area; This is where you’ll find the best bargains,” the girl greeted her. Frida’s bright eyes gleamed at Kathy through a drape of dark hair.

She has a kind of goth thing going on, Kathy thought. But then some people got into Halloween—a few days away—and never moved on, like those who leave their Christmas tree up well into January. “What kind of markdowns?” Kathy asked, relaxing a little but also perking up in anticipation of the sales.

“Oh,” Frida’s lambent orbs widened beneath lank locks, “very deep… everything is slashed.” Her white arm raised, beckoning, “Please, follow me.”

Halfway down the connecting passageway, Kathy glanced back to see the darkness—a bank of lights shut down in series, marching into total black—had closed in behind them. Gesturing over her shoulder, “Something’s wrong with your lights.” The girl kept a few steps ahead, not replying or slowing, walking into the now-dying light ahead of her. The chill’s bite deepened as Kathy paused, seeing her breath cloud as she called out, “I think I’ll come back later,” she half-turned and stopped when the girl spoke.

“But we have things,” Frida walked back to her, “to die for!” She grabbed Kathy’s arm.

“Hey… let go!” Kathy tried to yank free.

The girl squeezed harder; her fingernails sharpened and dug in.

“I said let go….” Kathy repeated, twisted, and staggered as the girl jerked her forward, low heels sliding on the smooth concrete.

“We all chop down here!” Frida’s screech cleaved like a butcher’s blade through bone. Behind her, the once joyful noises had soured into a gluttonous cacophony.

“Let…,” Kathy managed with one hand to reach into her purse for anything sharp, “me go, bitch!” She found a solid rectangle with an edge. Clutching the plastic in her fist, she swiped it at the girl’s forearm, slicing into flesh that blackened with a whiff—a coil of smoke rising—from burning skin. The girl’s shriek echoed, and her grip loosened and re-clenched, sinking deep.

The herd sound of a horde surging—as if after the last 4K 85-inch flat-screen for $800 off—filled the hallway. People, a lot of them, were coming their way. The odor of rancid milk, loose bowels, and putrid flesh filled Kathy’s nostrils. So strong that a puke thermometer-climbed inside her throat, a mouthful she choked back down. She swiped again. The girl—garish, white-faced with champing fangs on blood-frothed lips that framed a gaping maw—released her with a ghoul’s cry. The taloned hand arced up to rake Kathy’s cheek, gouging bloody furrows.

Kathy turned and ran into the dark, hands and shoulders scraping the rough walls as she ricocheted back the way she had come. The stench and skin-crawl sensation that claws and jagged teeth were only a foot from her made the bile rise again in her throat. She spat it out. The shopping tingle turned to tinkle that leaked down her legs as she ran. Her heavy mascara ran from tears she hadn’t realized she had shed. She lost one shoe, and the other came loose… clop-clopping on the concrete, its beat matching the thud of her heart until it kicked off and spun into the darkness ahead of her.

She squinted up. Ahead and above was a lighted opening. Kathy could barely see the steps of the Down escalator she had just ridden, moving—moving—moving but carrying no one. To the left were concrete steps. As she scrambled up them, a hand grabbed the back of her jacket, long nails piercing it, and her sleeveless black t-shirt to find soft flesh. With a tearing and pinch-rip of skin, Kathy pulled free—leaving the jacket behind—and shot ahead of what shambled behind her. Unable to see anything, she climbed, reaching a barrier that sealed off the stairs. Looking back at how close they were, Kathy slammed into the metal sheet covering that capped off the stairs. It did not shift; she wasn’t moving it from her way.

Kathy turned to face downward. Below her, halfway up the stairs, was a cluster of Morlock eyes and pale, ravenous faces. Instead of a deal, she found the undead. The group stopped just short of the opening to the Down escalator. Beneath them, on the steps, the concrete showed hardened crimson blotches. She had nowhere to go.

Panting, Kathy knew she had only one choice. Back down the stairs, over the rail, onto the Down escalator, and run up as it descended. She stared at the thin piece of plastic in her hand. The girl—Frida’s—flesh had burned and blackened at its touch. Holding it before her, a Lady Van Helsing brandishing her religious icon, she went down the steps. Lips writhed on the dozen creatures below her as they emitted guttural growls. But they didn’t back away until she was two steps above them and almost even with the opening.

Kathy thrust the fist-held plastic at them, and as they flinched, she stepped down and drove-pushed off her left leg to sprawl over the separating rail and fall onto the escalator. Facing downward, on knees and hands, it carried her back into the darkness below. And there, the gleam of eyes and teeth had grown. They waited for her. She pivoted to face up, got to her feet, and sprinted. Legs pumping and heaving—fighting—up the descending steps.

She stagger-crawled, gasping onto the second floor with a bloodied head, makeup-smeared face, shredded t-shirt, peed-in pants torn at the knees, and the remains of her breakfast on her chin and chest. None of the shoppers walking by stopped. “What kind of crazy Stephen-fucking-King town is this?” she screamed. No one looked at her. Turning from them, she spotted the Parking Level II sign with the arrow pointing the way. Kathy followed it, wiping her face with her hands. The phone buzzed in her pocket a half second before the ringtone. Smearing what had come from her nose and mouth on her pants, she pulled it out. “Sam!”

“Hi, Honey, I’m ready to unload the U-Haul.”

“Don’t!” she cried. Looking at the black rectangle she still carried in her other hand, coated with some greenish-red viscid mucus already drying on the plastic, covering the lower part of the Costco Executive Member Card. She’d need to get a new one.

“What is it, Honey!”

“I’m not living in this town,” she ran toward her car, “and God, as my witness, I’ll never go to a mall again.”

Minutes later, tires squealing, she sped out of the garage on the access road to merge onto the highway. A bitter North wind had picked up strength, and the trees—even the thick old-timers—lining the road bent and swayed. The gnarled limbs of the ancient oak shifted in the gusts, revealing and then obscuring the lettering of the sign Kathy had seen earlier:

W I N D I G O   G R O V E.

# # #

A Note from Dennis:

The Wendigo (or Windigo; it has several spellings) is a *First Nations legend of a cannibalistic monster purportedly created by the greed and selfishness of Man. The creature—usually the oldest in a region—can also possess humans, turning them into monsters.

Nahanni (the fictitious setting for the story) is a place-name–a location–with its own haunting myths and legends. Check out its lore.

This brief story is not an admonition against shopping. It’s a cautionary tale—one to keep in mind—if you’re somewhere new, unfamiliar, or seeking something… and someone or some sign says they or it will lead you to what you want. Be careful, very careful. It’s dangerous out there.

*First Nations are indigenous peoples—ethnic groups—who are the earliest known inhabitants of an area.

A Time When It Was Fast [FlashFiction]

A flashfiction scene based on the above photo.

“Nothing behind me, everything ahead of me, as is ever so on the road.”–Jack Kerouac

EVERY PICTURE TELLS A STORY from Dennis Lowery (black)

Pleased her son had found it, the white-haired woman regretted it had sat there for years. Neglected. Forgotten. Still… there was a time when it was fast.

She closed her eyes.

With his heavy foot on the gas… oh, how it had made their hearts race. With each clutch and shift, his thigh rubbed hers, a sensual frisson. Freed by a necker’s knob, his brawny arm around her shoulders had held her tight. His fingers grazed the arc of her breast as they leaned in the curves and thundered down the highway. It didn’t matter where the road was going as long as they were together.

“Why are you smiling, Grandma?”

She turned to the young woman, her questioning look framed by a squint that drew the freckles—she had long ago told her were angel kisses—closer. “Katie, this was your grandfather’s first car.”

The girl looked at the car and then back. “I miss him.”

“I do too, dear. With all my heart.” Wind whipping her silver locks into a tangle, she placed her palm over a now wizened chest. “But he’s still inside.”

Katie hugged her tight, and the old woman felt those young arms—and her husband’s love—hold her. She let her go and watched as her granddaughter parted the dense thicket of tall grass and weeds to stand next to the once-abandoned car, touched, and patted its fender.

“I feel him with us, Grandma!” Brighter than the afternoon sun, Katie’s smile spread that dusting of speckles.

“I know, honey… I do, too.” And she knew he always would be.

EVERY PICTURE TELLS A STORY (tagline black)

Good Dog, Bad Man…

Sometimes the images create the words… sometimes the words create the images.

“This one made my heart hurt a little.” –Dawn Jackson

One of Those–Hot Texas–Nights [Creative Nonfiction]

We’ve ghostwritten and co-written nine memoirs and helped edit and publish over a dozen. We’re often asked about the difference between nonfiction and creative nonfiction. As a good writer understands… it’s best to ‘show’ not ‘tell,’ so here’s a creative nonfiction vignette–one in a series of stories–written by Dennis Lowery for his daughters (that others have enjoyed).

Some of the reader comments:

“Music often equals ‘moments’ for me. These little flashback memories that make me smile as I am driving, or working or just sharing with my kids. I think those are life’s soundtrack moments. Love that you share with your kids and the rest of us.” —Dawn Jackson

“It’s beautiful and important, making memories with those you love. Everything Dennis writes is just…. special, different, brilliant! You must be so aware of every moment, that you are able to tell about it in such great detail. You paint pictures with your words. Full color with sound and smell! Every time, it’s like I’m there! I love your writing” –Nina Anthonijsz

“Lowery writes really, really well.” –Kevyne Shandris

“Beautiful story…” –Lefti K.

“I had forgotten that I listened to this song often in my childhood. It is nice to hear it again. That you wrote a story around the song is truly amazing. You just keep proving, over and over again, what a talented writer you are. Keep it going. Hope to see more.” –Brenda Church



I sang along as I made notes in my planner at the kitchen table with Alpha and Beta (my two youngest daughters—twins—but not their real names), who were finishing their breakfast. “Dad, is this song a 10?” Alpha asked.

Sipping my coffee, I nodded as I set my cup down. Now, it’s hard for a song (or anything) to get a 10 from me. And for a song or album to earn that… it has to be great and tied to a particular memory. So, some fantastic songs end up as favorites, but only 9s. Alpha and Beta grill me on those songs that are 10s. And I always pause—to build a sense of expectation—and think about how to describe the experience that made the song a 10. Seeing the expectant look on their faces, I smiled.

“It is. I love this… it’s my favorite by the Eagles. And I remember the first time I heard it when I was around your age.” I finished my coffee and motioned for them to clear the table.

“In June 1975, I was fifteen years old—not much younger than you now—and worked at an antique store (more of an antique barn) close to my home, down Highway 7 South in Lake Hamilton. The owners had been there for years and did quite the business with tourists and visitors, especially during racing season (thoroughbreds) in Hot Springs at Oaklawn. I still remember how I got hired. When I met with the owner and his wife (a couple in their early 60s but hard to judge since anyone over 40 seemed ancient back then), they had just received a small flatbed-trailer load of marble sheets. I learned they would cut down, shape, and fit the marble as table, vanity, or countertops on wooden frames and furniture for resale. As she left us, Ann Davis told her husband to wait to unload the trailer until he could get someone to help or, better yet, someone to do it for him.

“I wanted the job, so I unloaded the trailer instead of standing there talking to him. ‘Where do these go, Mr. Davis?’ I asked, and he motioned for me to follow him. I was strong and could carry a sheet myself. The slabs were about 2 feet wide, 4 feet long, and an inch thick; each weighed around 100 pounds. I weighed maybe a solid 155. I unloaded the ten slabs and walked them about 40 feet into the work area, where he had his saws and wet-sanders. Returning outside, he watched me without saying a word. I came back out after the last one, soaked with sweat, and pulled my t-shirt up to wipe my face. ‘Ann,’ he hollered toward his house, which was nearby—I had seen his wife moving around behind the kitchen window. She stuck her head out. ‘Get this boy a co-cola.’ Back then, she brought me a Coke with a pull-off-tab style can. You always cussed when you stepped barefoot on the tab some idiot had dropped on the ground instead of throwing it in the trash. I put the tab from the can in my pocket, drank the Coke in three gulps, and had to smother a belch. Mr. Davis took a five-dollar bill out of his wallet, gave it to me, and said: ‘You’re hired.’

“I learned to cut and polish marble that summer and to trace and carve designs in wood used for tabletops and fill with different grain wood-putty. Sanded down and refinished, they were elegant, beautiful. They’d take a table bought for $5 or $10, fix any shaky legs, put a new top on it, and sell it for anywhere from $50 to $100+. One week, the hottest one of that summer so far, Mr. Davis asked me to help him at an antique and flea market event the coming weekend in Quitman, Texas, about a 4-hour drive away.

“That Friday, we loaded and were on the road by late afternoon. Back then, as you traveled, your radio reception faded in and out. At sundown, a clear station (signals grew stronger at night) and a song came through the crappy dashboard speaker of Mr. Davis’s cargo van. I asked him if I could turn it up. A curt nod was my answer, and I did. The singer’s voice was rich and pure, the melody haunting… the guitar riffs distinctive, and just as the sound steadied, it wandered off in a static hiss. Damn… it was a cool song and one new to me. My thoughts shifted, and I went back to watching the side of the road fly by. Not much to see.

“It was hot; heat lightning crackled and forked in the sky ahead. I had my window rolled down, and the warm air flowing dried the sweat on my right arm and shoulder, but my back was sticking to the cracked vinyl seat, as was my ass in my Levi’s. The heat came off the floorboard and radiated through my black canvas Converse and down from the metal roof with its thin lining. Sweat ran down my chest, stinging where I had sprouted chest hair, and coursed along my neck, through the V of my back muscles, and right into the seat of my jeans. As uncomfortable as that sounds—and it was—I was used to the lack of air conditioning.

“The roadside and telephone poles raced by. In the distance were a low band of fading sun and a haze of clouds. A lightning strike lighted a patch of them, a purpling-blue as its bright lance stabbed down. At a rare bend in the road, I looked back. Off to the east, a sprinkling of stars showed through a tear in the blanket of clouds that revealed the night sky. A shooting star cut a path through the opening as the static from the radio cleared. A DJ’s voice, swelling loud and steady, came from the speaker: ‘Here’s something new for your Friday night… perfect for the start of your weekend, One of These Nights by the Eagles.’

“And there it was. The song I’d caught part of 15 or 20 minutes earlier. That iconic opening by lead guitarist Don Felder and then Don Henley on vocals. I drank in every chord, every beat, and word. Didn’t feel the heat or the sweat and wasn’t tired from the long day, which had started at 06:00 AM that morning, and having done all the loading and knowing when we arrived, I would do all the unloading. The air streaming from the window carried a first hint of the freshness of the evening. The sun was now down and just a narrow orange-yellow band on the distant horizon to my right. I hand-surfed to the beat of the song, idly enjoying how the current of air buffeted the palm of my hand. As the song ended, I leaned out the window and let the night air dry the sweat on my face and neck, though it would blow my long hair into wild disarray. I was happy to be—kind of—on my own and headed somewhere I’d never been before. I smiled and tested my memory of the song. The wind caught my singing and scattered along the highway. It became one of those nights and moments to remember all my life.”

I sat back as Alpha and Beta grinned at me. I asked them, “Do you know why I tell you these little stories and memories from when I was young?”

“Because you want us to know why you liked the music,” Beta replied.

“Nope. Because maybe when you hear the song again… maybe you’ll remember all the times we sat at the kitchen table and talked. And to know they—these times like now, just sitting and talking—mean an awful lot to your dad.” I stood, went over, and gave each a kiss on top of their head. “Now,” I smiled, “you girls finish getting ready for school.”


From the Author:

“The wonderful thing about writing down moments and memories is that the act of writing itself becomes an extraordinary moment. As I wrote, I could see–and still see–my twins sitting at the emerald green and white tile kitchen table we had back then with matching ‘don’t want to go to school’ expressions as I told them this story.” —Dennis Lowery

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About THE LAST AUGUR | ARRIVAL

It wasn’t her mission, but it became her duty.

Iris Jondarc lost everything—her family, home, friends, and future. All that remains is the mission she was not selected for. But she’s the only one left; she sacrifices who she is to become the last Augur.

Then the mission fails… she fails.

Iris, a messenger intending to warn and save mankind, didn’t make it in time. Arriving in 1977, injured and found by a cruel, depraved man, she’s locked away in a secret room where she remains unconscious amid a swirl of vague, painful memories of a life she barely remembers. Awakened to blood and violence to find that instead of the decades of preparation she was to deliver humanity… it’s unaware it faces the same fate that befell her people.

Can she still fulfill her mission and save mankind? And, can she reclaim what she gave up so long ago?

The Last Augur – ARRIVAL is a gripping tale of survival and purpose, where one woman’s struggle to save a world that isn’t hers becomes a fight to rediscover her humanity.


From Advance Readers of the story (working title ALL I AM, delivered in serial installments), which has expanded into a longer version titled The Last Augur | ARRIVAL (for 2025):

“Well, I read it… and all I have to say is “DAMMIT!” too short… you had me all sucked in with it. 😀 Really it was like a movie in the pace it’s to be read at. A lot going on. Excellent short story Dennis Lowery. I really enjoyed it, and there is definitely room to make it into a longer story. Not to stroke your ego, but you do a wonderful job of immediately pulling someone into a story. I had been reading a long novel by Gore Vidal called Creation. It’s an excellent book, but it takes a bit to get into it… To compare the two (which really isn’t fair to either of you) it’s like taking a pleasant drive in a mild convertible (the Gore Vidal book I was reading), then suddenly, you round the corner and you’re in a 1000hp beast pushing the corners hanging on tight to the steering wheel. 😀 That was what it felt like when I mentally shifted gears and got pulled into your story. Well done, well done.” –Dan Syes, about All I AM [expanded into The Last Augur | ARRIVAL]

“Quite how you portray such things through mere words never fails to amaze me.” –Nyan N.

“Just finished reading it, and you certainly have to keep building on this story. The world wants more of this. I really liked it and it especially hit its stride once you toned down the Sci-Fi techno terms from the first chapter. The humanness in it, the small touches and grounded everyday people, their little things, doings, and feelings is what sold me. The swift action itself was made the stronger because of the moshy stuff, and vice versa, a very well-balanced story – a little Game of Thrones’esque in that regard. Well, different times and writing of course, but part-brutal action has its well-deserved place in a good character-driven fictional story and I think you did that balancing act very well here. So now you just have to write a full-fledged book, or why not an entire universe since I am sure there is room for many books hidden in this short story.” –Michael Koontz

“Another great story! Lowery is truly a Jack of all pens; is there any genre the man can’t write?” –E. W. Johnson

“Wow! That’s really impressive! Very nice (in a creepy kind of way).” –Damian Trasler

“Wow! Awesome, thank you.” –Conrad Ross

“Amazing.” –Atai Sumaya

“Interesting and suspenseful. I really enjoyed reading this episode. It kept my attention, I can’t wait for the next one!”– Cindy Chaney

PART 1 – “Ok. I’m hooked! Can’t wait for tomorrow’s installment but I guess I’ll have to. That sucks.” –P. Tane, about the serialization of All That I Am and they continued the next day with: PART 2- “Well, that was interesting. Still can’t wait to read more.” and the following day: PART 3 – “Ok. So what happened to the girl? The old lady apparently died in the rocking chair, but the girl was supposedly in some kind of a coma. You are killing me! Gahhhhhh!” And about PART 4 – “I’d rather wait for the installments. The story is proving interesting as I figured it might. I’m really enjoying your writing. I can’t wait for another exciting sci-fi [part].” PART 5 – “Oh, dude! You got me on the edge of my seat! What the hell! These are just small bit pieces you’re giving us. I need more! Pleeeeease!” –P. Tane

All I Am will leave you wanting more with its perfect balance of suspense and horror.” –J. Payamps

RISING SUN | SETTING SUN [Fiction]

“Excellent short story. Your writing style reminds me of my favorite short story author–O’Henry!” – James G. Zumwalt

“It has an F. Scott Fitzgerald feel to it…. Irony. How wonderful. I love this story.” – Vicky Kline


“Be resolved that honor is heavier than the mountains
and death lighter than the feather.”
―Yasuo Kuwahara

July 4th, 1945

The sun broke through the clouds and spilled shafts of light across the field. Beams fell across the line of aircraft, engines idling, revealing the first as the only one without a patchwork of repairs and binding. The others were Frankenstein creatures in the dawn light.

‘Like the monster in that American movie,’ Isamu thought. His mother had taken him to the movie’s re-showing for his birthday in San Francisco. She exclaimed, “Isamu, why do you like these awful movies? They are not suitable for you.” Still, she had taken him.

His mother had been an appreciated, if not respected, cleaning woman in America for six years. After December 7th of 1941, that changed to loathing and abuse. Just before internment, she and Isamu had fled to her family in Nippon.

Nearly four years later, on March 9th of 1945, she died hating the Americans. That first night of the firebombing of Tokyo killed over 100,000 others and left a million homeless.

Today was her birthday and his; an irony that it was also one of great celebration by Americans. For him, it had become a day of no meaning, ‘yet one that now meant everything,’ he thought as he stood at rigid attention. Slender, tall for his age, and fine-featured, Isamu squinted into the sunrise. Long fingers held the soft cover on his head as the wind whipped across the field. He was sixteen years old.

A man stood near a small building, an impermanent wooden blemish on the verdant field. The kaigun-dai’s—the lieutenant’s—empty right sleeve of his uniform tunic pinned to his shoulder flapped in the wind. Despite the asymmetry of a missing arm, he was powerfully built. Solid chest and thick neck; a sturdy pillar for a burn-scarred head that lacked an eye. Face stiff with pride, when he moved, you could see a vestige of the man—the ferocious carrier pilot—he had once been. Shattered legs healed but never the same, he heaved them, haltingly one in front of the other, toward the five young men.

The kaigun-dai glared one-eyed into the sun, refusing to yield and use his one hand to shade it. After a defiant moment, he glanced back at the line of pilots. ‘Boys, he thought, ‘mere children.’ He turned to face them, putting the sun behind him. “Today, you serve the emperor as do I. Today, we become immortal!” The words from his mouth were bitter, false. But no matter… all was lost. With a fierce scowl, he willed them to raise their eyes to meet his before he lurched to the last airplane in line.

The smallest and youngest boy stepped forward and marched quickly to meet the officer at the aircraft. Saluting the lieutenant, the boy climbed in, and a mechanic locked the cockpit canopy on each side. It went quickly… three more boys, three more airplanes, then the last boy and second aircraft in line.

Striding to his aircraft, Isamu saluted. The shine on the officer’s hard face caught his eye for a second’s pause. Sweat or tears, he didn’t know. A blind eye still weeps… a hardhearted soul still sweats. It didn’t matter which. Isamu climbed into the cockpit and watched numbly as the sergeant secured the side closest to the kaigun-dai. Not looking at him, the mechanic came around to the right and tried to seat the bolts, but that side had been repaired with wood already splintering, and the bolts no longer held. Not mentioning it to the kaigun-dai, the sergeant returned to stand by the building.

Left-handed, the kaigun-dai saluted the line and shambled to the lead airplane, the only genuinely worthy aircraft for a warrior, a tired, worn, but still deadly Mitsubishi A6M, Type Zero. Waving off help from the mechanic, he awkwardly one-arm pulled himself up the short ladder onto the wing and swung crooked legs into the cockpit. Unsealed, he would not have doubts or question duty.

The child-pilots’ three weeks of instruction had included no navigational training. They had barely absorbed basic instrument reading, power settings, and control movements. Hatchlings shoved too soon from the nest; today was their first solo flight. Lack of training would get them killed, but staying alive beyond today wasn’t the point.

At the side of the field, the sergeant waved a red flag. Isamu advanced his power setting three notches with the brakes on. He felt the shake of the increased RPMs. Not the shudder of power barely held in check, more the convulsing of a wounded animal forced to run when it wanted to lie down and die, a moan low in its throat. The green flag raised. Holding brakes, he went through what the kaigun-dai had drilled into them: Set power to half, study the aircraft’s tail ahead, and release brakes once it moved. When rolling, advance power to three-quarters. Speed at 60; ease back on the stick; one more notch of power. Get wheels off the ground.

Airborne, the wind pushed him with the palm of its hand. A steady shove. In only a matter of minutes and a short distance from the field—geese once a hunter fires their first shot—they were scattered. The wind, god’s breath moving clouds around a cerulean sky, startled them in all directions. Fighting it and trying to remember how to adjust trim to follow the lead aircraft; behind Isamu, others failed and angled off as the wind took them.

It was not far to fly. The American ships drew closer each day, their pounding guns never-ceasing… the shells never-ending. Their submarines, sharks, severing the arteries of his country. Their airplanes, first buzzing insects, then ravening crows, devouring the fields, now buzzards. Carrion eaters circling with mouths agape over the dead and dying.

Isamu glanced at the control stick. His hands—artist’s hands, his mother called them—gripped it. It shook and shivered in his grasp. The twitching of a dying animal. Soon he was over the Americans. So many ships! The sky became a garden of death flowers; black bursts of metal shards blossomed on their long smoke stalks and filled his view. Each bloom sought his life. Fireworks of the deadliest kind.

Ahead, the kaigun-dai’s Zero pitched down and dropped on a gray ship below. Explosions flailed the sky as Isamu pushed into a following dive. Fire and smoke ahead and below. Suddenly, the lead aircraft spun off to the right. One wing gone, its tail blown off… a discarded carcass, now it—and the kaigun-dai—nothing but food for the fish.

The ship filled Isamu’s windscreen. Its bridge and forward gun showed broad swaths of fresh paint and new rust in exquisite clarity. The gun centered, and he stared down the black maw of his death. A flash as he flinched, yanking the stick to the right, and the ship slid to the left. Ahead—for him—only gray-green churning water.

Slammed into the water, a rattle-shock of a can full of rocks dropped from a tall building onto the pavement, and the cockpit canopy gave way. The taste of bright coppery blood and bits of teeth in a ruined mouth, Isamu’s hands still gripped the stick. It was quiet, then his mother’s voice whispered, ‘beautiful hands, artists’ hands.’ All Isamu saw before him were those of a weakling as the waves took him under.

* * *

July 7th, 2012

‘… with the greatest respect, we congratulate you on your retirement after a long and honorable career in government.’

The quaking hands holding the creased paper Isamu read from were knotted, and gnarled fingers twisted like roots of a plant confined in a too-small pot. “Coward’s hands,” Isamu murmured. The reflection in the plexiglass displayed a scarred face and gaunt features eroded by life. Never married, he had served his country for many years, but once—when it needed him most—he’d turned from duty… from honor. Only to be pulled from the water and saved by those he hated. That still haunted him; his mother’s spirit would not let him forget… or forgive. Perhaps today, he could put it—and her—to rest, as should have been done decades ago.

But even for cowards, life is precious. He put the paper down on the right-hand seat of the Cessna. Sitting on the runway of the small airfield near Yokosuka, the late afternoon sunlight slanted onto his face through the windscreen. It caught each line and the scars that marked it. Twenty years after the war, Isamu had become a proper pilot. When he flew, it was always with the failure of what should have been his first and only solo flight in July 1945. Five years ago, he’d bought this small airplane and kept it at a private airfield close to the coast. Paying extra to the owner so he’d not question whether an old, frail, skeletal man should fly alone.

It was time. Isamu did not think he could wait longer. The doctors had used the phrase, ‘on borrowed time,’ an Americanism he did not care for. He had paid for it in pain, blood, and decades of near-sleepless nights. The old wounds on his face and those ever-new hidden inside, his receipt. Tired of idling, the engine called him back. He must start. Advance the throttle three notches, holding the brakes. Release slowly, advancing the throttle to half and then three-quarters. Ground speed 60 and pull back firmly. Add power. Get wheels off the ground. Isamu’s hands gripped the control column; not a stick but like driving a car. As he climbed, he noted, ‘no wind today,’ and turned to the east, the setting sun at his back. Bloody clouds bunched behind him; he flew out three miles, turned north, and then west again to approach Yokosuka harbor and the U.S. Naval Base from the sea.

The port was quiet this late Saturday afternoon. The ships below lined the piers and docks. Over the port, at 200 feet, he slowed and turned to choose his target.

* * *

Onboard the USS Montgomery, the ship’s quarterdeck and fantail were crowded with people, the spillover from the American-style 4th of July celebration cook-out ending on the helo deck a level above. The deck watch monitored the visiting school kids and their chaperones. They did not see the aircraft until it was nearly over the middle of the turning basin. Petty Officer OS2 Morgan Behrry called to the Officer of the Deck, “Mr. Walker, you see that airplane?”

“Yes, now I do… what in the hell is he doing… trying to spot something?”

“He’s made two turns and slowed; he’s gonna stall and go for a swim if he isn’t careful. Duffy, bring me those binoculars.” Morgan took them from the seaman Messenger and focused on the airplane as it arced toward them.

“Mr. Walker, that asshole has banked straight for us; crazy shit happens, sir; I’d clear the deck and call security alert.”

Still studying the approaching aircraft, the officer didn’t reply.

“Sir, what are your orders?” Morgan asked and waited. “Fuck,” Morgan muttered as the ensign seemed undecided. The airplane had dropped further and picked up speed; he ran to the 1MC… “Security alert, security alert, all hands man their security alert stations. Security alert team and back-up alert force to the quarterdeck port side.”

Turning from the 1MC, Morgan snapped out, “Duffy, clear the deck and get these kids off the fantail and onto the pier.” Stepping to the port side, he took a clip out for his Beretta M9. “Mr. Walker, I’m loading my weapon and chambering a round.” Slingshotting the first bullet, he stepped to the rail and faced the aircraft now plummeting on them. Ready to shoot and run like hell, he sighted on the windscreen where the pilot would sit. It kept coming. Not waiting for the SAT and BAF teams, he exhaled and squeezed the trigger….

* * *

With the dying sun in his face, Isamu thought, ‘I will not disgrace myself.’ He studied the ship growing larger before him; startled, he could now see people on the deck. Japanese children were on the ship running to crowd the gangplank onto the pier.

With a jolt and a loud crack, the windscreen starred with a spider web of cracks and blew in. Blood flowed from where part of his forehead had been blown away and gashes from the shards of the windshield’s stretched acrylic glass. Isamu pitched down and pushed right. Seconds later, he slammed into the water beside the ship; the gray-green water welcomed him as it had so long ago.

As the water surged through the shattered windscreen and over his head, Isamu held his hands to his face, ‘artist’s hands, to create, not destroy.’ “I am sorry, Mother,” he cried as her ghost finally released him.

As the aircraft settled, so did his soul. There was quiet and peace as the soothing waters washed his torn face, easing old pain as the sea took him, never to let go.

As it should have long ago.

# # #

“But seek only to preserve life, your own and those of others.
Life alone is sacred.”
 ―Yasuo Kuwahara

The Sign of Fools & Sages [Creative Nonfiction]

Dream On started. I was at the kitchen counter, making sandwiches.

“Do you like this song?” I asked my two youngest—twin—daughters. Alpha and Beta [not their real names] nodded simultaneously, Beta with her spoon still in her mouth.

“Do you know the words?” Beta asked, wiping milk from her chin.

“One of my favorite songs to sing.”

It’s a thing with us, listening to music as they eat breakfast while I make their lunches for school. Also excellent talk time (with topics ranging from the music to things silly and serious). We discuss school and what they’re studying. They ask me about stories I’m working on… and we talk about travel, places we’ve been, and where we want to go. And I talk about life (often my stories are a good segue).

I had my phone on the kitchen table, Bluetoothed to our home music system. [I relish the rich sound from the speakers set in the high ceilings and bass thrum from the subwoofer on the floor in the corner.] We enjoy new music but play a lot of oldies: the 60s and 70s (the decades of my youth) with some from the 50s to go way back. My twins are the only kids in their grade that know all the words to Zager & Evans ‘In The Year 2525.’ And a slew of songs from The Temptations (you should hear them sing ‘Ball of Confusion’), Johnny Rivers and Bad Company, and other greats from back then. We were recently on a Styx kick, pre-Mr. Roboto songs.

I walked over and turned the phone so Alpha and Beta could watch the lyrics scroll. A favorite line was coming up, and I sang along. “Half my life’s in books, written pages. Live and learn from fools and from sages….” Beta stopped me with a question—I hate to stop when I’m rock-n-rolling—but it was a good one. The question a parent needs to consider and answer thoughtfully.

“How do you learn from fools, Dad?”

I turned the volume down (sorry, Steven Tyler). “Well,” I sat at the end of the table, “it’s important to pay attention to all kinds of people around you. But mostly those closest you might listen to or think you can learn from. Watch how they act and interact, what they say and do, especially the impression they give you. And then compare that to reality.”

Alpha’s bagel kicked up in the toaster. I put it on a small plate for her and brought it and the not-really-butter spread she likes to the table. [I’m a butter believer and look down on such pretenders, but she loves the stuff.] I explained what I meant. “Does what they say and do make sense.

Alpha raised her hand and glanced at Beta before speaking—it seems twins do that; I think it’s telepathy—and, they said, shaking their heads, “Martin.” [Name changed to protect the not-so-innocent. I’ve heard tales about Martin; heaven help his parents.]

I nodded and continued. “Odd and unusual people are easy to spot. You learn to avoid them and not take them seriously. But Fools can be hard to identify and often sound like they know what theyre talking about.”

Alpha had not-really-buttered her fingers, and I handed her a napkin. She asked, “How can you tell?”

“If they tell you about things, they can do… but never do them. Or when they do, it never works out, as they said. And they always want to blame someone else… they never take responsibility. People like that and those full of excuses are not the ones you should listen to… chances are they are Fools or delusional.”

“Does delusional mean crazy?” Alpha asked.

“No.” Though in my mind, I thought of people I’d met and known who seemed at odds with reality and could qualify as bughouse bizarre… batshit crazy. “Not exactly. It means the world inside their head is not the same world normal, rational people live in. No matter what reality shows them, they still believe in their own version of things. Stay far away from people like that… they’re Fools.”

Beta studied me. “But Sages are wise; smart people. Right?”

Back at the counter to gather their lunch stuff and put in their bags, I sipped my coffee, nodding. “Supposed to be.” I took another drink.

I didn’t (don’t) want to make my daughters grow up paranoid or suspicious of things and people in the world. But I think it’s crucial to learn not to place faith in anyone or anything because of a label, position, title, or perception they are an authority. And not because the media covers them extensively. That does not confirm, nor is that evidence of their value. My girls need to know to verify and validate that for themselves. I told them. “People who get things done and are right more times than wrong… who have authentic experience and produce actual results aligned with doing whats right. People who, when they talk, make sense and show intelligence and compassion… and you can match words to accomplishments and action. They are the ones worth listening to.”

I gave them the line again from the song. Yes, I sang it: “Live and learn from fools and from sages….” I want them to learn to acknowledge labels or reputations, but—and this is a big but, and I cannot lie—I want them to define people and assess situations based on their own relevant criteria. I continued, “Something important in life to understand.” [That’s not the first or hundredth time they’ve heard me say that. I got eye-roll from them but kept going.] “You can learn from both types of people. The way to do that is to judge by actions… results, not words. Listen to what people say, but what they do is more important. If a person proves to be a Sage, an intelligent person with sound, moral, ethical, judgment… then their words have weight.”

Beta raised her hand. “What does ‘weight’ mean—you know—how you just said it?”

“It means to take them seriously and listen. They have value and merit attention.” I went to the pantry for napkins and came out with their allotment. [I harp on being wasteful… my ‘don’t use more than you really need’ thing. If they have five, they’ll use five… if they have one, they’ll use it wisely. On pudding or fruit cup days, they get an extra napkin. I’m not unsympathetic on this issue.] “But don’t give people’s words power over you. Only you can—rationally, logically, and contextually—decide what’s right and wrong for you.”

Alpha poured more milk, adding some to Beta’s glass. “But what can you learn from fools?” She brought me back around to the original question.

“What not to do… and how not to be. We don’t live in a perfect world, and humans are imperfect, too. We all have flaws. The thing to do is to not just understand our flaws but also see them in others. Because that can be a factor in gauging the value of what they’re telling you and any advice they give you.” I put a drink-box, chocolate milk today, a snack bag of carrots, fudge brownie, and their sandwiches (Alpha’s turkey with mayonnaise and Beta’s peanut butter—not spread too thick—with grape jelly) into their lunch bags.

I made my ‘wind it up’ motion, twirling my index finger and hand clockwise to speed them up, an eat-your-cereal signal. “Fools can talk a lot and have little worth listening to. Sages may not say much, but when they do… you listen. And the most important thing is to think about what they say and decide what it means to you. That’s called giving it context.”

It was time to finish so they could read before walking to the bus stop. Alpha and Beta brought their bowls to the sink. Murphy—our Irish Terrier, my only boy—had discovered two Cheerios under Alpha’s chair and was underfoot exploring for more. While they wiped down the kitchen table and counters, another song came to mind, another favorite of mine. I switched from Pandora to my music library, found Simple Man by Lynyrd Skynyrd, and pressed play. It got to the line I wanted before they finished cleaning up. I put my hand on their shoulders, and they looked up at me. I sang a slightly changed version of a line from that song:

“Your father’s telling you… while you’re young. Come sit beside me, my lovely ones. And listen closely to what I say. If you do this… It’ll help you in so many ways.”

They smiled at me—used to this sort of thing—and hugged me. As they headed to their bathroom to brush their teeth and hair, I told them, “We’ll talk more about this….”

And we will….

SONGS MENTIONED:

Dream On – Aerosmith

http://youtu.be/yyfNHlqymP8

In The Year 2525 – Zager and Evans

http://youtu.be/izQB2-Kmiic

Ball of Confusion – The Temptations

http://youtu.be/-9poCAuYT-s

Simple Man – Lynyrd Skynyrd

http://youtu.be/sMmTkKz60W8

CRY FOR JERUSALEM | Progress on Film-TV Series Development

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CRY FOR JERUSALEM is one of our historical fiction projects–five years in development and writing–working with the author, Dr. Ward Sanford. A series of four novels covering the seven years leading up to the destruction of Jerusalem and its Temple by the Roman Empire in 70 CE.

CRY FOR JERUSALEM (one of our Historical Fiction Projects) Film-TV Series update
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