Introducing
Fuel For The Fire
by
Elizabeth Phillips Goehringer
Fuel For The Fire - Art & Text Copyright Elizabeth Goehringer
Janisa Clark is desperately searching for her missing daughter. Dead or alive she has to find her. In the process she opens a squirming, lethal kettle of worms threatening anyone helping her and reaching to the highest office of the nation...and beyond.
"A missing child, corrupt Senators, gang-bangers and a New Age Commune weave an intricate plot of power at any price."
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Continue reading below for an Open Book preview of the Prologue to Fuel For The Fire.
CLICK HERE to learn how I created this cover for Fuel For The Fire.
Open BookPrologue: Fuel For The FireThe late April day was unseasonably hot and the intermittent drizzle had brought humidity instead of relief. The woman mopped at her pink cheeks while peering myopically down the block. No bus! She frowned, looked in the opposite direction and then over her shoulder as she pushed back a damp lock of silver and brown hair from her forehead, snapped open her shoulder bag and retrieved an eyeglass case.
While she pulled out a pair of glasses and tucked the arms behind her ears, she impatiently searched the distant street corner for the familiar glass domed shape. The unexpected heat had squeezed more than the usual number of sweaty, miserable bodies from the South End's three and four layered apartment houses, but there was no sign of the bus.
She lifted her wrist to glance at her watch, and the eyeglass case slipped to the sidewalk. As she bent to pick it up, a dark hand suddenly plucked it from beneath her. Startled, she straightened up as a young black man handed the case to her.
"Let me help you ma’am.” His accent was Jamaican, but he dragged out the words in an exaggerated drawl. The words were polite, but there was something unpleasant about the way he said them and the combination of his sleeveless leather jacket, heavy gold jewelry, dark glasses and tattoos didn't inspire confidence. His lips were smiling, but the rest of his face was hard.
She had never seen him before and moved back a step. "Thank you for helping." She wanted to get away and anxiously searched for the bus again. Two other young men in similar apparel were strolling purposefully toward the bus stop. "Irie - no problem. Get my drift?” His head was high. Cocky. He looked down at her from under his sunglasses and stepped closer to her.
She didn't get his drift, but her heart thudded and her hand trembled slightly as she pulled her purse tightly to her side. Get a hold of yourself, she thought, He’s right. There's no problem. They're just coming to the bus stop. Behind her a roar sounded and she gratefully turned toward the bus as it squeaked and hissed to a halt.
She sank into a seat in its middle as the three tough looking men headed for the rear. She was glad there were other passengers, but there was still something wrong. She could feel it. There had been something wrong for a long time, but the sense of impending doom had accelerated since she had quit her job. But I had to quit, she rationalized. There was no longer a choice. Not if I wanted to live with myself. And now there's just one more task I have left to do and then I can pack up. She smiled a slight smile, and whispered faintly to herself, "And it's a good task. A wonderful task."
The bus stopped and picked up additional passengers. Safety in numbers, she thought with relief. She shifted in the clammy vinyl seat and sighed as she mused, besides this fear is nothing but a feeling. No facts. Just feelings. She took a deep breath. The air-conditioning felt wonderful! And it was almost rush hour. The bus would be full before she got off. Everything is going to be all right. No problem. Irie, like the man said. She allowed the West Indian colloquialism to reassure her as she recited to herself, I’m close…so close. Just four more stops.
She reached into her bag, took out a compact, angled it so that she could see her face in the mirror and brushed some blush over her cheeks and chin. She readjusted the mirror as the bus jolted to a stop and the doors folded open. In the momentary lull while passengers loaded and unloaded, she applied a fresh coat of lipstick, but suddenly caught a reflection of the back of the bus. The aisle seemed to be filled with gang types. She squinted into the mirror. This is the last downtown stop. They should be getting off, she worried. But then her eyes opened wider and the hand with the lipstick froze as a new passenger briefly stepped in range of her mirror. The gang was forgotten. Everything was forgotten. The lipstick and compact dropped into her purse. There were other stops, but she hardly noticed.
Her stop was next. She reflexively reached up to pull the cord to signal the driver to stop. It was her habit to exit by the front door. It was safer, but now her curiosity propelled her toward the rear. As she rose from her seat, she nervously turned to see if she had correctly identified the passenger in the back, but as she entered the aisle someone suddenly bumped hard against her. She staggered and her glasses tumbled from her face. She squatted precariously and frantically clawed at the floor for them, but the aisle was full of irritated people awkwardly avoiding those who were pushing toward the exits. Suddenly a dirty athletic shoe squeezed through the sea of legs and crushed the glass.
A familiar voice sneered, "I'm so sorry. Let me help you ma’am,” and a hand reached down to snatch her arm. She looked up into the same leering face she remembered from the bus stop as his hand yanked her toward the steps and other hands roughly shoved her down them.
"Stop. Please stop!” she pleaded as she began to lose balance, but their momentum had already forced her down the stairs and through the door. One ankle was buckling under her. The door swooshed closed. Twisted, jeering faces were all around her pushing and shouting. "Ho.... Snitch.... Cracka." She screamed and caught a quick glimpse of a mocking smirk in the bus window. In her fleeting distraction, a husky brown skinned youth ripped her purse from her grasp. The contents dumped across the pavement and as she grabbed for it her feet tangled in the straps. She tripped and slammed against the steamy side of the bus.
She tried to yell, "Help,” but her parched tongue wouldn't twist around the word. Only a guttural whisper erupted to be absorbed by the roar of the straining engine. Her sweaty palms slid down the surface of the vehicle as she desperately grasped for a knob, a crack, anything to regain her balance. But as the bus jerked into movement, a hard rubber sole rammed her knee and she lurched uncontrollably toward the huge vehicle's underbelly. Its hot breath spilled against the pavement and wrapped her stumbling body in smoggy billows as she frantically struggled to escape its wide double wheels.
Copyright Elizabeth Phillips Goehringer
CLICK HERE to learn how I created this cover for Fuel For The Fire.
Open BookPrologue: Fuel For The FireThe late April day was unseasonably hot and the intermittent drizzle had brought humidity instead of relief. The woman mopped at her pink cheeks while peering myopically down the block. No bus! She frowned, looked in the opposite direction and then over her shoulder as she pushed back a damp lock of silver and brown hair from her forehead, snapped open her shoulder bag and retrieved an eyeglass case.
While she pulled out a pair of glasses and tucked the arms behind her ears, she impatiently searched the distant street corner for the familiar glass domed shape. The unexpected heat had squeezed more than the usual number of sweaty, miserable bodies from the South End's three and four layered apartment houses, but there was no sign of the bus.
She lifted her wrist to glance at her watch, and the eyeglass case slipped to the sidewalk. As she bent to pick it up, a dark hand suddenly plucked it from beneath her. Startled, she straightened up as a young black man handed the case to her.
"Let me help you ma’am.” His accent was Jamaican, but he dragged out the words in an exaggerated drawl. The words were polite, but there was something unpleasant about the way he said them and the combination of his sleeveless leather jacket, heavy gold jewelry, dark glasses and tattoos didn't inspire confidence. His lips were smiling, but the rest of his face was hard.
She had never seen him before and moved back a step. "Thank you for helping." She wanted to get away and anxiously searched for the bus again. Two other young men in similar apparel were strolling purposefully toward the bus stop. "Irie - no problem. Get my drift?” His head was high. Cocky. He looked down at her from under his sunglasses and stepped closer to her.
She didn't get his drift, but her heart thudded and her hand trembled slightly as she pulled her purse tightly to her side. Get a hold of yourself, she thought, He’s right. There's no problem. They're just coming to the bus stop. Behind her a roar sounded and she gratefully turned toward the bus as it squeaked and hissed to a halt.
She sank into a seat in its middle as the three tough looking men headed for the rear. She was glad there were other passengers, but there was still something wrong. She could feel it. There had been something wrong for a long time, but the sense of impending doom had accelerated since she had quit her job. But I had to quit, she rationalized. There was no longer a choice. Not if I wanted to live with myself. And now there's just one more task I have left to do and then I can pack up. She smiled a slight smile, and whispered faintly to herself, "And it's a good task. A wonderful task."
The bus stopped and picked up additional passengers. Safety in numbers, she thought with relief. She shifted in the clammy vinyl seat and sighed as she mused, besides this fear is nothing but a feeling. No facts. Just feelings. She took a deep breath. The air-conditioning felt wonderful! And it was almost rush hour. The bus would be full before she got off. Everything is going to be all right. No problem. Irie, like the man said. She allowed the West Indian colloquialism to reassure her as she recited to herself, I’m close…so close. Just four more stops.
She reached into her bag, took out a compact, angled it so that she could see her face in the mirror and brushed some blush over her cheeks and chin. She readjusted the mirror as the bus jolted to a stop and the doors folded open. In the momentary lull while passengers loaded and unloaded, she applied a fresh coat of lipstick, but suddenly caught a reflection of the back of the bus. The aisle seemed to be filled with gang types. She squinted into the mirror. This is the last downtown stop. They should be getting off, she worried. But then her eyes opened wider and the hand with the lipstick froze as a new passenger briefly stepped in range of her mirror. The gang was forgotten. Everything was forgotten. The lipstick and compact dropped into her purse. There were other stops, but she hardly noticed.
Her stop was next. She reflexively reached up to pull the cord to signal the driver to stop. It was her habit to exit by the front door. It was safer, but now her curiosity propelled her toward the rear. As she rose from her seat, she nervously turned to see if she had correctly identified the passenger in the back, but as she entered the aisle someone suddenly bumped hard against her. She staggered and her glasses tumbled from her face. She squatted precariously and frantically clawed at the floor for them, but the aisle was full of irritated people awkwardly avoiding those who were pushing toward the exits. Suddenly a dirty athletic shoe squeezed through the sea of legs and crushed the glass.
A familiar voice sneered, "I'm so sorry. Let me help you ma’am,” and a hand reached down to snatch her arm. She looked up into the same leering face she remembered from the bus stop as his hand yanked her toward the steps and other hands roughly shoved her down them.
"Stop. Please stop!” she pleaded as she began to lose balance, but their momentum had already forced her down the stairs and through the door. One ankle was buckling under her. The door swooshed closed. Twisted, jeering faces were all around her pushing and shouting. "Ho.... Snitch.... Cracka." She screamed and caught a quick glimpse of a mocking smirk in the bus window. In her fleeting distraction, a husky brown skinned youth ripped her purse from her grasp. The contents dumped across the pavement and as she grabbed for it her feet tangled in the straps. She tripped and slammed against the steamy side of the bus.
She tried to yell, "Help,” but her parched tongue wouldn't twist around the word. Only a guttural whisper erupted to be absorbed by the roar of the straining engine. Her sweaty palms slid down the surface of the vehicle as she desperately grasped for a knob, a crack, anything to regain her balance. But as the bus jerked into movement, a hard rubber sole rammed her knee and she lurched uncontrollably toward the huge vehicle's underbelly. Its hot breath spilled against the pavement and wrapped her stumbling body in smoggy billows as she frantically struggled to escape its wide double wheels.
Copyright Elizabeth Phillips Goehringer
EVERY GARMENT ROLLED IN BLOOD WILL BE DESTINED FOR BURNING, WILL BE FUEL FOR THE FIRE
Isaiah 9:5
Isaiah 9:5