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Feb 18 2007, 4:06 PM EST (current) smsarber 777 words deleted
Feb 8 2007, 2:09 PM EST smsarber

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PROLOGUE Tipton’s meadow, New Hampshire, was born a tiny settlement in 1705. Located about 50 miles northwest of Manchester, with rich soil, a lake which provided a seemingly endless supply of fresh fish, and an accessible location, the settlement thrived. By 1720 it was home to more than one thousand residents. Paul Tipton, for whom the town was named, was a quiet Methodist preacher, who had a wonderful way of befriending nearly anyone who crossed his path. That was, at least, until the summer of 1727. On July 27th , 1727 Paul’s wife and ten year old son were taken by an accused witch. The townspeople, and Paul himself, didn’t know Mary and Jacob were lying unconscious in the witch’s attic. The mob passed judgment on the witch, and set fire to the house; lighting all four outer walls, and throwing kerosene lamps through the windows. The shrieking witch came out through the hottest part of the flames, hysterically laughing and shouting to Paul that he’d just killed his family. As she died, she taunted Paul, “I’ll burn in Hell, but you’ll face a more agonizing torment every day you walk this earth.” It was Paul’s forty-fifth birthday. Every day of the last forty-five years of his life Paul cursed the town named for him. Over time, the fields became barren, the lake stopped producing fish. Many residents left in search of fresh land, and for more than a few, a clean conscience. In 1772, when Paul passed on, fifteen years before New Hampshire became the third state of the union, some, but not all, of his hatred died with him. Some hung over the town like a fog. Over time much of Paul’s legacy faded. By the mid-nineteenth century the crops were back; tobacco and wheat thrived again, and prosperity wiped out almost all memory of Paul Tipton. 1 Louis Armstrong’s “What A Wonderful World” played softly on the old 1940’s era Silvertone radio in Len Thomas’s den. The old radio only tuned in the oldies station, which Len thought ironic, but charming. Perhaps a little melancholy. Len was only 50 years old, but he loved the old classics. “More heart, less sex,” he always said. He had bought the radio at a flea market two weeks ago, and it made working late much more pleasant. The year was 1999, and Len had a state-of-the-art cd system in the house, but for his den he felt the Silvertone gave ambience to the room. Now, as he worked on a brief (he was a lawyer, in the middle of a class-action suit against a pharmaceutical company), he felt almost serene. A word no lawyer could normally ever use to describe himself. Len had lost a lot of sleep over the last two weeks, a problem he attributed to a class-action suit he was working on. Class-actions always wiped him out. Too much paperwork, but they paid-out well, in the end. Now, as he finished a bourbon and crushed out his cigarette, he stood and walked over to the Silvertone. Because it was dark outside he could see his reflection in the window above the radio. “Not bad,” he said aloud. At 5’11’’, 180 pounds he had held together almost as well as this beautiful radio. His dark brown hair had begun to grey on the sides, like the worn areas of the radio’s crest, where undoubtedly, loving fingers had caressed it often. Len ran his own fingers over these worn patches, and suddenly knew what must be done. He got the .38 revolver out of the drawer in his desk, and calmly went upstairs. He opened the door to his daughters’ bedroom, where Angela, 15, and Candace, 13, were doing their homework. He put three bullets into each of them. Janis Thomas, Len’s wife, came into the hallway, “Len! What…”. He obliterated her nose with the butt of the pistol, the dark wood of the grip staining crimson and cracking from the force. He continued to pound her face with the gun, crushing her skull with each blow for a full five minutes. Finished with that task, Len went to the garage, tied a rope into a noose, secured the free end, tossed the noose over a rafter and hung himself. Janis’s older sister Morgan, a widow, put the house up for sale, giving away most of Len and Janis’s possessions to the Salvation Army. But not the Silvertone. The old radio made the trip back to New Hampshire with her. That is the intro to my upcoming (I hope) book. I only have 12,000 words so far, so I have a while to go.