Firewoman

By Daniel N. Shields

Firewoman picks up where Raising the Seams left off. The author has seamlessly drawn upon the success of his first book to bring the reader back into a world where everything is not what it seems. Whether telling us the story of a mysterious woman on a small Caribbean island or a family picnicking in a graveyard, the author brings us into stories not soon to be forgotten. The author relies on classic storytelling techniques to both frighten the reader as well as make the reader laugh.

This book also includes two scripts from short films. These scripts show the author's versatility in drawing upon less conventional subjects, including a metalhead's take on the future of music.

Firewoman will scare you and make you laugh. The author hooks you from the first story to the last. Anyone who has ever read a Stephen King story, watched a Quentin Tarantino movie, or listened to a heavy metal tape will be able to relate to the stories in this book.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Mar 23, 2004
• ISBN: 9781469722313

Daniel N. Shields

Daniel Shields currently resides in Milford, Connecticut. Mr. Shields is an active member of the Mystery Writers of America. He also takes part in the mentor program that gives guidance to unpublished authors. In addition to writing fiction, Mr. Shields is involved in the theater and is currently writing his first play.

Book preview

Contents

FIREWOMAN

RAISING THE SEAMS PART II

THE FUTURE HAS NO MEMORY

DIANA

IVY ISLAND

THE LAST DAY OF SUMMER

FINAL ARRANGEMENTS

ART SCHOOL GIRL

METALHEAD

FIREWOMAN  

Rainsford sat with his back to the wall. He peered over his left shoulder at the soldiers as they passed by. They held M16 machine guns in their hands. The leader of the troops barked orders at the soldiers who marched about five feet apart. One of the soldiers glanced in the direction of Rainsford. The soldier almost caught sight of him, but turned away when his superior barked an order. Rains-ford winced and breathed a sigh of relief. He only had a little weed in his pocket, about $1,600 Jamaican, but he didn’t want to have to toss it and run. Money wasn’t easy to come by on the island, but getting caught with drugs was worse. He didn’t want to have to make that choice.

Kingston had its share of troubles over the past few days. The Labor Party was proposing stricter laws on crime, while the People’s Party thought the current laws were unfair. Leaders on both sides called for a strong military presence in the streets because both sides agreed that violence should not erupt over this dispute. Neither side wanted their politics to lead to bloodshed.

When the soldiers were out of sight, Rainsford returned to his house. He lived in an overcrowded house in the heart of inner Kingston. He went straight to his room without talking to anyone. Many of his roommates were passed out from heavy drinking. Without even taking the time to undress, he crawled into his bed and quickly fell asleep.

* * * *

Jennifer got off the plane at Norman Manley International Airport. She squinted into the sun as she made her way down the stairs. It was hot her, a strong contrast from New Hampshire. The heat enveloped her like a violent hug from an unwanted stranger. She had just experienced a cold November week in Ashire. She was traveling from one extreme to the next.

As she stepped onto the concrete, a luggage boy came up to her. He couldn’t have been more than sixteen. He wore shorts and an old Tee shirt. His hair stood on his head in tight braids.

Miss, do you party? the boy asked.

What? Jennifer asked back.

Do you smoke? I’ll get you some cheap. One American dollar equals forty Jamaican dollars. I’ll get you as much of the stuff as you need.

No, no. I’m not interested in that.

The look on the boy’s face had changed. It was as if he realized that he had made a mistake and was now afraid that she would tell one of his superiors. Sorry to trouble. Sorry to trouble.

Without another word, the boy made his way into the airport terminal. Jennifer stared at the boy for a minute and then began to walk towards the airport terminal. She wondered why such a young boy needed to sell drugs. This must be the way of the island.

It wasn’t so much of a vacation for Jennifer as it was an escape. Most of the people in Ashire, New Hampshire had regarded Jennifer as a witch. In a small town, rumor turns to fact over time and fact becomes gospel. Jennifer could not even remember when it started. It seemed as if that is the way things always were. She had always dressed differently, even when she was a little girl. She was a loner, often enjoying the company of imaginary playmates as opposed to real ones. She was brought up by a single parent, and never knew her father. All of her traits made her different, but it wasn’t beneficial to be different in Ashire. If you weren’t in with the cool crowd, you weren’t anything.

Jennifer had never gone anywhere during the first twenty years of her life. The world as she knew it revolved around this small town that had never accepted her. She had longed to visit a far off place, any place. There was something about the Caribbean that attracted her, almost drew her there. It had taken her years to save up the money, but she had finally done it. As she entered the airport terminal, she wondered if she would ever go home.

* * * *

Craig had learned the art of woodcarving at a very young age. There was a skill to the knife, weaving it in such a way that recognizable images appear to the viewer. One piece took hours: the act of carving and polishing until it was perfect. Craig considered each carving a piece of art, a unique item. It seemed unfair that a tourist could snatch the masterpiece away for thirty or forty dollars, but that was the way of the Island. Everyone had to make a living. Craig took comfort in the fact that he was able to make a living doing something he enjoyed. There were hundreds of woodcarvers on the Island, but Craig considered himself one of the best. He was carving a small elephant when a tourist took him away from his work.

Can I look at the carving of the man with the dreadlocks? the tourist asked. He was in his sixties and wore Bermuda shorts with a bright buttoned-down shirt. He was referring to a piece of art that Craig gad carved the week before. It was a larger piece than the others, highly detailed.

Yes, sir, Craig answered. He grabbed the piece and handed it to the man.

The man spent little time inspecting the piece. Good, good. How much do you want for this?

Forty dollars, American, Craig replied.

Forty dollars, seems a little steep for me. I saw a fellow up the road, had the same piece for—

This piece is one of a kind. I’ll give it to you for thirty-five. Craig knew that the piece was worth more, but it had been a few days since he had a sale. This would at least put some food on the table.

Well, how about—

Thirty-five, Craig said definitively. I can’t go any lower than that. He wanted the sale, but he could not go any lower and still make a decent profit.

I think I’ll pass, the man replied in a soft voice.

The tourist walked away and joined his group. Craig was mad that he had lost a sale, but he didn’t regret it. These tourists had changed the bargaining power of the Island, taking the power away from the Jamaican. If a tourist didn’t find the right price, he could move on to the next stand. There were so many woodcarvers that tourists had dozens of stands to choose from. But every woodcarving was unique, the tourist failed to see that. He might find a cheaper deal, but he would be the one missing out. Craig took one glace at the tourist and continued carving the elephant. His carvings were top notch. It would only be a matter of time before sales came.

* * * *

Keyetta had often thought about selling her