See the Forest

By Jane Slate

A young journalist eagerly heads out on a voyage to see his old friend—an ardent chemist with a top-secret discovery to disclose—but soon finds out it may be better for everyone if he had remained in the dark.

"…Her story-telling capacity is engaging and sure, and, while her voice is clearly her own, fans of Gothic fiction will detect murmuring echoes of Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley and Edgar Allan Poe."  --Karl Yambert

Enjoy a cozy evening of enigma and suspense--purchase your copy today!  Seriously, do it now.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jane Slate
• Release date: Dec 26, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386398660

Jane Slate

“Jane Slate is a budding author to the e-book world and has written extensively in her free time on various subjects.  An alumni from MSU, she currently participates in their choral program.  Ms. Slate resides near her family of origin in Ozark, MO and enjoys many hobbies, including cooking, guitar, and Feng Shui.”

Book preview

Acknowledgments

I’d like to thank everyone who helped me in the formation of this book.  To all my friends and coworkers who took the time to read my original writing and give me hints for making it better, thank you.

Thank you to my longtime mentor Dr. Tarrasch for encouraging me to write just 20 pages which is what originally got me started on this journey.

I’d also like to thank the late Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley, author of the renowned Frankenstein’s Monster.  Learning the backstory of how she wrote her book and at such a young age served as the inspiration for my plot.

A special thanks to my mom Laura Reeder for her talented job reading the book to my family.  She really made me feel like I was listening to it for the first time.  Thank you to my uncle Karl Yambert who was gracious enough to use his professional editing skills to review my work.  And thank you to the rest of my family who then gave me the helpful tips and added incentive to further hone my writing.

We Meet

A llow me to introduce myself.  I’m Carl Wishburn, fledgling journalist at the Windsor Reporter, I braved and thrust a timid hand to the passenger in the seat across from me, a stout red-headed man, seemingly in his mid-thirties, with boxy glasses and a tan corduroy jacket.  His well-manicured mustache hid an amused smile as he offered a solid handshake in return.  Normally, I would have kept to myself, but I was trying to make a courageous effort to put myself out there more as my job pretty well required talking to strangers on a continual basis.

The name is Paul Drey.  I’m on my way to see the folks—parents, that is.  Mom just got out of hip surgery, he offered.  I haven’t heard of the Windsor, but I have to admit I have a respect for your profession.  You guys sure put yourself in the line of fire.  Are they local?

Yes—well, kind of.  I’m from the little town of Kettle, I explained.  I knew you wouldn’t be familiar with it.  It’s on the northeast coast.  A small company, the Windsor is, but I have my eyes on eventually moving up to the Frontview.  This is basically an internship for me.

I see.  Well, you look like a journalist.  He picked up the dainty mug sitting on the serving tray in front of him and stuck out a fat pinkie as he took a loud slurp of coffee.  I chuckled.  He was certainly planning on taking full advantage of his complimentary package.  Where are you headed? he asked.

Jennings, North Dakota.  I have an old friend who wants my professional help, I said. The idea of a vacation doesn’t hurt either.  I need to kick some dust around in this brain of mine.

The train’s horn blared.

Thar she blows! I howled giddily and grabbed the pole next to my seat.  The last time I remember getting to ride a train (besides that short expedition in Florence two summers ago) was when I was eight.  I’ve always loved the various forms of transportation—the more archaic, the better.

Paul laughed and reached to steady his rattling cup and saucer.

You have family here in California? I asked as the train jolted and the scenery passed my window with increasing speed.  I knew I sounded nosy, but he didn’t seem to mind.

"Yes, Sadie.  She’s my spunky eight-year-old daughter.  The wife