Trafford Publishing: The Crimson Flake

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The Crimson Flake

by R. L. Knight

335 pages; quality trade paperback (softcover); catalogue #03-1003; ISBN 1-4120-0633-3; US$27.00, C$32.00, EUR22.00, £15.50

Bound by fate, two unlikely heroes lock battle horns with unspeakable evil in a tale that offers a chilling, tearful, thought provoking and humorous testament to the indomitable human spirit.

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about the book about the author excerpts catalogue info

About the Book

The Crimson Flake is a tale of two tales, diverse and well separated by time and locale. Each is an emotional human struggle and the two are on a collision course.
The first tale concerns a rather large and often irreverent man who silently craves danger and shares his life with a cat called Sam. They both love the same woman but while the cat openly demonstrates his emotions toward her the man struggles with feelings of love and commitment; feelings he knows deep down to be absolute truths. In addition, he wrestles with a nagging internal death wish and a disturbing intuitive ability; an ability he loathes but one that's kept him alive.
The second involves a struggle we've known since the beginning when Eve encountered the serpent. There are evil things. They're where you would expect them but they're also where you wouldn't. You don't see the man in the crowd whose eyes are fixed on you, who follows you, who snatches you from your life and your life from you; unnoticed little slices of time. This is the story of such an encounter; of how evil can spring from the most benign and tranquil environment, of one person's courage and willpower to battle such madness: a battle that ultimately defines her life.
It's the story of two reclusive brothers who live deep in an otherwise hushed and beautiful forest but who, because of an emotionally tortured mother and her twisted influence, have littered the peaceful woodland with the remains of nine vibrant young women; all in the name of God. But not all of the remains were scattered. No. The prettiest parts were saved. They're in the barn.
One brother is inherently evil, born evil, and is descending deeper into the abyss. He is beyond redemption and only death can stop him. The other is struggling with thoughts he didn't know he could have before she came. He's being pulled in one direction by a despicable but settled way of life and in the other by her. She is Willie, a skinny, nineteen year-old, inner-city kid who is there quite by accident and fighting for two lives.
Over time, bizarre circumstances cause the paths of the big man and the girl to converge. The two become allies and make for perhaps the strangest heroic duo imaginable. They stumble and falter along the way but the union is a formidable one. They recover, more powerful, in a final assault and the evil is left lying as dust beside the road.

About the Author

R. L. Knight was born in the summer of 1941 in a small coastal Maine village. He says his childhood was like a "Down East" version of Huck and Tom- Huck of the North- and he wouldn't have traded it for all the best cats-eyes in the world. Inspired by a book, he has traveled the blue highways of Mexico, Canada, England, Scotland and every state but two: Alaska and Oklahoma. He has no plans to visit either. "Some things are better left".
He has lived in tumultuous times: the political assassinations of the sixties and seventies, Vietnam, the death of his wife and other personal upheavals. But, through it all, growth has come and he believes life should be measured not by what you know or can do but by what you understand and can feel. "Life can make your life meaningful. Let it happen and pay attention. It's a Zen thing."
He has lived in Maine, Mississippi, New York, Texas, Colorado and Minnesota and now lives in South Carolina with his new wife and son. They, along with his two daughters and grandsons, Mr. Max and Logi Bear, remain his most treasured inspiration.

Excerpts

Chitty Chitty Bang Bang
The jail couldn't have been laid out better. The steel doors made a loud solid clanking sound when they closed. There was a great echo. The corridor was dark and cold with lots of corners. The cells were 8' square with vertical 1" steel bars too close together to stick your face through. Nick remembered. He had seen the place from the inside on too many occasions in the past, felt like a regular for a while. Come to think of it, that's how he got to know the sheriff: from the wrong side of the bars. But that's another story. He came around the last corner. Rick was in the last cell on the left. The only light was from a small, high window but the untended shrubbery had grown so thick against the glass it made seeing out impossible. All the tiny bars on the inside discouraged any attempts at cleaning. It was perfect. Nick had a tough job to do- keep a serious look on his face and the internal laughter silent.
..........
Fall Down Go Boom
There was no sound. Her cautious curiosity suddenly changed to fear and a feeling of impending doom swept her body. She spun around to make a hurried exit but the bat she was holding in her right hand struck the metal doorjamb, creating a loud bang. The sound startled her and caused her to pause- to make sure there were no other accompanying, unidentified sounds. It was quiet. As she turned and took a step toward the door the room exploded with a deafening crash of boxes and supplies causing her to drop the Louisville Slugger at her feet. She screamed but the only one to hear was the man in the security uniform who lunged out of the darkness at her. She felt massive, powerful hands close around her throat and then his body slammed into hers from behind, his momentum carrying them both crashing to the floor. They spun sideways as they fell and she heard the air rush out of his lungs when they landed on the floor- felt it flow hot over her face. It stank of cigarettes and tooth decay. The fingers loosened on her neck as the air escaped his lungs and, kicking and thrashing, Willie was able to roll onto her side. For just an instant she glimpsed his face. His features were dark but unforgettable. The eyes were deep set and hollow- she couldn't see the pupils in the darkness- and he had black, greasy, foul smelling hair. His cheeks were heavily scarred with puberty pockmarks. Amazingly, Willie had clear and conscious thoughts in this moment of desperation and she felt strangely calm for an instant. The will to survive took control and she began to struggle. She kicked and twisted her torso, fighting to gain purchase with knees and elbows so she could stand and run. She no longer screamed. Fueled by outrage and anger, a low growling sound rolled up from deep inside her. In the chaotic darkness and out of desperation the intruder swung with all the strength he had left- a fierce backhand. The blow crashed against the side of Willie's head and the tremendous force of his knuckles tore the soft temporal flesh, causing her blood to spatter. Her brain instantly ceased all conscious function. The office was eerily silent once again: silent except for the voice on the cell phone.
..........
The Two Squiggies
Hangovers and loud noises mix about as well as pimps and preachers and one of the guys said, "Jesus Christ, lady. Have some respect for the suffering, would you?"
The cackler turned her head briefly to see where the brash request came from but once she glimpsed the un-shaven, sloppy looking duo at the bar she quickly snapped back around in disgust and made some comment to her companions. The giggling subsided and whispers began. Each of the girls, one at a time, took discreet sidelong glances at the two buffoons who were now consuming the cheapest breakfast on the planet- bar food. They were working on a bowl of beer nuts and some cold wings from the night before. More comments and the giggling resumed even louder than before. A blonde girl tossed her head back in raucous laughter.
The guy I named Bart (Simpson- I always name people according to impressions they make- looks, mannerisms, voices etc.) set his glass down hard on the bar with a sound loud enough to make the gigglers flinch and said, "COME ON for Christ's sake, PEOPLE!"
..........
Bart raised his Miller draft high above Red's chair and poured the contents down over the flaming hair. A chorus of screams erupted from the table as four women jumped up grabbing for purses and jackets. Red sat frozen in horror as beer dripped down her nose, over her breasts and into her lap. She looked like an Irish Setter that just climbed out of the bay. She began to cry. Her tears mixed with the beer in her lap. She grabbed her purse and rear-ended the slowest and fattest of her companions as she ran for the door. The doorway was a bottleneck of shuffling feminism all sobbing and struggling to exit. The fat woman tripped and they both went down flailing and cursing, Red on top. It looked like a South American soccer riot. Bart sauntered back to the bar and ordered a fresh Miller draft. I thought it curious the bartender chose not to interfere but I figured he had his reasons. I named the bartender Squiggie (from Lavern & Shirley) and the other drunk Andy- (Andy Capp).
Bart said, "Hey, bro, put their lunches on my tab. Was worth it."
"No sweat, little brother- fun to watch. There's a mop back there. You can go wrap your little fireman hands around it and clean the Goddamn floor, you dig?"
There was my answer. They were brothers, Squiggie and Bart.
So it was Nick and Squiggie and Bart and Andy and Miller Lite and Corona and bar peanuts and my Reuben sandwich, five departed women- four dry and pissed- one doused with beer and pissed. The boys at the bar had restored peace and quiet at the cost of a single Miller draft. The drenching at the table of five had ruined their lunch, most likely their entire day. But it had made mine. That was my afternoon. Sometimes you just don't need television.

Catalogue Information