New section of Cassandra's Moon

About half the action in my second book (Cassandra's Moon) takes place in Italy.  I've based much of the descriptions upon my memories of the areas in Sorrento and Capri that we visited.  The brief section I've posted here relates the background of one of the characters who plays an important role in the Italian portion of the book.  All of the characters in the book have Minnesota connections.

JUNE 1947   MARSHALL ANDERSON

Marshall tightly gripped the railing of the ferry as the view of Sorrento flanked by cliffs and hills appeared in his view.  It was a beautiful, blue sky encasing the world he was in.  In fact, Mount Vesuvius could be seen clearly in the distance across the bay from the charming city, a rare sight.  Usually, it was covered in clouds swirling around the top one-third of the mountain.

  During his tenure in Sicily, only four years ago,  he had been a soldier in the American army.  Now, he was just a twenty-two year old civilian on the proverbial quest to "find himself".  He had been greeted as a hero after the war when he returned home to Beaver Bay, Minnesota.  He hadn't felt like a hero.  He had done his job, even though he was scared out of his wits most of the time.  Most of them had been scared, scared beyond their grossest childhood dreams. Many who had come back were damaged, not just physically.  That was the easy part.  Emotionally, the scars would last for decades.  He hoped to erase his memories of the war and what he did, or didn't do, here, where he sought a new life.  A quieter, simpler life.  

Marshall wanted justification for continuing a life that seemed without meaning.  He wanted to atone for what he wasn't, and find what he wanted to be.  Although, he had no idea what that was right at this moment.  

He had finished high school, but in reality, his skills were limited.  His greatest skill had been thrust upon him by the army.  It had taught him how to fire the M1 Garand, officially designated as United States rifle caliber 30M1.  It was the first semi-automatic rifle to be generally issued to the infantry of any nation.  It had a metal clip containing eight rounds.  The rifle fired one round each time the trigger was pulled.  After the eight rounds were shot, the clip automatically ejected, causing a ping noise to occur.  He learned to hate that damn noise.   It clung to his brain like a tick on a dog.  It wouldn't let go, along with every memory he had of firing the gun.  

So, here he was, ready to start over doing whatever he could.  He needed to put it all in the past.  Through a bit of circumlocution, the reasoning going on in his brain gave him the idea of coming back to Italy and facing whatever demons he needed to exorcise.  Marshall didn't know if it would work, but he was willing to give it a go.  He had chosen Sorrento because a buddy had told him it was the most beautiful place in Italy.

The ferry entered the Marina Grande, port of Sorrento.  It's speed had slowed perceptively when they approached the protected harbor.  The refreshing breeze he had been basking in earlier diminished to nearly nothing as the boat slowed and approached the main dock.  His Boston Red Sox cap took its place on top of his head while his eyes soaked in the the stunning view before him.  

The position of Sorrento, which was known as Surrentum more than two thousand years ago, was very secure.  It was naturally protected by deep gorges.  Old walls, forty feet high, defended a 300 metre section on the southwest side of the city.  Those walls dated from Roman times.  The arrangement of the modern streets remained the same as the ancient town.  No ruins were preserved in the town, but, part way up a cliff, underneath the Hotel Victoria, an ancient rock-cut tunnel descended to the sea.  In future days, Marshall would learn its location and follow its pathway with Sarah.

A member of the crew called out something in Italian to similarly dressed men on the dock.  Ropes were tossed from the ferry and caught by the men below.  The ferry captain threw the engines into reverse, gently bringing the boat to a halt as he swung it around and kissed the side of the dock.  When the boat was securely tied, streams of people poured from the ferry onto the dock.  He waited patiently till the others lined up and filed past him.  He kept his gaze upon the city and the mountainous backdrop.  He had heard of a road built along the cliffs paralleling the sea.  He had caught the tail-end of an American couples conversation; Amalfi coast he had heard them say.  Something about a breathtaking, beautiful drive they were going to take from Sorrento to the south and then back again.  Heights and sheer cliff drop-offs did not excite him.  

The crowd thinned until only a few passengers, including him, remained on the ferry.  Picking up his lone duffle bag, stuffed with everything he could pack into it, he walked with some trepidation to the steps arranged for disembarking.  A lively, young man sporting a sailors cap waited at the bottom of the steps, ready to catch anyone that might stumble as they descended.  Marshall nodded and then stepped onto the dock.  

"Buongiorno," said the dock-man just as cheerily the last time as the first.  Marshall replied with the same "good morning" greeting while he disembarked.  His eyes cast down to the clear waters of the Mediterranean slapping the posts sunk deep into the bottom below.   Pausing, he watched fish darting between rocks and in and out of hollows.  They reminded him of the herring caught in Lake Superior, but he had no idea what kind of fish they actually were.  He knew that sea bass, salmon, and swordfish inhabited the waters, but probably not this close in.  Not having anything else to do, and being intensely interested in the scene below, he kept watching.  

"Don't fall in," he heard from a female voice speaking English.  The most beautiful woman in the world stood twenty feet further up the dock.  Her thick, dark hair cascaded well below her shoulders.  The features of her face definitely identified her as Italian, at least, in his view.   A dark complexion and angular cheek bones caressing a Roman nose, filled his vision.  Her expressive eyes appeared to reflect the sailboats gliding across the sea behind him.  While standing slightly turned towards her, he quickly decided that he wanted to find out more about the girl who had just warned him.

"I was just watching the fish."  He couldn't think of anything else to say.

"Instead of watching them, you should try catching them."

"I would, but, as you can see, I don't have a fishing pole.  She smirked a little and walked close, stopping a perfect, socially acceptable distance away.

"Well, there are other ways of catching fish."  Without elaborating, or waiting for him to respond, she walked towards the ferry, and then she turned and shouted, "My name is Sarah."  The sound of her shoes clapping upon the wooden planks of the dock floated to him like music in a great outdoor theater.  His eyes followed the young girl in the loosely fitted dress.  He was a bit flustered, but intoxicated by her presence, which was now leaving.  She hopped gracefully up the steps and onto the ferry.  

A passage from the sequel to "Trust Me Now"

She finished her drink, climbed into her tan Focus, and began to drive west on I-90.   Before she reached Dexter where she would turn onto old highway 16 and wind her way east to Lanesboro, the giant wind turbines came into view.  Dotting the countryside while rising a hundred feet into the air, the turbines, with their huge blades turning in majesty always filled her with a sense of awe.  While staring at the individual blades attached to the hubs, the steady, never changing circular motion of the blades around the nacelle near the top of the tower had a hypnotic effect on her.   To her, they almost seemed like the man-made equivalents of the great Redwood trees along the California coast.  Shaking off the the effects of the slow, twirling blades, she watched for the exit.   There, a sign for the turn, two miles down the interstate.  She left the highway, taking the offramp to Highway 16 east.  

She drove the speed limit as she passed through the town of Grand Meadow and its hallmark domed school.  Continuing further, she passed Spring Valley.  And further on, she entered the city limits of Spirit Grove.  Gripping the wheel tightly, Beth tried not to look at any of the buildings or citizens as they went about their business.  Her breathing became irregular as memories of her tormented childhood years came rushing back to her.  Surprising herself, she turned onto the county road that would take her to Uncle Archer's old house.  She passed the fields where years ago, Mark and her had become lost when they had walked in circles for hours in the dark of night.  Their feeble attempt to escape had been a failure.  

The ten minutes it took her to reach the house seemed like hours.  The white, story and a half house came into view.  When she reached the long driveway, she paused, but finally turned in, drawn toward the house, not really knowing why.   She was shaking her head while the car dipped in potholes and sent her lurching from one side to the other.  Why was she doing this to herself?  She didn't know, but something called her forward.  

The old house stood as empty now as it had been for the past two years.  A few windows had been broken; probably neighbors taking out their own frustrations with the demise of their church and cult.  No one from town had ever been prosecuted for the atrocities they had committed against multitudes of innocent children.  The rage still burned within her at that imperfect outcome.  

She stopped the car near the front porch.  The wooden rocking chair remained in the same place she had last seen it.  Stepping out of the Focus, she almost stumbled before shutting the door and moving haltingly toward the steps to the front porch.  Beth paused before placing her foot on the first step.  Taking a deep breath, she moved without purpose to the porch and then the door.  It was unlocked as she twisted the knob in her hand.   The living room was the same.  Furniture had been stripped from the area, however.  Walking softly and with hesitation, she stopped by the front hall closet where Uncle Archer had locked her and Mark when she was ten and he was nine.  That night had marked another turning point in their lives.  It had brought everything into vivid focus and defined the remainder of their childhood.

Her eyes latched onto the closet door.  A shaking hand worked its way to the knob and turned.  The door was stuck.  She pulled hard, but it didn't budge.  Bracing herself, she yanked on it.  With a dried, screeching noise the door opened.  Taking a deep breath before entering, she straightened and boldly walked inside.   It was empty, except for old, cracked  coat hangers that dangled from the bar.  Beth stood while her eyes moved around the tiny room that, long ago, when she was young, seemed so large.  Her body shivered as her mind flashed back to that night when Uncle Archer threw her and Mark inside and locked the door.  Marks head had bled from where he had been slammed into the railing while they were being dragged down the stairway.  Beth, although physically uninjured at the time, bore the emotional pain of being raped earlier by her uncle.  

She unconsciously backed out of the room.  Gathering herself, Beth continued her journey to the stairway and then up the stairs to the bedrooms.  Creaks and groans had followed each footstep as she made her way to the top landing.  Walking confidently now, Beth steered herself to her old room.  Her bed remained, along with a few dolls left scattered on the floor.  She picked up an almost perfect Raggedy Ann doll and hugged it.  Her feet took her to the bed where she lay down clutching the doll, and stared at the ceiling.  She fell asleep dreaming of her mother and father who had been killed in the auto accident.

I'm about 20,000 words into the sequel to "Trust Me Now"  I'm calling it "Cassandra's Moon".  It's fairly challenging (for a novice writer such as myself) to write a story covering four days, but I'm enjoying it.  In a few days I'll release another snippet onto this blog.  So far I'm happy with the results and believe I'm on target to have it in book form by the end of March.
Usually I'll write between a thousand and fifteen hundred words a day.  I took several days off because we had our belated Christmas celebration with my family.  We'll have another celebration with Cindy's family on the 19th.  Work schedules for your kids can be difficult to work around.

New business card

I just finished designing a new business card and will have them available in a couple of weeks.  You can check it out on my Facebook page.
I'm also coming along on my follow up book to "Trust Me Now".  The title will be "Cassandra's Moon" and deals with Cassandra and Mr. John as they attempt to get their money back from Beth, as well as exact revenge for the destruction of their cushy life and sordid business enterprise.  The publish date is projected for March 2013 and will include both Kindle and print copies.
The new book will take place mostly in southeastern Minnesota and Italy.  Since my wife and I traveled there in October 2012 I became somewhat familiar with Sorrento, and decided to use it in the sequel.   The area makes a perfect backdrop for what I had planned in the follow up book.

Thanks for reading.  I'm going to write a little more regularly on the blog and will probably include short excerpts from the new book in the future.

New writings

I have been experiencing a little difficulty posting this section, but I'll try it again and hope that it turns out.  Here is part of chapter two for my sequel to "Trust Me Now".  The sequel is still untitled as I mull over different possibilities.

                                                   CHAPTER 2

Richard Armtree, aka, Mr. John, tightened the bindings around Mark's wrists, and patted him on the head.

"Now you be a good boy, while Cassandra and I have some recreational time."  There was no pretense about being pious and holy anymore. 

"Take your time, Mr. John.  Give her a kiss for me." Mark sarcastically quipped as he flipped his head to get the hair out of his eyes.

Armtree, who had walked away, returned, smiled down at Mark, and cracked him against the side of his head with the heel of his hand.  Mark's hair fell back across his eyes.  Flipping the hair away again, Mark laughed the words, "is that the best the holy man can do."

Armtree stood over him, reflexively poised to deliver another, but more powerful blow, but instead backed away with a smile.   He delivered the words evenly and without anger.  "Maybe you need a gag.  Keep the smart talk up and that's what you'll get."   Mark glared, but said nothing.  Armtree retreated from the room, then shut and locked the door.  Mark began struggling against the bindings, but couldn't loosen the tightly wound leather straps around his wrists.   His legs were chained to bolts fastened to the cement floor beneath him.  Because there was enough slack in the chains and his hands were bound in front of him, he could manage to stand, but that was all.  He stood surveying the room he was locked in.  It measured about ten-feet-by-twelve with a pot that formerly housed a large plant ostensibly serving now as a toilet.  Unfortunately, it was just out of his reach.  A twin-sized half deflated blow-up bed lay behind him with a ragged wool blanket neatly folded on top of it. 

The bare stud walls had no insulation pressed against them.  Mark began to realize the chill in the heat-less room.  It was the beginning of fall and the nights would dip into the forties making the wool blanket seem more attractive to him by the minute.  The one source of light was a small, forty-watt bulb plugged into the socket in the middle of the ceiling.  It would remain on.    The whole environment gave him the feel of an extreme rendition prison cell in Eastern Europe, made famous by the Bush administration during the height of the Iraq war.

He lay down on the twin blow-up bed.  No more air appeared to escape from it.  Apparently, Mr. John and Cassandra had partially inflated it intentionally, to add to his discomfort.  It was a wonder they had provided a mattress at all, he thought.  He eased back to wait, and wonder.  He hadn't been able to tell Beth anything of consequence his brief moment on the phone call.  Mr. John had made sure of that when he ripped the cell phone out of his hand.  Mark had only managed the feeble statement "they have me." 

Richard Armtree left the small shack that housed Mark and walked thirty yards back to the comfortable log cabin that he and Cassandra occupied.  As he approached the door, it opened and Cassandra greeted him naked, and with a smug expression on her face.

"How's our boy?  She asked.

"A little too snotty for my taste," said Armtree.  "I had to give him a knock to the head."

Cassandra smiled.  "Will he keep for a while?"

Armtree grinned.  "Oh yeah, he'll keep."  He entered the cabin, closed the door behind him, and began tearing every piece of clothing off his body.

An hour later, Cassandra lay next to her lover practicing her newest habit, smoking cigarillos.  Her current favorite was the Al Capone Menthol.  She drew a deep breath of the smoke, held it, then turned and blew it on a sleeping Armtree.  The smoke appeared to curl under his chin and flow upwards against his cheek and roll into his graying hair.  She took another drag and blew it directly into his face.  The turbulence produced by her heavier breath deflected the smoke quickly from his face and bounced it back into hers.  This caught her by surprise, making her laugh uproariously at herself.  Richard, as she called him, awoke, looked at her with a puzzled expression, then sat up.  Neither said a word for a minute, until Richard said, "can't you quit smoking those damned things!"

"Why would I do that when I enjoy them so much?"

"How can you enjoy something so much that you've never tried before until now?" He asked with exasperation.

She laughed uproariously again and then replied, " because I'm so alive and doing everything I want to do while I can."  She threw her arms up into the air, flicking ashes from the tip of the cigarillo that she still held between her fingers of one hand.  The hot ashes settled onto the sheet covering Armtree.  

"What the hell are you doing?"  Armtree said while furiously brushing the ashes off.

"I'm happy.  From now on, I'm doing anything and everything that I want to do."  Proving her point, she flicked more ashes onto the sheet and then onto him.

"You're crazy," he said while angrily throwing the sheet off and jumping out of bed.  He then ran into the bathroom and began taking a shower.  Moments later, Cassandra joined him.  Everything was made right between them during the next twenty minutes.

"Buying all this land in the middle of hills and forests right here under everyone's nose was a stroke of genius," Richard said as he dried off with the puffy, white towel Cassandra had handed to him.

"It didn't hurt that your financial genius hid the sales in a blizzard of paperwork so deep that no one will ever know that it was connected to the church or us" Cassandra purred.

His ego stroked along with the favorite parts of his anatomy, Richard began to get dressed.

  They possessed six hundred acres of rugged hill and forest country tucked snugly into the southeastern glacial drift-free country of Minnesota.  The topsoils were shallower and poorer than those to the west, resulting in primarily dairy farming rather than cash crops as the principal agricultural activity.  The land they occupied was filled with porous limestone, leading to the formation of caverns and sinkholes.   Duschee Creek meandered throughout the property flanked by three-hundred foot bluffs.  They had made sure that no one else lived in the entire area.  The land was thoroughly posted to keep hunters out.  Cassandra and Armtree had made it as isolated as possible.   It was a perfect environment for the plan they had hatched to recover their money from Beth and the others who had "stolen" from them.  

Hi,
It's Halloween and as soon as we turned on the lights we had little, scary bodies showing up at our door.  There's a little break now, so I decided to post the rest of the first chapter of my new story (still untitled).  Here it is:

                                                    CHAPTER 1

Beth retreated and circled as the six-foot-two, slimy looking stooge stalked her.  When he lunged and grabbed for her neck she deftly sidestepped, hammer fist punched him on the left side of his neck, and delivered a knee to his throat.   Fortunately for the slime-ball, however, he was wearing protective gear.  He was unhurt. 

The audience of a dozen women (young and old) burst into applause and then showered Beth with congratulations.  The would be mugger waited till the women parted from Beth, and then approached to shake her hand.  Beth eschewed the hand shake and threw a heartfelt hug into his burly figure.  The instructor smiled widely as he embraced her. 

"I never thought I would get to this point.  You've taught me so much," Beth gushed.

"I've never had a student pick up the attitude and techniques as fast as you have," Damien, the Krav Maga instructor responded.  "I hope you're going to stick with it," he added with some concern to his voice.

"No need to worry about that.  You"re going to be seeing me for a while."

A relieved grin appeared on Damien's face as he hugged her again.  "Great!  Then I'll see you on Thursday.  There's a lot more to learn, and only part of it is physical.  Krav Maga demands a mental toughness and understanding that when you're attacked in the real world it has absolutely nothing to do with practicing kicks on a heavy bag."

"I know, Damien.  I promise I'll be a good pupil". 

Beth had found out about Krav Maga a month following the death of her years long tormentor, Adrian Pope.  Her near death experience and feelings of helplessness when physically confronted by him had convinced her to attend some sort of self-defense training.  She had vowed that she would never again let another human being gain dominion over her.

The training took place in the basement area of a downtown Rochester hotel.  She had read an article in the local newspaper describing it as an Israeli form of martial arts.  It had been advertised as the only style of martial arts that applied to real world situations.  Her first class instructor had begun by lining all the participants at the front of the room and having them take a bow.  Then they had gone right into jumping jacks alternated with push-ups and some basic blocks with a partner.  Abs and stretching work followed.  The tone of the warm-up had been tough with the instructor yelling and appearing to want to break her down.  She had felt intimidated, but didn't leave.

Each person had then been assigned a partner and practiced palm-heal hits into pads.  Her adrenalin had flowed fiercely.  Attack scenarios came next.  First they watched the instructor and her assistant walk through frontal choking situations and how to escape.  Partners then practiced with each other.  The instructor and assistant came to each pair and offered criticism and feedback. 

The class ended with a repeat of the beginning warm-ups.  At the very end of the class, the instructor stressed that Krav Maga was a martial arts technique that involved Karate, Boxing, Muay Thai, Kickboxing, Jujitsu, Wrestling, and Grappling.  He repeated that the focus would be on real-life situations and extremely efficient and brutal counter-attacks. 

He delved into the history of the techniques.  Beth learned that it sprang from street-fighting skills developed by Imi Lichtenfeld, a Hungarian-Israeli martial artist.  Lichtenfeld had used his training as a boxer and wrestler as a means of defending the Jewish quarter against fascist groups in Bratislava during the mid-to-late 1930s.  In the late 1940s he began to provide lessons on combat training for what became known as the IDF (Israeli Defense Forces).  The IDF went on to design the Krav Maga system.  The philosophy of the system emphasized threat neutralization, simultaneous defensive and offensive maneuvers, and aggression.

Beth had felt a surge of energy as she accomplished everything demanded of her the first day, and in every training session thereafter.  She developed a strong sense of confidence in her physical and mental skills to the point where Beth found herself reveling and even thriving in this new-found environment. 

After showering and dressing, Beth took the stairs leading from the basement of the Mahler Hotel, passed through the fancy lobby, and burst into a fast walk.   She  emerged from the building and into darkness interrupted only by city lights.  she was filled with an intense feeling of confidence and vigor.   She remembered that her cell phone had been on vibrate and switched it back on.  Within seconds it rang.  She answered as she continued to swiftly walk the streets on her way to the public parking ramp. 

"Hello."  Silence.  She repeated the greeting.  Met by silence again, she was about to chalk it up as a wrong number, when the voice on the line made her stop. 

"I have someone who wants to talk to you," the familiar voice calmly stated.  Mark's voice came on the line.

"Beth, they have me!"  A jumbled sound that reminded her of an over-amped microphone being jostled around replaced Mark's voice. 

And then the familiar, initial voice came back on the line and said her name, "Beth, you have something that we want." 

She knew this time might come.  She just didn't know it would happen this soon.  Beth didn't know what to say so she remained silent for a few seconds.

"Are you still on the line?" Cassandra asked.

"Yes," she managed to say while her voice cracked.

"Good.  You never know when you're going to lose cell phone connections now  days.  We need to meet and sort this whole thing out," Cassandra said amiably.  She continued.  "We'll contact you tomorrow when you're feeling a little less tired.  We understand that you've had a difficult  evening of punching, kicking, and yelling.  Get a good nights rest.  You'll need it." 

The line went dead.  Beth slowly lowered the phone to her side while blankly staring straight ahead.   She stood motionless for several seconds.   Mark had said "they" have me.   Cassandra had said, you have something "we" want.  Obviously, Mr. John was with her.  Beth knew what they wanted.  Money! 

Unconsciously, she began walking again, slowly at first, then rapidly until she was almost running.   She reached her tan-colored Ford Focus within five minutes.  Grasping her keys from her purse, she fumbled and dropped them.  Nervously, and with a sense of desperation, she grabbed for the keys and pushed them under the car. 

"Chill," she told herself as she stood without picking the keys up.  Thirty seconds passed before her breathing had returned to normal.  Her eyes scanned the parking-ramp before getting on her hands and knees to retrieve her car keys.  Standing again, she turned the key in the lock and opened the door.  Beth settled comfortably onto the cloth seat and started the engine.  She began mentally preparing herself for the fight she knew would come.

Hi.  I've been pretty busy for a few months and haven't posted anything since August.  My wife and I just returned from a two week trip to Italy.  We visited, in order, Venice, Florence, Rome, and Sorrento.  All were beautiful, but Sorrento stood out to us for the shear beauty of the area right on the coast of the Mediterranean.  Capri was a short hop away on a ferry, which we took, and the ruins of Pompeii were to the north.  Both were, literally, breathtaking, but for different reasons.

But, enough of that, now for the important stuff.  I have started work on a sequel to "Trust Me Now"  which picks up where the first novel left off.  Cassandra and Mr. John are alive and well, holed up in a safe spot and eager to get their money back from Beth, plus a little revenge.   Here is a short sample:

PROLOGUE

Mark awoke, his body stuck in a fetal position. He tried stretching to his full six-foot length, but was stopped by a hard, extended surface on both ends.   He moved his feet behind and arms to the front.  The same type of hard surface abruptly stopped his limbs.  Violently, his body was suddenly launched vertically, and his head crashed into the top of the enclosure he realized he was trapped in.  

He was moving, or rather, the container he was in, was moving.   While continuing to be bounced around he was slowly becoming aware of what had happened to him earlier in the evening.

While emptying his trash into an outside bin someone had approached him from behind and covered his nose and mouth with a rag soaked in something; chloroform he guessed.  Blackness had enveloped him, until waking in the moving container he currently occupied. 

Another brutal bump sent him to the top of his container again, banging him down with a force that caught his right hand twisted beneath his hips.  Pain now wracked through his hand and extended into his forearm.  Whatever he was riding in was not rolling over a smooth surface.  Mark was continually bouncing around with an occasional huge jolt sending him flying into the roof.  Roof!  As his mind continued to clear, he began to understand that he was in the trunk of a car moving over rough roads. 

Questions tumbled from his mind, bewildering him with answers that made no sense.  Who did this?  Why?  Where is he or she taking me?  Is it one person, two, three?  He almost dreaded the answers.

                                                    CHAPTER 1

Beth retreated and circled as the six-foot-two, slimy looking stooge stalked her.  When he lunged and grabbed for her neck she deftly sidestepped, hammer fist punched him on the left side of his neck, and delivered a knee to his throat.   Fortunately for the slime-ball, however, he was wearing protective gear.  He was unhurt. 

The audience of a dozen women (young and old) burst into applause and then showered Beth with congratulations.  The would be mugger waited till the women parted from Beth, and then approached to shake her hand.  Beth eschewed the handshake and threw a heartfelt hug into his burly figure.  The instructor smiled widely as he embraced her. 

"I never thought I would get to this point.  You've taught me so much," Beth gushed.

"I've never had a student pick up the attitude and techniques as fast as you have," Damien, the Krav Maga instructor responded.  "I hope you're going to stick with it," he added with some concern to his voice.

"No need to worry about that.  You’re going to be seeing me for a while."

A relieved grin appeared on Damien's face as he hugged her again.  "Great!  Then I'll see you on Thursday.  There's a lot more to learn, and only part of it is physical.  Krav Maga demands a mental toughness and understanding that when you're attacked in the real world it has absolutely nothing to do with practicing kicks on a heavy bag."

"I know, Damien.  I promise I'll be a good pupil". 

Beth had found out about Krav Maga a month following the death of her years long tormentor, Adrian Pope.  Her near death experience and feelings of helplessness when physically confronted by him had convinced her to attend some sort of self-defense training.  She had vowed that she would never again let another human being gain dominion over her.

The training took place in the basement area of a downtown Rochester hotel.  She had read an article in the local newspaper describing it as an Israeli form of martial arts.  It had been advertised as the only style of martial arts that applied to real world situations.  Her first class instructor had begun by lining all the participants at the front of the room and having them take a bow.  Then they had gone right into jumping jacks alternated with push-ups and some basic blocks with a partner.  Abs and stretching work followed.  The tone of the warm-up had been tough with the instructor yelling and appearing to want to break her down.  She had felt intimidated, but didn't leave.