The greatest man I know lives under my roof.  On any given day, I can finding him sipping from a dainty pink porcelain teacup sitting among a familiar cluster of stuffed animals donning tiaras and tutus.  Of course, he looks a bit out of place physically since he is a mountain of a man, muscled with a shaved head, goatee and tattoos.  But such details are unimportant.  Especially since there is no place he’d rather be than with his youngest daughter, the hostess of the tea parties he attends.  He’d rather be with his daughters than any place on Earth, really.  He truly is the greatest man I know. 

So who is this great man?  Well, I can tell you who he is not.  He is not a world leader.  He is not a professional athlete, and he is not a celebrity.  He is much more important than anyone like that.  He is my husband and the father of my children, the best father, as far as I’m concerned.  And I feel blessed and fortunate every day, not just on Father’s Day, to have a man as wonderful as my husband in my life.

Father’s Day is a day to celebrate a special father in your life.  Sadly, not everyone has a father in his or her life.  Whether claimed by death or lost to circumstances, not everyone will have the opportunity to celebrate with his or her father.  But most people know a father they will celebrate in some capacity.  For me, that special father is my husband. 

First, let me say that Chris is the type of man women croon about in country music songs.  He is a no-nonsense, honest, good-hearted, hardworking man that is rarely found these days.  He does not get pedicures or manicures.  He does not wax body hair of any kind.  He does not wear cologne and he does not carry a man-bag.  He comes home from work dirty and tired and smelling like a man who has put in an honest day’s work.  But make no mistake about it, he is a gem. 

You see, Chris does not need frou-frou bells and whistles to make him the great man he is.  His greatness is not about glitz or showiness.  He does not need it.  He is handsome and fabulous without all that, thank you very much.  What makes him great is the fact that, despite being exhausted and dirty, he always has a smile on his face for the women he comes home to, particularly three little ladies that wait for his car to pull into the driveway at precisely four o’clock.  These same little ladies, incidentally, rise each morning, sometimes before the sun, to see him off to work.  They appreciate him, and he appreciates them.  I hope that one day, they marry someone as wonderful as their father, someone who leads by example, someone who loves with all his heart, someone willing to work for what he wants and give more than he takes.  I hope they are as lucky as I am.  I hope their children are as lucky as they are.  Their father is a great man.

Recently, Chris was at a Father’s Night event at our daughter’s nursery school.  When he came home, after the girls were asleep, he expressed his outrage at how so many fathers ignored their children outright in favor of their phones or other electronic devices.  For him, such an offense was unconscionable.  He could not believe that there were fathers there, at an event for them, who were shooing their kids away, literally in some instances.  To him, nothing was more important than being present in the moment, soaking up our daughter’s littleness and spending time with her.  To me, that need to be present spoke volumes about the kind of father he is and supported my claim that he is the greatest man I know. 

He defuses outbursts and hissy fits with his sense of humor, negotiates treaties before wars ever break out and can bust some of the smoothest moves I have ever seen during our family Wii Just Dance competitions.  He is a kisser of boo-boos, a finder of lost things, a slayer of monsters under beds and fuzzy spiders, a bringer of heat, a strong shoulder to cry on, a warm body to hug, and did I mention he is an all-around nice guy?  Yes, that husband of mine is the greatest man I know.  And the greatest father, too.

Happy Father’s Day, Chris.  The girls and I love you more than words can say!

We live in uncertain times.  That is the understatement of all understatements, isn’t it?  Life can change on a dime.  Everything around us is fleeting.  Our jobs, our homes, our sense of well-being, all of it can slip through our fingers like grains of sand.  One only need turn on the television or computer to see that.  It seems we are on shaky ground at all times.  Acts of terrorism, madmen killing unarmed innocents and the wrath of Mother Nature, these atrocities contribute to our waning sense of certitude that everything will be okay.  They feed the feeling that everything in life, even loved ones, can be taken from us in an instant.  Whether it is a co-worker or family member besmirching our name or our reputation or a schoolyard bully taunting us, words – seemingly innocuous compilations of letters – can have the effect of a cannon blast.  Weather seems to be intent upon stealing from us our sense of security as well.  Super-storms, tornadoes and tsunamis make plain for us that a necessity as basic as a home to live in can be swept away in the blink of an eye.  Bombers, zealots and extremists strip from us our sense of safety, making trips to the movie theater, sporting events and even school feel like a calculated risk.  Yes, my friends, we sure do live in uncertain times.

I have not blogged in quite some time.  I have spent much of my off-time focusing on my family, writing novels and reflecting.  I have taken stock in everything around me: people, current events, past incidents.  All of it rolled around in my brain, turning and turning like a ball in perpetual motion.  I went through a range of emotions and tried desperately to make my peace with it.  But sometimes, things just are what they are.  We cannot make sense of them.  We can take what is teachable from them, if anything, and move forward.  It is difficult, but we must.  During this moving-on process, advice I was given earlier in my life began to make complete sense. 

Many years ago, more than I’d care to admit to, an elder in my family told me life is short and that I should never miss a chance to tell someone I love them.  She was a wise and venerable soul, one I connected with despite our vast age difference, one who I sorely miss.  At any rate, when she spoke, I listened.  When she imparted me with this sage piece of wisdom back then, I took it to heart.  Though I was much younger and there seemed to be far less chaos in the world, it had meaning.  And while I did not have the perspective on life then that I hold now, her words resounded with firsthand experience, with truth. 

I have learned as I’ve grown older that her advice is more relevant with each year that passes for I see how very fleeting things are, how very fleeting life can be.  I’ve learned to take nothing for granted.  I say I love you to loved ones before we end our calls, even if I speak to them ten times in the same day.  I hug my children and husband tightly (and often) and never let an opportunity pass to tell them how much they mean to me, how grateful I am for them.  Some may see this as overkill, and they are entitled to their opinions.  But I see it as a mere scratch on the surface of an immense plane of gratitude I feel for having the privilege of being part of their lives.  I cannot tell them enough, in fact.  I want them to know beyond a shadow of a doubt that no matter what happens, what changes life brings, I love them and am grateful for every moment with them.  After all, who knows what tomorrow will bring? 

With all this ambiguity plaguing us as a global community, I want to take this opportunity to do two things.  First, I want to tell each and every person who reads this blog that I appreciate you taking time out of your busy life to stop by this site and peruse the musings of my husband (and co-author) and myself.  Whether you are a friend, family member, reader or first-time visitor who happened upon this website by chance, I am thankful that you did.  Second, I urge you to take the advice I was given so many years ago.  Recognize that, as a senior member of my family once cautioned, life is, in fact, short.  Time seems to rush heedlessly and leave us just trying to catch our breath wondering where it went.  With that in mind, I encourage you to not waste a precious moment of it harboring anger and resentment, ill will or regrets.  Keep moving forward.  Learn from the past and make the future better.  And please, be sure to tell those around you, the people who make life truly worth living, how you feel about them.  Love the ones that love you with every fiber of your being.  You won’t regret it.  I promise.  It will make your life and theirs all the more beautiful and reliable in these uncertain times. 

Wishing you peace, love and happiness,

Jenny

Hi all! Chris and I are thrilled to announce that we have been selected as Co Authors of the Week by Ereader Daily Extra!  We are grateful to the people at this wonderful site for choosing us and for this opportunity.  If you have a moment, please stop by their site and check it out!

http://www.ereaderdailyextra.com/Author-of-the-week.html

For those who are waiting patiently for the release of Dark Creations: Hell on Earth, here is a little tease…the first chapter

Dark Creations: Hell On Earth

Copyright © 2013 Jennifer and Christopher Martucci

All rights reserved.

First edition: February 2013

Chapter 1

Sitting atop her worn, down comforter with her book in her lap, Sarah Miller felt completely content for the first time since she’d moved.  She’d been having trouble sleeping weeks earlier and recently found that a good book worked better than any sleeping pill possibly could, and relaxed her enough to doze long before her husband joined her for bed.  Her brief period of sleeplessness had likely been caused by moving her family from Michigan to Minnesota.  After all, the bustling city of Ann Arbor differed dramatically from Taft. 

Taft, a small township nestled in Cook County, was picturesque, but remote.  She was certain its remoteness was what had given her sleepless nights.  Silent nights free of the wail of sirens, horns honking and trains passing had taken time getting used to.  But the view from the south side of her house had not.  The living room, kitchen and her bedroom boasted spectacular views of Bluefin Bay on Lake Superior.  The cramped condominium she and her family had left had only offered other condominiums in its landscape.

She looked out at the bay.  Moonlight danced across the water and glistened like innumerable diamonds.  The perpetual motion of the water and the quiet of her bedroom made Sarah doubt she would even need to read, that is, until her husband and sons erupted with cheers from downstairs.  She started, but only briefly.  They were undoubtedly watching a sporting event of some kind and celebrating their team’s latest achievement.  She smiled to herself, still a little shaky from the outburst, and opened her book to the last page she’d read.  The intrigue of the plot absorbed her immediately.  She did not know how much time had passed after several chapters had been read, but stopped reading only to rub her eyes.  As she did so, a loud yelping sliced through the peace and quietude of the night.  She sprung to her feet and her book fell from her lap to the floor.  The cry had sounded like her dog Max’s.  She knew he was outside.  She had heard the door close, had heard him lumbering around on the deck.

She moved to the large window and stared out.  She did not see Max, or anything else for that matter, just shapes.  The moon no longer lit the water or the deck outside her bedroom.  The world beyond her windowpane was black.  She stood completely still and concentrated, listening for the sound again.  But instead of a yelp, a new sound rang out unexpectedly.  The doorbell echoed through her contemporary home.  She jumped and nearly knocked over the lamp on her nightstand.  She wondered who would be visiting at such a late hour, especially since the area she lived in was so sparsely inhabited.  The entirety of Cook County had less than three thousand residents.  The homes were set on large lots of land, most of them rural.  Neighbors did not simply drop by as they had in Ann Arbor.  None of her current neighbors were close enough to pay a quick, spontaneous visit.  Something felt wrong.  She wasted no time and trotted across her room into the hallway and leaned over the balustrade.

“Jake!” she whispered as loudly as she could before she realized he was right below her.  She jumped again.  “Oh jeez! You scared the crap out of me!”

“Sorry,” he said and the doorbell rang a second time.  “What the hell is this about?  It’s ten o’clock, for crying out loud!”

“I don’t know.  Something’s wrong.  I don’t like this one bit,” she said.

“All right, let’s not overreact here.  Let me just answer the door and find out.”

“Wait,” she said and gestured to the hall closet.

“Good idea,” he replied and reached for his shotgun.  He quickly loaded it and looked up at her and winked.  “Just in case, right?”

Her son Keith dashed up the stairs and past her to his room.  He returned from his room with his own shotgun in hand.  She gave him a stern look of disapproval.

“What?” he asked. 

She did not respond verbally, but narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips at him.

“It’s in the Constitution,” he said and smiled slyly.  “I have the right to defend myself and my family,” he said and sounded just like his father.

Though seeing her nineteen-year-old son wielding a shotgun did not exactly make her heart swell with pride, she knew he had been to the range with his father and had been taught to use it safely by a trained professional.  She even felt a degree of reassurance that half of her family was currently armed. 

Thumping from the deck that wrapped around the rear of the house stripped her of her reassured feeling, however.  She, along with her husband and Keith, froze and listened.  Another thud sounded, softer than the previous one, but audible, nonetheless.  They all exchanged nervous glances and her husband called for their youngest son.

“John,” he said in a strained whisper.  “John!”

John appeared immediately in the foyer. 

“What’s going on, Dad?  What was that thumping sound on the deck?” he asked nervously.

“I don’t know, son, could be just animals, but I need you to get the phone and go to you room now, okay.  Get in your closet and press speed dial number two, that’s the sheriff’s office.  You tell him there’s trouble out here and he needs to come right away.”

“I’ll go check it out,” Keith said with authority.  “I’ll secure the kitchen.  There’s nothing to worry about, little bro.  Dad and I are prepared for anything, right Dad?”

“Sure, Keith,” he said to his eldest son then turned to John.  “Now, go upstairs, John, all right?”

“Okay Dad,” John replied and breezed past her, phone in hand, to his room.  She continued slowly down the steps, all the while her heart knocked violently against her ribcage. The doorbell sounded a third time and her husband answered it before the tolling stopped.  She was midway down the staircase when she saw who stood in their doorway.

Sarah drew her breath in sharply, shocked, but also relieved.  It was a young woman, an extraordinarily beautiful young woman.  The girl couldn’t have been more than twenty years old and had short dark hair that fell to her chin stylishly, and large, dark eyes.  Her husband immediately relaxed his grip on the gun he held behind the door. 

“Can I help you with something, Miss?” her husband asked the girl.

“I’m so sorry for the late hour, but is Keith home?” she asked politely.

“Uh yeah, he’s here,” her husband fumbled, confused, and turned to call their son. “Uh, Keith, there’s someone here to see,” he started. But before he could say the word you, the girl brandished a pistol.

“No!” Sarah heard herself say and watched in horror as white bursts flashed silently from the long-barreled muzzle of the gun into the back of her husband’s head.  He fell to the floor instantly and she screamed again.  “Jake!  No!” 

Her legs felt leaden and her mind froze.  It was as if something in her brain, in the deepest reaches of her psyche, had shut down.  She wanted to run to her husband, to help him, but her body refused to cooperate, her brain halted by shock.

The sound of glass exploding from the kitchen roused her from the shock that gripped her, glass exploding and the sound of more screams, her son Keith’s screams.  Shots rang out from the kitchen, and then an eerie silence fell.

“Keith!” she shrieked, but knew her oldest son was gone.  Screams from behind her brought her body back to life, and an instinctive need to protect her last living child overtook her.  She turned and saw John at the top of the steps and shouted, “Go! Out your bedroom window!  Now!” then felt a bullet graze her ear.  The pain seared and the sound left her ear ringing, a shrill, deafeningly loud noise.  More bullets rained at her in quick succession and peppered the wall behind her.  She moved up the steps quickly, away from the spray of bullets and after her son, determined to ensure his safety, his survival. 

“Go!” she ordered him.  “Just go!”

Sarah knew he was small enough to crawl out his window onto the roof of the screened-in porch and drop to the ground below.  If he hurried, he’d be able to escape.  He knew the woods beyond their house well, knew to stay close to the bay and follow the shoreline to town. 

Thoughts of his escape ran through her mind as she rounded the corner to John’s room and found him still standing there.

“What, what’re you doing? Go!” she pleaded.

“I’m not leaving you!” he argued.

“I’ll be right behind you,” she said but knew she could not fit through the window.  “I promise I’ll be right behind you.”

He looked at her and nodded in agreement then climbed out his bedroom window.

Her lie had appeased him and he scampered out onto the roof of the porch and disappeared over the edge.  She felt a moment of thankfulness that at least one of her family members would survive the night; just one.  Tears burned behind her eyelids and spilled down her cheeks.  Unimaginable heartache clenched in her chest and tore at her.  Only one of her family of four would live.  Two were already gone.  She couldn’t understand any of it; nothing made sense.  But she did not have time to mourn or consider her situation.  Footsteps echoed behind her.  She looked to the doorway and saw that a slender figure flanked by two larger ones filled it.  The girl had returned.  And she was not alone.  Two young men, around her age, accompanied her.  Up close, she could see that all of them were remarkably good-looking.  The men were tall and strapping, with faces that were almost angelic.  All three had chestnut-hued hair and equally dark eyes that stood out against their pale skin.  She guessed from their considerable similarities, their identical delicate features and coloring, that they were siblings, divine looking siblings.  But something in their eyes was far from saintly. 

“Who are you people? What do you want?” was all she could think of to say.

“We are the Millers,” one of the men said calmly.  “I’m Keith Miller.”

Sarah looked at each of their faces, searching for an answer, but they remained stoic.

“Excuse me?” she said and felt tears well again. She tried to blink them back but to no avail.

“I’m Keith Miller, and you’re intruding in my home,” he replied.

The room began to spin, slowly at first, then faster and faster.  Sarah thought she would vomit, but swallowed hard instead and said in a trembling voice, “Keith Miller is dead.  You killed him, you sick bastards!”

“Who are you and why are you in our house?” the woman asked.

Sarah looked over her shoulder out the window and prayed her son had made it safely to the shore.  Surely, he was long gone and well on his way to town.  She turned back and found the girl’s face inches from hers.  The girl seized her by the back of her head and grabbed a handful of her hair.  She dragged Sarah to the window and pressed her face to the glass.  All Sarah could see were the inky silhouettes of tress against the darkness.

“Oh don’t worry about John,” she hissed.  “He’s not going anywhere.” The woman then pulled a flashlight from a utility belt that hung around her hips and shined it into the night.  The small tool produced a beam of light like a floodlight and lit the entire yard.  And that’s when she saw John.

Her son stood, motionless, and surrounded by three creatures the likes of which she’d never seen.  They looked like mythical gatekeepers of the underworld.  They glared up at her with murderous, yellow eyes, the eyes of predators.  Her son called out to her.  “Mom!” he shouted and all the beasts but one turned their attention from her to him.  They stalked around him on all fours crouched low like wolves, but not any wolves she’d ever seen.  Massive with mains of golden hair, they circled him lithely, their muscled flanks rippling in anticipation; except one.  A single creature glared at her.  She watched her son, but felt its eyes on her.

“John,” she whimpered.

“Not for long,” the woman whispered at her ear.

Sarah refused to turn and face her.  Instead, she cried out her son’s name, tears burning down her cheeks, “John!” she wailed.

The beast that watched her rose on its haunches and furrowed its brow.  She gasped and saw that when standing, it towered over John.  It appeared to be at least seven feet tall, and looked remarkably human.  Its features were expressive.  It narrowed its eyes at her and smiled, revealing its sharp, fanged teeth then looked beyond her at the woman.  In her peripheral vision, she saw the woman gesture.  At the woman’s command, the creature spun and dropped back on all fours and descended on her son.

“No!” she screamed.

Her son cried out, and the others in the pack attacked him.

Sarah’s legs gave out from beneath her, and she felt the woman’s grip on the back of her neck relax.  She collapsed to the floor in horror and disbelief.  She sobbed uncontrollably.  Her worst nightmares had never been as horrific as what she’d just witnessed, as her evening had been.  She felt as though she’d been cast into hell and was enduring the worst suffering a person could bear.  She’d watched her children die, watched her husband die.  No pain could possibly be worse, no punishment more depraved. 

“Oh now, stop your crying,” she heard the woman say flatly.  She looked up and saw the woman watching her impassively, without the slightest trace of humanity.  “Your time on Earth is over.  Our time has come.”

The woman raised her gun and aimed it at Sarah’s temple. 

The last sound Sarah Miller heard was the loud popping of the pistol firing as the woman pulled the trigger, then silence, blessed silence.  Her hell ended.