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Buck, a fictional literary rendition in drama and suspense,is author and novelist Wanda S. Miller-Berry's profoundly exhilarating and truly riveting first published novel. Equipped with the skills of a well-seasoned and talented writer, she explores and captures through word in print the horrific reality in the life of a man named Buck, a disgruntled human soul plighted by the far-reaching chicanery of human cruelty, deception, deprivation and degradation.
The storyline guides you through a thorough and assiduous irreversible succession of time in that of Buck's past, and gives a keenly dramatic portrayal of how, and why, the pain in Buck's life comes to be, and does so through the advent of a storyline that lays the gound-work for lies, the questioning of his very own existence, adultery, incest and murder, the common denominators which metamorphose into his perplexed emotional state--a man who has sanctioned his mouth and his heart, to forever withold the truths of a long ago place and time and the deeds of men and women who no longer walk this earth. His hair-raising struggle with the pessimistic bonds of despondency, and the desire to be absolved of his past life torment him daily.
This spell-binding and dramatic tale will drive you to the edge of your seat, as it slowly, yet expeditiously arouses feelings of awe, and simultaneously produces an overwhelming feeling of disquiet and suspicion in the minds of its readers as Buck battles with his past sins of commission, omission, and his non-stop battle between life, survival and death!
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February 11, 1993 was all-too-consuming, overflowing with revelation. It was cold and intensely gloomy on that dreadful day. Death, the immensely feared predator of some and, in the final stages of life, likely all, has a way of announcing its imminent arrival in the lives of its unknowing victims by slowly and meticulously embedding within their unconsciousness emotions of unknown origin. Emotions that evoke a sense of pondering, paranoia, and eerie feelings of melancholy demonstrated in one respect by the locked-in vision of two isolated souls, one of whom is its victim.
The death-filled atmosphere was steadfast in its grip and gave widespread sanction to the presence and feeling of doom. Buck, now an old man, lay semi-conscious in his hospital bed, trying to hang on to the last few fleeting moments that life had to offer him. His delirium, as it was defined, signaled his senses, as it did those of so many others, to question and to take into account the circumstances that contributed to the horrific reality of his existence. It was the existence of a man whose deeds, along with the deeds of his familial lineage, had been brought to fruition. His sins, the sins of his forefathers, his gut-wrenching secrets, his feelings of retribution, loneliness, betrayal, loyalty, loves, and fears, were all waiting to be magnified by those who lurked in the darkness, waiting for what they deemed to be the perfect time to expose his weaknesses.
Listen, listen attentively to the daily sounds that encircle you; notice the times when you are inclined to gaze upon the countenances of those death has claimed for retrieval and notice, too, their simultaneous listless gazes into the windows of your own soul. Listen as the pain in the life of one man comes to be; listen to the explanation that lies, the questioning of one's existence, adultery, incest, murder, and ultimately love claim as their justification for being; listen to the battle between life, survival and death!
As I lay here, my mind slowly yet precociously awakens to the reality of my surroundings. My eyes take in the lifeless white walls that surround me; the crystal ornamental vase that holds the lifeless remains of twelve roses whose petals, once crimson red, are still supported by life-giving forces, demonstrated by their celadon-green stems whose projection of their lifeless form toward heaven is noted. The lifeless remains of the twelve roses--the giver of which is unknown to me-- sit as if defeated by some unknown force on the gray metal table that sits snugly against my bed. My mind immediately roils with the idea that the lifeless remains are no more than attempt to rid someone's heart and soul of guilt, and give to me roses while I am yet clinging to this miserable life! My ears prick up as my mind deciphers the last words that roll off the tip of my tongue. My mind immediately questions the likelihood of who, or what, would bring forth such callousness in thought, such bitterness in feeling.
My body cringes and trembles as the icy breath spewing into the room from the ivory metal openings that are protruding from the wall above my head caresses my brow softly and somewhat seductively. The contradiction in function and use of the man-made contraption, which is at the inappropriate time and season, registers with the reasoning capacity of my mind. The discrepancy, thus, does not warrant its use yet; the condition of my body (a human torch lit by the feverish ranting of a body consumed with atrophy) makes its presence appropriate. The chill in the morning air, also gives hint to the continued abnormally cold winter that lay ahead, as it moves in slowly, usurping the last fleeting moments of the autumn passed.
My mind motions to my vision to take in what my sense of sound has already delivered to the forefront of my mind as the next avenue of surveillance. My head turns slowly to my right and the unfamiliar voices which seem to be coming from the big black box that is perched on the metal stand, which is attached to and appears to be fingering and grasping at the lifeless white walls. Ah, some relevance of security envelopes my brain as the familiarity of the voice, no, not the voice, but the words coming from the voice register with me. BUT WAIT! My mind relinquishes the security, which I initially felt, exchanging it for doubt and a belief that does not bring solace to my weariness. In fact, I now feel irritation, frustration. The creases and furrows in my brow, which are so very thick, stand as witnesses to the irritation and frustration that I now feel. My heart yearns and aches, as the loneliness that I feel will not let go of my being...
How long has the pain that I feel racing through every fiber of my being made its home with me? Is this perception, or is this reality? The confusion brings about a lethargic weakness in my soul as my mind roils with the thought of my reprehensible flesh, and how my vision takes in the magnitude of its crevices, its creases, and the lines of time that penetrate it...
The undefined uncertainty between perception and reality no longer exists. I can no longer deny the blue-gray shadows of death that approach and eventually surround me. The persistent climatic crescendos of pain are slowly leaving my body, and are replaced with a quietness,a calmness, an eerie relaxed state of existence that my being has never before experienced, but yet finds comforting. Is it a comfort that I will experience for all eternity?
Copyright 2005,2006 Wanda S. Miller-Berry. All Rights Reserved.
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