Kindle Edition Amazon Category:  Action/Thriller Publisher: Wild Indian Productions Type: Fiction Pages: 60 Copyright: July 15, 2013 Millions have been locked up, following the discovery of Earth Flow and test results from the DNA Police. The wolves have stopped howling and the dogs no longer bark. Will Long River, a Native American, a Cherokee, is running for his life in New Orleans on Mardi Gras Day. Brought up with Cherokee traditions, he was never told the story of the ancient Ravens. Others kept the story from him because they feared this very day might come true.         Excerpt Chapter One The TIME is LATER JOHN HUNTER As screwed up as America was, it was paradise—at least for me and most of my friends—when I look back on it, back before everything changed, back before you were forced to take the DNA tests. So what if my wife and I struggled some months to meet mortgage payments. We were only five years away from owning the house, a house that was truly a home, cozy, and spacious with a rose garden in front and a fenced-in backyard with plenty of room for Dover, our black lab, to run when he felt like it. We had plenty of food on the table and the car was paid off. Our daughter had pretty clothes and was doing well in school. Friends often came over on the weekends and outdoors we grilled fish and burgers, had a few glasses of wine, laughed at each other as well as ourselves, and believed not in the illusionary American Dream but at least in a tomorrow and our caring and honest friendships. I taught American History to high school kids. I loved those kids, even the troubled ones who acted out begging for attention. I tried to make the classes not just interesting, but exciting and fun. Some days, I would ask them to dress like those in the period of history we were studying. I did the same. I’d let them pick which famous person in history they wanted to pretend to be. The girl with a pierced nose and lip chose to be George Washington one day. Her white wig was a hoot and most of the other kids had fun listening to her sing about Washington, mocking him, as she danced about the classroom with a small potted cherry tree, her wild moves inspiring them to start dancing with her. She was actually rather talented and was the lead singer in an all girl band called Washington’s Ax. I figured almost anything that got the kids more involved with learning was far better than them just sitting there, watching the clock and frowning like I was their dreaded enemy. It sure livened my days as well. Some of the teachers where I worked were as dull as dead. A few despised me, said behind my back that I was unruly. You can always count on gossip to make its hounding rounds. I went to church every Sunday. Well, unless I had been up till dawn the night before working on my hobby, putting ships in bottles. The minister of the church didn’t put wings on my soul, but he often touched my heart, bringing me closer to God. Now my faith has all but vanished. If it had once been a lion roaring atop a mountain, it was now a worm crawling over a frozen lake in the middle of nowhere. At very rare moments, I want to believe that worm will again become a lion. But I just don’t know anymore. Sometimes, now that I am locked up, I think back on so much that I took for granted. I would give anything to simply be back home, in the backyard, to throw a ball for Dover to fetch, and hear my daughter make fun of how I toss the ball. I also miss the little things like hearing the thud of the newspaper hit the front porch before dawn and the creak of the stairs leading to the bedroom. When I took the DNA test, our beautiful black lab, Dover, was only three years old. We had raised him from a pup. He sticks in my mind and my heart so profoundly not only because me and my whole family loved his gentle and friendly nature, but because it was the very day of the DNA test that I noticed a change in his behavior. When I took him on his morning walk in the neighborhood he always barked at the German shepherd on Elm Street. The shepherd usually barked the loudest and longest, till Dover and I had turned the corner. On that day, however, Dover did not bark at all and the German shepherd stopped barking long before we were out of sight. Though I found it curious, I didn’t have a clue what it foreshadowed. How I could have possibly known? I hate being locked up so much that at times I feel I will scream. I ache by the minute to not only be free but to again be with my wife, daughter and my dog. I lived for them, and it’s only thoughts—futile as they are—of seeing them again that keep me from going stark raving mad. I often pace, walking back and forth as if the next step might find a way out of this living hell. My tiny room has a single barred window, no bigger than a woman’s floppy hat, that overlooks trees. A wall-mounted video camera watches me, sucking away every breath I take. I have a bed, desk, chair, toilet and shower. But the desk is a cruel joke since I have nothing on it. Some moments I feel so lonely that I would give an arm to have a computer to connect to the Internet and view even the endless clichés posted on Facebook. I especially miss my friends who regularly stayed in touch from all around the world. I had just started a new site on Facebook called Ships in a Bottle, and it was growing by leaps and bounds, when I was arrested. The concrete walls here are bare and I often cling to the window’s view like the last glimpse of loved one’s face at the train station. As much as I had once savored the beauty of trees, I didn’t know back then just how truly magnificent they are. I love to watch the trees sway in wind. Though bound by their roots in the earth, they are far freer than I am. The walls of my cell seem to inch closer by the minute, daring me to pound my head against them. When I was home and everything was normal, my wife and I had adorned our walls with many prints and paintings bought at thrift stores and yard sales. She liked the images of towering, snow-capped mountains and vast deserts. I preferred those of the sea graced by sailboats. We both savored the painting of Chief Sitting Bull. It had been done by a neighborhood woman with much artistic talent but little drive to market herself. When her husband died two years ago from lung cancer, she sold all her paintings dirt cheap. She said her art reminded her too much of her husband. He had taught her how to paint. The painting of Sitting Bull hung over my desk, where I often worked constructing ships in bottles. The day the DNA Police rang our doorbell, I was putting together another Viking ship. Viking ships were my absolute favorites to assemble because I had dreamed of them since I was a boy of five. Sometimes as a child I awoke in the night with such a dream and believed it was so real that I could hear vast crashing waves and feel sea mist on my face, seagulls calling out. When the DNA Police entered our home to swab our mouths, they were very professional. “Sorry to bother you,” said the woman. “Won’t take but a second or two.” My wife offered them chocolate chip cookies she had made from scratch. They were still warm from the oven. The two officers chewed the cookies and smiled like old friends, nodding that the cookies were delicious. “I must get this recipe for my wife,” said the officer. Then the female officer, a trace of chocolate smearing her lower lip, lost her smile when her eyes focused on the painting of Sitting Bull. Her partner did the same, his eyes hardening all the more as he studied the Viking ship in the bottle. The officers’ behavior made no sense at all, not back then. Now a lot of it has become clear. At first, as the USA started to so dramatically change I groped with it, perhaps as men did thousands of years ago when someone tried to describe a wheel that had not yet been invented. It surely boggled listeners minds just as in more recent history some tried to describe unseen electricity and tell how it could be used to light streets and homes, where only kerosene and candles lighted the way. Yet, we now take such tools and so many others since discovered as common day. When I first heard about Earth Flow, it aroused my curiosity because of my interest in both Native Americans and science. The article on the internet was written by a retired scientist from MIT, Professor Albert Winslow, from London. I was already aware of some of his findings, like the Earth is alive and gives off various waves of energy that can be recorded electronically. I also knew, like I think most people did, that earthquakes and erupting volcanoes signaled powerful activity deep within the Earth. I believed fully as well in the connectivity of everything on Earth, not only on a spiritual and societal level but on a pragmatic and scientific level—that old cause and effect understanding. Drop a glass—with or without water—from a tower and it will, upon hitting the Earth, shatter. Feed a wolf and he will grow. Starve him and he will die. No, I had no trouble with the opening of Professor Winslow’s article, including the part about the Earth’s energy changing from time to time, being stronger at point A than point M depending on the shifting activity within the Earth. But as I dug deeper into his story, I felt like a man in the ancient world being told about something called a “wheel” that had not yet been invented. It was difficult for me to grasp Earth Flow and what a person doesn’t grasp he doesn’t tend to believe. NOW I grasp it. Now the whole world is aware of Earth Flow and how it rolls on like a giant wheel to carry some forward and to crush others. If I had known months ago what I know now, perhaps I wouldn’t be locked up. Maybe I could have put two and two together and have escaped being captured, cast into this hellhole. The night I read that story about Earth Flow was the day before Madri Gras in New Orleans. I was almost a thousand miles away from that city, fully unaware how the next day’s events there with the Ravens and Will Long River would soon change my life and the lives of everyone in America.

Another Wonderful Work by Jerry Ellis
I got this tonight and I am already finished reading it! Jerry's writing keeps one riveted, eager for the turning of the page.

I bought "Walking the Trail" from Amazon in January and after that, I knew I had found a way to discover more about my Cherokee heritage and customs; understanding the reasons for things that are inherent to me, that came from having Cherokee ancestors.

I loved this first part of his latest work, and will be waiting patiently for Part 2.

Thriller? Indeed!
I would have read this book no matter what review or accolades I may have read just because of who wrote it. Let that be a testament to his previous 7 books. If you haven't read them yet, do your soul and spirit a favor and get your page turning fingers all licked up. I've been eagerly awaiting this book since I first discovered that it was in the works. If I thought my excitement would subside because I finally got to read it, I WAS WRONG! I am more on the edge of my seat now than ever. I cannot wait to read part two. This book reads like fast food--quick and easy, but satisfies like a 5 star feast--rich with satisfying, curious layers. I'm dying to find out what happens to Will. Did he break a promise? Will he remember his past? Who's chasing him and why? What the heck is going on with the dogs? I urge you to buy this book and join me on the mystery train. If you've walked, marched, or rode with Jerry before, then you know this ride will be an uplifting reward, if not...what are you waiting for?

The Best!
Great, great, stuff. I got the first chapter of this serial as well as Kindle for PC just the other day, and it's hard to put into words just how I feel about Mr. Ellis's book. Well, though, it's incredible, and something for which people like me have waited a lifetime. You can see the chapter in a sentence and a sentence in a word and every word is a diamond. Don't call it a book; it's something better, and chapter two is still out there. "Canterbury Tales"? Again, who knows what is the very best?