Cover design by Martine Jardin
Cover design by Martine Jardin
My 17th book is now available! It came out on 4th June, 2018. Writers Exchange E-Publishing has released Hit and Run, which several of my beta readers have judged to be my best book yet.
Alfredo Zotti is one of them. He was inspired to make some drawings based on his visualisations. All the drawings on this page are his work.
Synopsis
Read the first chapter
A few reviews
How to buy
Sylvia
As with all my books, if you send me proof of purchase, you qualify for a free electronic copy of any of my other books. You can inspect what's on offer here. Naturally, emailing me a review qualifies.
Please go to the publisher's page for this book if you want to buy it. The link there will automatically take you to your country's Amazon page.
14 year old Chuck hates everybody; would blow up Earth if he could. So, he steals a car and seeks someone, anyone, to kill. He drives over 6 children and the crossing supervisor, narrowly missing 84 year old Sylvia.
That night, there is a mysterious contact between them, which continues. Sylvia looks after Chuck's little brother, Tommy. Her drawings help the police to arrest him, but at the memorial service for the victims, she says, "Hate begets hate, vengeance only leads to vengeance, violence feeds on itself. Only love can stop the endless cycle. Only love can turn hate into love."
His very name is an abusive joke against him, so she insists on calling him Charlie. But can she steer him toward a good life?
Follow their journey together through many more crises, and good times too.
Chuck
"Good afternoon, Mrs. Kryz." The broad-shouldered, dark haired man held out his hand. "I'm Vlad Stavrou, the psychologist sent by Victims' Services."
I invited him in, handing him a cup of tea and a plate of my latest baking set on the coffee table, as I waited for him to continue. I'd never dealt with a psychologist before, and didn't know what to expect.
He took a sip, then put down his cup. "Just tell me about last Friday morning, please. Make me feel I was there, like I was you."
And so I started my tale.
If I wasn't an old girl of eighty-four, I'd be dead, too.
Not that I care -- I'd be better off dead than the way I am. I haven't slept since it happened. Every time I close my eyes, I see the horribly mutilated little bodies, Naomi's white crossing supervisor uniform covered in deep red blotches and bits of her brain, and that boy's gloating face as he flashed by.
It was on purpose. I saw it in the leer of his eyes, his half-open mouth. He looked like a naughty kid snatching a chocolate bar off the shelf before running out of the shop.
If I'd been able to walk as fast as the children, I'd have been among them, beside Naomi, but I was a few steps behind, leaning on my wheelie frame, so he missed me. I felt the wind of the red car's passing, smelt the stink of its exhaust, was close enough for blood to splatter my stockings and the bottom of my dress. He missed my wheelie frame by inches.
Six lovely little children, none over seven years old I'd say. And kind, fat Naomi who always had a laugh for everyone, and was out there twice a day during school term, whatever the weather.
Dead. Killed. Snuffed out in an instant of terror.
And me, I live.
At first I felt nothing, only saw a meaningless painting of red and grey blots until some of the blots moved, I guess the twitches after death, and the horror swam into focus. A few seconds ago, that thing with the moving arm had been Shane: cheeky, with a freckled face and a gap-toothed grin. I'd often said hello to his mother. That broken doll had been a bright little girl with red plaits. She'd been singing the alphabet when the car appeared from nowhere.
Oh, how could he?
Why?
People appeared, probably within seconds, but I have no idea of the time. Someone led me away, gently, and took me into her house, across the road from the school. I noticed an Australian flag next to the door.
When she saw me looking at it, the lady said, "My husband is a Justice of the Peace. Come in, my dear."
Soon I was in a deep armchair with a hot water bottle behind my back and a hot, sweet cup of tea.
Nevertheless, I was still shaking when the police arrived. It was a woman and a man. She asked the questions, kindly enough, while he scribbled.
"Mrs Kryz, do you think you could identify this man?"
"Hmm, more a boy than a man. Well, all young men seem like boys to me, but he didn't look like he was shaving yet. You know, baby-face skin."
"You saw that in such a short space of time?"
"If... if my hands weren't shaking like this, I could draw him for you."
She perked up at that. "At home, I can show you a few drawings. As a young woman, I often fed my children by doing a portrait for a pound. I've had people come up to me in the street, telling me they still have the drawing I'd made of them as children."
"Wonderful! Mrs Kryz, when you're up to it, draw him, please. Then..." she gave me a business card, "...phone me and I'll rush to your place. I want him." She looked like an eagle swooping on prey. Maybe she was a mother, too.
The psychologist nodded with an understanding smile.
Eventually I felt well enough to go home, and my kind hostess drove me there. I put my clothes to soak and had a shower and another cup of tea, then got out my crayons and sketchbook. Crayons are my favourite medium. But, thinking of the purpose of the exercise, I also found my coloured pens. This one required sharp lines, though of course the shading needed the crayons.
I closed my eyes for a moment, opened them and drew. There was the red car -- faded, powdery red. Square shape of the car, silver grille and bumper bar. New cars don't seem to have those. His head was a pale blur at this stage. No P plate. That surprised me. Maybe he was older than he looked? If you pass your test the first possible time at 18, you'd have to be 21 for the full licence. I couldn't read the number plate... PL something?
I got a fresh sheet of drawing paper. Naomi, frozen, half-facing the roar of the car. She held her STOP on a stick as if it would act as a barrier. Around her, the little figures, all with heads turned left, toward death. Looming on the left side, the car. I wanted to stay realistic but couldn't: it was huge, a juggernaut, a giant red-and-silver monster. You could see it move on the paper.
My hand hurt from having gripped the pen so tightly. I looked at my watch -- heavens, three o'clock and I hadn't had lunch!
A couple of dry biscuits with cheese and a cup of tea are enough for an old bird like me, before I returned to work.
The car, almost side-on, was in front of me as I closed my eyes. A moment, then I opened them and my hand drew. As always, I felt no control of the process, merely watched shapes appear.
His face, the expression -- almost of ecstasy -- the staring pale blue eye I could see from one side, an untidy mop of light brown hair, black T-shirt. A cigarette poked forward from his mouth, the wisp of smoke visible.
The car... scratches around the keyhole, and up higher, under the black rubber lining the window. I carefully drew them in. I realised -- he stole that car. Probably, he stole the car in order to kill someone, anyone.
I glanced over the three drawings. Satisfied, I sprayed them with a light protective coating. Another hour had passed. Once more, I was exhausted, but got out the policewoman's card. Detective Sergeant Jemima Johnson. I chose her mobile number, not wanting to go through endless switchboards and "We'll pass on your message." She answered on the third ring and I introduced myself.
"You have the drawings?"
"I do."
I'll be there in half an hour. Got your address in the files."
"And I'll have the jug on."
The psychologist smiled at me, and finished off the last biscuit on his little plate.
While waiting for her, I took out my crayons again, and did a quick sketch of her face, with the fierceness on it when she'd said, "I want him." I sprayed it, too, and put it to dry. I took off my glasses to rest my eyes for a few moments, relaxed and drained.
It took her about twenty minutes. Her car was red, too, but a shiny new one; a low-slung thing that looked like a sports car. It had no bumper bar.
"Good evening, Mrs Kryz," she said, and that's when I realised that indeed it was evening.
I sat her on my couch, passed over my drawing of her, and made my all too slow way to the kitchen.
As I returned with a tray carrying the teapot -- I hate teabags -- cups, saucers, sugar, milk, and a plate of biscuits I'd baked yesterday for my great-grandchildren's expected visit tomorrow, she smiled at me. "Mrs Kryz, I'm sorry, I don't have a pound."
"Have your portrait for free, then. Just catch him. That'll be reward enough for me."
I eased myself into my chair. She poured, added milk, then so did I. She didn't take any sugar, but sampled my baking, her face reflecting delight. I passed over a manila folder.
She opened it and looked at the first drawing. Her mouth half opened, and she stopped breathing for a long moment. She looked at the other two drawings in turn. "Marvellous," she finally whispered. "That's a 1960s Holden, I don't remember the model name, but it's clearly identifiable. Few of them still around. Easy to steal."
I drew her attention to the scratches on the door, and she nodded.
"Mrs Kryz, do you want a job as a police artist?"
We both laughed. She said, "Oh, I have a typed copy of your statement. Could you please read it, make any corrections, and then sign it?"
I did so.
She finished her tea, put all four drawings in the folder and stood to go. I showed her to the door. Unexpectedly, she gave me a great, warm hug.
As I've said, I couldn't sleep that night. Whenever I closed my eyes I was THERE, replaying the horror, over and over. Finally, maybe at 4 a.m., I got up, put on my dressing gown and turned on the TV. It was, of all things, a horror movie. I switched channels but everything was equally unsuitable. I picked up the last book I'd borrowed from the library, but it might as well have been in Chinese. I couldn't take in a word.
Eyes on fire, I returned to bed, but as soon as I tried to sleep, I was back there, heard the roar of the engine, lived through it all again. So, I switched on my bedside lamp and looked at the white wall. I projected his face, side on like I'd seen him, and demanded, "Why?"
Was I going crazy? The face turned, both eyes scowling at me. Below the shoulders was the whole boy, with the base of my bed cutting off the view of his legs. He wore a yellow T-shirt.
"F--n old bitch. 'Cause I hate everyone." Oh Doctor, as a young girl I was trained never to say or write words like the one he used. His voice was a baritone, at odds with his appearance. He could barely be sixteen, I thought.
"Why?" I asked him.
What I got in response was such a filthy tirade that my mind shut down. He waved his arms, shouted dirty words the like of which I certainly didn't know at his age, and I really expected him to attack me, but he just stood there. I found not one jot of sense or reason in any this.
At last, he came to a stop and glared at me, panting. "I can see you're angry," I said, "but those lovely little children were not responsible for whatever is eating you."
Then he really surprised me. "Get outa me dream!" he screamed.
He leaned forward as if struggling to come at me, but had his feet glued to the floor. Slowly he faded: the torso disappeared from the bottom up, until only the head was left. It glared at me for one more long moment, and was gone.
Daylight peeped in between the closed curtains.
Had the shock driven me crazy? Maybe I'd fallen asleep and dreamt it? I thought of cancelling my granddaughter-in-law's visit with her children, but decided this was exactly what might get me through the day. So, I showered and dressed, even forced down a piece of buttered toast, and got the toys out of their cupboard.
The doorbell rang, but it was a strange couple. At first sight, the woman looked beautiful, with wavy blonde hair and big blue eyes, but then I noticed it was all peripherals and paint. She smiled, and yet looked cold and calculating.
I only had the door half open when a blinding light hit me, and a fuzzy thing on a long stick descended on one side.
The woman said, "Mrs Sylvia Kryz, you're on the news!"
Obviously, I was supposed to be thrilled. I shut the door.
Her voice rose an octave and a decibel. I hoped the microphone man had left it switched on. "Mrs Kryz! This is the news! You owe it to the people!"
The psychologist sighed, and nodded in sympathy and agreement.
I took a long breath to quieten my fury. "Go away. You're a vulture. You're as bad as that boy callous, cruel and uncaring. Go away!"
All the many points of habitual pain in my body hurt more than ever, but I thought of a rescuer.
I hobbled to the phone and called Jemima Johnson.
Before I could speak, she said, "Mrs Kryz, what can I do for you?"
"Oh, how..."
She laughed. "Your number came up on my little screen." The commotion was still going on outside my house.
"I... I'd be very grateful if you, um, the police, could chase the reporters away." Then I had a thought. "Also, I'll have another drawing for you."
"I'll organise something, and be over myself when I can."
"Oh, thank you. Thank you my dear."
"My pleasure." She sounded like she meant it, but disconnected. I guess she must be busy all the time.
My kitchen is the furthest room from the street, so I set up my drawing things on the benchtop there. That boy, full face... I had no business seeing him full face, but I had. My pens flew, and there he was.
From the side, naturally, his eyebrow had been merely a little square protrusion. Now I'd drawn a perfect arch for the left one, while the right slightly curved up at the outside corner. He had a small, almost skin-coloured mole below the right eye. No one's ears are identical. Despite the mop of hair, I saw that the lobe of the right ear was slightly lower than the left. Also, his sneer exposed his teeth. The left top incisor was set slightly further in than the right. If he ever smiled, it'd look charming, but with the expression on the face, it added to his fierceness.
The doorbell dingled again soon after I'd finished, but I ignored it. Then the phone rang. A male voice said, "Mrs Kryz, this is Senior Constable Barton. We have cleared the street for you."
"Thank you." We hung up. I looked at the clock, and put on the jug. Sure enough, it started its song when the doorbell sounded, and it was Molly with her three little darlings.
"Oh Nan," she said as she leaned down to give me a hug, "You've been in the wars, haven't you!"
"You're right about that, love. Only, the casualties were all too young." I suddenly saw it all: the little bodies twitching, Naomi's crushed head, smelt the blood and exhaust fumes. I'd have fallen if Molly hadn't held me. My glasses fell to the floor.
She helped me to an armchair and eased me into it.
Sharna, Bilko and Elleny were looking on with big eyes. Funny names, I know, but that's modern mums for you. Sharna, all of seven, brought me my spectacles and climbed onto my lap. "Nan," she said, "I'm so glad the nasty man didn't hit you. I love you!"
Then the other two snuggled up to me too, and everything was all right.
Molly brought out a tray: tea for her and me, hot chocolate for the kids. She'd also found the biscuits. We'd barely started when the doorbell rang again. Molly answered it, and returned with Jemima Johnson.
She said, "Oh good, those bikkies again. That's why I came back, despite it being a Saturday."
I told the kids, "Darlings, this lady is a police detective. She is going to catch the man who hit the children with a car."
Jemima did a little jig. "We've got the car, exactly as you drew it! Full of fingerprints, so if we ever find him, he's done."
Molly said, "I thought everyone knows about fingerprints now. Wouldn't he clean them off?"
"He doesn't care about being caught," I told them, convinced, but not knowing how I knew. "Sharna, darling, can you please bring that folder to Detective Sergeant Johnson?"
Sharna did, and Jemima looked at the new drawing. "But how..."
"I don't know. In the small hours, something weird happened. Anyway, I believe that that's what he looks like from the front. That's unless I dreamt it."
Jemima accepted a cup of tea, then excused herself and rushed off. After another pleasant hour, Molly took her kids away, too.
Somehow the day passed, although I was weary beyond belief. Even so, every time I closed my eyes, terror swallowed me. I dreaded the night.
I was cleaning my teeth when the phone rang. It was Jemima Johnson. "Mrs Kryz, I've been remiss and I apologise. You qualify for immediate psychological help. Have you had nightmares, daytime flashbacks, stuff like that?"
"Have I ever!"
She dictated a phone number. "Phone them at 9 a.m. It's a free call, seven days a week. I've faxed them a report, so everything should go very fast."
"Thank you, but can a psychologist take away my memories?"
"Not my field. I wouldn't know what they do, but it works for many people. Please do it."
"Oh, I will, but old dog and new tricks, you know."
The night was a near-repeat of the previous one, except I didn't bother with TV or book. When I got sick of what I now knew to call flashbacks, I projected the boy's face onto the wall.
"You again, old c--t," he sneered. "Leave me alone! I got troubles enough!"
As he turned to face me, I saw a nasty bruise below his right eye. "What happened to your face?"
"Why should ya f--n care? It's me so-called stepfather. The current one."
"How old are you?"
"F-- off. None of your business."
"It isn't. Don't tell me if you don't want to."
"Fourteen, two weeks ago. Happy now, old bitch?"
Anger still twisted his face, but tears squeezed out of his eyes, and ran unchecked, maybe unnoticed, down his cheeks.
"The police have found the car. Your fingerprints were all over it, and they know what you look like."
"Do I give a f--? They can't do nothing worse to me than the sh--t I've got now. Anyway, I'll just off meself. Only, I'll take a few with me. Them Arab suicide bombers got the right idea."
"You won't go to seventh heaven."
"What crap is that?"
"Those Arab suicide bombers do it in the mistaken belief that if they die killing infidels, they'll go to the highest heaven and live wonderfully forever. But if you accept their beliefs, your fate will be to burn in hell forever."
"F-- off. Anyway, no hell is worse than this planet."
Despite what he'd done, I found myself feeling for him. I said, "Life is what you make it. You always have choices."
My reward was another deluge of invective. I saw him strain forward to attack me, but he couldn't move his feet. I didn't know if a mirage could hurt me, but felt relieved nonetheless.
When he came to a stop, I asked, "Could I make a suggestion?"
"Nah. F-- off."
"Go to the police and give yourself up. Go peacefully."
He laughed, but it was the laughter of a wounded tiger.
"You're a minor. You won't go to jail, but to a juvenile centre. You'll get help, and it'll be a way out of your personal hell."
"Stick your opinion up your arse! Just f-- off and leave me alone!"
"I don't know how to do that."
"What?"
"I'm not doing this on purpose. I can't help communicating with you."
"F-- me dead! I thought you was a witch and cast a spell."
I laughed, and he laughed with me. I was right. When he was free of fury, he looked a very attractive boy. Somehow, this helped me, and perhaps helped him too. He disappeared. I turned off the light, and slept the couple of hours till morning. At 9:05 a.m., I rang Victims' Services. I explained my transport difficulties -- and, well, here you are.
Joe Zammit-Lucia
Alfredo Zotti
Florence Weinberg
Jan Sikes
Max Overton
Bob Selden
Yvonne Rowan
Wendy Laing
Carolyn Howard-Johnson
Carolyn Harris
Margaret Goodman
Betty Gordon
Robert Eggleton
Dr. Bob Rich's novel, "Hit and Run" was so interesting that I could not put it down. I started reading it late in the evening, and, throwing common sense to the winds, stayed up all the night reading it.
The story of redemption and of how love conquers hate was inspiring. Watching the language of Charles and Tommy go from containing many expletives to being more civilized and seeing how they learned and recovered from each relapse was worthwhile. And they were not the only people in the book to be rescued from hate.
The book was refreshingly realistic about how people in authority, such as clergy, bureaucrats, and police, were a mixture of good and bad. It also showed how difficult it is to get through a bureaucracy, even when the intentions of everyone involved are blameless.
Sylvia Kryz was a jewel of compassion who always had baked goods and a pot (jug?) of tea to share. This reviewer aspires to be so compassionate.
Finally the book gave me a little insight into Australian life. Sadly the criminals are just as bad as in the United States. At least they don't have the easy access to guns that United States people do. In the States, Bruce would have had a gun.
Margaret Goodman, retired computer programmer in the United Sates, AKA Trumpistan.
When an 84-year-old woman witnesses the vicious mowing down of six small children and their crossing supervisor and is nearly run over as well, she finds herself having to deal with strange "visitations" from the young murderer. The resulting relationship leads her on a journey of peaks and valleys that changes her entire community.
Hit and Run is the well-told tale of the courage of a community, the wisdom of age, and the healing power of love. It will move you to tears as it moves you into the purpose of your true heart. Expect to be enlightened.
Dr. Bob Rich has produced, in Hit and Run, a deeply psychological work with paranormal aspects. His belief in reincarnation is also crucial to the plot, especially in the early phases. Dr. Rich portrays the influence of a crippled old lady on a young monster from the slums, Charlie Debnall, who had run over and killed six very young school children and their Street Crossing Guard, barely missing the old lady. She helps the police identify and capture the culprit, but then, rather than treating him with hatred and fear, old Sylvia begins to reform him, partly through their telepathic meetings, partly through the intervention of the wise psychologist, Dr. Vlad. Sylvia's influence permeates the entire community affected by Charlie's murderous act, until grief and loathing are turned into compassion and love. The community works together to redeem Charlie, and their efforts are wonderfully successful. The author assures us that such successes have happened -- are happening -- in the real world, and the reader is uplifted, knowing that, despite our usual cynicism, such rescues are possible. This book is a paean of praise to light in the darkness, to the power of love to conquer all. It is a call to go forth and do likewise.
Florence Weinberg is a retired professor of French and Spanish language and literature, specializing in the Renaissance, and a multi-award-winning writer of historical fiction. Many of her books have a crime or mystery theme. She is my ultimate authority on all things grammatical. We beta read each other's books.
Most normal people feel horrified and sickened by a senseless crime, particularly one committed against defenceless children. The crime in Bob Rich's book Hit and Run is one such act of savagery and one that cries out for justice. Where this story differs from the usual crime and punishment tale, however, is in the thoughts and actions of one old lady who witnessed the deaths and came near to becoming a victim herself. Rather than give in to a desire for vengeance against the heartless perpetrator, she is moved to forgive the young man and try to understand his motivation.
What follows is a startling account of what can happen when good people decide to show love instead of the all too easy desire for vengeance and retribution. Forgiveness is not an easy path to follow, and several members of the community are reluctant to show mercy to the young man who wantonly killed so many young children. It is a cliché that "no man is an island unto himself" but like it or not we are each of us alone in our thoughts and inner torments -- but what if we were not? Young Charlie Debnall, his character warped and twisted by horrific circumstances and a terrible upbringing, finds his 'island' connected by a causeway to the old lady he almost killed -- Sylvia Kryz. This connection opens up possibilities that he had never imagined and leads to him turning his life around and taking the first steps on the long road to becoming a worthwhile member of society.
This is a simple story yet also a complex one with a wide array of characters on both sides of the ledger. Some people actively work against Charlie's rehabilitation; others refuse to even give him a chance, but a growing number believe in the possibility of change and it is heartening to see the gradual blossoming of a mind stunted by terrible circumstances. Hit and Run is a story of hope in a world where it sometimes seems as if civilisation is crumbling around us.
Max Overton was my first-ever editing client. His writing has soared since, and he has written several magnificent award-winners.
Some time ago I was walking in a park in Amsterdam. I came across a fantastical small sculpture. Below it was a sign that read "If you believe in magic, you will find it."
It was uplifting. And that sign came to mind as I read Bob Rich's uplifting book. Using some of the magic realism style pioneered by Latin American authors such as Garcia Marques, Hit and Run seamlessly blends the magical with the real in a way that one doesn't know quite where one ends and the other starts.
The book shows a remarkable faith in the essential goodness of human nature. With love, kindness, patience, cleverness and a belief in the possible, Sylvia Kryz manages to find and bring to the fore the essential goodness of kids like Chuck (the mass murderer) and his brother Thomas whom many had given up as hopeless criminals. She manages to delve into the hearts of the victims' families to find compassion where there only seemed to be a desire for vengeance.
In a world where violence is a fact of life and where the mantra that 'the only protection from gun violence is more guns' has become commonplace, Hit and Run offers an alternative prescription. It is a book that provides hope that there is another way. Finding that way will not be easy. As the book clearly shows, our whole bureaucratic system is designed to meet violence with violence and to assume only the worst about people. But this book motivates us all to try in our own little way.
Dr Joe Zammit-Lucia calls himself "The Intersectionist:"
"Previously a physician, entrepreneur and consultant to senior management. Now a leadership advisor, artist, author and commentator. Intersectionist -- working at the intersection of disciplines on organizational success, resilience and sustainability in our chaotic postmodern world and unpredictable socio-political-environmental situations. I am, irritatingly, a compulsive contrarian, taking seriously Lyotard's idea of finding ways to resist the complacent certainties of the expert.
His latest book is The Death of Liberal Democracy? with David Boyle, a powerful analysis of politics.
It is indeed a rare event for me to read a book twice in a row... third time just doesn't happen, but in this case the rule was broken.
Hit and Run is a book full of meaning and valuable insights into living a fuller life, but even without those, it's a bloody good yarn! The people are so clearly depicted, you can see them, they move, they have feelings and ideas, agonies and pain, love and courage. The story line goes along smoothly and quickly with never a dull moment, never a loss of plot or a fault in the planning of the events. There is no pulling back, there is language and violence and no pretty pictures glossing over the tragic images, but there are wonderful moments, emotional moments that one can't help but recognize and feel.
It is a momentous story of courage and strength from everyone involved and a story of healing that goes way beyond the norm, and yet makes such total cool sense.
Bypass this novel and you will have missed an open door, one you should walk through.
Writing as Rosamond Carter, Carolyn is an old comrade in sharing caring. She has been internet mother for thousands of women affected by breast cancer, and has often used hypnosis to help resolve trauma, sometimes by facilitating past life recalls. I have benefited from this service of hers. I have edited all of her books.
Originally I was going to write a detailed and long review of Bob Rich's book Hit and Run, but decided against this for the reason that it is better to present my understanding of the important messages of the book in a broader sense.
I could not put the book down once I started to read it. What caught my interest and curiosity was the presentation of human nature, in all of its forms and qualities, through characters that are very real to life, as are their stories.
This book is the best work that I have read of Bob Rich. The message is simple: forgiveness, kindness, mutual support and understanding, among many other good qualities, are the key to a better social world.
This book shows, in very realistic terms, how it is always possible to help the hardest criminal to become a better person, to abandon her or his cruel ways, which spring mostly from traumatic early experiences. Criminal behavior is often a response to early negative life experiences. There are many important messages in this book, not least the fact that older people are valuable members of society and that their wisdom often leads to a better understanding of problems and events.
I feel that this book is of the level of great novels. I am very proud of being Bob's friend and I feel that this book deserves to be read by all people. It is a story that tells us much about life and from which we can all learn.
There is no doubting my mind that there is a bit of "Charlie" in all of us and that with wisdom, humility, and hard work, we can overcome the many existential challenges that we face each day. We should remember that many older people can show us the way towards a better understanding of life and in this sense deserve much more respect than we currently offer them in our still primitive world.
Alfredo Zotti's main passion is to fight stigma against disadvantaged people, particularly those lumbered with a diagnosis of a mental disorder. He and I have collaborated on many projects, and I've edited all his books. He is also a talented musician and artist.
I was hooked from the moment the old woman began telling her story to the psychologist who had been assigned to her case. Though still shaken, there wasn't a hint of dementia in her demeanor and then there was the lovely coincidence that she might draw a mug shot of this criminal she had just encountered -- a talent she was apparently born with that had served her well over the years -- and a hint of Aussie exuberance that comes through in her voice.
Honestly, Mrs. Kryz's story [Hit and Run] gave me chills that mounted in the first chapter that includes a surreal dream of the criminal she has just fingered, his face much like Cheshire cat coming to her in the night, and a hint that all may not be as it seems. It turns out Mrs. Kryz has other talents of which she seems comfortably unaware. She may become my favorite literary character and yours, too. This may become your favorite cross between a literary and paranormal driven novel. It certainly is mine! I have never seen a hook more perfectly crafted.
Carolyn Howard-Johnson is a multi award-winning novelist and poet and author of the HowToDoItFrugally series of books for writers. She was an instructor for UCLA Extension's world-renown Writers' Program for nearly a decade. Learn more about all her books at her Amazon profile.
Is it possible for a hell-bent teenager to turn himself around?
In this story, we see a drug crazed, typical inner city youth, tired of being alive at the age of fourteen. He is angry at the world and determined to take a lot of innocent people out with him. When Charlie Debnall drives an out of control car into a group of elementary school children as they attempt to cross the street, it unleashes a chain of events which eventually lead to total and complete transformation from the inside out. Not only are school children and the crossing supervisor brutally murdered, but aging Sylvia Kraz, also attempting to cross the street with the aid of her wheelie walker, narrowly misses her demise at the hands of Charlie.
Sylvia gets a good glimpse of Charlie's face, making eye contact, as he speeds by leaving carnage in his wake. With her uncanny artistic abilities, she sketches his face then experiences Charlie appearing to her in her bedroom through mental telepathy. Her drawing of his face leads to his arrest and yet the visits continue. Sylvia's psychologist assists her in working through her traumatic brush with death and guides her into a past life regression which establishes her connection to Charlie. When Sylvia agrees to help look after Charlie's little brother, Tommy, a bond of trust is formed.
Over the course of the story, we see a collage of characters all woven together with one goal in mind and that is to help Charlie and his little brother, Tommy, break the pattern of abuse and learn to be good decent humans. What they don't realize is that they are all growing and learning in the process of helping the boys.
This is a touching story which brings to light paranormal activity and past life connections and how those connections continue to weave through each lifetime.
A fascinating read, that keeps you turning one page after the other, and holding your breath when Charlie "stuffs up", as he calls it.
This is a great story with a message of hope and inspiration. Love wins.
I edited all the books in Jan Sikes' award-winning series honouring the life of her husband Rick Sikes, a Texan musician of note, who was falsely imprisoned. This fictionalised account is excellent reading.
Hit and Run is an absorbing psychological story about a boy killer, with the added touch of paranormal. The book is told from the point of view of an old lady, Sylvia Kryz, who narrowly missed being killed by Charlie (aka Chuck) Debnall, when children and the 'lollypop' lady at the crossing were hit and killed by Charlie in a stolen car.
It is also an intriguing tale of the power of love and forgiveness versus the power of hate and evil. Sylvia's paranormal contact with Charlie begins an influential and eventually close relationship with the troubled teenager. The families of Charlie's victims learn to forgive and actually assist her to help Charlie, whilst he is on bail before his court hearing for murder. Her tale involves the assistance of Dr Vlad, a psychologist, to help Charles. Can they all help Charlie to reform, or will he succumb to the way he was brought up -- to "Hit and Run"?
A fascinating read!
Wendy Laing is the author of 9 books, with 3 more soon to be published. The latest book, Tarmac Tales, was co-authored with her husband, Dave, who sadly passed away recently. She is published in varied genres including crime, mystery/paranormal, humour, children's books, and poetry, and has a Masters degree with a thesis on electronic & digital publication of creative writing.
Uplifting and Empowering. Hit and Run is an interesting and uplifting story written in a simple declarative style that's well-suited to the imaginary diary of a most unlikely spiritual leader. Without understanding the paranormal phenomenon, Sylvia, the elderly hero, communicates with pure hatred by employing unconditional love, thereby defeating the evil that had infected a community of vengeful victims.
The first scene is powerful and could possibly trigger a reader's moral anger, but as the author implements sound psychological practice true to his profession, reader anger subsides and surprisingly leads to empathy. This story does a great job of using fiction to speak truth about intergenerational violence and its hopeful remediation.
At first, I found the modification of profanity true to the colloquial voice of some characters objectionable. I suppose that the technique was used to tone down violation of comfort zones, especially the "F Word." I got used to it and read the profanity as was intended by the characters. No biggie.
While reading, I found some of the back story needless, but after I let the story digest for a couple of days I realized that I was engaged and wanted to know what would happen next in the story, perhaps in too big of a hurry. The back stories did contribute to how each character processed hatred toward acceptance -- examples of individualized barriers to pursuits of happiness. This is not an action packed, pure escapist novel and does require processing time after reading it to achieve maximum impact. And, that seems to be the overall purpose -- impact on one's thinking about love and hate, a psychological treatment plan for those who need it the most -- everybody. Thanks.
I recommend Hit and Run as a perfect read for those stuck in skepticism and negativity, and who are willing to invest a little time to work toward inner peace. As such, I give it five stars.
Robert Eggleton works with traumatised children in an impoverished location. His science fiction/fantasy Rarity from the Hollow naturally deals with such issues, but with the same kind of humour as The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy.
I loved this novel Hit & Run. It's well written with the right amount of twists and turns to keep the reader interested till the end. The story entails an 84-year-old grandmother, Sylvia, who through her wisdom (and a bit of supernatural help) turns around the attitude of a young mass murderer, Chuck (or Charles as he becomes).
Written by psychologist Dr. Bob Rich, the story enables him to provide positive personal change models through the voice of Sylvia as she 'contacts' Charles and assists many other people from the time of the murders through to Charles' final sentencing. I liked how these messages were done in a simple way that people can use themselves, clear of perhaps the scientific or psychological language of the original research. Very clever.
There are only three, what I would call overt learning points -- how to handle mistakes, how to be an assertive communicator, and relapse prevention (from changing an old habit or addiction). These are all given as sage advice from the Psychologist in the story, Dr. Vlad. The many remaining learning points are cunningly conveyed through Sylvia's dialogue.
An entertaining and cleverly designed learning tool for anyone who may be considering a change in their life. A good read with an ingenious plot. 5 stars.
Bob Selden is a guide on how to use words to improve your life. This is the theme of his nonfiction book, Don't: How using the right words will change your life.
Hit and Run is a moving story that opens with a devastating accident that takes the lives of six children, all under the age of seven, and a school crossing supervisor. The closest witness to the accident is an elderly woman, Sylvia Kryz, whose life was spared due to her inability to keep up with the children. Mrs. Kryz describes the horrors of the devastation not only by words but with sketches that help the police identify the perpetrator of this crime. The author, Dr. Bob Rich, paints vivid descriptions that will capture readers and fill them with enormous sympathies for the families.
This tale of compassion examines human feelings of grief, despair, hope, love, hate and forgiveness. Sylvia Kryz, affectionately known as "the old duck" or "Aunt Sylvia," is the instrument for creating understanding of a young man, 14 years of age, who committed the despicable crime and who has known nothing but abuse and hatred in his world, a world filled with violence.
After Aunt Sylvia reaches out to the families who lost children, the reader sees resistance and acceptance that eventually lead to an understanding of the young man, Chuck, who has a background of no education and no understanding of what true love means. The only affection he has experienced is for a younger brother. Their bond is strong.
Aunt Sylvia makes a supernatural connection with Chuck that allows her to see his emotional state as the story progresses.
This novel demonstrates that so much can be accomplished with love, understanding, and perseverance. It is timely and a great read.
Betty Gordon writes entertaining crime fiction. She searches for common threads within her own life to fold into her mystery novels and short stories. Find out more about Betty's novels and short stories at her website.
Bob Rich's writing site Bob Rich's blog Psychology site Conservation site