Inclinations Speaks To The Hidden World Only Few Have Touched

ISBN-10: 1882918274

I just love literature that gets beyond the world we know and delves into the world that I, as a believer in a real, true, living God, love to peek into. Evidently, Author David Harrington enjoys the same thing. In his short novel, Inclinations, David Harrington takes the reader into the world of the angels and demonstrates how these Heavenly creatures do influence the world in which we live. It is an interesting read.

Having penned the novel, Nimrod Rising, I gained a lot of knowledge, both Biblical and extra-biblical that gave me a very keen interest in Mr. Harrington's book. I enjoyed it a lot and felt that those of us who can feel that we are indeed not alone in the universe, you will find this book startling and illuminating. I like how Amazon describes his book below. I hope you will read this post and get a copy of David Harrington's book, Inclinations.

Steven Clark Bradley
Author of Patriot Acts Nimrod Rising StillBorn!
Probable Cause

Amazon's Description of

Inclinations by David Harrington

Replete with angels and mythical creatures, Inclinations is a strange and allegorical mixture of poetry and prose. Based on a series of mystical and esoteric visions, this collection of short stories and poems covers a wide variety of themes including faith, judgment, mysticism and spiritual warfare. With a bit of prophecy clouded in the metaphor of sacred language, one must decide where to interpret the text literally and where to interpret it figuratively.

(Read more at www.rev-press.com or listen LIVE to Aware Talk Radio.)

Inclinations
by David Harrington @ Amazon.com

Here's What One Reader Thought About

Inclinations

by

David Harrington

PRAISE FOR DAVID B. HARRINGTON,

By	Irene Brodsky (brooklyn new york)

"Inclinations" by David B. Harrington is truly creative, unique, spiritual, biblical, mystical, and well-written. I am especially moved to see that Mr. Harrington dedicated his book to the blessed memory of his mother, Julie Gelston Harrington (1919 - 2005)

I feel that people of all faiths and religions can learn much from this book of esoteric visions, fantasy,truth, insight, the heavens, judgment and all that is sacred. This book could create a whole new audience of believers. Mr. Harrington is to be praised for the beauty and warmth he brings to his book. His interest in mysticism, scriptures, profecy, angels, metaphors, spirits and the Lord is refreshing. I think he has great vision to take upon himself to write what he feels passionately about and not to settle for being a carbon copy of anyone else, He is his own person and obviously proud of it,

It has been a pleasure to review "Inclinations" by David B. Harrington.
I am proud to say that I am giving my autographed copy of this book to The Brooklyn College Library to be cataloged and placed on their shelf for all students to share!

Sincerely,
Irene Brodsky
Faculty member - Brooklyn College City University of New York
and Author of "Poetry Unplugged" (Outskirts Press.2008)

Here’s An Excerpt From

Inclinations

GREAT MOTHER

Disregard the Great Mother and she’ll disregard you when it comes time to suckle her breasts. You who hover above her while your bones turn to dust in her belly, have you forgotten her as well? Do her loving arms fasten you down as you wander aimlessly in the Land of Shadow longing to be free, where nobody has substance and nothing to sustain them but gravity itself.

Remember then, the softness of your Mother’s warm caress when she nestled you close to her bosom and brushed gently against your cheek. Remember how you once slumbered peacefully in her womb and dreamt of a hopeful renewal? Remember, as you lie paralyzed in the stench of her bowels, the richness of her beauty and the fragrance of her flowery folds: The sweet aroma of roses and cherry blossoms, laced with lilac.

So come all you blood drinkers and flesh-eaters to the Banquet of the Great Mother! Watch how she trembles and shakes as you cut her to pieces and gnaw at her flesh. Then burn her with fire and laugh in her face, leaving her to smolder in ash. Feel her icy breath upon you like a cold winter frost, O you who strip away her dignity and rip apart her veil: For even now her sorrows are mounting. Go ahead: Bind her wrists, chain her ankles. Poke her with needles and stick her with pins! But beware children, it is because of you that our Mother is enraged. She is as wroth as a cosmic dragon: Feel her fiery breath upon you like a hot desert storm. Her lungs are clogged with thick black smoke that fumes from her nostrils, rising up to overwhelm her. The four winds swirl around her, one for every season. Can you hear them whisper her name? So go ahead: Plant your orchards and vineyards while her skin is still moist, O you who blind her eyes and leave her “Inclinations” naked and shivering in the sun to die: For even now her tear drops are falling.

Behold your Mother’s glory and kiss her on the cheek. Lift the burden which weighs so heavy on her weary shoulders. She was once a lovely young celestial virgin, pure and unspoiled, in a garden paradise bursting with ripened fruit, sweet and delicious. But how we ravish her like wild animals, who can blame her for rebelling? How much more can she withstand, this Mother of ours, whom we cast aside like a used up whore, all trampled and torn. Has she not sung us tender lullabies and rocked us gently to sleep in cradles of swan feathers and pine needles? Be kind to your Mother and treat her with respect, I tell you! Why must you thrust her full of holes? Just how much venom must you sink into her veins before she becomes immune and rises up to swallow us like a viper? Step out into the light, O you Children of Darkness, and cover your eyes with coal. Step out of the darkness, all you Children of Light, with your lamps trimmed way down low. See how your Mother feeds the beasts of the field and the creatures of the forest that assemble at her feet, some by day some by night. The lion, jackal and wildebeest come from miles around just to drink out of her hands and taste her crystal clear waters. The birds of the air nestle in her hair and the fish course through her veins to and fro the heart of her ocean.

Call to mind how she once flowed with milk and honey, and with wine. And now, even in her old age, she is pleased to nourish us with all the essentials of life. What is it that is wrong with us? Are we no better than the hounds and vultures who will be left to lick at her wounds and lap up her blood, or will we rescue in time to save ourselves? I think not.

________________________

Want to read a novel that is so real
you'll swear it was Obama's biography?
Ride the storm of Nimrod Rising!

Have you ever felt that the world was guided in ways that are beyond man’s control? The constant changes in the world since the time of Nimrod 4000 years ago until today and all the events that have shaken the world have been to bring the universe back into the hands of the Prince of Darkness, Lucia, a world that he had ruled with his Watchers before it was all ripped from his grasp when man was created. Nimrod Rising paints a diabolical picture of how the Prince of Darkness executes his evil plot to take the world back by force and destroy civilization in the process. From the Great Builder Nimrod in 4000 BC to today, 666 generations later, you can ride the storm of Nimrod Rising and experience the death of a world and the birth pangs of another. You will swear it is really upon us!

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'More Deaths Than One' can Only Adequately Be Described As Superb

You have got to read this novel
More Deaths Than One

Who has stolen Bob Stark's identity? Why is he being pursued by the henchmen of a shadowy multinational corporation? What does it have to do with his old friends from his brutal days of service in Vietnam? These are but a few of the exquisite and tantalizing questions and scenarios painted and which must be answered in Pat Bertram’s riveting and excellent new novel, More Deaths Than One.

Try to put yourself into Bob Stark’s shoes. Your mother died more than 20 years ago and you actually attended her funeral, at that time. Then, you travel to South East Asia where you end up staying for eighteen years, only to return and discover that your long lost mom has just died again and another you is at her funeral. Sound startling, eerie or suspenseful? Believe me; if you start reading this tremendous read, you will not want to stop until it is completely finished. It is one of the best novels I have read in years.

As a novelist, one of the most important things a writer must do is to grab the reader’s attention, on the first page. Pat Bertram’s novel, More Deaths Than One certainly hooked me immediately. Bertram has a natural talent and has created a story that gets readers deeply into the story and holds them. Her plot and her very realistic characters took my total concentration. The characters are so fascinating, attention-grabbing and human. By the end of the book, I felt as if I knew them well and for a long time. I am convinced that if the reading public learns about this spellbinding new novel, a very large number of people will want to read it and Pat Bertram will have a best seller. I consider her to be one of the smartest writers I have had the pleasure of meeting.

I think we will read a lot more from this excellent storyteller, Pat Bertram. She has stated that when the traditional publishers stopped publishing her favorite type of books that are character and story driven novels, which can’t easily be slotted into a genre, she decided to write her own. She certainly achieved her goal, with More Deaths Than One. The residents of Pat Bertram’s native Colorado, where she is a lifelong resident have much to be proud of, from one of their own. There are many words that come to mind to describe this powerful and suspenseful novel, such as exciting, powerful, suspenseful or mesmerizing. But, without a doubt, the best word I can use to describe More Deaths Than One by Pat Bertram is nothing less than Superb.

Steven Clark Bradley
Author of Patriot Acts Nimrod Rising StillBorn! Probable Cause

Here’s What Other Readers Have Said

Reviews

“I love the story of More Deaths Than One. Pat Bertram blends mystery/suspense with history very well. Her characters are strong, and I love the slow reveal of who Bob really was/is. The hints and clues Bertram drops come together for me with the jungle nightmares.The descriptions of the places Bob and Kerry visit are exquistely done; the places sound real. I enjoyed this story very much.” Rachael Wollet, freelance editor.

“Wow. I read A Spark of Heavenly Fire twice. The first time for the story, the second for editing. Though I’m not sure I caught much because I got so engrossed in the story…even the second time through. Bertram’s characters are heartbreaking and real. I love Kate. Absolutely love her. The description of everything seems spot on. Sounds much like New Orleans post-Katrina. Bertram clearly did her research on this one. Fabulous.”

Rachael Wollet, freelance editor.

“Full of intriguing dialogue and interesting characters one will not soon forget, “A Spark of Heavenly Fire” is a truly satisfying read I highly recommend. Captivating visuals and an original theme kept me turning the pages at a rapid rate. I look forward to more work from this gifted writer.”

Deborah Ledford, author

“Pat Bertram, author of More Deaths Than One and a Spark of Heavenly Fire, is one of the best of the new crop of writers. Pat’s work is insightful, superbly crafted, and completely involving. I would unhesitatingly recommend her books to anyone who enjoys speculative fiction of the highest order.”

Suzanne Francis, author of the Song of the Arkafina series from Mushroom Ebooks.

In More Deaths Than One, Bertram created two characters I’m ready to watch take off. The combination of Bob and the waitress is great-she’s obviously the one person he’s letting pull him out of whatever shell he’s been in. Bertram raises so many interesting questions in her initial chapter that it definitely compels me to want to read more. Why is Bob in Denver, and where has he ben? Is this a story of timeshifting madness, or what? Why are the police at the funeral? And on and on! Bertram’s writing is also well-crafted and flows so well. The dialog is a strong suit.”

Ann Barks, fellow FCC contestant.

“While we are intrigued and caught up in the absurd story of a man who goes to the second funeral of his mother (long dead) and sees himself (living a life he doesn’t realize he’s lived) and his brother (with a trophy wife young enough to be his daughter), the real clues Bertram leaves us as to what’s going on are to be found in Bob’s perpetual headache, his troubled/troubling art, his mysterious reappearance in his hometown, and the questions asked by the friendly, persistent waitress. Meantime, I enjoy the dialogue, with unique phrasings such as “son of rabid dog”. Denver is an unusual setting that must figure into the story in multiple ways. I enjoyed the rock solid POV, as well as the nice, just-slightly-more-than-minimal descriptions (like the way Bob concealed himself in the lilac bushes or the description of the young couple in the diner). Above all I appreciate the way Bertram builds mystery on several levels into the story. Good job.”

Lazarus Barnhill, author

Excerpt

More Deaths Than One by Pat Bertram

Chapter One

This is the first Chapter of More Deaths Than One,
available from Second Wind Publishing.

Chapter One

“What do you think of a guy who embezzles from his own business?”

Bob Stark recognized the voice of the graveyard shift waitress, the attractive one with the black hair. He glanced up from his contemplation of the scars on the laminated plastic table and saw her standing by his booth, gazing at him, her eyebrows quirked. She seemed to expect a response, but he had no idea what to say. And why would she ask him such a question? Though he’d been coming to Rimrock Coffee Shop for four weeks now, she’d never deviated from her standard lines of “What’ll you have?” and “Here you go.”

He took a surreptitious look around. Except for the two drunks arguing in a corner booth and a cook cleaning the grill in the kitchen, he and the waitress were the only two people in the twenty-four-hour coffee shop.

Beneath the overly long bangs, her dark eyes gleamed, giving him the impression of laughter. “Yes, I am talking to you.”

“I’ll have hot chocolate,” he said, adhering to the unwritten script.

With a flip of her wrist, she brushed the hair off her face. Her skirt flounced as she whirled away from the table, and Bob noticed that she had nicely muscled thighs. Good calves, too. Not wanting her to catch him staring, he picked up a newspaper someone had left behind and leafed through it.

The waitress returned with his beverage. “What would you do if you were a girl who just found out her boyfriend is embezzling from himself?”

Bob stirred his hot chocolate, trying to think of the right response, but nothing came to mind.

“Men!” she said, hurrying off to answer the ringing telephone.

Later, after the drunks had stumbled out into the night, she came back to Bob’s table carrying a cup of coffee for her and another cup of hot chocolate for him.

He raised his palms. “I didn’t order this.”

She sat across from him. “Let’s not quibble over details.” She sipped her coffee, eyes laughing at him over the rim of the cup, then she set the empty cup aside.

Folding her arms on the table, she leaned forward and stared into his face. “What do you have to say for yourself? And who are you? You’ve been coming in here every night, real late, and you never talk except to order hot chocolate.”

She leaned back. “I bet you can’t sleep. That’s why you come, isn’t it? What’s the problem? Bad dreams?”

Bob felt a shudder go through him. He came here to get away from the nightmares, not remember them. He took a gulp of chocolate, grateful for the warmth sliding down his throat.

“You’re a shy one,” she said. “And you never did answer my question.”

He lifted one shoulder in a disinterested shrug. “You asked a lot of questions.”

“The one about the girl finding out that her boyfriend is embezzling from himself.”

“Depends on their relationship. Is she involved in the business?”

“She helped him start it, works in the office during the day, and waits tables at night to pay the rent.”

“Then he’s embezzling from her, too.”

She flicked the hair out of her eyes. “You’re right. God, what a fool I’ve been. Ever since I found out he’s been cheating on his business, I’ve been wondering if he’s been cheating on me. That son of a rabid dog. He promised we’d get a house together as soon as the business did well enough, and it turns out we could have been living in our own place for several months now.”

“Even if he’s not cheating on you physically,” Bob said, “he’s cheated on you morally.”

“I want someone who’s honest and true to himself, someone who likes and respects himself so he can like and respect me. Is that too much to ask?”

The door opened. A young couple entered. Mouths locked together, they slid into a booth and groped beneath each other’s clothes.

The waitress stood. “I better go remind them this isn’t a motel.”

Grateful to be alone, Bob sipped his hot chocolate and read the newspaper.

The Broncos still reeled from their humiliation at the previous Super Bowl, having lost to the Redskins forty-two to ten.

Two youths found a man’s decomposing body in a culvert off the South Platte River. The man had been tortured; the work of a gang, the police surmised.

Silverado faced insolvency, having squandered one hundred million dollars on bad loans.

And Lydia Loretta Stark was dead. Again.

***

“I brought you another hot chocolate. It’s on the house.” The young woman sat and peered at Bob. “Is something wrong? You don’t look so good all of a sudden.”

He tried to ignore the ache inching up the back of his head. “What would you do if you were reading today’s paper and came across the obituary of your mother who’s been buried for twenty-two years?”

She laughed. “Go to the funeral, of course.” She must have realized Bob hadn’t meant to be funny, because the mirth faded from her eyes. “You’re serious?”

“Dead serious.” He showed her the notice.

She read it aloud. ” ‘Lydia Loretta Stark, sixty-six, of Denver, passed away August twenty-ninth, nineteen eighty-eight, at four p.m. Preceded in death by husband Edward Jackson. Survived by sons Edward Jackson, Junior and Robert; six grandchildren. Services and interment Friday, ten a.m., at Mountain View Cemetery.’ ” She looked at him. “Are you Edward or Robert?”

“Robert. My brother is Edward, but he goes by the name of Jackson.”

“What name do you go by?”

“Bob.”

“I’m Kerry. Kerry Casillas.” She eyed the obituary. “How many of those children are yours?

Bob massaged the back of his neck. “None.”

“Jackson’s been a busy boy.”

“Seems like it.”

“You don’t know?”

“I haven’t seen him since my mother’s funeral-the first one, I mean. We never got along.”

She pushed back her hair. “So this is really your mother’s obituary?”

“Could be. She died in nineteen sixty-six at the age of forty-four and had no grandchildren at the time, but everything else matches.”

“If it’s not a coincidence, it must be a hoax.”

Bob shook his head, stopping abruptly when pain shot to the top of his skull. “Why would anyone go through all the trouble of putting a fake obituary in the paper? And who’s being hoaxed? It can’t be me. No one knows I’m in Denver.”

***

On Friday, Bob made the trip to Mountain View Cemetery. He wandered around the lush expanse, skirting formal flower gardens and stepping over white gravestones lying flush with the ground. The place seemed deserted, but as he topped a small rise, he saw a funeral party spread out before him like a stage play.

He paused beside a large clump of lilac bushes and scanned the small crowd encircling the brass-trimmed casket.

Everyone wore black except one young woman, scarcely out of her teens, who had pasted on a skimpy red dress that left no part of her voluptuous figure to the imagination. A much older man had an arm draped around her, his hand cupping her buttocks.

Bob recognized the man: his brother. Jackson had been a good-looking boy, having inherited his father’s athletic build and his mother’s blond beauty. He still looked good, though Bob could see that too many years of hard living or hard drinking had left their mark.

Bob’s headache returned in full force. He closed his eyes and massaged his temples while breathing deeply. When the pain abated, he glanced at the crowd again and noticed two men with the tensed posture of police officers on duty standing off to one side. They seemed familiar, but he couldn’t place them. As if becoming aware of his scrutiny, they turned in his direction.

He stepped closer to the lilac bush, out of their line of vision.

Clustered with their backs to him stood a man, a woman, and six children ranging in age from about two years old to about sixteen. The obituary had mentioned six grandchildren, Bob recalled. Were these six his brother’s offspring, by an ex-wife, perhaps?

One of the children, a pudgy little boy, reached out and yanked the pigtails of the taller, skinnier girl slouching next to him. She slapped him. The next moment they were rolling around on the ground and pummeling each other.

The woman turned around. “Stop it, you two.”

Bob sucked in his breath. Lorena Jones, his college girlfriend? What was she doing here? How did she know these people? He certainly hadn’t introduced her to them.

Feeling dizzy, he studied her while she scolded the children. Deep lines and red splotches marred her once satiny smooth face, and her body appeared bloated, as if she had not bothered to lose the extra weight from her last pregnancy or two. Despite those changes, she looked remarkably like her college picture he still carried in his wallet along with the Dear John letter that had ended their relationship.

Lorena nudged the man next to her. “Robert Stark, don’t just stand there. Do something.”

The man she called Robert Stark turned around to admonish the children.

Bob stared. The other Robert Stark seemed to have aged a bit faster than he, seemed more used, but the resemblance could not be denied. He was looking at himself.

Head aching so much he could scarcely breathe, he stood like stone. Not even his eyes moved as he watched the rest of the ceremony.

When everyone left, he approached the casket. He gazed at it, then turned to walk away. A flash of white caught his attention-the headstone, lying discreetly off to the side, ready to be inset: Lydia Loretta Stark, cherished wife, beloved mother; adored grandmother; born March 10, 1922; died August 29, 1988.

“What the hell is going on?” he asked aloud.

The mild expletive hung in the air until a sudden breeze blew it away...

~~~

Here's another of Pat Bertram's great novels - Check it out too!

A Spark of Heavenly Fire
Pat Bertram
In quarantined Colorado, where hundreds of thousands of people are dying from an unstoppable disease called the red death, insomniac Kate Cummings struggles to find the courage to live and to love. Her new love, investigative reporter Greg Pullman, is determined to discover who unleashed the deadly organism and why they did it, until the cost of Kate's life becomes more than he can pay.

"Wow. I read A Spark of Heavenly Fire twice. The first time for the story, the second for editing. Though I'm not sure I caught much because I got so engrossed in the story…even the second time through. Bertram's characters are heartbreaking and real. I love Kate. Absolutely love her. The description of everything seems spot on. Sounds much like New Orleans post-Katrina. Bertram clearly did her research on this one. Fabulous." Rachael Wollet, freelance editor.

Get Your Copies of Pat Bertram's Excellent Novels
By Clicking These Links:

More Deaths Than One @ Amazon.com

A Spark of Heavenly Fire @ Amazon.com

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Pat Bertram @ Second Wind Publishing