Gamble's Run is still on schedule for a July 2018 release.  The cover art should be done soon and I'll be sharing it here.  In the meantime, here is a short excerpt from my short story, The Slave Canal.  This is the story that eventually became Gamble's Run, although the  main character, Toby Gamble, does not appear in the novel.  Also, for anyone looking for some good stories, might I recommend Shopping List 1 & 2 from Hellbound Books.  I have the distinct pleasure of having stories in both volumes along with several other excellent writers.  They're worth checking out.
http://www.hellboundbookspublishing.com/

Anyway, here's a brief look at The Slave Canal.

      The water bubbles.  It’s a sickly gurgle, like mucus sliding down a sick man’s throat.  It might be a gator, but I doubt it.  I’ve got maybe thirty minutes of light left.  After that…

     Sinkholes…got to remember the sinkholes. 

     My name is Toby Gamble.  I have a research grant from the University of Florida where I also teach history.  My one claim to fame is my great, great, uh, (one two, James, Jebidiah, three), great, great grandfather.  John Gamble was a rich and powerful man in north Florida during the mid 1800’s.  It was old John who commissioned the digging of what became known as the Slave Canal, although there have been recent efforts to rename it the Cotton Run Canal.  Slave Canal is considered by the snot nosed bureaucrats at Tallahassee to be offensive.  (Stay on task, Toby!) 

     Okay, I’m good. 

     John Gamble, along with some of his cronies, wanted a short cut between rivers to get their cotton to market faster.  Now that I’m here, floating in the actual canal, I can only imagine the agony his slaves must have endured digging it.  How many of them died here, left to rot in the water?  How many unmarked graves am I floating above?  I’ve got a pretty good idea. 

     The canal, as it exists today, is only about thirty feet wide, and in some places barely a foot deep.  It failed big time.  The railroad came and took over transportation duties.  Not long after, the civil war broke out, and that took care of the slaves...the ones still alive at any rate.  The canal was abandoned, but it's still there, for anyone who wants to find it. 

     I’d heard stories all my life of course, but I never had the desire to see it.  As far as I’m concerned, that part of my family history is best forgotten.  Then my boss got the idea that it would be grand for me to publish a paper on it.  You can put a personal spin on it, Toby.  Something like that could get you noticed.  Get the department noticed, that’s what she meant.  Carol Grady, Ph.D., was always looking for ways to boost her funding.

    I decided to paddle the canal for a day, just to get a feel for it.  After that I would dig around in my family archives.  I had no doubt that I’d find plenty of letters from and about old John...enough to reference a fairly impressive paper.  Misgivings aside, Carol got to me.  The idea of a little attention from the academic community sounded nice, so I packed some food in a knapsack, rented a canoe and took off.

     It took me hours to find it.  There’s no sign that says ‘Exit HERE for Slave Canal’.  The entrance is clogged with vegetation, and from the main river (the Wacissia, if you’re interested), it’s practically invisible.  I launched my canoe at seven in the morning and finally found the canal at around two.  I almost gave up.  God, why didn’t I just give up?

     The Wacissia wasn’t crowded...it never is this time of year...and the canal was completely abandoned.  It’s a favorite for day trips during the summer, but the tourist trade dies down after November.  I had a jacket, but by noon the temperature was over eighty.  Thank God for Florida winters.  I discovered the entrance and forced my canoe through. 

     I didn’t know exactly what to expect, but I was totally unprepared for the sheer beauty of the place.  Even in the winter, the banks were covered with lush green undergrowth.  Spanish moss hung from the trees that lined both sides of the canal.  The water was crystal clear, thanks to the springs that continuously fed it.  As I entered the head of the canal, I could not shake the impression that I had somehow slipped back through time.  The world I knew faded, although every now and then a passenger jet would trace a line across the cloudless sky.

     I got in.  I couldn’t get out.  Am I getting ahead of myself?  Probably, but the light is fading faster now.  I spent the day navigating the canal, and when it was time to go home, I found out that I was lost.  Understand; the canal runs in a straight line.  There are no mazelike passages, just a single wide thoroughfare.  I paddled a few miles, turned around and came back. 

     That was two days ago.  I can’t find my way back to the Wacissia.  The more I search for the way out, the more confusing everything gets.  I can feel the way out.  I know it's there, but I’ve come to understand it is now closed to me forever.

     I’m really scared.