"A Worthwhile Book By A Guy That Spells "Service" With Two S'es! How Can You Ask For Anything More Extraordinary?"

- drinking buddy

324

Pages

14

Journal Entries

21

Miles To Tomb

1

Masks

The Reviews Are In

“This book may never win any awards, take up space in a bookstore, or open the door to a radio interview, but I recommend it to anyone who is looking for a really fun, clean, and easy read… that also provides the opportunity to get wet, fall off a cliff, and be eaten by wolves.”

-unclaimed

Send A Book As A Gift

C. J. Bartels

Chris has picked up red-striped golf balls at 4:30 am, flown helicopters over the sands of Iraq, and lifted cutbows from pristine waters of Montana with friends that are still friends. Currently, he spends much of his time looking down at the ground and turning over rocks with his family.

A first generation American, Chris has flown helicopters in Korea, Europe, and throughout the Middle East. While in China, he met his wife's parents, and then 12 months later, while in Germany, met their daughter, now a homeschool mom to their four wonderful children. Since then he has finished his degree at the University of Minnesota, built a house that he and his family live in, recorded music that didn't sell very well, written a libretto for an opera that is being composed in Vienna, Austria, and succeeded and failed at a whole lot of other endeavors.

Currently, Chris is working on a new website that will sum up all that's great about the Great Lakes! Check it out at www.GreatLakesDrive.com

Other stories by C. J. Bartels
"The Valley" – a mystery and the inspiration for a new opera set to debut in 2018. "Whispering" – a story of suspense and espionage started while hunkered down in a forward operating base on the border of Iraq. And "Charlie Teeter Peeked" – a children's story for around the holidays.
Two new stories in progress
"A Letter From Brazil" – a young girl growing up on the plains of North Dakota is moved across America as her father looks for work during World War II. At the same time, a young boy in Germany turns sixteen and is sent to the Russian Front as Germany loses ground and the end of the war nears. Based on a true story of how two distant people grow up during the war, meet in America during the last three weeks of a visit sponsored by the Marshall Plan, and marry in Brazil at the request of a letter. And, "Dep-Camp 1099" - an attempt by the government to recreate the next Greatest Generation out of a group of select individuals undergoing financial difficulties goes awry.

If you are interested in seeing the face in the rock as explained in the story, it is out there for the finding, but be careful. Twenty miles from the closest road is a tough place to get hurt.

Have a fantastic day!

Read A Sample

A Great Mystery. A Wonderful Adventure. The Perfect Graduation Present.

Every father wants the best for his child. Thomas Gatry is no different. But when a friend suggests that he made a grave mistake by making his son’s life too easy, an unexpected turn of events creates an outcome filled with suspense, forbidden love, and murder.


The Beginning

The lobby smelled like a gym bag. A Royal Pine air freshener hung from the ceiling fan. Orange shag, matted to nubs, spread out across the small room. A stained glass coffee pot with mature mold rising from the sludge sat on a makeshift stand at the side of the room.

The stranger that had checked in three days earlier stepped up to the front desk. Next to the bell a handwritten sign, printed on the back of a folded postcard, read:
“Ring for Servise.”
“I know you’re there. You don’t have to ring the bell.” The top of the lobby attendant’s head shone through the comb-over. He spoke bluntly without turning from his newspaper.
Finishing the article he rotated in his creaky chair and looked up. “Mr. Gatry?” Dropping the paper, he hurriedly pushed himself to his feet. No other person had ever paid him a week in advance for one of his shabby rooms and then actually stayed in the room more than a few hours.
He yawned as he spoke. “How ‘bout a coffee, Mr. Gatry? Got me a new can of the stuff.” His smile grew crooked as he pointed toward a round tin with chipped red plaid print.
It looked like it had been kicked across a gravel parking lot. It sat on the edge of his crowded desk.
“Just my key.”
The man behind the desk reached into a plywood slot with one hand and pulled his pants up with the other. “By the way, some indig stopped in looking for you. Big guy. Looked like trouble.” He bit his lip and spoke through his teeth. “Probably Cree.” The hand holding the key moved over to his cheek as the tarnished tip twittered up and down. “Scar. Never seen him before.” He scratched his neck with the cut end and then dropped it next to the bell.
The tall astute man did not look up from its cracked maroon tag.
“How long ago?”
“Two hours, maybe three.”
“Did he leave his name?”
“Nope. Just asked for you.” He turned back toward the newspaper and dropped into the chair. “I told him nobody here by that name.”
The man he called Gatry lifted the heavy plastic tag that read 108 and tapped it on the counter before glancing over at the coffee pot.
The attendant smiled crookedly from the sagging cushion. “I thought I’d get you with the fancy can.” He waved his guest off with a flick of his hand. “Besides, everyone else’s coffee up here is like tea water.” The chair creaked. “Be ready in five.”
With a glance that circled the rest of the decaying room, Gatry stepped away from the desk as he spoke. “Then you’ve got five.” He tapped his watch and walked past the empty hinges, under the broken door jamb, and down the dingy corridor that led to the back rooms.
Lifting the coffee tin that he had found on the street and refilled with Folgers, the office manager mumbled. “Air-gent snob.”

Gatry stepped cautiously down the dank, narrow hallway, all the time thinking about the description of the man with the scar.
The key slid into the loose knob. The door opened with a soft pop and the weight of stale air.

Pushing himself up from his chair, the attendant continued to mumble; “…couple extra scoops and he’ll never know the difference”—Blamm.
Blamm.
The tin hit the hard floor and rolled under the desk, leaving a dark trail. “What the” —Blamm.
Stumbling backwards, he pushed the chair out of his way, dropped to his knees and crawled into the dark space below his desk. Fumbling blindly, he reached up and jerked the center drawer open. His hand dug over the edge until a chrome revolver showed itself. He pulled it to his chest, cradled it, checked the cylinder, and cocked the hammer. “Mary Jesus, stay with me on this. You owe me.”
He listened intently for any sign of movement past the front counter. There was none except the tick… tick… tick of the clock hanging on the far wall.
Taking his time to assure himself no one had emerged from the back, he stiffly slid out from under the desk and rose to his feet. Lifting the master key from the hook, he checked the space before stepping out from behind the counter. With slow awkward steps, he moved across the room, shuffled up to the wall and pressed his back against the faded paneling. Catching his breath, he shimmied to the corner, clenched his eyes closed, and rounded the bend with the pistol wavering out in front.
Opening each eye, one by one, he noticed that the hallway was dim in light and detail… and empty.
“Mr. Gatry?” His finger tickled the trigger before he yelled out again. “You alright in there?”
An unsettled chill oozed from the narrow space below each door. Horizontal slivers of light spread out across the floor. Sweat drooled from his hairline and down into his eye sockets.
He swallowed hard and stepped toward Gatry’s room.
The door was slightly ajar. “Mr. Gatry?”
His foot tapped irregularly.
Each strand of his body quivered.
With a quick jab of his free hand, the door swung open and he stepped into the light.
The revolver swung side-to-side. His hand shook wildly.
His heart pounded.
…A cool breeze swept past him.

The Beginning

The lobby smelled like a gym bag. A Royal Pine air freshener hung from the ceiling fan. Orange shag, matted to nubs, spread out across the small room. A stained glass coffee pot with mature mold rising from the sludge sat on a makeshift stand at the side of the room.

The stranger that had checked in three days earlier stepped up to the front desk. Next to the bell a handwritten sign, printed on the back of a folded postcard, read:
“Ring for Servise.”
“I know you’re there. You don’t have to ring the bell.” The top of the lobby attendant’s head shone through the comb-over. He spoke bluntly without turning from his newspaper.
Finishing the article he rotated in his creaky chair and looked up. “Mr. Gatry?” Dropping the paper, he hurriedly pushed himself to his feet. No other person had ever paid him a week in advance for one of his shabby rooms and then actually stayed in the room more than a few hours.
He yawned as he spoke. “How ‘bout a coffee, Mr. Gatry? Got me a new can of the stuff.” His smile grew crooked as he pointed toward a round tin with chipped red plaid print.
It looked like it had been kicked across a gravel parking lot. It sat on the edge of his crowded desk.
“Just my key.”
The man behind the desk reached into a plywood slot with one hand and pulled his pants up with the other. “By the way, some indig stopped in looking for you. Big guy. Looked like trouble.” He bit his lip and spoke through his teeth. “Probably Cree.” The hand holding the key moved over to his cheek as the tarnished tip twittered up and down. “Scar. Never seen him before.” He scratched his neck with the cut end and then dropped it next to the bell.
The tall astute man did not look up from its cracked maroon tag.
“How long ago?”
“Two hours, maybe three.”
“Did he leave his name?”
“Nope. Just asked for you.” He turned back toward the newspaper and dropped into the chair. “I told him nobody here by that name.”
The man he called Gatry lifted the heavy plastic tag that read 108 and tapped it on the counter before glancing over at the coffee pot.
The attendant smiled crookedly from the sagging cushion. “I thought I’d get you with the fancy can.” He waved his guest off with a flick of his hand. “Besides, everyone else’s coffee up here is like tea water.” The chair creaked. “Be ready in five.”
With a glance that circled the rest of the decaying room, Gatry stepped away from the desk as he spoke. “Then you’ve got five.” He tapped his watch and walked past the empty hinges, under the broken door jamb, and down the dingy corridor that led to the back rooms.
Lifting the coffee tin that he had found on the street and refilled with Folgers, the office manager mumbled. “Air-gent snob.”

Gatry stepped cautiously down the dank, narrow hallway, all the time thinking about the description of the man with the scar.
The key slid into the loose knob. The door opened with a soft pop and the weight of stale air.

Pushing himself up from his chair, the attendant continued to mumble; “…couple extra scoops and he’ll never know the difference”—Blamm.
Blamm.
The tin hit the hard floor and rolled under the desk, leaving a dark trail. “What the” —Blamm.
Stumbling backwards, he pushed the chair out of his way, dropped to his knees and crawled into the dark space below his desk. Fumbling blindly, he reached up and jerked the center drawer open. His hand dug over the edge until a chrome revolver showed itself. He pulled it to his chest, cradled it, checked the cylinder, and cocked the hammer. “Mary Jesus, stay with me on this. You owe me.”
He listened intently for any sign of movement past the front counter. There was none except the tick… tick… tick of the clock hanging on the far wall.
Taking his time to assure himself no one had emerged from the back, he stiffly slid out from under the desk and rose to his feet. Lifting the master key from the hook, he checked the space before stepping out from behind the counter. With slow awkward steps, he moved across the room, shuffled up to the wall and pressed his back against the faded paneling. Catching his breath, he shimmied to the corner, clenched his eyes closed, and rounded the bend with the pistol wavering out in front.
Opening each eye, one by one, he noticed that the hallway was dim in light and detail… and empty.
“Mr. Gatry?” His finger tickled the trigger before he yelled out again. “You alright in there?”
An unsettled chill oozed from the narrow space below each door. Horizontal slivers of light spread out across the floor. Sweat drooled from his hairline and down into his eye sockets.
He swallowed hard and stepped toward Gatry’s room.
The door was slightly ajar. “Mr. Gatry?”
His foot tapped irregularly.
Each strand of his body quivered.
With a quick jab of his free hand, the door swung open and he stepped into the light.
The revolver swung side-to-side. His hand shook wildly.
His heart pounded.
…A cool breeze swept past him.

Behind The Mask

The leather chair sucked in around him as had everything else within the room. The interior he ordered and paid the designer to compose had become clumsy and suffocating, like a wool coat in July. And although the heavy walnut panels and sheets of glass looked perfect in detail, they too had begun to fade in importance and reclaim their rightful position. How odd, he thought, that the possessions he had given a title or spent money to rejuvenate and define himself could suddenly fail to attend.

Jake watched the colors and textures of the room curl in front of him with the rhythmic malaise of a submerged painting. He swept the back of his hand over his eyes. His wrist felt wet. His other hand twisted the edge of the fax that reconfirmed the telephone call that had set the transformation in motion.
Slowly, he turned his chair to face the edge of the sun that now pressed down on the crest of the darkening horizon.

– across town –

“Why do you put up with it? You’ve been with this guy for…ever. He’s never on time. And let’s face it, if it weren’t for the people around him he would have run his fund into the ground long ago.” Her friend scrunched up her nose as the skin pulled taut around the base of her neck.
“Is that what they’re saying?” Anastasia gazed off into space, past the stainless steel appliances, the hanging copper pots and the bright blue halogen lights suspended from silver cables over the large stainless kitchen. Her hand lifted the glass of rich maroon Merlot. She let it swoosh the walls of cut crystal before plunging its smooth pleasure over her tongue. Before meeting Jake, she did not know a liquid could be pleasantly dry. He had introduced her to a complicated new world, but maybe her friends were right. Maybe they had been together too long. “He never did respect the charity work I do. In fact,” Anastasia threw her friend a cutting glance, “Last week, when I explained the program for tonight’s fundraiser, he flat-out said to me, ‘Not another needless cause.’”

– –

Looking out over the city, Jake could still recall the sunset fading over the top of his father’s head as he watched him work late into the night. He could hear the echo of the man’s mumblings roll over the papers and spreadsheets that had lined his desk. “If you work hard, this will all be yours one day, Jake, and financial success means everything. There’s a satisfaction like no other. You can do anything with your life if you have money. You can dream.”
Jake had thought long and hard on those words. Maybe for a man who started with nothing and worked his way up to that reward the result was different. Personally, he had never found his freedom very satisfying. Yes he had more money than most people in the world. He could do almost anything he wanted, just as his father said. Yet, he had realized something in the last year: The speculation and anticipation of not quite knowing the way forward created the charm. He took another sip. With the money his father provided his way forward was clear and his goals were typically set and fulfilled in a matter of days. No memory of getting there and rarely any memory of being there remained; what he liked about the experience he purchased and brought home to forget on his shelves. The ease of achieving the dream had stolen the whimsy of the dream itself.
Jake let the cool thick tumbler touch his lips as he watched the sun fade to black and his reflection brighten in the window glass. Maybe the memory of getting there, the hard work and personal tribulation his father had endured, filled the space that felt empty and void of satisfaction in his life? In his father’s case, in his father’s stories, clearly, the memory of what he had done to realize success replaced the boredom of being there. Jake held the tumbler just short of his lips as he studied the way the lights from outside the window warped and wobbled in the bowed crystal and shimmering cubes of ice. Carefully he applied his theory to himself before coming to the summation he had anticipated. “Great,” he muttered. Here he sat, at the top of the world, and the only memory of getting there was a card swipe and 57-floor elevator ride.
He pressed down on the phone pad that rose up in front of him. The speaker clicked off a ten-digit number.

– –

This time Anastasia had organized what surely would become known as her most spectacular fundraiser ever: The Midnight Mesoderm Black Tie Extravaganza, a surgical strike against the ill effects of age. It’s target—the unfortunate Shakespearean play actors that had lost their representation and found themselves serving schnitzel at the Bavarian Hut, or worse, a mime on the Santa Monica pier. Jake used a somewhat different definition.
“He really is a boob.” Julia spouted before dowsing the source with wine. 
“Of course I ignored him.” Anastasia took a long sip. “I don’t think he ever liked going to these fundraisers with me.”
“He told you he hated them.” Julia sneered.
“No,” Anastasia peered back at Julia, “He told me he hated ‘my friends.’” Her mouth accentuated her last words as when she spoke to the deaf.
Julia shook her head in disgust before she stopped and held her lips in an unnatural position. After a moment she spoke flippantly. “Are you going to answer that?” 
Anastasia’s wineglass hung out in front of her chin like a clear muzzle.
The phone rang again.
Setting her glass down with a ringing clink against the marble countertop, Anastasia grabbed the receiver. “What’s your excuse this time, Jake? Because, I’ve had it! You know how hard I’ve…” Her voice settled like the boards at the side of a wave pool just before closing. The sterile air within the apartment fell still. “I see. I see. Well, I expected that much.” She tipped the last of the red wine between her lips and glared out over the city lights that surrounded their flat. “Fine.” The phone slipped back to the counter.
“Well, where is he?” Julia filled her glass. “Drunk with his buddies at the golf club?” 
Anastasia watched the blinking lights of a small plane disappear behind one of the other skyscrapers just across town. “Not this time.” She reached for her glass. “His father died.”
Julia remained silent. Her movements were slow as her thoughts calculated the news. Gently, she let her wine glass touch the counter. “So the company’s his?”

– –

Jake finished the liquid in the tumbler, swirled the cubes of ice around the inside of the glass, and watched their free swirling motion slip and slide up against his palm. “Dreams! Look what they did for you, old man.” Maybe it is for the best that he simply slipped through life one lunch appointment at a time.
Shifting in his chair at the thought, Jake glanced back down at the letter. In the upper corner, an official looking logo with a swirly ‘SH’ and some small symbol in the center, glared back at him. As a whole, it composed the emblem for the Montana-based law firm his father had used since opening his first brokerage office in Bozeman. Jake knew their head attorney though he never warmed up to him like his father. He had heard they were once good people, still good lawyers, but had to wonder if their tie to a financial giant had taken the good old boy out of their description. Again he read the letter.

Dear Jake,

Regretfully, I must inform you that your father has made his last journey. His body was discovered in Atikokan, Ontario, approximately 60 miles north of Minnesota. Reports state that the apparent cause of death is unknown. Please arrange a time for a full legal conference, a disclosure of details, and to close his estate. If you would be able to find time in the next day or two to get together I will clear my schedule. Again, we are deeply sorry for your loss.

Roger Hacksby
Smith & Hacksby, Attorneys-at-Law – Bozeman, MT

“What about your loss?” Jake replayed the tone of the letter. “If it’s a professional response you want, now maybe I can assist.” Jake mumbled to himself as he let the paper slip back down against the desktop and he sucked the last of the ice. He knew he could not do that. Even in his present position, the board would not let him change any of the policies his father had set in motion. With or without him, the company money-press would keep churning. Anastasia’s friends were right.
He contemplated the thought of having no control over matters that… mattered, as the edge of the letter slowly darkened. The moisture below the sheet, left on the desktop from where his tumbler had sat, spread from fiber to fiber. He tipped his head back against the tall chair and stared blankly at the dark ceiling that claimed the space above the soft glow of the desk lamp.

– –


“Did you know his father?” Anastasia and Julia moved to the living room. Julia settled in the leather club chair as Anastasia snuggled herself into the couch.
With a squeeze, Anastasia pulled one of the pillows up against her chest and held it tightly. “My father and Jake’s father grew up together back in Montana.”
“Jake is from that dust bowl, too?” Julia held her glass out in front of her face as she watched a drop of red wine drip from the rim and run down the stem and to her hand.
Anastasia did not smile this time. She didn’t know what to think. She let Julia’s comment pass. “He made a fortune with his business, moved out here to California to expand, and worked until Jake could take over. A few day’s after Jake’s twenty-fifth birthday he left a note on his desk giving Jake control of the company and disappeared.” She held the thought for a moment. “Jake will be twenty-six next week.” Had it been that long?
“Disappeared?” Julia drained her glass. “Wow. How exciting.”
“He said good-bye to Jake, like a “‘see-ya tomorrow.’” Anastasia gripped the empty glass with the dark grape stain in the bottom but did not seem to realize she could set it down. “He contacted my father a few months ago, evidently from Egypt. He said that he had found some missing artifact or spiritual relic that held the magical powers of peace and satisfaction.” Anastasia’s eyes wiggled in their sockets as if her head hung on a bobble and someone had given it a tap.
“Can you imagine how much that would be worth?” Julia slid to the front edge of her chair.
Anastasia ignored Julia’s comment. “And then last month, he called my father from some town in northern Minnesota. I think he called it Ely.” Anastasia snorted. “Minnesota? I thought Montana was backwoods…” She let her voice trail off to silence as she stared out the window.
“What did he say?” Julia wiggled her head with impatience. 
Anastasia had caught herself dreaming of the kiss she stole from Jake in the bleachers near Kalispell on their first date. Her voice faded to just a whisper. “He was in trouble and needed help.” She looked up at Julia and smiled. “He always had a vivid imagination. He told my dad that some Egyptian officials had followed him back to the states and were trying to kill him.” Anastasia slid up off the couch. “Can I get you a refill?”
Julia shivered. “Wow, Anastasia. This is unbelievable.”
Anastasia filled her glass with the last of the Merlot as her voice traveled from the kitchen into the living room. “Probably another bar fight with some guy in a toga.”
“Maybe he did find something and took it out of Egypt.” Julia shifted in her chair. “I’ve heard that will get you in big trouble… and I thought togas were from Greece?”
Anastasia lowered herself back on the couch and held her lip up in a drunken sneer as she took a gulp. “Who cares what he found, he was nuts before he left. The money changed him. For a while there, it was all he talked about, how much money he had, the freedom he had achieved. Like, as if.” She smiled as her eyelids closed and her head fell back on the couch that Jake’s father had purchased for them. “If you ask me, he went wacko passing his bronze bust every morning on the way to the elevator.” Unexpectedly, Anastasia let out a high-pitched liquored-up laugh as her head fell awkwardly forward and she opened her eyes. “My father always said Gatry was too Podunk for L.A.”
“Hey, that’s what they say about my dad.”
Anastasia stared at Julia.
“Kansas!”

– –


Jake brushed aside the itinerary his secretary reserved for him on the company plane to Bozeman. He turned off the desk lamp, stood, and crossed the room. With a deep sigh, he lowered himself until the couch took over his burden. Across from him, a large window overlooked the sparkling city. To his side, softly lit mirrors doubled the number of bottles on the liquor tray. Their reflected glow illuminated the room in a ghostly pale. His refilled tumbler fell down against his thigh. He swished the cool Scotch in his mouth, closed his eyes, and let his head slip back against the smooth Italian leather as he thought about Anastasia’s grand event. Softly, he whispered to himself… “I wish I were a mime.”

Interesting Side Story

From The Author

In 2000, the Eyes of Kek was carved out of pine. On Thursday morning, September 13, 2001, two days after the tragedy of 9/11, Chris left the Twin Cities and headed up to the Minnesota Boundary Waters Canoe Area (BWCAW). Accompanying him on his trip was a very heavy Old Town canoe (which has since departed), his wife’s friend, LeAnn, and a carved pine mask. They arrived in the evening on the banks of their entry point into the BWCAW, hunkered down for the night, and waited until morning. At first light, they loaded up and started their long paddle enroute to the location selected for the final resting place of the mask. On the way across the first lake, they noticed campsites with large American flags strung between pine branches in tribute to what had taken place days earlier.

As they moved deeper into the remote wilderness, the flags and people disappeared and what remained was vast and easily underestimated by those unfamiliar with the land’s many moods. The sun rose higher and before long they came upon a group of adventurers. The group had been on their trek for more than a week. After speaking for a few minutes they realized that these students had not heard anything about what had happened in New York and a friendly conversation between them changed to one that Chris can vividly remember, because he said, he immediately realized that the person he was speaking to did not believe him. “I could see it in his eyes. He thought I was crazy.” The young man signaled for some of the rest of his group, along with a group leader, to come over and listen to this outrageous tale. Unfortunately, we all know it was true.

“It was an emotional moment but I remember the rest of the day was filled with excitement. We found the site now described in the book and spent a crisp night just down from the mysterious face in the rock.”
-C. J. Bartels

Welcome to The Eyes of Kek.

Made The Journey?

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If you read the book, deciphered the clues, and took on the challenge of finding the face in the rock, you understand that the journey is the real ending! There is something about getting outside and setting off into a place that is so wild and unforgiving that it's hard to capture it in words. Even so, let us know how it went. For those that can't make the journey, your words are the closest thing to actually experiencing the trip. And congratulations, plus we may publish it on our site so everyone can experience it too! C. J. Bartels


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Support Your Local Bookstore!

As an author that published stories in the nineties and sold them through bookstores on consignment I can attest to the great expense and often losses that came with each sale due to the undocumented expenses of getting them to the shelf. Now, with on-demand publishing available to writers and the ease associated with printing one or two copies at a time some of the upfront expenses have been lowered. However, with this ease of print that Amazon and others have provided, many bookstores will not carry self-published books on their shelves anymore. Whether it is because of a stand against these mega booksellers or a loss in profits deemed to be their fault, it is unfortunate that these changes in technology have not been seen as a benefit to both, author and store. For this reason, and even so I make a bit more on each sale by selling through this site, I ask that if you find The Eyes of Kek on a local bookstore’s website, please consider purchasing it from them. There is nothing like a great local bookstore and anything we can do to keep them thriving will help us all.

c. j. bartels

Below is a list of bookstores that sell the Eyes of Kek through their online store.

Common Good Books – St Paul Red Balloon Books – St Paul Unadbridged Bookstore – Chicago The Booksmith – San Francisco The Elliott Bay Book Company – Seattle Harvard Book Store – Cambridge McNally Jackson – New York BookCourt – New York Greenlight Bookstore – Brooklyn Prairie Lights – Iowa City Square Books – Oxford, MS Parnassus Books – Nashville Books Inc. – Berkeley Skylight Books – Los Angeles Village Books – Bellingham Tattered Cover Book Store – Denver Boulder Book Store – Boulder IndieBound.org Barnes & Noble

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