Writing Screenplays, Satire and Novels

A new book is coming soon. Please check the main website for updated news of this offering.

ABOUT THE NOVEL:

As Frank fished along the stream, he got a good look at the girl. Tall, scruffy, fifteen or sixteen years old, not bad looking—she did not look like she was being abused. Yet, the questions remained: Why wasn’t she in school? Why was she living in a fishing shack, who was the man she was living with and what was his relationship to her? When Frank’s cousin, Joe, called him, it was the answers to those questions and many others that he wanted. Frank felt ill-equipped to get the answers. Through his work as an attorney, Frank had manage to generate a comfortable practice that allowed him to frequently go fishing with his friend, Paul, take his girlfriend, Ande, to the best restaurants, art galleries and music venues along the Cove, and generally live the good life of a middle-aged bachelor. Only when his cousin, Joe Forcetti, called, was the comfortable rut he’d made himself in jeopardy. Joe was the presiding judge in Murrey County, a sparsely populated, jurisdiction in the middle of the Pinnacle Mountains, 450 miles north across the state line, a three-hour flight in Paul’s Beechcraft Bonanza. When Joe needed help, he always called on Frank since his county rarely had the resources or personnel to do whatever it was that Joe felt needed doing. So, here Frank was, sloshing along the river, knee deep in water, trying to look like he was fly fishing while attempting to determine if the court should intervene. Little did he know that in three weeks, he would become the guardian of Kara, a young woman that would turn Frank and Paul’s life inside out.

FROM THE NOVEL:

The girl slouched on a bench in front of the local Texaco. Frank saw her the minute he pulled up to the pump in his convertible. “I’ll give you three dollars if you’ll wash my windows,” she shouted to him, pointing to her car.

Frank ignored her. He got out of his sports car and began fueling it.

“I’ll give you three dollars if you wash my windows,” she said. “A buck in advance and two when you finish.” Frank looked her over. She couldn’t have been much more than sixteen or seventeen, maybe younger. Thin, dirty coveralls hiding a long-johns sweatshirt, big boots, a girl that might be exceedingly beautiful if she stood closer to a bar of soap. “It’s good pay,” she said, “and I’ve got the money. Three dollars to wash my windows,” she said as she pointed to a gray monster car stripped to the primer and patched with Bondo. “Three bucks if you buy me a gumball,” she said.

“What?”

“Three bucks if you go inside for me and buy me a gumball. I’ve got the money. It’s good money. I earned it myself. Get me a gumball and the three bucks is yours.”

“Are you nuts?” Frank asked.

“No. You get me the gumball, you get the money,” she smiled. “You aren’t so old you’re deaf are you?”

“Deaf?”

“So, like I said: Wash my windows, get three dollars. Get me a gumball, get three dollars.”

“What if I do both?”

“You think you could do both?” she asked.

“Why not?”

“That’s a lot of exercise for a guy your age,” she said giving him a radiant smile.

“What is? Walking over to your p.o.s. or going into the store?”

“It isn’t a p.o.s. I’m rebuilding it.”

“Rebuilding it, are you? Frank asked her. “That must cost quite a bit. What exactly is the Bondo holding onto?”

“You’re damn right I’m re-building it. Paid for it myself. Every damn penny.” “Here,” Frank said, handing her one of his business cards. “You really ought to know who you’re talking to.”

“So this is you?” she asked. “Well, what I work at don’t make as much as lawyerin’ but what I do is just as important to people,” she smirked.

“What is it that you do when you’re not sitting there squandering money on unneeded gumballs?” he asked.

“I serve yogurt—TCBY—and it’s just as important as lawyerin’,” she smiled. “Ask a thousand people what they’d rather do, get an ice cream or see their lawyer. Bet all thousand of them say they’d want ice cream.”

ABOUT THE BOOK

Frank Minton walked down the street toward Starbucks. He wasn’t surprised to see Elliot Swingle, a man on a mission to buy a pan, or Wanda Westhead, a woman worried about how fully she filled out her shirt. No, they were just a few of the usual denizens of the coffee emporium. He was surprised to see a giraffe sipping a caramel macchiato next to a gazelle. It was at precisely that moment that Frank decided to go on a walkabout, the sort of journey that Australian Aborigines do when they live in the wilderness to trace the history of their ancestors. It was for this reason that Minton reached the edge of the world and learned, to his surprise, that the answer to everything isn’t “42” as the Hitchhiker’s Guide To The Galaxy would have it. No, the answer was much more simple. And with that, he turned from the edge, having confirmed that the world is, in fact, flat—as any sensible person knows from simply looking around, and began walking back. Join Minton as he comments on his experiences, sometimes in prose, sometimes in verse, and sometimes in something else that only faintly resembles English.

FROM THE BOOK

She sipped her coffee, looked around and enjoyed the scene in this quiet place.

She fitted in; was in no hurry. Indeed, she seemed almost ordinary,

except for her color scheme—it must be said—was decidedly red.

Red shoes and reddish hose, cardinal skirt and scarlet shirt,

ruby earrings and cherry gloves, crimson cami and crimson coat

and,

we must note, her nails were red as well.

As she sat there quietly sketching, her look was very fetching

especially to this wolf!

Did I mention me, the wolf?

I sat alone, nearby, forking at a bit of pie, ignoring the gazelle with racing stripes,

contemplating the sky.

I said, “Say, don’t I know you? Haven’t we met?”

a standard intro, a standard set of words to begin with,

a standard set of words to sin with.

“No, my lupus-istic friend, I think not. I am a Leo and I’m single;

I kid you not, I love this place, I’d not replace

this tranquil spot,” she smiled her most vivid smile.

Coming Soon

Taylor Paul was living the life of a blues rocker celebrity—sold out venues, his band about to be on the cover of Rolling Stone, adoring fans, a comfortable seat at Studio 51. The premire guitarist of his time, his poigant lyrics and searing solos had made his band the driving force in rock. He came of age when he met Allie, a slim redhead with a spitfire personality who made his life worth living, until he found her in bed with Johnnie P, the bass player for the group. Now, he spends his days drinking and his nights playing to the drunks of the changaro’s in the backwaters of Mexico. He was utterly lost until a mysterious young woman found him, alone and desolute. Blues DeVille tells the story of Taylor Paul, how he fell from grace and found his way back. Look for this exciting work from S. Wilson Dutcher this coming Christmas.

Well, after a short hiatus, I have continued writing Blues DeVille. Man, it’s amazing how things that seem insignificant can side-track you.

MENDE TRAIN

ABOUT THE BOOK
With the chance to work in Sierra Leone as a field editor for his magazine, Phil also knew he would have an opportunity to see Ellen, a microbiologist conducting research in the remote village of Shenge. He did not know why she had left him years ago, nor why she had not written to him; nor did he know why Tay MacInnes had taken such an interest in him, urging him to see Simbarku, a shadowy figure who seemed to be connected to money laundering, kidnapping for hire, and the trafficking in automatic weapons. When Ellen’s friend, Jordan Knickton, appears to be missing, Phil is forced into the world of international espionage. Set in 1975, Mende Train, takes Phil on a journey of intrigue from the mangrove swamps of West Africa to the jungles of Central America in search of William Oerterlink, an assistant to Joseph Mengele, who seemed to be at the center of the disappearances and the cat-and-mouse game Phil was forced to play in his search to find Ellen who was spirited out of Sierra Leone on the day she and Phil had planned to return to America.

FROM THE BOOK
The tide flooded over him and then receded. It felt cool. He wanted to stay there, to drink in the salty water and, by doing so, end it all. He knew, however, that death is not an illusion—death is real—and whether or not there is some expression of one’s soul afterward or not, the reality he knew would be gone. Time enough for death. Leave the inevitable to inevitability.
He pulled himself onto firmer ground and opened his eyes. It was long past sunset and no one remained to bury the dead. Not far, the hacked body of a man rose and fell with the flow of the sea. Another drifted not far off. By morning, they’d be gone, a kindness of nature that reclaims its own.
He dragged himself onto the rocks, tried to stand, but instead threw up. He washed his face with a handful of water and rose to his knees. He saw no blood and felt no wound, but knew that shock could betray a correct assessment. Again he tried to push himself to a standing position but his left arm didn’t seem to have much feeling in it.
As he fell to all fours, he threw up again, this time more violently because there was nothing inside him to be released. The tide hit him again, and using its force, he managed to crawl forward to the edge of dry land. The fact that he was throwing up so much was frightening because he knew it was a sign of brain injury. He couldn’t remember hitting his head, but then most of what had happened was muddled.
He knew he couldn’t remain there—anyone could see that he wasn’t dead—so he began the arduous task of moving a body that wouldn’t move to the edge of rain forest. It took him nearly an hour to cover a distance of less than a hundred yards, but he achieved what he wanted. Hidden in a slight depression overgrown with vines, he’d either found shelter that would allow him to recover or entered a cloister that would become his grave. The morning’s light would decide which.
As he closed his eyes to rest, he knew that death was no illusion, but the illusion of death might allow him to survive.