I Am A Reader, Not A Writer: Revelations: The Return of Mr. Breeze by Morrie Richfield + $100 Giveaway

Author Morrie Richfield

Morrie Richfield lives in Pennsylvania with his two sons, his dogs and his cat. He is working on his next novel, and he still dreams that someday the world will be a better place for all of us to live.

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Revelations: The Return of Mr. Breeze

Mr. Breeze is back; so is Michael Ryan and Rover, the magical dog.

MR. BREEZE fans can rejoice. REVELATION, Morrie Richfield’s much-anticipated sequel to his novel MR. BREEZE, has arrived. Readers new to the strange but inspiring tale of a super being and his attempt to set mankind on a straight and moral path for its very survival can immerse themselves in what critics and readers alike are calling an “inspirational fantasy” with important lessons for all of us.

In MR. BREEZE, published in 2011, Richfield introduced readers to Zackary, aka Zack, aka Mr. Breeze, an ancient being who claimed to be mankind’s creator and who still exerts a powerful force on the human race and its very existence. Zack appeared on earth as a powerful man who did miraculous deeds. He chose journalist Michael Ryan to tell his story in a book that, he hoped, would show mankind how to stop its self-destructive ways and bring paradise on earth. With man’s fate hanging in the balance, Zack disappeared, leaving humans to their fate and Michael wondering what his role really is.

REVELATION moves the action two years into the future. The situation looks bleak. Mankind has slipped back into its old, destructive ways and Michael has become a dissolute recluse. There are people who view Michael as a savior and others who see him as a threat to be eliminated.

Along this strange trip, Michael meets new friends and reunites with old companions, the most significant of which is Rover, an abused dog whom Zack endowed with superpowers. Rover becomes Zack’s messenger to Michael, as Michael tries to get Zack’s original message out to the world: If mankind doesn’t straighten out, he will destroy the human race.

Richfield plays down the description of REVELATION as an “inspirational fantasy.” He calls it a “self-help book, a textbook, a reality series on paper. It is what we see when we look in the mirror.”

If MR. BREEZE focused on Zack and his message, REVELATION focuses on Michael, following his struggle to understand his role in Zack’s master plan and to find his soul, Richfield says. “Michael’s final revelation is that we just don’t learn. Without the threat of destruction, we go back to our old ways. Our time is almost up and we need to do something. We need to show Mr. Breeze the human race deserves a chance to continue to exist.”

AMAZON | BARNES & NOBLE

Chapter 1

Wednesday, May 2, 2012

Yes, it is me, Michael Ryan. I'm sure you remember me. After all, for a short time, I was about the most famous man in the world. For those of you who have forgotten, let me fill you in on what has happened in the two years since I last saw Zackary Breeze and Rover.

Of course you must remember Zack Breeze and Rover. Zack as he called himself is this time is our maker. He cured our diseases told us our religions are nothing but of our own making and turned a normal German Sheppard dog whose name is Rover into the second most powerful being on the planet. Let’s not forget that he used me to write his story and threatened our immediate destruction should I refuse.

I wrote the book that Zack asked me to write. It sold more copies than any book in history, and you all read it. I was oh so pleased with myself. I was rich, famous, and revered. You could not open a newspaper or magazine without seeing my name in it somewhere. It was my fifteen minutes of fame, so to speak.

For a time, there seemed to be hope in the world. The wars and fighting stopped—it was as if no one knew if the next shot fired would be the one that would bring the human race to an end. People seemed to like that I was somehow partly responsible for all of these remarkable things that had happened. I was admired by many, but what I did not know at the time was that I was hated by an equal number.

It seemed that once people heard Zack's words, most of them stopped going to churches, synagogues, mosques, or any public place of worship. They prayed on their front yards and in alleys and at any time they felt the need. Only now, they prayed to Zack, and a somewhat zealous few even prayed to me.

For those fanatics, you see, I was the messenger of God. Through me, they thought they could find salvation, and, boy, did they try. They camped out on my street, in my yard, and even in my neighbors' yards. They also built structures to honor me out of stuff from my trash and the trash of everyone else on the street. As you can probably imagine, my neighbors were not pleased, and neither was I. I was like a movie star; I couldn't go out in public without paparazzi on my tail and people asking me to touch them. My fifteen minutes of fame had turned into twenty-four hours a day of hell.

Then the reaction from the religious community came. They finally realized that without worshippers and money, they would not survive. For them, Zack meant the end of their existence, and I became their target for retaliation.

"The devil comes to us in many forms" became their rallying cry, and as for me, I became the devil's minion. I guess I couldn't blame them for trying to bring their followers back, but I was astounded by how many people believed them. They quickly forgot what they had seen and what Zack had done. They even managed to convince the majority of the world that Zack cured all of their diseases just so he could fool them into thinking he was our maker.

Let's also not forget how the pharmaceutical companies chimed in. After all, no more diseases meant no one needed medication, so no more business. They jumped right on that bandwagon and within a few months had almost everyone believing their miraculous cures were temporary. So back on the drugs they went, and back came the profits.

I suppose I should have expected there would be some reaction; after all, I always believed religion was nothing more than a very profitable business whose main currency was either hope or fear. If they could not get your money by making you believe in one, they would threaten you with the other. Just like any other business, they needed their customers to survive.

Suddenly, my home, my yard, and my street became the focal point for the battle between those who thought Zack was our savior and those who thought he was the devil. It was not a pretty sight. At first, there were just signs and lots of chanting, but then came the physical confrontations followed by the police in riot gear. I was a prisoner in my own house—that is, until someone decided to throw a Molotov cocktail through one of my windows and burn my house down.

I barely made it out in one piece, but the fire and the confusion surrounding it gave me a chance to get away without anyone noticing me. At first, they thought I had died in the fire, and the celebrations that ensued over that news were televised a bit too often for my liking. So I decided it was time to keep a very low profile.

That was how I ended up here in northwest Maryland, in a house my old friend Al had rented for me. I still had a few friends left, though most of them would rather I not mention their names.

I'd been living in this house on this quiet street for almost a year. At first, I tried to write, but I just couldn't find the words. Instead, I settled into a somewhat boring and mundane existence. Then, I had the brilliant idea that smoking pot and listening to the Grateful Dead might help me make some sense out of all this. So I called on another person I could still call a friend and asked him to send me up a whole bunch of it.

If the UPS driver only knew what she was delivering that day!

Oh, I'm sorry I forgot to tell you about Julie. You remember her; she was the woman I was with when all this started. She was not that thrilled with what Zack had made me realize about myself and was gone about thirty seconds after I was released from the hospital.

I suppose you could say that in many ways, I was living like a recluse. I had my food delivered, and I had not shaved or had a haircut in months. At first, I did it with the hope that it would make it harder for anyone to recognize me, but after a while, I kind of liked the look.

It seemed to fit my new lifestyle and made me feel more authentic as I got high all day with the Dead's music as my only companion.

My only other activity was looking out of my front windows. The house I was renting was a Cape Cod. It had a porch and big vertical windows across the front. It allowed me to see the comings and goings on the street. It also allowed me to see her.

She lived in the house across the street with her daughter, who had the biggest mouth of all the kids on the street. I could always tell when she was outside. She was a bossy little thing too, always telling the other kids what to do. She was a miniature version of her mother tall, athletic looking with long blondish hair. I was not sure how old the little girl was, and I was equally unsure about her mother's age.

She looked like she could be in her thirties; she was tall—I guessed her height to be around five feet eight inches. She had long blond hair, which she kept up most of the time, and a physique that must have been the result of a great deal of time in a gym. Her body was as toned and fit as I had ever seen.

It was her beauty and the way she moved that had me mesmerized. I had only seen her face clearly a few times when she walked on my front lawn to retrieve the toys her daughter had thrown. She was absolutely stunning, and she moved with the grace of a dancer; her muscles visibly flexing with every stride she took.

OK, I know I sound like a horny teenage boy, but somehow, I knew there was something very special about her and I was strangely drawn to her.

I would sometimes watch her daughter talking with her and see the little girl pointing toward my house when she spoke. I was not able to hear what they were saying, though I am sure they wondered about the mysterious man who lived here.

I had now spent the last ten months getting high every day, and I think I can safely say I had heard every song the Grateful Dead ever recorded. I had not read a newspaper, watched any television, or even looked at a computer screen since I moved into this house. I was not exactly thrilled by the fact that before I moved here, people were openly burning my photo or hanging me in effigy somewhere on a daily basis. It seemed to make the news constantly.

So, for the first time in my adult life, I had no idea about what was going on in the world. My little world at this point consisted of what was happening inside my house and as far as I could see out my front windows.

All that was about to change though. I had run out of pot, and my contact who had supplied it for me earlier would no longer take my calls.