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About the author:
Joel Crofoot was raised in northern New York state on a large family sheep farm, then left home to join the United States Marine Corps at 18 years-old. After spending four years in Japan as a radio operator, Joel re-enlisted into the bomb squad (explosive ordnance disposal) and was stationed out of California. Two tours to Iraq later, Joel decided to leave the Marine Corps to pursue higher education and recently graduated with a doctorate in psychology in July of 2017.
What inspired you to write your book?
I started writing this when I finished my doctoral dissertation. I was, and still am, working at a community clinic doing therapy where I metaphorically see both angels and demons as clients. I think writing became my coping mechanism for an emotionally demanding job.
Here is a short sample from the book:
“I’m not going to hurt you. Huh, your eyes are still black.”
“Because I’m still a demon.” She wiped the tears from her face.
He was very close to her now, and shirtless. She could see the little freckles on his cheeks and the way the hair of his eyebrows was a slightly darker shade than the hair on his head. The rock hard abdominal muscles were somehow still tight even as he crouched. The bulging muscles of his thighs were apparent as they squeezed against his jeans, as was a bulge somewhere else.
“Maybe,” he spoke softly, “but they just turned blue.”
He has to be delusional. That explained a lot, the capture, the color obsession, and now the visual hallucinations. Leave it to me to find a psychotic angel. The most powerful of them all, and he is full blown crazy.
“Come here,” he said yanking her up by her arm and dragging her into the bathroom. “Look.” He pushed her up against the sink, facing the mirror.
She looked at her reflection. Her eyes looked as black as ever.
“Dammit, I swear they were blue a minute ago. Don’t give me that look. I’m not crazy!”
She gave a placating expression, not wanting to aggravate the deranged but powerful being who she was now trapped in a small bathroom with. She heard him sigh disappointedly.
“Here,” he said, grabbing a washcloth that was hanging on a towel rack. He turned on the warm water with his mind and put the cloth under it. “Since we’re in here, let me get your back. Um, I need you to pull your shirt up.”
Jahi debated her options, which were very limited with a delusional archangel holding her against the sink from behind. Jahi tentatively reached down and lifted her shirt halfway up.
“A little more,” he said.
She lifted a little further.
“I’m going to unhook this, just so I can reach the cut.”
She nodded, feeling him reach for her lacy bra, then it released. The water on the wash cloth was warm and he pushed it soothingly against the cut on her back, removing both the dried black blood from the chase and the recent wet blood. She felt a little guilty knowing that her black blood was going to ruin his wash cloth.
He was standing very close to her and looking at her skin. His left hand on her shoulder, while his right caressed her with the cloth. The tender touch and care that he was placing into his task were not wasted on her.
There was an angel washing her clean.