The Great .99 Sale

Friends, a realization came to me recently. Sure, I’ve published a novel, but I’m still swimming uphill in a sea of talented authors. The biggest challenge wasn’t writing the novel, but rather, how to get people to find it. Even if they could, how can I entice them to check it out and buy it? These are questions that I’ve been trying to answer since last October when “Noble” released and only now do I feel as though I’m starting to make some head way.

Let’s start with the obvious: $7.99 is asking a lot from a potential buyer for an eBook. Do I believe the book is worth it? Absolutely, but I’m an unknown writer, so I need to give a potential buyer a reason to believe that I am worth investing their time and money into. What’s the best way to do that? To offer my blood, sweat, and tears for a low-risk, low price.

With that, I am pleased to announce that the eBook version of “Noble” can now be purchased for .99 cents. Of course, a low price is only half the battle. I still need help in getting the word out there so that people can find it. So I ask of you, my friends, my fans, and my readers, for your support. This sale means very little without proper word of mouth, so I ask of you to climb to the highest mountain top and scream: NOBLE FOR .99 CENTS!!

Your support means everything to me, and right now, it’s more important to the future of my career than ever. I hope that if you’ve already read “Noble,” you will help me in getting the word out by sharing my link, or posting your own review of my work. If you haven’t yet read it, I hope that this special sale price may encourage you to give it a try and also spread the word.

I need your support to be able to continue to do what I love, and I hope that you can find it in your hearts to band together and give me that support. I will try my best to not let you down! Thank you for everything.

The Jumper

The crumbling economy affected us all differently. A “recession,” they called it. Well I’ll tell you one thing. Their RE-cession was a helluva lot more like a DE-pression, if you ask me. So there I was, a grown ass man at 54 years old and lookin’ through the God damn classifieds like a school kid lookin’ for a paper route. Forty years since the first day I started workin’ and I was tired. Damn tired. Too damn tired to be lookin’ for a job at 54, I’ll tell ya that much. But what more could I do? I thought I was smart. I thought I had saved enough of my precious pennies for a rainy day like the damn bankers always told me to do, only someone forgot to tell them that it was possible for the market to come tumblin’ down some day. I guess I can’t blame ‘em. If you had told me that the economy was gonna collapse back then, I’da knocked your damn head off and called ya crazy.

So there I was, lookin’ in the wanted ads. Pickens were slim and this beggar couldn’t afford to be too damn choosey. I circled the ad for a night custodian and gave them a call. When I retired, I sure as hell didn’t think I’d be comin’ out of retirement to be wipin’ up piss off the floor, but it was a job and they couldn’t fill the position. Knowing that, that shoulda been my first clue to keep on lookin’. I panicked and when they offered me the job, I pounced on it. The pay was good. Too good. That shoulda been my second clue to keep on lookin’ for another job, but I was blinded by all them damn dollar signs. I knew it wasn’t gonna be the proudest work a man like myself could get, but at that price, I wasn’t sure I was gonna be carin’ all that much about my pride.

These folks didn’t tell me much about their company and I wasn’t too keen on the askin’. If I just kept my nose, and them floors clean, then the paychecks would keep on comin’. The lady that hired me told me that they were some type of non-profit organization and did some type of charity work, but beyond that, I wasn’t askin’. And I was fine not askin’ questions. That was until my first night on the job when I met the day custodian during our shift change. He seemed like a decent fella. I asked him if he had any words of advice and he simply said, “don’t piss him off and you’ll be fine.” Before I could ask just what in the hell that was supposed to mean, he was off like a flash.

My first night on the job was memorable and that’s underselling it. I was told to only clean the bottom floor and under no circumstance was I ever to go upstairs at night. That probably shoulda been my third and final clue to start packin’, but I couldn’t seem to listen to my own common sense. The only thought ever in my damn mind was that pile of bills next to the night stand that wasn’t gonna be gettin’ any smaller by me not workin’. The lady told me to bring headphones and that listenin’ to music was gonna make the job a little easier to swallow. I’m too old to be carryin’ my record player around town and I’m sure as hell too old for one of them damn fancy music gadgets that all the kids are wearin’.

After moppin’ floors for a couple of hours, I started to hear voices. Ain’t that some shit? First I was goin’ poor, then following that up with goin’ crazy. I was alone in the building, but I know I was hearin’ someone talkin’. I called out and said “hello,” but I never did hear nothin’ back and that was fine by me. I went back to work, but after a while, I started hearin’ them damn voices again. They were coming from upstairs. Now when someone tells me there’s somewhere I ain’t supposed to be, I’m gonna listen, but if there was someone that had done snuck into the building, they sure as hell weren’t gonna catch this fella with his pants down. I may be old, but I ain’t goin’ down without swingin’.

I climbed up them stairs to the second floor and it seemed normal enough. That’s when I saw him for the first time. It was just a corner of my eye kinda thing, but these eyes hadn’t done failed me yet, so I know what I saw. I began walkin’ towards where I’d seen him, but there was no one there. I could smell this horrible stench that I could only best describe as the smell of someone pissing on freshly poured bleach. It was so potent that I almost passed out. It seemed to be comin’ from the bathroom. Against my better judgment, with my t-shirt pulled up from under my uniform to cover my mouth, I stumbled into the bathroom and it was filthy. It was like a gas station bathroom, only makin’ that gas station bathroom look clean enough to eat off the floor. It was so damn nasty that I emptied my dinner into the sink and then got out of there as fast I could.

When I got out of the bathroom, I walked into the lobby and there he was. He looked like just your average teenage white boy in need of his father’s belt and a damn haircut. Now I ain’t no coward, but this white boy done stare at me in a way that made my skin scrawl with all kinds of goosebumps. It was like he was starin’ at my soul, or maybe through it, I don’t know which. Before I could say a word, he smiled at me with the creepiest damn smile you did ever seen, then turned and ran towards the open window before jumping out of it. I yelled for him to stop, but he didn’t respond. I ran to the window expectin’ to see this poor kid splattered on the pavement, but there wasn’t a damn thing on the ground below. I knew that was some damn freaky shit I just seen and was so startled that I backed away from the window until I made contact with something behind me. I turned to look and it was him. He was covered in blood from head to toe and was still starin’ at me with that same creepy ass smile as before. He let out a scream and lunged towards me. I thought this was the end of ole’ R.C. for sure, so I closed my eyes tight and braced myself to meet my maker.

Then there was silence. I opened my eyes and I was all alone again in the room. The smell was gone and the window was closed up. No sooner than I cried out “fuck this” was all the time it took me to drop my mop, punch my time card and get the hell out of that freak show… but I’d be back. No sir, my story doesn’t end there. Not by a long shot…

Goodbye Vancouver

My family moved to Vancouver, Washington by way of Concord, California in the fall of 1978. I was two years old at the time and carry no memories of life before we moved here. With the exception of a brief six-month stint in Wilsonville, Oregon, I have lived my entire life within the city limits of Vancouver and have seen it bustle and grow. I remember as a kid how it felt like it stretched forever and there were certain areas that we rarely went to because they were too far away. Over the years, existing roadways were improved and new roadways were constructed, so now days it’s fairly convenient to get just about anywhere in town from anywhere you might be.

While most of the people in my age group dreamed of leaving the city, I was always very content here. It could be attributed to the amount of years and happy memories that I’ve created while living here, but Vancouver never seemed as lame as my friends always made it out to be. Sure, when you have a great city like Portland, Oregon only ten minutes away, Vancouver can seem a little on the boring side, but I loved it any way. It always had a charm about it that no matter how many times I went to Portland, couldn’t be replaced. Places like Uncle Milt’s Pizza, Smokey’s on HYW 99, Waterworks Park, and Lake Shore Drive offered me a place where I felt comfortable and at peace during my challenging teenage years. As I got older, I learned to appreciate Officer’s Row and Joe Brown’s Cafe downtown. Again, they certainly weren’t places that could compete with Portland’s hipster persona, but they were perfect for me. If only few others would ever learn to love these same places, then I was content to enjoy them on my own. They were a part of my Vancouver.

Sadly, over the years and unbeknownst to me, my Vancouver was slipping away. While I was living in Wilsonville, I dreamed of getting back to Vancouver. It was friends, it was family, it was home. I bought a home in the spring of 2007 in the East end of town. It was a little further East than I had wanted to be, but it was available now and could be occupied within 30 days, so I took it. It was a really nice house. It was built in 1992 and had only had a single owner, so it was still in great condition. It felt like home and I was happy to be back. Less than three months later while attending a fantasy football draft party in Newberg, my home was broken into. I didn’t notice it right away when I got home because they only took two things, but once I did notice, I was in complete and total shock. Everyone knew to stay out of the Fruit Valley and Rosemere neighborhoods, but I’d never heard of burglaries happening in Orchards before. I had never been robbed before and couldn’t have ever even fathomed the thought of it. I always thought “who would ever rob me? I’m such a nice guy.” A naive thought process certainly, but again, these things didn’t happen in my Vancouver.

With the memory of such a horrible event now a year behind me, in the fall of 2008 I was robbed again while I was at work, only this time, they cleaned me out. In total, they stole approximately $14,000 worth of stuff. If it wasn’t too heavy or nailed down, they took it. I had good insurance and 99% of what was stolen could easily be replaced, but they took things that could never be: My limited edition original 1968 Fender Stratocaster and my sense of security. I had always felt safe in Vancouver for over 30 years, but in one evening, it was gone forever. Soon after my sense of security had been taken, my love for the city I grew up in started to slowly go with it.

It was gradual at first. I stopped spending any time in the back of the house in fear of someone breaking in. I had a security system installed as well as new locks and deadbolts. Even on interior doors with no external access. It was an illness. I wanted to hold up in my coccoon and never face the city outside again. I had become paranoid of everything. Even the meaningless little things that I would’ve never noticed before. I started to see the neighborhood I lived in without the rose-tinted glasses and suddenly the reality of my situation was seeping in after a year of delusion. It was as though I had been thrust into a post-apocalyptic future without even knowing. I became very aware of everything in my neighborhood that was different, or unusual. For example, my street is on a “horseshoe,” so in theory, the only cars that should be driving by would be neighbors. What I noticed instead is that there was a constant flow of traffic. Most of which were cars just passing by for no particular reason. Sometimes driving incredibly slow as if searching for something. It was also about this time that the neighbors from hell moved in just three houses down. Forgive me, I mean not to belittle a person’s financial woes, but these people clearly could not afford the home that they’d purchased. In an effort to make it work, three other sets of roommates moved in, each just as inconsiderate and trashy as the original purchasers.

Imagine the worst experience you’ve ever had with a neighbor and multiply it. These people are the absolute bottom feeders of human creation. As best I can tell, 75% of them are unemployed and the only discernable talent between them is the ability to modify mufflers. Perhaps you’re familiar with that ridiculous phenomenon of car culture where people have their mufflers adjusted to make as much noise as humanly possible. Not only have these people done that to each vehicle in their driveway/curb, but they have apparently found entertainment in modifying the mufflers of non-conventional vehicles. They’ve done motorcycles, dune buggies, hatchbacks, and my personal favorite, a full-sized RV. The noise pulltion from their home I would have to imagine is against county ordinance, but no one in the neighborhood has the gumption to notify the police. Probably for the same reason that I don’t, which is the fear of having so many unstable people against you, so they continue to do whatever they want without reprecussion.

All of this was just from my neighborhood, but the reality was that my situation was not unique, and in most cases, was actually tame compared to what was happening in other neighborhoods in the city. As the city became obssessed with urban sprawl, they’ve all but abandoned the city in between and that is where the bottom feeders are now residing. Not an hour goes by that I don’t hear sirens racing down the major road just a block away. At my old home, I would open my windows at night to listen to the “ocean” effect caused by night time traffic on the nearby interstate. Now instead of an ocean, I simply hear a sea of ambulances, cop cars, and fire trucks. Where am I? This isn’t my Vancouver.

After spending these last three years in this hell, the time has finally come for me to pack up and say goodbye to this place, which is now so foreign to me. My childhood little league ballpark is now low-income apartments, Uncle Milt’s Pizza is now a dirty gym in a bad part of town, and the parks are now overrun by drug deals and the homeless. I rub my eyes in attempt to wake from the bad dream, but alas, it’s all very real. The spirit of this once great city is dead and there is absolutely no bringing it back to life. As property values plummet and the quality of occupation opportunities continues to dwindle, there is no reason for the bottom feeders to try any harder to improve their station in life, thus drag this city down with them and make it more like home to them. I’m sorry, Vancouver, but I can’t live like this any more.

So after 33 years of calling this city my home, on April 15th I pack up one last time and make my new home in Oregon City, Oregon. A town that is only about 1/5 the size of Vancouver and with 1000% more pride in it’s great history and preservation. Their crime rate is less than 1% to the national average, where as Vancouver’s exceeds it. Sure, it’s not a hip, happenin’ kind of place, but it’s one thing that Vancouver could never be: Quiet. The people are friendly. While walking downtown, a car actually stopped to let me cross the street despite them having a green light. Seriously?? The town is old and charming. The people are quiet and kind. Our new home is beautiful and tucked away on a dead end street. Across the street from our house is not more houses, it’s a green space. We’re walking distance from a cute little cafe across from the library and fire station. I fell in love after spending only a few hours there and am happy beyond belief that in just a couple more weeks, it will be my home. I’m not the same person I was a year ago and mentally, I’m ready to “retire” somewhere quiet and start a new life. I’ll miss you Vancouver, but you’ve let me down. Thanks for the memories.

The Valentine’s Day Blog

We’ve all had this friend, right?

YOU: “Hey, have you checked out __________ yet? It’s pretty cool.”

FRIEND: “Ugh, no thanks. That’s pretty trendy right now, don’t you think?”

You could fill in the blank with anything. An album. A movie. A TV show. It really doesn’t matter. Somewhere in the 1990s, it became the status quo for my generation to hate anything that was fashionable. In 2011, it’s now fashionable to hate. You’ve got to love the irony, right?

When I woke up this morning, by 7am my Twitter stream was already full of anti-Valentine’s Day sentiment, but not for the typical reasons that I’m used to seeing. I’m used to seeing people detest Valentine’s Day because they’re single and feel left out, or are reminded of the fact that they don’t have someone special to share the day with and it makes them feel sad and isolated. However, while sifting through the numerous tweets this morning, the reoccuring motif was simply anti-capitalism. I don’t disagree with the mindset behind anti-capitalism, but truth be told, capitalism is not the first thought that creeps into my head when I think about Valentine’s Day.

Sure, Valentine’s Day is absolutely a manufactured holiday that was created as a financial bridge by the greeting card industry to keep profits rolling in between Christmas and Easter. From that, the rest of the retail world caught on and began pumping out goods that they could attach to the holiday such as candy and flowers. Is that really any different than creating an iPhone 4 to bridge the financial gap between the iPhone 3G and the iPad? It’s business. It’s how companies survive. Like it or not, capitalism is the foundation upon which our country sits. It’s the backbone of our economy. We work hard, we get paid, we use that money to purchase things and thus stimulate the economy. It makes no difference what we buy, just so long as the money is floating around in the channel. I find it humorous that a person can purchase a fancy high-definition television for no other reason than to improve their entertainment consumption experience, but buying a dozen roses one day a year as a way of showing affection to a loved one is capitalism.

Understand that I am not trying to convince anyone to go buy Valentine’s Day trinkets. If spending money on Valentine’s Day goes against your political compass, then absolutely don’t do it. I only want to encourage you to consider alternative uses of the day other than to flex your mighty cynicism. At it’s core, isn’t Valentine’s Day really just a day to celebrate love? Is that such a bad thing? In today’s day and age, I’d think we could use a little more of that. Love is a reminder that we are still human. In our society, negativity flows like wine and our generation is all too eager to drink from the glass. It tastes like wine, but affects us like hemlock. That saddens me deeply.

If you feel as though we’re being taken advantage of in a capitalist world, then I say we simply take Valentine’s Day back. Let’s not let it become a capitalist holiday for profit. Let’s celebrate the concept behind it and nothing more. Let’s use the opportunity to be a little nicer to each other. Let’s go the extra mile today for someone in need. Let’s hold those closest to us just a bit tighter. Most importantly, let’s not let our cynicism take control of us and prevent us from enjoying the silly little things in life, whatever they may be. Our emotions can’t be bought, so for Valentine’s Day this year, rather than just post snarky hate messages and ignore it’s existence, why not try an experiment. Get up, walk over to the nearest special person in your life and say this: “I love you.” Did it make them smile? Did it make them shed tears of joy? Did it cost you a single penny? Think about it…

November 2010 Press Release

How far would a reluctant

private investigator go to uncover the truth about

a young girl’s abduction from a small town…

by David Hulegaard

…and will he be prepared for the answers he seeks?


By David K Hulegaard

Life in Ashley Falls was pretty quiet most of the time. It may have been considered dull by some standards, but it was a tightly knit community of mostly honest people doing their best to get by. My name is Miller Brinkman and I am… well, I was… a private detective for the better part of my adult life.

It’s hard to believe that it was nearly two years ago now. I still remember it all like it was yesterday. So much has happened over the past three years and the world has not looked the same since the day I first heard that recording. Nor do I suppose it will ever look the same to me again. One of the most tragic events ever to happen in the history of humanity and the people of Ashley Falls and don’t even know the story… but they’re about to.

About the Author

David K. Hulegaard is an author and student of film and music. From an early age, he was encouraged by his parents to read a little bit each day, and developed an extensive imagination while burying his nose into a mixture of “Choose Your Own Adventure” books and literary classics. With an established professional background, Hulegaard felt unable to quench the thirst for creativity he’d been harboring for years.


By David K. Hulegaard

First Edition Paperback • 5” x 8” • 256 Pages

October 16, 2010 • FastPencil • $19.99 (US)

ISBN: 978-1-60-746142-5

For more information about Noble, please contact:

Lindsay Durfee, PR/PR


Welcome to

Hailing from the postcard-perfect Pacific Northwest, where he currently lives with his girlfriend, there is never a shortage of inspiration. Citing a variety of influences, he loves to dabble within many different genres and settings to tell a story.