I’m
originally from the Portland, Maine area and lived and worked there
for years before moving to Southwest Florida. I am currently working
on the sequel to Jack Canon’s American Destiny – which will be
titled Jack Canon Clean Sweep. The sequel will be available in about
three months.
My
Dad and Mom were artists, my father painted and my mother wrote
poetry and loved to garden. Most Saturdays we loaded up the 1970
Chevy Impala to trek to a one man show somewhere or other. I took a
different track graduating with a business degree; owning and
operating an Award Winning Franchise Fitness Center. Currently a
professional manager I am living in Florida with my beautiful wife
and children, and following my passion.
Some
of my other projects include a children’s book called Sammy the Sea
Turtle – about an infant sea turtle taken from his nest the night
he was to find his way to the sea. Sammy lives with the family until
their son – the boy who took him, graduates from high school. On
that day Sammy, backpack in tow – begins the long journey home.
My
second project in the works involves angels – a man during a visit
to Bar Harbor Maine encounters an angel; quite accidentally, he is
told – she was not supposed to make him aware of her existence.
Only three others have ever seen the real thing. Naturally he falls
hopelessly in love with the beautiful creature.
www.gregsandora.com
Book
Description:
It’s
the steamy summer of 2016 in Washington, D.C. just days before the
Democratic National Convention. A long and painful recession has left
ordinary Americans suffering, spawning the hottest Presidential
Contest in history. Jack Canon, a man born into privilege, a witness
to great social injustice is going to be President of the United
States–no matter what! Desperate and corrupt, the leader of the
free world orders a hit to slow him down. The plan backfires–the
wrong people are dead–a manhunt points to the unthinkable–The
President of the United States.
Rewind
one year, Jack’s focus on redistribution of wealth and energy has
made him powerful enemies. Once his friends, Rogue Billionaires, Oil
Sheiks, the Mob, all want him gone. The current President wants him
alive–thinking he can win against an unabridged liberal. A
Universal Raw Nerve of wealth vs. poverty is exposed becoming a
thrill ride as deep machinations of espionage, geo-politics and
deception, even murder play out. Kind and charismatic, Jack’s just
naughty enough to have you falling for him like one of his loving
circle of loyal friends. Of course he’s flawed, a dedicated family
man, faithful to one woman, but in love with two. Is it his fault his
best friend is impossibly jaw dropping beautiful? Think the crime and
passion of the Godfather meets the romance and innocence of Camelot.
A story that could spark a movement, a book that can seed a
revolution. A heart thumping climax so shocking you’ll pull the
covers and draw the shades! One things for sure, through all the
drama and suspense, you’ll be pulling for Jack!
Praise
For Jack Canon's American Destiny:
"I'll
be the first to admit that I'm not the type to read political novels,
but I was surprised by Jack Canon's American Destiny. The book was so
well written that I couldn't help but keeping reading."
~A.
Brantley, Amazon Reviewer
"Wow
- Great Read and Insight into Politics!"
~The
Bookworm
The
only thing that gave me a worse vibe than these two was Gene’s
taste in decorating. The ceilings were about 30 feet high and three
walls held books up to about the first 15 feet, after which was a
very large landing around three quarters of the room. The wall
opposite the door was made up of five floor-to-ceiling arched
windows. The bottom six feet of each had colonial muttons and were
partially opened, allowing the outside winter cold to fight with the
heat in the room. On the landings above the bookshelves were housed
various artifacts of torture.
Gene
saw me noticing, “These are from the collection of King Henry,”
he boasted.
There
were guillotines and stretching racks and other devices all made of
aged wood and black iron. Some had big weathered chain links hanging
from them and leather straps. There were black iron turning wheels,
the sight was gruesome.
Gene
motioned to a large axe with a semicircular blade and an unusually
long, thick handle.
“This
is my prized piece of the entire collection – the axe used to
behead Katherine, Henry’s youngest bride.” Mounted next to the
axe, on a polished cherry post, was a scrap of parchment.
Next
to it, carved in gold lettering over black onyx, was inscribed an
onlooker. The parchment had faded to an almost illegible degree and
was kept behind glass.
Gene
said, “The onlooker’s account is sealed in helium, just like the
Declaration of Independence, to preserve it. I’ve had it
authenticated by historians, expert in the period.” The words were
transferred onto the stone.
The
eerie account told of the misty morning when the helpless fair-haired
teenager, a mere girl, forced to lay under the weight of the wealth
of England, was led to her death.
I
read the inscribed: Queen Katherine emerged just before nine in the
morning. A rain the night before had turned the courtyard muddy to
our ankles. The streets containing the foul smell of chicken scratch
and horse urine slurried into the mix. Gawkers’ pushed for position
and strained to see the delicate fawn-like Katherine as she walked
barefoot, clothed only in a very plain and simple linen dress. The
exposed skin of her upper chest was so pale I could see the ghostly
blue vein patchwork just beneath. The last time I had seen the young
queen she was amazing, the most beautiful woman in all
England.
Fancily
dressed and bright, riding in an open coach smiling sweetly waving to
her subjects, I fancied the thought our eyes might have met for a
second.
“Spill
her blood!” A spectator called out. I thought, what cowards this
mob, content to stand by and watch. Greedily clinging to their own
lives–any one of which could be wrenched from him in a second.
This
bitter gray morning, the little Queen made her way slowly up to the
old worn wooden steps, pausing briefly, turning sad doe eyes back to
the crowd. A pitiful thin waif of a child so helpless and demure,
Katherine continued up the stairs carefully gripping the railing as
if it were her mothers hand, that somehow she might be swept away
from all this.
Once
upon the platform, facing the crowd full on, her tiny limbs were
exposed and pale, a simple dress hanging over her nearly shapeless
frame. She wore no jewelry. Her one remaining vanity, long hair,
perfectly combed. The henchman placed her firmly against the block
and with a blank and helpless stare Katherine moved her beautiful
locks to one side exposing her slender neck.
I
waited for her to jump to her feet and scream out in defiance, “What
have I done that your precious King isn’t guilty of?”
Laying
her head sideways on the block, she awaited her fate in silence.
The
black-hooded killer appeared to us like a giant standing over her. A
moment before, even the handle of the axe and the blade had been
taller than the living little queen. He drew back.
I
heard the neck cracking then a thud as the girl’s head crashed to
the platform floor. Steam rose from the blood pouring in a warm pool
from the lifeless body slumped behind the block.
Gene
Hobbs had acquired the only known account of the gruesome event; one
can imagine that onlookers must have rushed to write on whatever they
could find to recount the scene. The metaphor of the rich over the
poor and the machinery of torture in the room made me shudder.
Reading the narrative, I felt sickened by the horror of the day, for
lost innocence and the tyranny of the time. What a waste of a
beautiful young life; what a disgrace for England.
