Welcome to Rusty Press
On this website you will find books and stories by Russell Vance and news about upcoming projects, books, and more.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR and HIS BOOKS
About the author
Articles & project updates
About the author
Russell E. Vance, III, PhD. is a retired psychotherapist who, after retiring, has followed his passions and dreams. While an official resident of Montana, Russ currently lives a nomadic RVer’s life spending most of his life off-the-grid far out in the Sonoran Desert or in the Rocky Mountains of Glacier National Park in northwestern Mont
Russell E. Vance, III, PhD. is a retired psychotherapist who, after retiring, has followed his passions and dreams. While an official resident of Montana, Russ currently lives a nomadic RVer’s life spending most of his life off-the-grid far out in the Sonoran Desert or in the Rocky Mountains of Glacier National Park in northwestern Montana where he and Pamela serve as volunteer campground hosts.
An unabashed tree-hugger and environmentalist, Russ’ post-retirement advocation became wildlife management, living among and helping keep moose, deer, mountain goats, big horn sheep, bears and other creatures safe. Many of his stories carry a strong environmental message.
Books
Articles & project updates
About the author
Writing has always played a very important role in my life but until 2009 all my writing was academic. It was just a few years before my retirement that, for some unknown reason, I started writing what would become AGEH: Advanced Genetically Engineered Humanoid. The manuscript for this book sat untouched and unread for almost five year
Writing has always played a very important role in my life but until 2009 all my writing was academic. It was just a few years before my retirement that, for some unknown reason, I started writing what would become AGEH: Advanced Genetically Engineered Humanoid. The manuscript for this book sat untouched and unread for almost five years even though I had so thoroughly enjoyed writing it.
In a period of eighteen months between the spring of 2011 and the fall of 2012 I lost both my parents and my wife, Diana.
This prompted me to start The New Prince of Coillearnach. While it turned into a fantasy adventure that ended up giving birth to a second book, The Tree of Life, the two main characters have both lost their spouses and must deal with the guilt of surviving and falling in love again.
In 2014, my wife, Pamela, learned that I had these two books tucked away, read them, and insisted that I have them published.
They started out on Kindle and now are published by Rusty Press and printed by Ingram.
Articles & project updates
Articles & project updates
Articles & project updates
I have a new book in the works. Here's a little teaser - no editing or corrections - in case you're interested.
Under normal circumstances two women sitting in a Fiat 124 Spider Classica would not seem out of place. However, two women sitting in a Fiat 124 Spider Classica in the middle of the desert facing an old mine entrance co
I have a new book in the works. Here's a little teaser - no editing or corrections - in case you're interested.
Under normal circumstances two women sitting in a Fiat 124 Spider Classica would not seem out of place. However, two women sitting in a Fiat 124 Spider Classica in the middle of the desert facing an old mine entrance could never be considered anything other than unusual. A bit closer to the opening was a beat up old white Ford pickup. Now that’s what one would expect.
“What are you going to do with your half of the money, Daphnia?” asked the woman in the passenger seat.
“Get my own apartment,” the woman called Daphnia said sarcastically without looking in the other woman’s direction.
“Why do you always have to be mean to me?”
“Because . . . .” Daphnia never finished. A man had emerged from the mine entrance and was dusting himself off as he walked toward the Spider.
Approaching the driver’s side of the candy-apple red sports car, the man said, “I’m sorry. There’s no gold in there.”
“What?!” Exclaimed Daphnia. “How can that be? It’s a gold mine, for God’s sake!”
“It was a gold mine,” said the man. “That mine’s been worked out for many years. In fact, the equipment left in there goes back to the 1950s.”
“You’ve got to be kidding!”
“Sorry. You paid me to inspect the mine, and I’m giving you my expert opinion to forget it.” The man brushed some dirt off his shirt sleeve. “It probably wasn’t the best producing mine in the first place but whatever was there is gone.”
“Damn!” said Daphnia as she started the engine, put the sports car in reverse, tromped on the gas and spun the car around, leaving the poor mine inspector standing in a cloud of dust.
* * *
“Good morning,” I said, “my name is Rusty Gerber. I just bought the Tillman place.”
The person behind the counter of the old mercantile just looked at me. “That’ll be three dollars and seventeen cents with tax.”
I smiled. An old cowboy hat covered a heavy head of shoulder length straw-colored hair. With a faded plaid flannel shirt, well-worn blue jeans that covered all but the pointed toes of cowboy boots, it was all but impossible to determine gender from appearance, and the few words I heard spoken were of no help.
An old cowbell sounded as a man, similarly dressed, poked his head through the door.
“Jeannie,” he called to the person waiting on me, “the gas pump’s not workin’ again.”
“Aw, George,” the clerk called back, “you know it was just some city folks who don’t know how to operate a real gas pump. Just pull the reset handle and pump your gas.”
The man politely flipped the front brim of his Stetson and headed back toward the old red pickup sitting next to the single gas pump. At least, I think it was red. What wasn’t covered with light brown mud appeared to be a dull, well-worn red. Reaching the gas pump next to his truck he reached, without even looking, to the reset handle, pulled it, flipped the control handle to pump, and stuck the nozzle into the truck.
I turned my attention back to the person I now knew as Jeannie. We had both been watching George. Jeannie was shaking her head. I could hear her say under her breath, “anything to make a fuss.” Realizing I was looking at her and holding out four one-dollar bills she turned back to me.
Working to give the appearance of concentrating on counting change, Jeannie softly asked, “what’re you plannin’ to do with ole Tracker’s place?”
The voice was soft and definitely feminine. I caught her looking up at me as she counted out my change. Her bright green eyes were a sharp contrast to her face permanently darkened by years of sunburn on top of sunburn. She was not looking through me, as before, but was watching carefully for my answer. I could see fear in her eyes. She was definitely afraid of what I might say.
“Escape,” I said, trying to give her a reassuring smile. She responded with a quizzical tilt of her head. “I’m not going to do anything to or with it,” I continued. “I just want to disappear into the wilderness and live in peace.”
“Really?” I saw a relieved smile that made me feel good. I should have known that the locals in this metropolis of twenty-seven people would be worried about oil, mining or other development. I couldn’t blame them. An amazing number of small communities like this really don’t want “technology” moving in. It kills them. They live with the land and don’t want big companies, McDonalds and Walmart.