Daniel Clausen's Blog, page 52
May 6, 2016
Magic (from Ghosts of Nagasaki)
I invite everyone to read "Magic", an excerpt from "The Ghosts of Nagasaki."
https://thebookendsreview.com/2015/08...
https://thebookendsreview.com/2015/08...
April 25, 2016
Micro-Author Interview: Jennifer Rainey
This is the first in a series of posts where I'll interview Indy authors about their works and motivations. These interviews will be relatively short. If you have questions you would like me to ask, please contact me on Goodreads.
The first author is Jennifer Rainey, the author of "These Hellish Happenings." I had the pleasure of reviewing her book not too long ago.
These Hellish Happenings
What does being an Indy author mean to you?
To me, it means freedom--the freedom to have your own schedule and your own rules. When you're trying to get picked up by an agent or a big publisher, there are so many little rules and little quirks. You can really play by your own rules as an indie.
What’s your favorite sentence or paragraph from one of your books? What does it mean to you?
Oh golly, there are so many that mean a lot to me! It's like trying to pick a favorite child! It's not a specific line, but I have always been very happy with the descriptions of the ghosts in my last novel, The Beldam's Eye. I have always loved ghosts and ghost stories, and so I worked very hard to paint clear portraits of these spirits, whether they're supposed to sad, humorous or terrifying. Fortunately, I've had readers tell me that the scenes with the ghosts are some of their favorite parts of the book.
What advice would you give other indy authors starting out?
KEEP WRITING. It is so easy to get swept up in the promotional tidal wave that comes with indie publishing. I definitely fell victim to that myself in the beginning. I took a long break from writing and publishing, and now that I'm back at it, I kind of feel like I've gone too far in the other direction--I don't want to promote at all! But keep in mind that one of the greatest things you can do to sell more books is to write more books.
What question would you like to see in future interviews for the blog?
I love hearing about writers' habits or quirks. We're all so different. I have very specific music that I'll listen to while working on each project, and I must have a cup of tea, too. For my current work-in-progress I've been listening to nothing but the music of Punch Brothers, Woodkid and Fleet Foxes. So it's a lot of offbeat folk music, which might seem a bit strange considering the book is a paranormal tale set in the 1890s, but it works!
A special thanks to Jennifer Rainey.
If there are any fellow indies reading this post: What are your writing quirks or habits?
The first author is Jennifer Rainey, the author of "These Hellish Happenings." I had the pleasure of reviewing her book not too long ago.
These Hellish Happenings
What does being an Indy author mean to you?
To me, it means freedom--the freedom to have your own schedule and your own rules. When you're trying to get picked up by an agent or a big publisher, there are so many little rules and little quirks. You can really play by your own rules as an indie.
What’s your favorite sentence or paragraph from one of your books? What does it mean to you?
Oh golly, there are so many that mean a lot to me! It's like trying to pick a favorite child! It's not a specific line, but I have always been very happy with the descriptions of the ghosts in my last novel, The Beldam's Eye. I have always loved ghosts and ghost stories, and so I worked very hard to paint clear portraits of these spirits, whether they're supposed to sad, humorous or terrifying. Fortunately, I've had readers tell me that the scenes with the ghosts are some of their favorite parts of the book.
What advice would you give other indy authors starting out?
KEEP WRITING. It is so easy to get swept up in the promotional tidal wave that comes with indie publishing. I definitely fell victim to that myself in the beginning. I took a long break from writing and publishing, and now that I'm back at it, I kind of feel like I've gone too far in the other direction--I don't want to promote at all! But keep in mind that one of the greatest things you can do to sell more books is to write more books.
What question would you like to see in future interviews for the blog?
I love hearing about writers' habits or quirks. We're all so different. I have very specific music that I'll listen to while working on each project, and I must have a cup of tea, too. For my current work-in-progress I've been listening to nothing but the music of Punch Brothers, Woodkid and Fleet Foxes. So it's a lot of offbeat folk music, which might seem a bit strange considering the book is a paranormal tale set in the 1890s, but it works!
A special thanks to Jennifer Rainey.
If there are any fellow indies reading this post: What are your writing quirks or habits?
April 21, 2016
Red Shoes (An Excerpt from Ghosts of Nagasaki)
I take myself to the middle of the park where the families and couples are starting to make their way back to their cars and homes. I stop near the entrance of the park and find myself waiting for something. A superreal something tells me that this is the right thing to do.
Before long, the flow of people coming down the park steps thickens. They finish their packed dinners, tell their kids they can have one more go on the swings, and then they’re walking down the steps toward me. It’s only a matter of time before I see them.
Red shoes.
Their logic, simple and superreal, makes it that much easier for me to follow. A pair of high heels at first, some sneakers there, a pair of red sandals of all things. One person, one pair of red shoes, and I follow them until the voice in my head says stop. Then I follow another. Red shoes to red shoes. Red shoes stop, and I wait for another pair to come along. This is stupid, the voice of reason tells me. This randomness will get you nowhere but lost. But my better self knows that really lost is better than simply lost and that if a vision could take me here—to a place as vague and surreal as Nagasaki―it must have greater plans for me.
You can read the full excerpt here: https://www.goodreads.com/story/show/...
Before long, the flow of people coming down the park steps thickens. They finish their packed dinners, tell their kids they can have one more go on the swings, and then they’re walking down the steps toward me. It’s only a matter of time before I see them.
Red shoes.
Their logic, simple and superreal, makes it that much easier for me to follow. A pair of high heels at first, some sneakers there, a pair of red sandals of all things. One person, one pair of red shoes, and I follow them until the voice in my head says stop. Then I follow another. Red shoes to red shoes. Red shoes stop, and I wait for another pair to come along. This is stupid, the voice of reason tells me. This randomness will get you nowhere but lost. But my better self knows that really lost is better than simply lost and that if a vision could take me here—to a place as vague and surreal as Nagasaki―it must have greater plans for me.
You can read the full excerpt here: https://www.goodreads.com/story/show/...
April 15, 2016
Fathers and Sons (ReejecttIIon - A Number 2)
The following is an excerpt from an extended book review of Lester Goran’s book “Bing Crosby’s Last Song.” The book review is written more like a creative essay / short story than a book review.
The review is part of my new book -- ReejecttIIon -- A Number 2. You can purchase a copy here: http://www.amazon.com/ReejecttIIon-nu...
I tell Lester as I sit in his bar that Boyce Racklin reminds me of my dad. He couldn’t stop helping people. He was a saint, a folk hero -- but to his family, he was always a more ambiguous character. Too much of a do-gooder to do himself very much good.
Lester sees right through me. “You’re writing this damn slop to avoid writing about your dad, aren’t you?”
And my mom. But that’s not the point.
The story of how Boyce Racklin became the mythologized “Right” Racklin is on page 14 of the book.
“Don’t worry,” I tell Lester, “I won’t give it away. But I can’t help the feeling that this is my dad you’re writing about. One Christmas I find all the toys in my house gone. It turned out that my dad had donated them all to some children who had no gifts for Christmas. The kids got gifts and I got robbed.”
Lester doesn’t seem amused.
Fathers and legacies. Was Boyce Racklin a hero up until the end? Did he jump into the river to save some girl or was it a suicide? That’s the question.
“A million indignities follow the man or woman who gives himself to the poor,” I tell Lester. He still doesn’t seem amused. He also seems unimpressed with the rate of my drinking.
“I thought you were going to write this review essay about me. Here you are talking about yourself.”
“I learned from the best,” I quip and get what has to be, at best, my second or third smile of the night.
“I want to change venues,” I tell him.
“I want to go to Gotsubo in Nagasaki. My old hangout.”
He remains quiet. Who knows if he can even exist in a place beside some conjuring of his old haunts in Oakland. Perhaps there is no place for him where his spirit can rest other than the places he created for himself in his fiction.
The review is part of my new book -- ReejecttIIon -- A Number 2. You can purchase a copy here: http://www.amazon.com/ReejecttIIon-nu...
I tell Lester as I sit in his bar that Boyce Racklin reminds me of my dad. He couldn’t stop helping people. He was a saint, a folk hero -- but to his family, he was always a more ambiguous character. Too much of a do-gooder to do himself very much good.
Lester sees right through me. “You’re writing this damn slop to avoid writing about your dad, aren’t you?”
And my mom. But that’s not the point.
The story of how Boyce Racklin became the mythologized “Right” Racklin is on page 14 of the book.
“Don’t worry,” I tell Lester, “I won’t give it away. But I can’t help the feeling that this is my dad you’re writing about. One Christmas I find all the toys in my house gone. It turned out that my dad had donated them all to some children who had no gifts for Christmas. The kids got gifts and I got robbed.”
Lester doesn’t seem amused.
Fathers and legacies. Was Boyce Racklin a hero up until the end? Did he jump into the river to save some girl or was it a suicide? That’s the question.
“A million indignities follow the man or woman who gives himself to the poor,” I tell Lester. He still doesn’t seem amused. He also seems unimpressed with the rate of my drinking.
“I thought you were going to write this review essay about me. Here you are talking about yourself.”
“I learned from the best,” I quip and get what has to be, at best, my second or third smile of the night.
“I want to change venues,” I tell him.
“I want to go to Gotsubo in Nagasaki. My old hangout.”
He remains quiet. Who knows if he can even exist in a place beside some conjuring of his old haunts in Oakland. Perhaps there is no place for him where his spirit can rest other than the places he created for himself in his fiction.
April 7, 2016
My Center Grows Cold and Heavy (Ghosts of Nagasaki)
My center grows cold and heavy. In Nagasaki, the winter months move on slowly. With my cast iron heart planted firmly in my chest, I find that simple tasks have now become difficult: getting out of bed, grooming myself, getting ready for work. The heater has been on the fritz—that, or the Welshman and I are simply too stupid to read the Japanese on the remote and can’t figure out how to turn it on. After fiddling with the remote for the millionth time, I set the thing down and forget about it. I crawl into the warmth of my comforter and futon mattress.
And our lives? What can I say? The parade of nomihodais and merriment continues, except that people find themselves going home earlier and dancing less in the streets. The cold, wet rain makes sure of that. My students continue to struggle obsessively with tenses, articles, and the various contradictions and disappointments of their lives in ways that are in equal measures heroic and unnerving. I find that old adage about people leading lives of quiet desperation hangs over my classroom more often than I’d like.
Then there are the ghosts. More of them now, some are not ghosts at all, but visions of old professors and friends. Others are full-fledged spirits, union-certified and struggling to make their quotas in haunting. They show up, hang around my classes, stare at me, or on occasion try to scare me as I’m coming out of the tub. Most of the time, however, I find them just lounging around on coffee break.
Debra comes around now more than ever. The sweet woman that she is, when she’s not creeping around corners or jumping out of dark spaces, she finds the time to do a bit of knitting and sewing, fixing a little tear here or putting on a new button there. And the everydayness of it all makes the weight in my heart space a bit more unbearable.
Every once in a while I try to talk to her. I try to say, “Hey Debra,” or “How’s the afterlife treating you?” or “You don’t look half bad for a woman who’s spent some time in the afterworld.” But I falter. I find there is nothing in the back of my throat that can make its way out. And so she stays, and the ghosts stay, and my center grows heavier.
You can purchase a copy of Ghosts of Nagasaki here: http://www.amazon.com/Ghosts-Nagasaki...
And our lives? What can I say? The parade of nomihodais and merriment continues, except that people find themselves going home earlier and dancing less in the streets. The cold, wet rain makes sure of that. My students continue to struggle obsessively with tenses, articles, and the various contradictions and disappointments of their lives in ways that are in equal measures heroic and unnerving. I find that old adage about people leading lives of quiet desperation hangs over my classroom more often than I’d like.
Then there are the ghosts. More of them now, some are not ghosts at all, but visions of old professors and friends. Others are full-fledged spirits, union-certified and struggling to make their quotas in haunting. They show up, hang around my classes, stare at me, or on occasion try to scare me as I’m coming out of the tub. Most of the time, however, I find them just lounging around on coffee break.
Debra comes around now more than ever. The sweet woman that she is, when she’s not creeping around corners or jumping out of dark spaces, she finds the time to do a bit of knitting and sewing, fixing a little tear here or putting on a new button there. And the everydayness of it all makes the weight in my heart space a bit more unbearable.
Every once in a while I try to talk to her. I try to say, “Hey Debra,” or “How’s the afterlife treating you?” or “You don’t look half bad for a woman who’s spent some time in the afterworld.” But I falter. I find there is nothing in the back of my throat that can make its way out. And so she stays, and the ghosts stay, and my center grows heavier.
You can purchase a copy of Ghosts of Nagasaki here: http://www.amazon.com/Ghosts-Nagasaki...
March 28, 2016
A Time Machine - Part 2
Summer 2001. 19 years old.
That was the summer I started to embrace my braininess in new ways. That was the summer I began to fall in love with Pompano Beach. I decided to drop out of University of Miami for reasons that were romantic and fantastic. 2001 seems like such a far off place now—but it's also the time I read VALIS for the first time.
I'm not sure if 2001 is something that I would ever want to do over again. I don’t think I could do it better the second time around, either. I'm too rich and spoiled to ever want to do it over again. My 21 year old self had a heart and tenacity that I can't even ponder at this moment.
I'll never be that young again.
My 19 year old self was also obsessed with writing a novel. The novel was called “A Strange and Distant Land”. The main character is a working class sort based partly on myself who meets a British author by accident while he is vacationing in South Florida. I would obsess with the details of the story without asking myself the important questions, like “What happens?”
I read through my journal and wonder if I ever will be able to meet this 19 year old, whether he is real or just a figment of my imagination.
The more I read, the more I realize other things about myself. At 19, I was still attached to Las Cruces, New Mexico. My mom was still there, my friends were still there. And maybe, just maybe, I was under the illusion that I could return someday. All the badness would have washed away, and only the things I loved about the place would remain. More than anything, I was still under the illusion that I could perpetually be a teenager.
*
“When did you realize that you couldn't be a teenager?” my younger self asks me. I run my hands through my receding hair.
“Difficult to say. Though I think it had to do sometime around the point...” I stop myself. I was about to tell my younger self something he shouldn’t know. Doc Brown was right. It's never a good idea for someone to know too much about their own future.
“Maybe it was when I went back to Las Cruces. Right after turning 28. It was kind of hard to deny it by then...Las Cruces had changed. People had moved away. The town was noticeably bigger. Worst of all, it had gotten larger in a way that made it similar to every other place in the US.”
There are so many thing I didn't want to tell him—my 19 year old self.
Sure, I could tell him about writing—how the very thing that had saved him when was in high school would turn him into an introverted and boring adult. I could tell him about falling in and out of love. I could tell him about a magical place called Nagasaki.
I could tell him all these things, but that would be besides the point.
Eventually, he asks the obvious question. “Why are you here?”
“Isn't it obvious? You're the coolest person I've ever known. And though I could spend a lifetime trying to be you, I could never do it. Originally, I thought I came here to ask your advice, but now I realize I came just to hang out. I'll let you be the way you are and if you end up being me, despite my imperfections, well then so be it”
“You don't seem so bad,” he says.
That made everything seem alright for a moment.
Who was this person? Someone whose tenacity to start big impossible projects (like novels) and to think about big questions was endless.
That was the summer I started to embrace my braininess in new ways. That was the summer I began to fall in love with Pompano Beach. I decided to drop out of University of Miami for reasons that were romantic and fantastic. 2001 seems like such a far off place now—but it's also the time I read VALIS for the first time.
I'm not sure if 2001 is something that I would ever want to do over again. I don’t think I could do it better the second time around, either. I'm too rich and spoiled to ever want to do it over again. My 21 year old self had a heart and tenacity that I can't even ponder at this moment.
I'll never be that young again.
My 19 year old self was also obsessed with writing a novel. The novel was called “A Strange and Distant Land”. The main character is a working class sort based partly on myself who meets a British author by accident while he is vacationing in South Florida. I would obsess with the details of the story without asking myself the important questions, like “What happens?”
I read through my journal and wonder if I ever will be able to meet this 19 year old, whether he is real or just a figment of my imagination.
The more I read, the more I realize other things about myself. At 19, I was still attached to Las Cruces, New Mexico. My mom was still there, my friends were still there. And maybe, just maybe, I was under the illusion that I could return someday. All the badness would have washed away, and only the things I loved about the place would remain. More than anything, I was still under the illusion that I could perpetually be a teenager.
*
“When did you realize that you couldn't be a teenager?” my younger self asks me. I run my hands through my receding hair.
“Difficult to say. Though I think it had to do sometime around the point...” I stop myself. I was about to tell my younger self something he shouldn’t know. Doc Brown was right. It's never a good idea for someone to know too much about their own future.
“Maybe it was when I went back to Las Cruces. Right after turning 28. It was kind of hard to deny it by then...Las Cruces had changed. People had moved away. The town was noticeably bigger. Worst of all, it had gotten larger in a way that made it similar to every other place in the US.”
There are so many thing I didn't want to tell him—my 19 year old self.
Sure, I could tell him about writing—how the very thing that had saved him when was in high school would turn him into an introverted and boring adult. I could tell him about falling in and out of love. I could tell him about a magical place called Nagasaki.
I could tell him all these things, but that would be besides the point.
Eventually, he asks the obvious question. “Why are you here?”
“Isn't it obvious? You're the coolest person I've ever known. And though I could spend a lifetime trying to be you, I could never do it. Originally, I thought I came here to ask your advice, but now I realize I came just to hang out. I'll let you be the way you are and if you end up being me, despite my imperfections, well then so be it”
“You don't seem so bad,” he says.
That made everything seem alright for a moment.
Who was this person? Someone whose tenacity to start big impossible projects (like novels) and to think about big questions was endless.
March 25, 2016
Arrival at Gotsubo (ReejecttIIon -- A Number 2)
[The following is an excerpt from an extended book review of Lester Goran’s book “Bing Crosby’s Last Song.” The book review is written more like a creative essay / short story than a book review. The review is part of the book "ReejecttIIon - A number 2" and can be purchased on Amazon.com].
A novel about a bunch of ordinary never-do-wellers, scratching around, getting more wrong than right. Many of the scenes take place in bars with characters telling each other stories that expand the universe of the novel.
If I were to write something like this, it would take place in Nagasaki, at Gotsubo. Samantha the English teacher would be trying to teach the owner, Kentaro, Spanish, and people would be telling stories about Sam-the-boxer, how he broke Gavin’s jaw while he was still a learner for reasons that may or may not have had to do with his philandering lifestyle. How Sam eventually lost half of his brain in a surfing accident in California, and how all this came up about a year or two after most people moved away from Nagasaki and then one person returned.
It would go something like that.
But I would never write something like that. Lester Goran always thought there was something sacred about these happenings, the interconnectedness of people and the stories told from person to person. He also believed in universes populated by pubs and bars.
I’ve had alcoholics in my family. I find such places shallow haunts -- as unsacred as Gloria Scone and her New Age religious nonsense. Bars and pubs are for people without imagination. I’m not sure that people actually care about the other people they drink with. They might. There might be sacred happenings in between sips of white wine.
There is a small bar area at Gotsubo, right in front of the booths, where parties of five or more usually sit and wile away their time with talk. The talk is in Japanese, and is of no concern to Lester.
But as soon as he meets Kentaro, the owner/ bartender, it’s like I’ve become a ghost to them. Kentaro and Lester talk on and on into the hours, free cups of sake and shochu for all of Lester’s stories, and though Lester is the one talking most of the time, he finally finds me and tells me, “I can hear him perfectly. Why don’t you speak like that? I can barely hear a word you’re saying. With him everything comes out loud and clear. He could have been Irish!”
“Tell me a story,” he says. “Tell me something that happened at this bar.”
I suppose there are a few. The time I took my brother here. The time, right after I first got here, when one of the new guys was trying to decide whether to stay or whether to leave the country.
“There was this time, I met the ghost of my dead writing teacher…”
But I can tell I’m boring him because he naturally starts to talk to Kentaro again.
A novel about a bunch of ordinary never-do-wellers, scratching around, getting more wrong than right. Many of the scenes take place in bars with characters telling each other stories that expand the universe of the novel.
If I were to write something like this, it would take place in Nagasaki, at Gotsubo. Samantha the English teacher would be trying to teach the owner, Kentaro, Spanish, and people would be telling stories about Sam-the-boxer, how he broke Gavin’s jaw while he was still a learner for reasons that may or may not have had to do with his philandering lifestyle. How Sam eventually lost half of his brain in a surfing accident in California, and how all this came up about a year or two after most people moved away from Nagasaki and then one person returned.
It would go something like that.
But I would never write something like that. Lester Goran always thought there was something sacred about these happenings, the interconnectedness of people and the stories told from person to person. He also believed in universes populated by pubs and bars.
I’ve had alcoholics in my family. I find such places shallow haunts -- as unsacred as Gloria Scone and her New Age religious nonsense. Bars and pubs are for people without imagination. I’m not sure that people actually care about the other people they drink with. They might. There might be sacred happenings in between sips of white wine.
There is a small bar area at Gotsubo, right in front of the booths, where parties of five or more usually sit and wile away their time with talk. The talk is in Japanese, and is of no concern to Lester.
But as soon as he meets Kentaro, the owner/ bartender, it’s like I’ve become a ghost to them. Kentaro and Lester talk on and on into the hours, free cups of sake and shochu for all of Lester’s stories, and though Lester is the one talking most of the time, he finally finds me and tells me, “I can hear him perfectly. Why don’t you speak like that? I can barely hear a word you’re saying. With him everything comes out loud and clear. He could have been Irish!”
“Tell me a story,” he says. “Tell me something that happened at this bar.”
I suppose there are a few. The time I took my brother here. The time, right after I first got here, when one of the new guys was trying to decide whether to stay or whether to leave the country.
“There was this time, I met the ghost of my dead writing teacher…”
But I can tell I’m boring him because he naturally starts to talk to Kentaro again.
March 14, 2016
Review - Road to Purification (Or, Return of the Great Father)
The Road To Purification: Hustlers, Hassles & Hash
Full disclosure: There is no way I can give this book a fair review. Harry and I have written a book together called “ReejecttIIon -- A Number 2.”
As advertised in the title of the book, you will meet hustlers, you will experience hassles, and hash will make up a great part of your journey. Whether true purification is reached in the course of this journey is another question. I tend to think of true purification as something rather elusive. For Harry, though, the course to purification should have exotic locales, check marks next to items on one’s F***it list, and experiences with the devil in its/his/her many shapes and forms. Is this true purification? From experience, I can tell you that travels and writing are only part of the process of purification...
The C.S. Lewis quote at the beginning of the book makes the personal challenge a little more clear: Harry must avoid the twin pitfalls of becoming a base materialist (with no belief in the magic of the world) or a unskeptical magician (who becomes too enamored with the devil). This is what Harry thinks his challenge is. Maybe he’s right. But there are others. He still has to charm the reviewers. He still has to learn the being an indy writer and being an Egyptian merchant are similar occupations. (“You buy this book, yes? It will make you attractive to the ladies!”)
Harry / you must also avoid the pitfall of becoming absorbed in oneself and becoming one with the pain of heartbreak. For a travel book about Egypt, there are large stretches of time where the book is about Harry and his overwhelming pain. Egypt is the the thing that pulls Harry out of himself, but also forces Harry back into himself. In a world of hustlers and hassles, why expose oneself to the world -- where hassles and hustles are smaller versions of the intense pain of heartbreak?
The minor heartbreaks of hustlers and hassles make up a great deal of the events of the book. However, so do moments of joy and respite. The book is about one person’s life in a certain place and time, and these events are simply and beautifully told.
There are, however, bigger villains in the book. These villains are some of the most captivating elements of the book.
One of these villains is the “Great Father.” A hustler whose clutches Harry happens to fall into early in the book when he decides to have coffee with a local hustler named Abdullah. Abdullah takes Harry from one place to another until finally Abdullah delivers him into the perfume shop of the “Great Father” -- a place that for Harry embodies evil.
*
Something is wrong. Very wrong. The mood has suddenly become dark. Much too dark for a book review. The reviewer suddenly isn’t his co-writer friend that he thought he knew so well but instead a great bear of a man, with a designer T-shirt, trendy jeans and Reebok trainers. Casual. Cool. But also a hustler with dark eyes that try so swallow him up and turn himself inward. Into his own loathing and fear.
Somehow, Harry finds himself back in the perfume shop of the Great Father.
“Harry,” the Great Father says. “We meet again. Last time, you left so quickly. It is destiny that you have found me here in this book review. You have experienced a great tragedy in your life, yes?”
Harry looks at the Great Father skeptically, looks him straight in his devil-black eyes. Everyone has had a personal tragedy. He is just fishing. Why is he here again? How did he get into this book review?
“You are lost in a great darkness.”
“No, mate. Not again. I won’t do this. It was shitty enough the first time.”
“You have written a book. This book has many problems. One, it stands in the shadow of other great travel books about Egypt. You just go around smoking weed. Your book is lazy. Like a lazy pot smoking book. Also, you don’t make sexy time in the book, even though your readers want to hear about sexual conquests. Blah, blah heart-ache, blah blah where is my girl? Then you go and smoke weed like lazy man. This is okay, I have a perfume that will make your book better….also you will take a tour with me in the desert. This tour will help cleanse your soul. And there is a man that lives in a small town I know who can ghost-write a better book. Very cheap. You will be Harry, the great adventurer and lady’s man of Egypt. The perfumes and the trip. Only LE 16,000.”
“Wait, I came here for a book review.”
“Yes, I know. Book review. No problem. First you buy the perfumes to cleanse your book of slow pacing. Then we find the great ghost-writer of the desert. He helps make a real protagonist who can woo ladies and ride a motorbike everywhere. Doesn’t need to get in argument with 20 taxi drivers in the course of 250-pages. Makes the book less repetitive. No need to name the book ‘How to Look Foolish and Stupid while arguing with Egyptian Taxi Driver.’”
“You thought the book was repetitive?”
“Yes, like lazy pot-smoking book.”
Harry is starting to lose his grip. Stay focused, Harry, get what you want. “La, la, la, I came here for just book review.”
“No, la, la, la, Harry. Your are a true Egyptian now. We will sit together and meditate. We will cleanse the spirit and find the truth about your book. Repeat after me, ‘The throat chakra’s connected to the third-eye. The third-eye chakra’s connected to the hip bone. The hip bone’s connected to the weak character development. The weak character development is connected to the pot addiction…’”
“Okay, wait, now, you’re just putting me on.”
The great father sprays Harry with perfume. Some of it gets into Harry’s eyes. For a moment, he is blinded. He struggles to get his eyes into focus. For a moment, the great father becomes Daniel Clausen laughing a hideously in slow motion with devil horns on his head. Then his eyes refocus and he sees the Great Father again.
“Harry, you must repeat. This incantation must be repeated exactly as I say it.”
Harry somehow finds himself repeating the incantation. “The throat chakra’s connected to the third-eye. The third-eye chakra’s connected to the hip bone. The hip bone’s connected to the weak character development. The weak character development’s connected to the pot addiction…” The entire time he’s thinking: don’t give him more than LE200, don’t give him more than LE200.
But the entire time that Harry’s chanting he sees his money disappearing from his pocket. His vision blurs and he sees Daniel Clausen laughing a villainous exaggerated laugh in slow motion, counting the Egyptian money. Then the Great Father comes back, “Keep chanting...must buy all 16 perfumes...trip to the desert...the third eye chakra’s connected to the hip bone….”
*
Harry wakes up in his room in London. It’s another rainy day in London. It must have been a dream. There was no review with the Great Father attempting to get his revenge. In the end only LE200 was paid for one bottle of perfume and a meditation. He had not been had.
He walks in his living room and finds perfume bottles everywhere. The Great Father is also sleeping on his couch. On his book shelf he sees his book. Although, this is not the sensitive tale of self-discover he had written. He picks it up.
“The Great Harry of Egypt” it reads. He is riding a motorcycle up a pyramid with a sword in his hand. Two ladies are hanging on to Harry from the back of his motorcycle.
The Great Father doesn’t open his eyes, but he says, “I tried to give book away with bottles of perfume, but no one wanted it. But it’s okay, Harry. Today you will drive taxi and bring me more customers. We will sell your book and my perfumes, eh, Harry. Or should I call you Abdullah?”
From a laptop somewhere far away, Daniel Clausen laughs a slow-motion villainous laugh.
*
Postscript:
Harry and I sit down for a coffee in London. It has been about three months since he has managed to get the Great Father out of his apartment and found a suitable method for disposing of the new versions of his novel.
“Well, I have to admit,” Harry says. “I felt powerful riding the motorcycle up the pyramid. And working for the Great Father has given me a new respect for how to hustle in this crazy world.”
“See,” I say. “This review wasn’t all bad.”
“Yeah, but what did you really think of the book?”
“I already told the reader earlier. The book was very good. I finished it in four days on top of my busy work schedule and felt the better for it. I take the piss out of all the books I like.”
“Well, that’s a relief.”
“Take care, Harry. I’m off on my next book reviewing adventure.”
And with those words, I proceed on to the adventure of reviewing Neuromancer!
Full disclosure: There is no way I can give this book a fair review. Harry and I have written a book together called “ReejecttIIon -- A Number 2.”
As advertised in the title of the book, you will meet hustlers, you will experience hassles, and hash will make up a great part of your journey. Whether true purification is reached in the course of this journey is another question. I tend to think of true purification as something rather elusive. For Harry, though, the course to purification should have exotic locales, check marks next to items on one’s F***it list, and experiences with the devil in its/his/her many shapes and forms. Is this true purification? From experience, I can tell you that travels and writing are only part of the process of purification...
The C.S. Lewis quote at the beginning of the book makes the personal challenge a little more clear: Harry must avoid the twin pitfalls of becoming a base materialist (with no belief in the magic of the world) or a unskeptical magician (who becomes too enamored with the devil). This is what Harry thinks his challenge is. Maybe he’s right. But there are others. He still has to charm the reviewers. He still has to learn the being an indy writer and being an Egyptian merchant are similar occupations. (“You buy this book, yes? It will make you attractive to the ladies!”)
Harry / you must also avoid the pitfall of becoming absorbed in oneself and becoming one with the pain of heartbreak. For a travel book about Egypt, there are large stretches of time where the book is about Harry and his overwhelming pain. Egypt is the the thing that pulls Harry out of himself, but also forces Harry back into himself. In a world of hustlers and hassles, why expose oneself to the world -- where hassles and hustles are smaller versions of the intense pain of heartbreak?
The minor heartbreaks of hustlers and hassles make up a great deal of the events of the book. However, so do moments of joy and respite. The book is about one person’s life in a certain place and time, and these events are simply and beautifully told.
There are, however, bigger villains in the book. These villains are some of the most captivating elements of the book.
One of these villains is the “Great Father.” A hustler whose clutches Harry happens to fall into early in the book when he decides to have coffee with a local hustler named Abdullah. Abdullah takes Harry from one place to another until finally Abdullah delivers him into the perfume shop of the “Great Father” -- a place that for Harry embodies evil.
*
Something is wrong. Very wrong. The mood has suddenly become dark. Much too dark for a book review. The reviewer suddenly isn’t his co-writer friend that he thought he knew so well but instead a great bear of a man, with a designer T-shirt, trendy jeans and Reebok trainers. Casual. Cool. But also a hustler with dark eyes that try so swallow him up and turn himself inward. Into his own loathing and fear.
Somehow, Harry finds himself back in the perfume shop of the Great Father.
“Harry,” the Great Father says. “We meet again. Last time, you left so quickly. It is destiny that you have found me here in this book review. You have experienced a great tragedy in your life, yes?”
Harry looks at the Great Father skeptically, looks him straight in his devil-black eyes. Everyone has had a personal tragedy. He is just fishing. Why is he here again? How did he get into this book review?
“You are lost in a great darkness.”
“No, mate. Not again. I won’t do this. It was shitty enough the first time.”
“You have written a book. This book has many problems. One, it stands in the shadow of other great travel books about Egypt. You just go around smoking weed. Your book is lazy. Like a lazy pot smoking book. Also, you don’t make sexy time in the book, even though your readers want to hear about sexual conquests. Blah, blah heart-ache, blah blah where is my girl? Then you go and smoke weed like lazy man. This is okay, I have a perfume that will make your book better….also you will take a tour with me in the desert. This tour will help cleanse your soul. And there is a man that lives in a small town I know who can ghost-write a better book. Very cheap. You will be Harry, the great adventurer and lady’s man of Egypt. The perfumes and the trip. Only LE 16,000.”
“Wait, I came here for a book review.”
“Yes, I know. Book review. No problem. First you buy the perfumes to cleanse your book of slow pacing. Then we find the great ghost-writer of the desert. He helps make a real protagonist who can woo ladies and ride a motorbike everywhere. Doesn’t need to get in argument with 20 taxi drivers in the course of 250-pages. Makes the book less repetitive. No need to name the book ‘How to Look Foolish and Stupid while arguing with Egyptian Taxi Driver.’”
“You thought the book was repetitive?”
“Yes, like lazy pot-smoking book.”
Harry is starting to lose his grip. Stay focused, Harry, get what you want. “La, la, la, I came here for just book review.”
“No, la, la, la, Harry. Your are a true Egyptian now. We will sit together and meditate. We will cleanse the spirit and find the truth about your book. Repeat after me, ‘The throat chakra’s connected to the third-eye. The third-eye chakra’s connected to the hip bone. The hip bone’s connected to the weak character development. The weak character development is connected to the pot addiction…’”
“Okay, wait, now, you’re just putting me on.”
The great father sprays Harry with perfume. Some of it gets into Harry’s eyes. For a moment, he is blinded. He struggles to get his eyes into focus. For a moment, the great father becomes Daniel Clausen laughing a hideously in slow motion with devil horns on his head. Then his eyes refocus and he sees the Great Father again.
“Harry, you must repeat. This incantation must be repeated exactly as I say it.”
Harry somehow finds himself repeating the incantation. “The throat chakra’s connected to the third-eye. The third-eye chakra’s connected to the hip bone. The hip bone’s connected to the weak character development. The weak character development’s connected to the pot addiction…” The entire time he’s thinking: don’t give him more than LE200, don’t give him more than LE200.
But the entire time that Harry’s chanting he sees his money disappearing from his pocket. His vision blurs and he sees Daniel Clausen laughing a villainous exaggerated laugh in slow motion, counting the Egyptian money. Then the Great Father comes back, “Keep chanting...must buy all 16 perfumes...trip to the desert...the third eye chakra’s connected to the hip bone….”
*
Harry wakes up in his room in London. It’s another rainy day in London. It must have been a dream. There was no review with the Great Father attempting to get his revenge. In the end only LE200 was paid for one bottle of perfume and a meditation. He had not been had.
He walks in his living room and finds perfume bottles everywhere. The Great Father is also sleeping on his couch. On his book shelf he sees his book. Although, this is not the sensitive tale of self-discover he had written. He picks it up.
“The Great Harry of Egypt” it reads. He is riding a motorcycle up a pyramid with a sword in his hand. Two ladies are hanging on to Harry from the back of his motorcycle.
The Great Father doesn’t open his eyes, but he says, “I tried to give book away with bottles of perfume, but no one wanted it. But it’s okay, Harry. Today you will drive taxi and bring me more customers. We will sell your book and my perfumes, eh, Harry. Or should I call you Abdullah?”
From a laptop somewhere far away, Daniel Clausen laughs a slow-motion villainous laugh.
*
Postscript:
Harry and I sit down for a coffee in London. It has been about three months since he has managed to get the Great Father out of his apartment and found a suitable method for disposing of the new versions of his novel.
“Well, I have to admit,” Harry says. “I felt powerful riding the motorcycle up the pyramid. And working for the Great Father has given me a new respect for how to hustle in this crazy world.”
“See,” I say. “This review wasn’t all bad.”
“Yeah, but what did you really think of the book?”
“I already told the reader earlier. The book was very good. I finished it in four days on top of my busy work schedule and felt the better for it. I take the piss out of all the books I like.”
“Well, that’s a relief.”
“Take care, Harry. I’m off on my next book reviewing adventure.”
And with those words, I proceed on to the adventure of reviewing Neuromancer!
March 9, 2016
New Book -- ReejecttIIon -- A Number Two
Thanks everyone for your support with past books.
My newest book, a collaboration with Harry Whitewolf, is now out!
Here’s the blurb:
By reading ReejecttIIon, it’s likely you’ll discover: colorful short stories, funny flash fiction, hilarious cartoons, riveting reviews, wondrous anagrams and other assorted skits and titbits of under-achieving literary genius.
If you’re lucky, you might come across sci-fi tales about the privatization of words, horror stories about hair and ruminations on indie writing. It’s also possible that you’ll find commentary on the hazards of greedy literary agents and stories about washed up movie directors who receive financial backing from space aliens.
Publisher’s Meekly calls it: “a thought-provoking fable about technological hubris and the hazards of bioengineering.” (*This may or may not be referring to Jurassic Park and not ReejecttIIon.)
Reader’s Indigestion says: “this book quietly stands as one of the most powerful statements of the Civil Rights movement.” (*This may or may not actually refer to To Kill a Mockingbird and not ReejecttIIon.)
But why not read this seriously comical scattergun book and see what you can discover about ReejecttIIon for yourself?
And here are the links you’re surely itching to click on:
Amazon.com:
Kindle:
http://www.amazon.com/ReejecttIIon-nu...
Paperback:
http://www.amazon.com/ReejecttIIon-nu...
Amazon.co.uk:
Kindle:
http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B0...
Paperback:
http://www.amazon.co.uk/ReejecttIIon-...
You can also start reading ReejecttIIon here:
https://www.goodreads.com/reader/7516...
Thank you!
My newest book, a collaboration with Harry Whitewolf, is now out!
Here’s the blurb:
By reading ReejecttIIon, it’s likely you’ll discover: colorful short stories, funny flash fiction, hilarious cartoons, riveting reviews, wondrous anagrams and other assorted skits and titbits of under-achieving literary genius.
If you’re lucky, you might come across sci-fi tales about the privatization of words, horror stories about hair and ruminations on indie writing. It’s also possible that you’ll find commentary on the hazards of greedy literary agents and stories about washed up movie directors who receive financial backing from space aliens.
Publisher’s Meekly calls it: “a thought-provoking fable about technological hubris and the hazards of bioengineering.” (*This may or may not be referring to Jurassic Park and not ReejecttIIon.)
Reader’s Indigestion says: “this book quietly stands as one of the most powerful statements of the Civil Rights movement.” (*This may or may not actually refer to To Kill a Mockingbird and not ReejecttIIon.)
But why not read this seriously comical scattergun book and see what you can discover about ReejecttIIon for yourself?
And here are the links you’re surely itching to click on:
Amazon.com:
Kindle:
http://www.amazon.com/ReejecttIIon-nu...
Paperback:
http://www.amazon.com/ReejecttIIon-nu...
Amazon.co.uk:
Kindle:
http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B0...
Paperback:
http://www.amazon.co.uk/ReejecttIIon-...
You can also start reading ReejecttIIon here:
https://www.goodreads.com/reader/7516...
Thank you!
February 27, 2016
Mogi - A Short Story (from Something to Stem the Diminishing)
Something to Stem the Diminishing
Mogi was real but forgotten.
A small fishing town outside Nagasaki City, it was really known only to residents and occasionally by others who enjoyed its special agricultural product, biwa. Rath first found the town by accident one autumn day. He and his friends were riding their bikes through Shiminomori Park. The path through the park took them up the mountain, past the
bamboo forests and creeks, until finally they came to a clearing on the other side where there was a lookout point. Rath stood at the lookout post with his two friends: Mike, who had arrived from Wales a few weeks back, and Thomas, his roommate from England. They were all English teachers on one-year contracts in Japan and in their early to mid-twenties. From where the three of them stood, they could look down the side of the mountain all the way to the shore below. As the mountain reached the coast, they could see houses lightly scattered just outside some of the larger fields of biwa.
One of their students had suggested they take their bikes through the park. But it was Rath, with his enthusiasm for the outdoors, who had insisted. Now at the summit, looking down at the small town below, they had a decision to make.
“Well, we’ve reached the top,” Thomas said. “We can either fuck off back the way we came, or we can see what’s on the other side of this mountain.”
There was a steep road leading down the mountain to the village on the other side.
Mike shrugged. “It’s not like I’ve got anything better to do. But how are we going to get back to town? I mean, getting down the mountain is one thing. It might take us all of ten minutes, but getting back up this road will take us hours.”
They each looked to Rath. Thomas was the one with the most experience in Japan, but for some reason they both trusted Rath with this decision. Perhaps it was Rath’s physical presence, his wide shoulders and build, that made him seem as if he were a natural at this kind of thing.
Rath took a long look at the beach. For him, there wasn’t any choice.
Whatever happened, happened. “Fuck it,” he said. “You only live once, They each started riding down the mountain. The mountain air, cool and crisp, ran through their nostrils and cleared out their heads. At first, Rath stuck with Thomas and Mike. They braked every so often to stop their velocity. Rath was not opposed to this sensible course of action, but as gravity took hold, something clicked inside him. There was something about the momentum of his descent that seemed to liberate him for a moment.
Everything was inevitable. He let go of his brake and went flying down the mountain road. If a car had been coming in the opposite direction he might have died. He would have hit the car, or gone over a rail and flew off the edge of the mountain, tumbling to his death. He thought that this was the way his life should be from now on―that every moment should have this kind of urgency. And if he died, well, that would be the price he paid for living his life.
He thought that for one reason or another his momentum would never stop and that he would be catapulted into an inevitable death or the inevitable future that awaited him. But when his bike did eventually slow down, he instead found himself among the old Japanese houses that were near the coast. He found himself gliding past the houses and a few odd convenience stores until he reached a single restaurant near the shore: the Seaside Bear.
When Thomas and Mike finally caught up with Rath, Thomas looked at him as if he had lost his mind. “What the fuck, man? You could have been killed.”
Rath was smiling. “Sorry, I just couldn’t help myself.”
Mike nodded his head in approval. “Doesn’t like to get pissed and pass out in ditches like the rest of us, but will risk his hide flying down a mountain. To each his own.”
They sat by the beach for a while, looking out into the ocean. Mike took a second to look for his digital camera in his backpack and lamented not finding it. Finally, Thomas found his own camera and began to take a few pictures. They took a second to walk up and down the beach, scoping it out.
One or two families were hanging out by the water having a picnic, but no one actually was in the water, it being too cold to swim.
“I wish the restaurant was open,” Thomas said. “We could relax and have a few beers.”
Rath was thinking something very different. He was wondering if the water was warm enough for him to dive in. He was thinking that if he came back soon enough, he might get a swim in before winter came.
They took a second to hang out by the sidewalk and admire the ocean view. Just off the shore, they could see fishing boats.
As he and his friends continued down the road, they eventually found the main town of Mogi.
The town was undeniably real, yet somehow Rath could question its existence. First, there were the rows and rows of fishing boats, sitting idly.
The small lighthouse at the end of the dock. The beautiful Japanese graves creeping up the side of the mountain. It was hard to believe this other place and Nagasaki City were part of the same Japan.
Thomas and Mike both thought the small fishing town was something amazing as well. And though both thought something like this might exist away from the city center of Nagasaki, they were nevertheless surprised that they were now there. It had been Rath’s idea to ride bikes through Shiminomori Park, but now that they were there in the fishing town, it occurred to them that they couldn’t stay long without having to go back, seeing as the path they had come down would now be uphill and none of them wanted to ride through the mountain paths in the dark.
Rath thought that they could get back in time if they started back right away. But both Mike and Thomas really didn’t feel like going through the hassle. It was Thomas’s idea that they simply leave their bikes there and go get a drink.
And so it was that six months into Rath’s stay in Nagasaki, he found the small fishing town of Mogi. He and his friends would buy some beer and fireworks. And though they were sure that someone would call the cops on them, there was a sense that they had to test the limits of what was possible that day. They drank their beer and set off copious amounts of bottle rockets and other firecrackers. Thomas talked endlessly about the girl he was going back to marry once his contract finished. Mike did impressions of the various characters he had grown up with in Cardiff.
As it turned dark, they went into the Japanese graveyard that crept up the side of the mountain near the city’s edge. There they sat, rude and garrulous, and talked of all the things they would do in Japan before their one-year teaching contract ran out. And when it was creeping past ten-thirty, it occurred to Rath that he would need to round them up and get them onto the last bus heading into town.
Truth be told, he didn’t really understand any of the symbols on the bus, the kanji telling him where he would be going, but then again they didn’t really have a choice either. This was the last bus and it had to get them somewhere closer to home than where they were now. So they all boarded, trusting in Rath. And though he was drunk like the rest of them, when they looked at him, they somehow expected that he would come through for them.
They saw him as someone dependable.
It wasn’t long before the bus was completely outside the town and they were on their way back to Nagasaki City. And as it departed, Rath couldn’t help but think that he had left behind something more important in Mogi than his bike.
***If you like what you’ve read, you can contact me on goodreads or facebook for a review copy of my new short story collection “Something to Stem the Diminishing.”
Or, if you want to buy a copy, you can do so right here: https://www.createspace.com/5929843
Mogi was real but forgotten.
A small fishing town outside Nagasaki City, it was really known only to residents and occasionally by others who enjoyed its special agricultural product, biwa. Rath first found the town by accident one autumn day. He and his friends were riding their bikes through Shiminomori Park. The path through the park took them up the mountain, past the
bamboo forests and creeks, until finally they came to a clearing on the other side where there was a lookout point. Rath stood at the lookout post with his two friends: Mike, who had arrived from Wales a few weeks back, and Thomas, his roommate from England. They were all English teachers on one-year contracts in Japan and in their early to mid-twenties. From where the three of them stood, they could look down the side of the mountain all the way to the shore below. As the mountain reached the coast, they could see houses lightly scattered just outside some of the larger fields of biwa.
One of their students had suggested they take their bikes through the park. But it was Rath, with his enthusiasm for the outdoors, who had insisted. Now at the summit, looking down at the small town below, they had a decision to make.
“Well, we’ve reached the top,” Thomas said. “We can either fuck off back the way we came, or we can see what’s on the other side of this mountain.”
There was a steep road leading down the mountain to the village on the other side.
Mike shrugged. “It’s not like I’ve got anything better to do. But how are we going to get back to town? I mean, getting down the mountain is one thing. It might take us all of ten minutes, but getting back up this road will take us hours.”
They each looked to Rath. Thomas was the one with the most experience in Japan, but for some reason they both trusted Rath with this decision. Perhaps it was Rath’s physical presence, his wide shoulders and build, that made him seem as if he were a natural at this kind of thing.
Rath took a long look at the beach. For him, there wasn’t any choice.
Whatever happened, happened. “Fuck it,” he said. “You only live once, They each started riding down the mountain. The mountain air, cool and crisp, ran through their nostrils and cleared out their heads. At first, Rath stuck with Thomas and Mike. They braked every so often to stop their velocity. Rath was not opposed to this sensible course of action, but as gravity took hold, something clicked inside him. There was something about the momentum of his descent that seemed to liberate him for a moment.
Everything was inevitable. He let go of his brake and went flying down the mountain road. If a car had been coming in the opposite direction he might have died. He would have hit the car, or gone over a rail and flew off the edge of the mountain, tumbling to his death. He thought that this was the way his life should be from now on―that every moment should have this kind of urgency. And if he died, well, that would be the price he paid for living his life.
He thought that for one reason or another his momentum would never stop and that he would be catapulted into an inevitable death or the inevitable future that awaited him. But when his bike did eventually slow down, he instead found himself among the old Japanese houses that were near the coast. He found himself gliding past the houses and a few odd convenience stores until he reached a single restaurant near the shore: the Seaside Bear.
When Thomas and Mike finally caught up with Rath, Thomas looked at him as if he had lost his mind. “What the fuck, man? You could have been killed.”
Rath was smiling. “Sorry, I just couldn’t help myself.”
Mike nodded his head in approval. “Doesn’t like to get pissed and pass out in ditches like the rest of us, but will risk his hide flying down a mountain. To each his own.”
They sat by the beach for a while, looking out into the ocean. Mike took a second to look for his digital camera in his backpack and lamented not finding it. Finally, Thomas found his own camera and began to take a few pictures. They took a second to walk up and down the beach, scoping it out.
One or two families were hanging out by the water having a picnic, but no one actually was in the water, it being too cold to swim.
“I wish the restaurant was open,” Thomas said. “We could relax and have a few beers.”
Rath was thinking something very different. He was wondering if the water was warm enough for him to dive in. He was thinking that if he came back soon enough, he might get a swim in before winter came.
They took a second to hang out by the sidewalk and admire the ocean view. Just off the shore, they could see fishing boats.
As he and his friends continued down the road, they eventually found the main town of Mogi.
The town was undeniably real, yet somehow Rath could question its existence. First, there were the rows and rows of fishing boats, sitting idly.
The small lighthouse at the end of the dock. The beautiful Japanese graves creeping up the side of the mountain. It was hard to believe this other place and Nagasaki City were part of the same Japan.
Thomas and Mike both thought the small fishing town was something amazing as well. And though both thought something like this might exist away from the city center of Nagasaki, they were nevertheless surprised that they were now there. It had been Rath’s idea to ride bikes through Shiminomori Park, but now that they were there in the fishing town, it occurred to them that they couldn’t stay long without having to go back, seeing as the path they had come down would now be uphill and none of them wanted to ride through the mountain paths in the dark.
Rath thought that they could get back in time if they started back right away. But both Mike and Thomas really didn’t feel like going through the hassle. It was Thomas’s idea that they simply leave their bikes there and go get a drink.
And so it was that six months into Rath’s stay in Nagasaki, he found the small fishing town of Mogi. He and his friends would buy some beer and fireworks. And though they were sure that someone would call the cops on them, there was a sense that they had to test the limits of what was possible that day. They drank their beer and set off copious amounts of bottle rockets and other firecrackers. Thomas talked endlessly about the girl he was going back to marry once his contract finished. Mike did impressions of the various characters he had grown up with in Cardiff.
As it turned dark, they went into the Japanese graveyard that crept up the side of the mountain near the city’s edge. There they sat, rude and garrulous, and talked of all the things they would do in Japan before their one-year teaching contract ran out. And when it was creeping past ten-thirty, it occurred to Rath that he would need to round them up and get them onto the last bus heading into town.
Truth be told, he didn’t really understand any of the symbols on the bus, the kanji telling him where he would be going, but then again they didn’t really have a choice either. This was the last bus and it had to get them somewhere closer to home than where they were now. So they all boarded, trusting in Rath. And though he was drunk like the rest of them, when they looked at him, they somehow expected that he would come through for them.
They saw him as someone dependable.
It wasn’t long before the bus was completely outside the town and they were on their way back to Nagasaki City. And as it departed, Rath couldn’t help but think that he had left behind something more important in Mogi than his bike.
***If you like what you’ve read, you can contact me on goodreads or facebook for a review copy of my new short story collection “Something to Stem the Diminishing.”
Or, if you want to buy a copy, you can do so right here: https://www.createspace.com/5929843
