Mick Brady's Blog, page 2

The Deathbringer and Me

No. 5: May 20, 2019 ~ I would never in a trillion years have picked up

Broken

She led the group through aqua water, past brilliant coral formations, through schools of orange and yellow-spotted fish, past fluorescent sea fans. She pointed out a clownfish, motioning her charges to stay away from its venomous tentacles. A herd of seahorses galloped by.

The dive started smoothly. As usual, a couple of younger, more athletic swimmers ventured too far out in front, and a middle-aged couple lagged too far behind. She should tether each person to her on a separate line, Will thought, so she could move through the water like the mother of twelve toddlers navigating the mall, or a twelve-tentacled octopus, or a twelve-plaited Medusa. She hated being out of control.

Someone grabbed her from behind. Will took the grasping hand in her own as she turned around. It was Brad.

The rest of the group vanished from Will's attention as she struggled to control him. He was panicking -- and strong. She couldn't keep him at arm's length -- he clutched at her desperately and managed to get a grip on her mask with one hand, while clinging to her arm with the other.

Will tried to protect her air supply as they tussled, but a strap broke and Brad won the tug-of-war, with her mask and mouthpiece as his prize. With a surge of power she freed her arm from his grip, swam a few feet away, and then looped back to grab his wrists. Lungs about to burst, she swam for the surface.

Will broke through the water first and gulped air. Brad came up next to her and immediately resumed his thrashing and clawing. She pulled off his mask, and one look at his wild eyes left her no choice. She landed the hardest punch she could manage and he went limp.

Will treaded water, catching her breath, Brad's lolling head cradled in the crook of her arm. Blood streamed from his nose as the rest of the divers bobbed up one by one. She led the bewildered group back to the boat.

As Brad came to, the ship's paramedic hovering over him, he gasped a request for the inhaler that could be found in his backpack.

,Fucking idiot., Will turned away in disgust.

*****

The ,Wind Spirit's, captain, Jack Ellis, was healthy, handsome, and possessed of abundant patience and good humor. Several crew members were hanging out with him on the bridge when Will stormed up.

"Something wrong?" he asked mildly.

Will turned her glare on the others.

"Could you please leave?"

Jack seemed curious but not intimidated -- he motioned them to stay.

"Fine. Have it your way," Will fumed. "Number one, I'm sick of risking my life to rescue morons. Number two, I don't appreciate being the laughingstock of this ship. Number three, I quit."

Jack turned to the crew, now openly gawking. "Could you please leave?"

"And flowers. What made you think I wanted fucking flowers?" Will didn't care any longer who heard her. "We're not in a relationship. You're acting like a female."

"Maybe one of us ought to," Jack shot back. "If we're not in a relationship, what do you call what we've been up to all summer long?"

"Nothing. Who cares? I don't need to give it a label."

"Aren't you getting on a bit for the madcap single girl routine?"

Will felt her face flush.

"You're scared, aren't you?" Jack's voice dropped to an awed whisper. "Maybe all you ever wanted was someone to hang onto in the dark."

She wheeled around and left.

*****

The ship engine stopped. Will stood at the rail and watched the setting sun as the crew hoisted the sails. Golden ripples danced across the sea.

From the upper deck, she heard a guitar playing and the soft chorus of voices. It was the way they ended every excursion -- sailing back, lulling the tourists into a nostalgic stupor with old folk songs. Corny crap like "Michael Row the Boat Ashore" and "Kumbayah." She put on her sunglasses to keep the wind from stinging her eyes.

*****

Will poured the last of a bottle of Shiraz into her glass. Every light in the apartment was on. The ceiling fan rotated at high speed. Curtains covered the broken window, but shards of glass were still strewn across the floor. Will held the phone to her ear, counting the rings on the other end.

"Sheila -- hey. I'm glad I caught you," Will said brightly. Too brightly.

She leaned back and closed her eyes, listening for what she wanted to hear -- trying not to hear what Sheila actually was saying.

Will lowered her voice, struggling to sound casual, but she heard her desperation singing through. "Come on, Sheila -- I can't stand this tourist crap. In fact, I quit today."

Maybe not a good idea to mention the quitting. It pressed another one of Sheila's endless alarm buttons.

"Another episode?"

"No, no another episode. An unfortunate romantic entanglement. The captain sent me roses."

She glanced at the window. The curtain had moved. She was sure of it.

"Flowers aren't exactly sexual harassment."

"They're stupid. All of this is stupid. You know what I'm capable of. I shouldn't have to beg, but I'm begging. Please -- give me a spot -- anything."

Will squeezed her eyes shut. Sheila told her she needed to see a doctor. Why was that the only thing she could say anymore?

"Don't you think you might be overreacting a little? I'm not the first person to screw up -- and there was no damage."

"Tell that to the tubeworms."

Will cringed. She had destroyed a beautiful field. A deep sea paradise.

"It won't happen again."

"Will. I heard you yelling at someone."

"Myself. People do that. I was rattled."

"You were terrified."

"Okay. Fine." She hung up the phone. Sat on the edge of the sofa. Sipped the wine. She couldn't think anymore. The debate was over. Sheila must be right -- she must be crazy.

Thousands of miles away, in the kitchen of a rambling Michigan house, a phone rang. The soapy hand that reached for a towel before answering it belonged to Polly Gilbert, a soft woman with a tumbled mane of blonde hair. She stood at the sink, sun streaming through the window. When it registered that the voice on the other end belonged to her sister, she sat down at the big oak table.

"Will -- what? You're coming home?"

"Whatever that means. How's Mother?"

"She's ... you know."

"Yeah. Well."

"What's going on?"

"Nothing. Is this a bad idea?

"I thought you were on an expedition, that's all. You said you'd be out of touch."

"I'll explain when I get there."

"I'm glad you're coming."

"Give Becky a kiss for me."

"Sure -- love you."

Will hung up. A sudden sinking feeling drew her eyes to the broken window. The curtains were wide open. A shadowy figure slunk back into the darkness. For a long time, Will stared at nothing. She didn't know how she had gotten so bruised, but she knew the white owl was behind it.

This is Excerpt No. 3 of The Darkest Eyes by Mick Brady

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Visitor in the Deep

Louis Armstrong's trumpet painted the walls of the little craft with soaring blue notes. He climbed, she fell. The contrast pleased her. Will sat back, muscles relaxed, mind drifting in a pleasant state of meditation. The deeper she sank the safer she felt.

She dropped like a stone but the tiny sphere cradled her like her own private bubble. She went deeper, felt lighter. Outside, it was dark, cold and forbidding. To Will it was home. She had all the company she needed.

Now, mama, mama, mama, why do you treat me so?

Ah, mama, mama, mama, why do you treat me so?

(I know why you treat me so bad.)

You treat me mean, baby, just because I'm gully low.

It amused Will that Armstrong reached his gully low just as her little craft registered 8,000 feet, about as deep as it could safely take her. Its headlight penetrated the darkness and a field of tubeworms came into view. The primitive creatures rose like a forest, swinging in the gloom as though swaying to the music's rhythm. The hydrothermal vent spewed boiling water from the ocean floor like a giant cauldron. If hell was anything like this, Will reflected, maybe she should stop running from her demons.

"Beautiful," she whispered.

"Who knew worms could be so sexy?" Sheila murmured.

Will had briefly forgotten that even down there, she couldn't really be alone. Someone was always watching, always listening. Not that she minded Sheila, sharing her camera's view while perched on the mothership above. Sheila was more than the expedition's leader -- she was one of Will's few friends.

A spidery white crab danced in front of her light.

"Showoff," she grinned.

Next her beam played over a towering chimney-like structure.

"Wow -- look at that huge black smoker."

"Crazy cool," said Sheila.

Out of the enveloping darkness, an enormous sea creature swooped into the sub's beam and plastered itself onto Will's view screen. She could see nothing except eyes -- large, inky pools, reeling her into their depths. Will's heart raced. Her breath came in ragged bursts. Silently she told herself: It's not real ... it's not real... The sub hit the ocean floor and bounced crazily.

"What the hell?" Sheila barked.

"Uh ... some kind of ray is blocking my view -- I can't see --"

"What are you talking about? There's nothing there. Slow down!"

Will forced her eyes from the mesmerizing gaze. Drops of sweat fell from her face onto the control panel. As abruptly as it had appeared, the creature vanished, and Will took in the scene outside. The worm field was dead ahead. She pulled up hard, but groaned with dismay as she plowed into the fragile sea creatures. The sub settled in their midst, bits of detritus floating about her like the snow in a globe.

"We're aborting," Sheila said, her tone unreadable. "Set for the surface."

Under ordinary circumstances, Will would have responded to the order automatically, but the destruction she had caused so unnerved her that it didn't immediately register.

"You need to come up now," Sheila said.

"Right," Will muttered.

An icy breeze swooshed through the tiny space, overwhelming her with a new dread. It stopped her hand in mid-air. It stopped her breath. It froze the moisture on her face. Her head throbbed with the effort to resist turning around, to no avail.

Slowly she turned and found herself looking into the deep, liquid eyes of a gray. The thing was about three feet tall, with a big triangular head, overwhelming black eyes, no nose, and a tiny immobile mouth.

It looked just like the aliens Will had seen on book covers, in movies, dangling from key chains at novelty shops in the mall. It looked just like the aliens crazy people claimed had abducted them. Just like the ones in her nightmares. It now stood two feet away from her, telling her in a kind of otherworldly mind chatter that resistance was futile.

"Get out!" Will screamed.

Sheila re-entered the conversation, sounding detached, like HAL the computer, Will thought, with the tiny corner of her brain that wasn't consumed with terror. Sheila reminded her of the sub's depth limit, that she needed to surface. Will wanted to turn away from the gray, but her eyes wouldn't comply. She dimly heard Sheila's voice warning that she was going too deep, too fast.

The gray's small, slit-like mouth didn't move, but a deep vibration cut through Will like the chant of a Tibetan monk. It told her not to be afraid. She reached blindly behind her, groping for anything she might use in her defense.

The craft lurched -- the lights flickered off and on. Armstrong's trumpet wailed. The alien told Will to obey. One part of her was swept into its hypnotic gaze. Another part told it to go fuck itself.

The sub careened drunkenly over the ocean floor, its mechanical arms flailing. Its beam revealed a fast-approaching drop-off. Will didn't hear Sheila yelling at her to pull up. She didn't hear Armstrong. She could only hear the deafening drone of the alien, commanding her to give in.

With a monumental effort, Will slammed her fist into the creature's head. It took the blow without comment, merely bending sideways, then springing upright again. Will reached for its slender neck. Her fingers closed around it, sinking through the disgusting substance that passed for flesh. Will felt a wave of nausea rising. The creature stared at her, unfazed.

Sheila's shrill voice suddenly penetrated. "Will!"

She spun around, maneuvering the sub away from the drop in a swift, reflexive motion that made her feel, for an instant, back in control. Panting, adrenaline surging, she swung back to face her adversary. The alien was gone. She was alone, except for Armstrong.

If you listen baby / I'll tell you something you don't know. (You don't know.)

If you just listen to me honey, I'll tell you something you don't know.

This is Excerpt No. 1 of The Darkest Eyes by Mick Brady

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Bruised and Battered

Will headed south. She thought she might go as far as Antarctica -- all the way to the Pole, maybe. Perhaps the little shits would turn blue and shatter into a million ice crystals, like cartoon characters. Then she remembered all the long, bone-chilling Upper Peninsula winters of her youth and decided to stop in Australia, where she quickly landed a job guiding tourists on scuba dives near the Great Barrier Reef.

A white owl followed her.

Will caught it mainly with her subconscious sight -- swooping in and out of the corners of her dreams as she drifted in and out of sleep. She couldn't quite decide whether the thing evoked fear or just revulsion, but she slept with all the lights on and the ancient TV flickering dully.

The owl peered wisely through the tiny apartment's second-floor window. Will was stretched out on a heavy leather sofa that had seen better days, wearing a tank top and bikini pants. A crocheted afghan was jumbled at her feet, and a thin pillow was doubled under her shaggy head. Her long arms and legs were dotted with bruises.

A ceiling fan rotated slowly overhead. An empty bottle and half-full glass of red wine sat on the coffee table next to her, along with a dark orange slab of sweating cheese. The TV was barely audible -- a morning talk show was on.

A young woman with long, dark hair pulled into a limp ponytail spoke.

"It's completely terrifying," she said.

The host frowned skeptically. "They're not exactly ferocious-looking."

Artistic renderings of gray aliens flashed onto the TV screen -- some crudely drawn, others lavish with detail.

"What's so terrifying?" he pressed. "I'd love to meet an E.T."

Under other circumstances, the suited middle-aged man who responded might have been taken for a corporate attorney. Occupying a place on a panel of alien abductees automatically made him look weak.

"It's impossible to fully understand unless you've been through it," he said. "It's not an adventure. There's a complete loss of control. People have been driven to suicide over this. "

A heavily made-up blonde chimed in.

"You're conscious, but you're paralyzed," she said. "They physically paralyze you, and they... paralyze your will." Her hand made a nervous, fluttering motion.

A rooster crowed. The sound came from a novelty alarm clock sitting a few feet away from the abandoned wine and cheese. A chirpy digitized voice told the sleeping Will it was six o'clock a.m. The rooster crowed again.

Without opening her eyes, Will groped for the clock and hurled it unerringly at the owl. The windowpane shattered. She picked up the remote and clicked the TV to darkness. The room was silent. She sat up, trembling.

Will stripped naked, exposing a few more bruises, and performed her morning ablutions, which consisted of going to the bathroom and brushing her teeth. She pulled on a faded one-piece swimsuit in a moss green shade that matched her eyes, covering it with shorts and a tee bearing the ,Wind Spirit, logo. She grabbed a bagel from a bag on the counter, saw a bit of mold on the edge, and tossed it into the trash.

She emerged from a doorway next to a Chinese takeaway and began to jog effortlessly down the street. She passed fast-food stalls and cheap souvenir shops where workers raised awnings and set up displays. The promenade teemed with scruffy backpackers, tailored professionals, and sunburned tourists sporting floppy hats and cameras.

Cutting through the crowd, she angled across the street to a park, where she jogged past rows of evenly spaced palm trees, hedges of bougainvillea and scampering wallabies. A haze lay over the ocean beyond the mudflats that bordered the far side of the park. Will inhaled deeply, tasting the salty air.

Few things gave her the release running did -- this short jog qualified as a tease. Crossing back to the busy side of the street, she bounded onto a tour bus parked in front of an expensive hotel.

A conspicuously handsome driver greeted her with a smile.

"Mornin', mate."

Will sighed. Another irritation and the day wasn't yet an hour old.

"Morning, Johnny."

The bus pulled away. Will's eyes swept the group of tourists -- they looked just like yesterday's tourists.

Johnny began his patter, speaking through a microphone.

"Hope you folks didn't eat your brekkies yet, because a feast awaits you on board the ,Wind Spirit,, and all our ship rations are guaranteed seasick-proof. If you ate anything on your own, we make no promises."

"Now you tell us," a passenger interjected.

The crowd laughed. Will stared studiously out the window. Johnny lowered his microphone and turned his attention to her.

"Going by the Half Shell tonight?"

"Not likely."

He grinned as though encouraged and picked up the microphone.

"Today we'll be sailing out to the reef, where we'll see masses of black geese roosting -- quite a show. Among the extras on offer is a chance to view marine life in our glass-bottom boat or join a scuba-diving adventure led by our own princess of the deep, Willoughby Roan."

Johnny winked at her, all boyish confidence. Will groaned inwardly. Her persistent sense memory of their one and only intimate encounter was the clammy texture and musty odor of his sheets. Even the drunken stupor that led her to think it would be a good idea to couple with him one night hadn't prevented her from noticing that.

"You should do your laundry more often," she said coolly.

Will gazed out the window. A brilliantly colored parrot swooped through the sky over blazing masses of wild poinsettias.

The bus turned a corner, and the masts crowding the harbor came into view. The remaining few minutes of the ride brought no more clever remarks from Johnny. The first to jump off, Will hurriedly brushed past a group of tourists having their picture taken, and boarded the huge catamaran.

Crew members gathered for their last few minutes of free time in the galley, where a vase of long-stemmed yellow roses occupied the center of a table loaded with pastries and fruit.

Danny, a muscular sailor with perpetual sunburned fair skin, pounced as Will entered.

"Secret lover?" he asked, gesturing at the flowers. "Wish I could say they're from me, but I'm short the cash."

"And the class," shot Bernard. Fiftyish and gay, the head chef identified with Will. They were both outsiders,.

"Look at those bruises -- heat of passion?" Danny smirked.

Will opened the card and her expression darkened. Stuffing it into her shorts pocket, she removed the roses from the vase and pitched them through a porthole. Then she calmly sat down, poured coffee, deliberated between a blueberry and a raspberry Danish, and chose blue.

Trish, a friendly Midwesterner who thought people like Will made the rest of the world hate Americans, wondered if they would be motoring out.

"Yeah," Danny said. "Wind's too light."

The ship's engine rumbled.

This is Excerpt No. 2 of The Darkest Eyes by Mick Brady

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Jumping Spider

No 2: February 20, 2019 ~

My totem animal is the spider. Spiders create beautiful, intricate webs, and that's what I strive to do with my storytelling. So far, I have few reasons to doubt my talent. I've received some very enthusiastic feedback for my first novel, including a handful of thoughtful, positive reviews, so I know there's at least a small audience for my work. I just don't know how much it will scale.
My first free giveaway of

If you would like to read the first full chapter of my second book -- the story of a desperate struggle to preserve magic from annihilation -- fill out the contact form at the bottom of my

Traveling by Instinct

No 3: March 20, 2019 ~

Painted lady butterflies passed through last week on their way from their desert hatching grounds to the Pacific Northwest. It was quite a spectacle. How do creatures so new to the world know how to reach a destination so far away? As I pondered the marvel of genetics and instinct guiding the painted ladies on their journey, I found a personal allegory.
Like the butterflies, I know where I want to go. Unlike them, I worry about the difficulty of getting there. I want to be a successful novelist, but because I haven't traveled these airways before, I constantly struggle with fear of the unknown. Allowing it to take over would put an end to my ambitions in very short order, so I've decided to rely on my own genetics and instincts instead.
In the elation of having finally published my first novel,

The Darkest Eyes – Excerpt: Visitor in the Deep

Louis Armstrong's trumpet painted the walls of the little craft with soaring blue notes. He climbed, she fell. The contrast pleased her. Will sat back, muscles relaxed, mind drifting in a pleasant state of meditation. The deeper she sank the safer she felt. She dropped like a stone but the tiny sphere cradled her like her own private bubble. She went deeper, felt lighter. Outside, it was dark, cold and forbidding. To Will it was home. She had all the company she needed. Now, mama, mama, mama, why do you treat me so? Ah, mama, mama, mama, why do you treat me so? (I know why you treat me so bad.) You treat me mean, baby, just because I'm gully low. It amused Will that Armstrong reached his gully low just as her little craft registered 8,000 feet, about as deep as it could safely take her. Its headlight penetrated the darkness and a field of tubeworms came into view. The primitive creatures rose like a forest, swinging in the gloom as though swaying to the music's rhythm. The hydrothermal vent spewed boiling water from the ocean floor like a giant cauldron. If hell was anything like this, Will reflected, maybe she should stop running from her demons. "Beautiful," she whispered. "Who knew worms could be so sexy?" Sheila murmured. Will had briefly forgotten that even down there, she couldn't really be alone. Someone was always watching, always listening. Not that she minded Sheila, sharing her camera's view while perched on the mothership above. Sheila was more than the expedition's leader -- she was one of Will's few friends. A spidery white crab danced in front of her light. "Showoff," she grinned. Next her beam played over a towering chimney-like structure. "Wow -- look at that huge black smoker." "Crazy cool," said Sheila. Out of the enveloping darkness, an enormous sea creature swooped into the sub's beam and plastered itself onto Will's view screen. She could see nothing except eyes -- large, inky pools, reeling her into their depths. Will's heart raced. Her breath came in ragged bursts. Silently she told herself: It's not real ... it's not real... The sub hit the ocean floor and bounced crazily. "What the hell?" Sheila barked. "Uh ... some kind of ray is blocking my view -- I can't see --" "What are you talking about? There's nothing there. Slow down!" Will forced her eyes from the mesmerizing gaze. Drops of sweat fell from her face onto the control panel. As abruptly as it had appeared, the creature vanished, and Will took in the scene outside. The worm field was dead ahead. She pulled up hard, but groaned with dismay as she plowed into the fragile sea creatures. The sub settled in their midst, bits of detritus floating about her like the snow in a globe. "We're aborting," Sheila said, her tone unreadable. "Set for the surface." Under ordinary circumstances, Will would have responded to the order automatically, but the destruction she had caused so unnerved her that it didn't immediately register. "You need to come up now," Sheila said. "Right," Will muttered. An icy breeze swooshed through the tiny space, overwhelming her with a new dread. It stopped her hand in mid-air. It stopped her breath. It froze the moisture on her face. Her head throbbed with the effort to resist turning around, to no avail. Slowly she turned and found herself looking into the deep, liquid eyes of a gray. The thing was about three feet tall, with a big triangular head, overwhelming black eyes, no nose, and a tiny immobile mouth. It looked just like the aliens Will had seen on book covers, in movies, dangling from key chains at novelty shops in the mall. It looked just like the aliens crazy people claimed had abducted them. Just like the ones in her nightmares. It now stood two feet away from her, telling her in a kind of otherworldly mind chatter that resistance was futile. "Get out!" Will screamed. Sheila re-entered the conversation, sounding detached, like HAL the computer, Will thought, with the tiny corner of her brain that wasn't consumed with terror. Sheila reminded her of the sub's depth limit, that she needed to surface. Will wanted to turn away from the gray, but her eyes wouldn't comply. She dimly heard Sheila's voice warning that she was going too deep, too fast. The gray's small, slit-like mouth didn't move, but a deep vibration cut through Will like the chant of a Tibetan monk. It told her not to be afraid. She reached blindly behind her, groping for anything she might use in her defense. The craft lurched -- the lights flickered off and on. Armstrong's trumpet wailed. The alien told Will to obey. One part of her was swept into its hypnotic gaze. Another part told it to go fuck itself. The sub careened drunkenly over the ocean floor, its mechanical arms flailing. Its beam revealed a fast-approaching drop-off. Will didn't hear Sheila yelling at her to pull up. She didn't hear Armstrong. She could only hear the deafening drone of the alien, commanding her to give in. With a monumental effort, Will slammed her fist into the creature's head. It took the blow without comment, merely bending sideways, then springing upright again. Will reached for its slender neck. Her fingers closed around it, sinking through the disgusting substance that passed for flesh. Will felt a wave of nausea rising. The creature stared at her, unfazed. Sheila's shrill voice suddenly penetrated. "Will!" She spun around, maneuvering the sub away from the drop in a swift, reflexive motion that made her feel, for an instant, back in control. Panting, adrenaline surging, she swung back to face her adversary. The alien was gone. She was alone, except for Armstrong. If you listen baby / I'll tell you something you don't know. (You don't know.) If you just listen to me honey, I'll tell you something you don't know. This is Excerpt No. 1 of The Darkest Eyes by Mick Brady Buy the Book

Pearl's Problem Planet

No. 6: June 20, 2019 ~ Like any parent, I love all the characters I created for The Darkest Eyes, my debut novel, even those who make only brief appearances in the book. Although Pearl doesn't show up often, she plays a pivotal role in the story. Perhaps the most mysterious of all the characters, Pearl lives a rich life outside the pages of the novel, and I'd like to share a bit of it with you. ***** "It's not the size of the planet, my dear -- it's the size of the problem." Pearl's skin tingled. Thankfully the flush of her rage wouldn't glow through, given her dark coloring. After outdistancing every other adept in her set by a parsec, she drew the crappiest assignment on the board anyway! Her eyes swam as she plucked the description from the display. With a slight shift of intention she learned as much about the planet's science, history and culture as its best scholars might absorb in a lifetime. Grudgingly she had to admit it was not quite so ordinary after all. She wondered which of its times and spaces she'd been condemned to fix. There was no shortage of possibilities. "Forward or back?" she asked. "Both," said Jode. Both! No adept had traveled forward and backward in time on the same assignment -- not ever -- much less their first! Going back wasn't so bad. She took pride in her mastery of the wracking physical sensation -- no self-respecting adept would describe it as "pain" -- and after landing she actually had fun occupying her younger body for a time. The Pearl of the past always seemed faithful to her memory -- solid and real. She enjoyed reconnecting with her sassy child self, knowing what she knew now. Going forward was altogether different. Neither "sensation" nor "pain" adequately described the physical and psychological maelstrom a forward-traveling adept inevitably endured. The landing was always harsh and the connection shocking. There seemed to be a limitless number of possible selves in her unfixed future, and Pearl found most of them either frightening or repulsive. Both types of travel required a precision fine-tuning of the adept's psyche, and a delicate dance to maintain the essential balance of forces that would allow a safe return. The tunings were as dissimilar as a rellybird's chirp and a faniform's orchestral blast. Pearl couldn't imagine switching from one to another and back again without recharging, which would be impossible while on assignment. As her arguments and questions arose, Jode responded to them. The debate took place silently, too quickly for either teacher or student to consciously mark, and ended abruptly with its predetermined conclusion. In a blink Pearl's life became inextricably entwined with a strange little tridimensional planet in a far-away galaxy of no particular importance to the cosmos. She flipped her bronze ponytail in a gesture of defiance that usually evoked a chuckle from Jode, but he only tilted his head slightly, as though -- Eah forbid it! -- he agreed with her. Only then did Pearl pick up on Jode's distress. Either her old fadeh deliberately unmasked his feelings for a change, or her leap from anger to fear triggered his involuntary frankness. Pearl's anxiety meter soared. If Jode had not handpicked her assignment then the order came from above. The situation must be grave indeed if the Echelon was willing to sacrifice Viturlifa's star adept. Completely detached from ego, Pearl's self-assessment placed her not only as the top performer in her set, but also one of the strongest of all the adepts, fadehs included, and at nineteen her gifts had not fully bloomed. To send her on a mission that involved back-and-forth time travel was reckless, no doubt about it -- and if anything could be said about the Echelon, it was that they were cautious almost to a fault. Earth-Atlantis-Hesoa posed a great many serious problems, but so did millions of other more distinguished planetary systems. There were so many worlds in distress in the vastness of space-time that prioritizing their needs was impossible. Typically the fadehs relied on their own intuition to match their proteges with tasks suited to their capabilities, and they started small. The Echelon's involvement meant only one thing: This problem was bigger than the planet that owned it. The stakes must be very high to put Pearl's rare mind and her life itself on the line. "Why?" she asked, hating the plaintive note she heard in her own voice. "I should like to know myself when you discover the answer," Jode said. He smiled but his eyes burned fiercely. Pearl trudged home under a pale pink sky composing a dreadful speech in her head. Tonight she and Nita planned to join their banners, to declare to all of Viturlifa their commitment to partner for life. How fortunate that Nita had resisted her entreaties to hold a big celebration with all their friends gathered round. Instead she wanted a quiet evening together, a stroll along the Selving shore with only their dune-dogs for company. It would be less complicated for Pearl to say what must be said against the backdrop of rushing waves and starlit sky. Her own fate might be sealed, but she would not allow Nita to agonize over her plight. Tears welled in Pearl's gold-flecked eyes as she imagined the hurt her words would inflict. Despite her aching heart, her course was clear. ***** I'll be writing more about Pearl and other less well-known characters from The Darkest Eyes in the months to come, and I'd love to hear your reactions, questions and ideas. Please comment here or send an email to thedarkesteyes.mb@gmail.com.

The Deathbringer and Me

No. 5: May 20, 2019 ~ I would never in a trillion years have picked up The Crimson Deathbringer by Sean Robins if I hadn't chanced upon it through my own book marketing efforts. Here's how it happened. I recently connected with BooksGoSocial, an author support service. I signed up for a modest plan to see what this group might be able to do for my novel, The Darkest Eyes, and I found that in addition to fee-based services, it offers some interesting free tools.
One of them is the BooksGoSocial Book Buying Review Club, a Facebook group. Basically, it's comprised of a bunch of indie authors who agree to buy and review a member's book in the hope that some other member will buy and review theirs. It's not a swap, which isn't allowed -- it's more like a potluck.
I wanted to participate, so one by one I checked out all of the books available in my category. It turned out I didn't want to read any of them. I looked inside a few that seemed mildly interesting and found that they weren't for me. I really wanted to add my book, though, so I took a second look at all of the candidates. I had passed up The Crimson Deathbringer based on the title and cover alone. It seemed to target 12-year-old boys. I looked inside anyway.
I had to read the first sentence three times just to get the syntax right in my head. Ugh. This book wasn't going to be the one. Still, I've never given up on any book after just one sentence, so I plodded on. After the first few paragraphs, I found I wasn't plodding at all -- suddenly I was reading with fresh eyes. Robins could write. The characters came alive almost instantly. There was tension. There was wit. Holy crap. I bought the book.
I'm only at the halfway point, so I'm not ready to write a review, but Robins already has done so much right in my eyes that he's going to have to blow it in a major way to lose my fandom. I hope The Crimson Deathbringer continues to deliver, because reading it is great fun. It's kind of like Star Wars meets Ready Player One.
It's now hitting home to me how much harder I've been on indie books than on books by well-known authors -- or lesser-knowns backed by major publishers. There's a reason for that. Many indie books are terrible -- and I'm not OK with spending my reading time on something that just manages not to be terrible. I'm choosy. Still, I have to honestly admit that I've read plenty of traditionally published books that have been crap (somebody, please put Stephanie Plum out of her misery), so I need to stop setting such a high bar for anything indie.
Which brings me to my book, The Darkest Eyes. I realize that the readers I'm hunting for are probably just like me -- the old me, that is. They may instinctively distrust indie books only to be pleasantly shocked when they find one that's actually good. I don't have a built-in fan base or a stamp of approval. My prospective readers might be put off by the title or the cover or the first sentence, but when I connect with the right ones, they will read a little further and discover that, OMG, they actually like it. I know they're out there, and I'm going to find them -- the Deathbringer found me, after all.
Not that I'm content to leave it at wishing and hoping. This is a big month for The Darkest Eyes. My exclusive arrangement with Amazon expires today, and it's a liberating feeling. Both ebook and paperback will continue to be available on Amazon, but I'll be publishing second editions of both through IngramSpark, which will open the doors to countless other retailers, including Apple, Barnes & Noble and Kobo.
The second edition paperback will be printed in a smaller trade format, and it will sell for a little less. Bookstores will be able to purchase it at a discount in order to make their profits, so there's a better chance of getting it on shelves.
My promo bookmarks (see last month's newsletter) have reached 10 states so far -- and I've mailed a packet to England as well. If you haven't yet joined my bookmark brigade, please email me and I'll be happy to send you a supply. You can leave them anywhere readers might find them -- little free libraries, coffee shops, bulletin boards, waiting rooms, etc. The bookmarks include a blurb about the book and an invitation to email me for a free digital copy.
I was happy to meet with a local book club a few weeks ago, and I hope to embark on both a blog tour and a real-world "booktalk" tour this summer. I'm also kicking around plans for a new video that will include a dramatization of a scene from the book.
In the meantime, I'm at work on the prequel to The Darkest Eyes, which will tell the stories of three pivotal characters in the saga, setting the stage for Will Roan's great adventure. Stay tuned.

Good Things, Small Packages

No 4: April 20, 2019 ~ Today I am announcing my campaign, and I'm inviting you to sign up to volunteer. No, I'm not running for president, although it might be one way to get some attention. My campaign is an effort to generate word-of-mouth buzz about my book, The Darkest Eyes. (If anyone asks, you can tell them it's a dizzying adventure down a rabbit hole with a very different twist: "Communion meets Alice in Wonderland meets Indiana Jones.") I know a thing or two about building a grassroots operation. A long time ago, I worked as an organizer on the campaign of an Illinois politician named Dan Walker. In a play on his name, he walked the entire length of Illinois, logging nearly 1,200 miles. Along the way, he met with voters in their living rooms and kitchens. Some of them walked along with him for stretches. You couldn't buy the kind of publicity that walk attracted -- not to mention the goodwill generated by all of those small-town stops along the way. A political maverick, Walker beat the Democratic machine's candidate in the primary, and then defeated the Republican incumbent in the general election. There were murmurs of a presidential future. However, he turned out to be a lousy governor and failed to win re-election for a second term. Some years later, he landed in jail for bank fraud. The guy was a disappointment to his many supporters -- but oh those early days were heady. It was a textbook grassroots campaign. Big money may have a lot of sway over who gets to hold the reins of political power, but there's nothing like a good grassroots effort to neutralize it. In last year's mid-term elections, there were many surprising wins by political candidates who were new to the game, who had no ties to the heavy-hitters and no money in their coffers. What they had were volunteers who who were willing to knock on doors, arrange coffee klatches, and spread their candidate's message any way they could. As an indie author, I don't have the "big money" backing of a major publishing house, so I've decided to take a page out of the politicians' playbooks and mount my own grassroots campaign. I can't walk across the U.S., but with your help, I hope to make myself known in as many parts of it as possible. I took my first small steps by dropping off copies of my book to little libraries in my neighborhood, including the one pictured below. I've received a warm reception -- I'll be making an appearance at a local book club meeting next week. I'd like to give copies of the book to many more little libraries, but like a political unknown, my campaign chest is hollow. So I've come up with a more practical strategy. I'm ordering a large supply of bookmarks that will include a blurb about The Darkest Eyes and an invitation to email me for a free digital download. I'm actively recruiting an army of volunteers to drop off bookmarks in little libraries, leave them in coffee shops or doctors' waiting rooms, tack them onto bulletin boards, or place them in any improbable but eye-catching location imaginable. I hope you'll decide to enlist. To do so, just send an email to thedarkesteyes.mb@gmail.com. Tell me how many bookmarks you're willing to distribute and where I should send them. I'd like you to get creative about where you leave the bookmarks. Take some pictures, post them to your favorite social media accounts -- and be sure to share your posts on my Facebook author page. Every two weeks I'll give away a free signed paperback copy of The Darkest Eyes to the person behind the "best" bookmark post that appears on my page. Selections will be made in an entirely arbitrary fashion, based on effectiveness in reaching the masses, grabbing attention, or making me laugh. Along with launching this grassroots campaign, I'm ramping up for the wide release of The Darkest Eyes. I've decided to end my exclusive contract with Amazon, opening the door to many other channels for e-book sales. I'll also be releasing a new edition of the paperback in a handier size, which I hope to make available in bookstores everywhere. More on those plans next month. I hope you'll join my bookmark brigade and help introduce The Darkest Eyes to receptive readers who otherwise might not find it. Oh, and did I mention I'm working on a prequel? Happy Spring!