S.L. Luck's Blog, page 2

I’m Back

January 5, 2022

Hello Readers! It’s been a while and for that I apologize. The last few months have been a whirlwind for us and we are just now feeling some calm. In addition to the craziness of living in a Covid world, we were very unhappy with the city we were living in. My husband’s career has taken us all over the world and we have generally enjoyed all the cities we’ve lived in but we had a terrible experience in northern Ontario. After a body was discovered near where we walked every day with our children, we decided we had to leave the city. Once that was done, it was a matter of weeks that we were packed up and on the road to our new home in Alberta. It was a good decision. We are all so much happier and our stress levels have zipped down to nearly nothing. So I’m back writing and you have me again. My brain has returned to its creative hub and I can focus without brooding on a crime report or trying to ignore an unpacked box. Ahhh…

As many of you have seen or heard, my latest novel, Lords of Oblivion, has so far done quite well. My highest ranking yet, the book made it to #3 in Canadian Women’s Fiction and #4 in Canadian Literature and has been a Hot New Release on Amazon for a while. All baby steps, but I’m happy with it. This, of course, is with little advertising because I don’t have enough reviews to advertise widely. For those of you who’ve read Redeemer, Interference, or Lords of Oblivion, please know that your reviews are gold for me. I simply can’t do what I need to do without them. (If you personally know me, please do not state this in your review because it will be disqualified by Amazon and/or other distributors.) If you’ve ever given me a review, know that you have my gratitude. I mean it.

Lastly, I’ve officially started a new book. The basic premise is Area 51 meets a small town garbage dump. I think this one’s going to be a biggie in terms of length, but we’ll see.

Thanks for hanging with me, Readers. We’ll be seeing each other more often and I should say…from where I’m sitting you look good. Read on, friends. Stay tuned…

Baby on a Coaster

July 22, 2021

Being a writer is like being a too-short kid on an adult roller coaster. When you start off, you’re excited. You can conquer the world, after all. You passed the indifferent ticket taker, pushed your soft belly against the gum-smeared turnstile, slipped into the oversized seat like a bean down a slide. You’re in and you’re sort of buckled. Who cares if the belt’s a little loose or the sweaty restraint doesn’t actually reach your body? Nothing can stop you.

You’re off.

You have an idea. Pages practically write themselves.

Higher now, you look down at everything beneath you, beneath your project. It looks smaller here. Not as magnificent. From this angle, you can see the defects. All the poorly-welded parts where the track might break and the manuscript might veer off its intended path.

Easy does it. Hold those plot points together. Annnnndddd…you’re at the peak. You’ve crested, scaled the high and mighty beast with your child safely in one piece. You did it. Your baby has all the required parts. It’s adorable, beautiful, even. You deserve a medal. Or maybe just a glass of wine.

It would be a bad idea to look down. Your wineglass is still full and the pages haven’t been bonded together yet. Don’t do it. Don’t—

Your mind betrays itself. Your head tilts. And you see the thankless, difficult, life-consuming pit of publishing at the bottom. All loops lead here except for the ones that don’t. You see, there is a teeny, tiny, infinitesimally narrow path loaded with eager readers just waiting for YOUR work. Your cart starts toward the bottom. You hold your manuscript tight and your wineglass tighter. The coaster falls. You pull away from your seat…

And repeat this with every short story, every novel, every blog post, every “Tada! This is me, world! Here I am!”

This is my journey. I didn’t know all this when I was a girl in a training bra and Noxema mask, but I also don’t think it would have changed anything for me. I write because I must. There is no other option for me.

I write all this because Interference was released yesterday and I’m feeling the same high/low as I did when Redeemer was released. SO excited. Then a whole lot of “what’s next?” Sales have been great, that’s not a thing I worry about yet, mostly because Amazon doesn’t count a paperback sale until a book leaves the warehouse. With Covid, local printers contracted by Amazon take quite a while to print (depending on the area). When Redeemer was published, I had all these messages from people bought the book, but none of this was registered for days. Then WHAM!, like 100s in an hour or something like that. My post-release jitters also has me wondering about the genre. Sure, the book could be classified as a suspense thriller, but it really does read like a Stephen King book (horror). (He is vastly more talented than me, but I’m much closer to his skill today than I was 20 years ago. I may never, ever, reach his expertise, but even 2% of the way is something I’m proud of.) Anyway, I entered the book in the horror category even though I don’t see it as a horror, because I’ve learned there are sensitive people out there who literally cannot cake any sort of fright. I’m not one of them, but I don’t want to risk putting my books into the hands of readers unprepared for a little jump.

Please, try Interference out (click the MY BOOKS tab for the link). I’m proud of how my writing evolved with this book. The writing is solid and the editing made it even better. Worst case scenario, it will make a lovely doorstop or level an uneven table. Give it a go.

Read on, Dear Readers!

RELEASE DAY IS COMING!

July 1, 2021

My newest novel, Interference, will officially be released Wednesday, July 21! YAY! I’m excited but grossly nervous. This project has been my baby for a while now and my prep has gone much smoother, but there’s always that tendency endemic to authors where we pretty much want to burn our work once we’re done. The process goes like this:

IdeaThere has never been a better idea in the history of ideas. I’m so awesome.Pages fly byHits a plot/character/pacing/any issue…begins to reconsider greatness of idea & self worthGets past issue. Reinforces awesomeness.Repeat steps 4 & 5 until something resembling a manuscript appears on your laptopBegin another project to let last one “rest”Begin first edit. Hate every word on every page. Power through. Find decent sentence amidst the rubble and pat your fragile egoRepeat until manuscript is flawless.PublishPreviously invisible mistakes and/or issues wipe off their camouflage and dip themselves in neon to make absolutely sure they get attentionHide head in sand/wine/sugar/the entire assortment of Nestlé products

I wish I was exaggerating.

Back to the release …

While this book wasn’t specifically written for the Kindle Storyteller Contest, the submission aligned with my completion. I’m up against over 4,000 writers from all over the world, in every genre imaginable. My baby step goal was and still is to become a finalist, that’s it, but I realize it’s a tall order. Top 5 out of 4,000 (and counting!)? Still, I put a decent foot in the pool and I’ll hold my breath until they announce the short list. I know the odds are stacked against me. I’ve also had quite a bit of discussion about the genre. This book is a horror. Possibly horror-thriller, but definitely on the darker side. That’s not for everyone, I know, but it’s a genre dear to my heart. Put a Stephen King or Joe Hill novel in my hands and I’m happy. I really don’t see them as horror, mostly because both writers employ story first, fear … somewhere down the line. Anyway, I also entered Interference as a horror because I didn’t want to confuse anyone as to what to expect. I had a Goodreads giveaway for Redeemer. The cover and the description were both quite dark but it still offended a contest winner because bad things happened in it, not to mention the language. (Gasp!)

Whatever happens, I’m proud of this one. On July 21, please consider buying a copy or ten of my book and give me a decent chance of becoming a finalist. Stay tuned …

Editors. Worth their weight in words.

May 20, 2021

What a difference an editor makes!

When I sent Redeemer out for editing last year, I got stiffed. The editor took my deposit (half the fee) and I never heard from her again. I was also pushed to an early release by Amazon, so I did what I could do to polish the book but it didn’t quite have the shine my newest work does. All because of my editor.

Yes, I found one. Yes, she’s brilliant. Yes, she’s worth every single penny.

A few minutes ago, I finished my third draft of Interference. With my editor’s inputs, the manuscript is tight, clean, and better than I could have wished for. For newbies like me, this is nothing short of a miracle. I’m now letting the book rest again. I’ll pick it back up in a week or two to give it another scrub, then its off to the formatter. I’m hoping to get a proof copy before it goes live, but I’m hearing that Canadian authors are waiting up to 4 months to receive their author (proof) copies during Covid. I’m going to reach out to the printer that Amazon contracted for my last book and see if they can whip something up quickly for me.

My plan is to enter Interference in Amazon’s Kindle Storyteller Contest sometime in July, and my baby-step goal is to become a finalist. Fingers crossed.

Another Hit!

April 18, 2021

It’s been a while, but for good reason. As you know, I completed Interference a few weeks ago. Over the last few weeks, I’ve been scrubbing the novel—slashing here, trimming there—and I just finished the first (and second) major edits. As this book also features an Indigenous family, I also wanted to make sure that I got it right. Yes, I’ve been to a smudge, but my husband is much more immersed in the culture than I am. He’s gone to many. He also has Indigenous cousins and friends and has worked with Indigenous communities for years, but even with that insight, we put the book in the very capable hands of one of his Indigenous cousins for a review. Thank you Diane for your eyes!

This morning, I also fed the novel through an AI (Artificial Intelligence) program and I just got my results. Score! The novel is the roller coaster I hoped it to be. For those nerdy ones out there who are as fascinated with data as I am, check these reports out.

(The cover is out for design right now, too, and I’ll share it with you when I receive it next week. Stay tuned!)

Done!

March 23, 2021

What a whirlwind. With my husband working 6 feet away and with 2 daughters who’ve been learning remotely at home for the last year, I’m happy to report I’ve finished my latest project, Interference. Last night I reflected on what an accomplishment this was. Not only have I been the girls’ tutor and part-time teacher, but having the house full all day long means much more mess and much more distraction, so I’m constantly being pulled in a thousand different directions except toward my artistic endeavors. Ah, well. Such is life. Anyway, I whipped up the back cover copy for Interference and would love your thoughts on it. Let me preface this by saying how much I hate writing “the blurb”. You basically have to take 300-400 pages and put the entire book into a paragraph and when you’re so close to the project, sometimes it’s hard to objectively isolate the most important parts. I’ll probably end up changing this a bit but I figured I’d throw it out there into the social ether and see what you think. (Note: I would classify this as a horror novel, though I personally don’t think it’s super scary. I love, love, love Stephen King and Joe Hill and Poe (and many more), and I generally see their work more as suspense/thriller more than horror because they are so well crafted. I’m hoping my craft dominates like these juggernauts, but that goal will forever be a work in progress. We’ll see what happens.)

Without further delay, here is the very tentative back cover copy for Interference. Let me know how it grabs you before I whack it into shape.

Harold Ridgeway’s time on death row has come to an end, forcing the demon inhabiting him to find a new host. But in Garrett, Ontario, Pandora gets sloppy. Her failed acquisition costs Pandora some of her power, which is inadvertently absorbed by lone bus crash survivor Anabelle Cheever. Confined to a hospital bed, Anabelle wakes with new senses and finds herself the object of dark souls who want what she gained. Only, Pandora does not give up so easily.

So Close!

February 28, 2021

(Apologies for the delay in my posts. I was having issues with the site, but I think I’ve figured it out. Fingers crossed!)

Cool news for you today. I’m a finger-pinch away from finishing my next book, Interference. Earlier, I was convinced I would be finished the project in February, but the story seems to have had its own plan. Not only is this book longer than Redeemer, I think it’s better. The more I write, the more confident I get with my projects and this one is no different. Ultimately, my plan is to have Interference completed in the next week or two, then I will let it rest before I begin the editing process. With editing, formatting, and design, the project should be complete by May or June, just in time to enter Amazon’s Storyteller Contest. My baby-step goal for that one is to become a finalist, so we’ll see what happens.

Meanwhile, I’m also beginning to dust off my ancient marketing skills to try and figure out how to best promote Redeemer. To date, I’ve still not run a single advertisement for the book, yet I’m still seeing sales, so that’s good. In my earlier life, I found it quite easy to promote and advertise anything I was tasked with, but as for selling myself…well now…that’s not so easy for me. I admit I squirm a little when I ask people to purchase the book, even though I fully believe in it. I literally squeal inside when I get a review or feedback or someone shares the link to my book like I’ve won the lottery. Small miracles and all that.

Anyway, if you stay with me on this journey, you’ll eventually see some changes. I do need a proper website and I do need to promote and advertise and I do need to optimize even this site. I’m in zero rush for all this as my focus is still on writing, but I’ll get there in time. Lastly, thank you, thank you, THANK YOU for your support! Stay tuned…

A Tooth Story

January 18, 2021

Happy Monday, Dear Readers! This one is inspired by my daughter’s experience with her amazing orthodontist. (Dr. Molly is a beautiful, kind woman, not a stout old man, but the story was fun to write.) Cheers!

“A Tooth Story”

                There is nothing more disagreeable than teeth, Laura thought, brooding in the back seat as her mother drove her to meet yet another orthodontist. Teeth grow where they want. They come and go when they want, and they are too lazy to even clean themselves. She wondered what the point was of having them, besides making food smaller. If only they would listen…

                Today was their seventh attempt at finding the right orthodontist to fix Laura’s teeth, but Laura already decided this orthodontist would not be the right one. Neither would the next. Or the one after. Or the one after that. Now, as her mother dragged her across the city on unfamiliar streets, down strange back roads, and through bizarre back alleys, Laura regretted telling her mother she would try. Wherever they were going was not going to be good. Wherever they were going was not going to work. And when they finally squeezed into a parking spot in front of a single-door shack on an unlit street, Laura crossed her arms and refused to get out of the car.

                Unbuckling her seatbelt, her mother turned around and spoke softly. “You promised you’d try,” her mother said with a smile that mothers used to convince their kids to do things they knew were terrible.

                “Not here,” Laura argued. “No way.”

                “Dr. Amazing is…well…amazing,” her mother said. “I’ve heard good things about him.”

                “Dr. Amazing?” Laura blinked, unconvinced.

                “That’s his name.”

                Laura looked outside to the sign above the door. “It says Mortin’s Music and Lou’s Lighting,” she pointed out.

                “Yes,” her mother said, “but there’s an orthodontist office in the back.”

                Laura tightened her seatbelt. “I’m not going in there.”

                Her mother looked around, where there were strange people on the shadowed sidewalks. “I’ll have to go in to cancel our appointment, then. I’m sure you’ll be fine out here, in the car, alone. I’ll just be a minute.” Her mother’s door swung open and Laura rushed out of the car to hold her hand.

                “Just a minute,” Laura said, and they went inside.

                On the right were light bulbs and lamps. On the left were pianos and pan flutes. The room was partitioned in the back by an office the size of a doghouse. Laura’s mom dragged her to Dr. Amazing’s door, a cage-looking thing that had a sign that read Dr. Amazing, Tooth Appearance Engineer. Laura rolled her eyes. “Be nice,” her mother instructed, and knocked three times on the cage door.

                A squat old man in a rainbow suit appeared at once. “Well, well, well!” the man squeaked in a high voice. “Wipe your feet and come on in!” He pointed to a small rug that was made to look like the top of a toothbrush. Laura and her mother wiped their feet once, twice, three times for good measure and lowered their heads to fit into Dr. Amazing’s office. “A bit cramped in here, but we’ll get that fixed up in no time, no time at all. Come, sit.” He ordered Laura into a chair more appropriate for a doll, it was so small.

                “We’re cancelling our appointment,” Laura said crossly and did not sit in the chair.

                Dr. Amazing gave the reluctant patient a sympathetic smile. “Cancellation requires foresight. Do you know what that is, young miss?” Laura said that she didn’t, so Dr. Amazing explained. “It means you need to look into the future and know what’s going to happen based on the decisions you’ve made. Do you know what will happen if you cancel this appointment like all the others, Laura?”

                She nodded and gave Dr. Amazing a smug smile. “I won’t get braces.”

                Dr. Amazing’s finger shot high above his short head. “That’s exactly what it means. And do you know what happens if you don’t get braces, Laura?” Laura didn’t answer, so Dr. Amazing retrieved a large photo album from the top of a dusty bookshelf. “Pardon the mess, most of my patients are quite willing so I don’t need this very often, but sometimes I do. Here, take a look at these.” Dr. Amazing opened the book and flipped through forty-seven terrible pages. In it, there were pictures of teen goblins and young vampires. There were children that looked like trolls and children that looked like ogres and children that looked like llamas and sharks and tufted deer and even parrotfish.

                Laura grunted. “These aren’t real. You’re just trying to scare me.”

                “Suit yourself,” Dr. Amazing said. “But you’ll miss out on the dance party. Thanks for coming. I hope you enjoy your day.” He opened the door for them.

                Laura raised an eyebrow. “Did you say dance party?”

                “It’s nothing,” Dr. Amazing waved a hand in the air. “But if you sit, I can tell you all about it.”

                “Promise you won’t touch my mouth?” Laura asked skeptically.

                “Promise.”

                Laura’s mother found a stool and sat, watching with interest as Laura wiggled into Dr. Amazing’s tight chair. Then Dr. Amazing drew from his desk the smallest piano Laura had ever seen and a violin the size of a fingernail sliver. “Here, hold these,” he asked and Laura held out her hand as he deposited a guitar, a drum set, two tambourines, six lamps, two spotlights, and a coil of neon LED lights. “If you get braces from me, this comes with it.”

                “Like a prize?” Laura asked.

                “Like equipment,” Dr. Amazing said. “They go in your mouth and when I’m done installing them, you’ll have a dance party every time you open your mouth. Like this, see?” He pointed a remote control at the ceiling and the TV came on. Then Dr. Amazing played a video of one, two, fifty, a hundred children opening their mouths. Out came symphonies and rock concerts and country music and pop music and many kinds of rap. Lights flashed from tongues, beamed from cheeks, glimmered between gums.

                Laura’s mother frowned. “Is it always this loud or can the sound be turned down?” she asked.

                Dr. Amazing laughed. “Just a tap of the tongue turns it off.” Then he whispered to Laura, “And a whistle blasts it like a concert.” He winked.

                “That’s impossible,” Laura said, though she really wanted it to be true.

                “How do you think I got my name?” Dr. Amazing asked, and Laura was stumped, for she had no answer.

                Two hours later, Laura left Dr. Amazing’s office with a concert in her mouth and played it for everyone at school. By the end of the week, every kid in Laura’s class had braces and their teacher had invested in the world’s best noise-cancelling headphones.

A Life Unsteady

January 9, 2021

Happy Saturday Dear Readers! I have a new one for you. Enjoy!

A Life Unsteady

                Roughly eighteen hundred nautical miles east of St. John’s, Newfoundland, and slightly less of the same west of Galway, Ireland, Tom General clung to his raft in the cold Atlantic. Five days previous, a surprise squall had taken his boat and it was only by luck that he’d bumped into the raft while he and his dog scrambled away from the sudden suction of the water’s black maw. The violent overthrow that left Tom with cuts to his face and Scamper with a broken hind leg came fast and departed just as quickly, but the damage was done. They’d set off from Maine for an adventure; that was the only thing Tom was absolutely sure of. Now, with his skin scabbing and raw bird meat souring his stomach, floating only God knew where, Tom was on his knees, making his peace. Trembling, retching, Tom made the sign of the cross first on Scamper, then on himself. He had just closed his eyes when Scamper whimpered and Tom told the dog that he was a good boy and that God would soon take his suffering away. Again Scamper whined and Tom put his hand on the dog’s head when a rumbling came up through his fingers, his palm, all the way up his shoulder, rattling his teeth. Tom drew his hand back, but then the rattling shook his stomach until the ill-settled bird meat rose up his throat and forced his head over the side of the raft.

                This is how, bug-eyed and sunburnt, with his lips cracked and his nose crusted and his tongue bloody from a too-eager bite of the bird’s leg, Tom saw it come. The thunder beneath the surface could have been a whale, could have been a shark, could have been a submarine come to inspect him. But it was none of those things. The afternoon light that broke through the surface instead fell upon the rising mast of an old ship. Tom blinked. Scamper barked. But like a great tide, the mast rose higher, wider, faster, until it was joined by another mast, and yet one more. A multitude of sails unfurled from the water, dripping torrents into Tom’s raft. “Hey!” he cried weakly. “Hey! Hey!” Scamper yowled as best he could but their calls could not stop the filling. With a fresh surge of energy, Tom bailed. His tired arms thrashed water out, his exhausted legs kicked water out, and even Scamper dug with his front paws at the rising water until a shadow dropped over them and the torrent suddenly stopped. Shin-deep in water, Tom stood and looked at the monstrosity beside him. There, one-hundred feet above, rested the scarred remains of the Cinque Ports. The name, fading on the starboard bow, caused Tom to believe he was already dead.

                The raft bumped against the ship’s hull. “Hello?” Tom called upward.

                “Hello,” called back a voice, and then a ladder unrolled over the ship’s side.

                For a time, nothing happened. No person came down to get Tom, nor did Tom take to the ladder. At last, a mustached man in a brown suit jacket peered down. “Adapt or perish, friend. What’ll it be?” His voice was unusually high and friendly.

                Tom, though, believed he’d already suffered the latter, so he stuttered, “Adapt. I’ll adapt. We’ll—my dog and I—will adapt.”

                “Good choice, dog man,” the man responded, and double-tapped the top of the ladder to indicate to Tom that he should climb up. With a last look at his raft, Tom took Scamper into his arms and began awkwardly climbing.

                At the top, the man in the brown suit clapped Tom’s back. “You made it. Selkirk will be pleased. He likes new company. Say’s we’re all a bit boring for him, if you can believe it.” He stuck out his hand. “Herbert George Wells, but you can call me H.G.”

                “The author?” Tom’s eyes flexed so wide the corner crusts broke and fell away onto his cheeks. He wiped them away and set Scamper down, where the dog looked curiously around at his feet.

                H.G. said, “Of course. Unless there’s another one of me out there, but you never know, now, do you? I suppose there’s a machine out there somewhere. Maybe Asimov’s actually built one after I left, a robot with my likeness.” He waited for Tom to say something but Tom suddenly found his voice had abandoned him.

                “Now why would anyone want another one of you?” cajoled a woman’s voice, more gravelly than H.G.’s. There was a shock of pink feathers in her hair and as she bent to pet Scamper, one fell away from her head and drifted onto the dog’s nose. Scamper sneezed. “Cat got his tongue?” she said to the dog, of Tom.

                “I—”

                “Please don’t ask me to sing for you,” Janis Joplin said. “The guys get in a tizzy when I do and become absolutely useless for the rest of the day. Rock’s on latrine duty and there’s no way I’m taking that job after last night’s burritos.” She made a face to show her disgust.

                “Am I dreaming or dead?” Tom asked them. “I mean, I must be dead if you two are here. Or maybe it was the bird meat? Is this Heaven? Tell me this is Heaven.” He pinched his bottom lip but did not wake up.

                “For the ladies, it certainly is,” another man said, swaggering over to them with a plate of cannoli in his hands. “Some men, too, depending on your preference.”

                “You’d think that after all this time, his ego would fade, but nope,” Janis shook her head.

                “Why should it? Look at me,” Rock Hudson demanded, waving a hand down the length of his body. Janis rolled her eyes.

                The ship rocked slightly and Tom lost his footing until a hand held him up. “Just a spark of madness unsettling you, not to worry. You’ll get your after-sea legs in no time.”

                Tom did not need an introduction to Robin Williams, for he had seen his movies and attended not one, but two of his comedy shows when he was alive.  He should have said as much to Mr. Williams, but Tom was instead stuck on the other man’s words. “After-sea legs?” he asked.

                “Of course!” Robin smiled and led Tom and Scamper to a bench where they were immediately attended to by white-gloved women and tuxedoed men and a number of others in uniforms of the Titanic. “No one ever feels quite right while their ashes or bones are disbursing across the continents. How could you, when your head is in the Mediterranean and your ass is in the Beaufort Sea? It muddles a person up, being all disconnected like that.” He nodded to an attendant who presented Tom with a ruffled shirt, which he hastily put on.

                “You’re all dead, then? Am I dead?” Tom said a bit timidly, tying his new collar closed.

                “Do I look dead to you?” Robin Williams, who didn’t look dead at all, asked.

                Tom shook his head. “But—”

                “But we’re supposed to be dead,” H.G. cut in. “Ahh, the limits of the imagination. A terrible affliction.”

                Robin thumbed toward H.G. “After a few years with this guy, life looks so much better. Know what I mean?” H.G. elbowed him.

                “Where am I?” Tom finally asked. “What is this?”

                There was a knocking from the quarter deck and everyone quieted at once. Their heads swung down the length of the ship and upward, to where a bearded man in wide grey trousers and a blue jacket stood over them. “Throw him overboard!” Alexander Selkirk ordered, pointing out over the water. Tom gasped, then Selkirk let out a booming laugh, bending over his knees with amusement. “Sorry, sorry. I’ve always wanted to say that. Come, come, new recruit. Join us for dinner below and we’ll tell you everything you want to know.”

                And this is how Tom and Scamper found themselves below deck of the Cinque Ports, dining with H.G. Wells, Janis Joplin, Rock Hudson, Robin Williams, seventeen former passengers of the Titanic, a number of WWI and WWII veterans, three Brits, five Argentines, and the first Countess Mountbatten of Burma herself. Alexander Selkirk presided over the gathering and after stomachs were full and coffee was poured, Selkirk began his explanation. “We are directly in the nautical center of The Black Pit, or what I believe they nowadays call the Mid-Atlantic Gap. You remember anything about Word War II, Mr. General?”

                Tom nodded. “I learned about it in school, but that was years ago.”

                “School!” the Countess cried. “The only good schools are in London. Anything learned elsewhere is irrelevant, really.”

                “Edwina,” Selkirk cautioned with a sigh. “We’ve discussed this, haven’t we?”

                She delicately sipped at her coffee, unperturbed. “There are educational advantages in India, too, I suppose.”

                “Advantages.” Robin’s fingers hooked and bobbed into air quotes. “Otherwise known as—”

                “Don’t say it, Robin!” Selkirk’s voice rolled over the collective chuckling. “Anyway, Tom, as I was saying. In WWII, during the Battle of the Atlantic, this was the area undefended by aircraft. Somehow—now I don’t know why—maybe it was the gathering of death or the suction of souls into this very spot, but it somehow made the area the reverse of its origin once the War ended. We’re reborn here, if you will. The dissolved cells of our ashes may be off the coast of Hawaii or under the coral in Australia, our toe bone may be in a shark’s stomach and our ribs might be at the bottom of the Mariana Trench, but if even part of our remains touch the Pit, we’re gathered up from wherever we are and spit onto this deck.”

                “I’m alive, then,” Tom reasoned aloud, for he hadn’t been spit onto the deck of the Cinque Ports.

                “Are you?” H.G. asked, smoking a cigar.

                “I must be.”

                “Explain,” insisted H.G. while the others looked on. And then Tom told them that he hadn’t remembered dying, so he couldn’t possibly be dead. Scamper, he explained, still had a broken hind leg, so he couldn’t be dead either. He intentionally swept his eyes around each and every face at the table, where there were rosy cheeks, and bright white eyes, and no signs of injury or death at all. Tom and Scamper still resembled emaciated drifters and he said as much, but H.G. dismissed Tom’s observations with the flick of his cigar. “That doesn’t mean anything at all, dear Tom. That doesn’t mean you’re living, now does it?”

                “I think it does,” Tom insisted reasonably.

                “Good Lord, Tom, what H.G. means is were you ever alive, really? Did you climb a mountain or battle a snake or stick your head into the mouth of a giant?” Selkirk explained. “Forgive me if I’m not putting it as eloquently as H.G. would; I’m paraphrasing.”

                “Well done,” H.G. said admiringly.

                Now all eyes went to Tom as they waited for his answer. Tom shrunk a little under their collective stare and when he finally began to prove his existence, his words were tentative and quiet. “I sail a bit. Sometimes on weekends, more on vacations. That’s a few times a year, you know.”

                “And what do you do for work, Mr. General?” the Countess asked.

                “I’m an accountant,” Tom said respectably. Everyone groaned.

                Quickly, Tom said, “I get benefits and a decent pension. It’s a good job.”

                “And when you’re not working or sailing, what do you do?” Hudson pressed.

                “Well…I…let’s see,” Tom thought aloud. “I listen to music; there’s some great stuff out there.” And then Tom told them about autotune and cellphones and Google and the word bae. He told them about Facebook and Twitter and Instagram, about not even having to visit a person to see them, about the slackening of global attire and the comfort of sweatpants. He told them about automation and the replacement of people, about how easy it was to see the world without actually leaving the house. He regaled them with the unpronounceable ingredients in most of his food and about the many options there were for lonely people who wanted a partner. He’d done so much, seen so much, and it was incredibly easy to do all he did, Tom explained. Never before had life been so easy and Tom prided himself on taking advantage of every single bit of it.

                There were groans and gasps. The Countess fanned herself. The comedian’s mirth disappeared. Someone in the back was crying. Patting Tom’s shoulder, Selkirk said, “Poor Tom. You don’t even know that you haven’t been born yet. Such a pity. Team, let’s share with our new companion what it’s like to really live.” And for the next sixteen hours, Tom was told of explorations and adventures, of conquests, of brother and sisterhood, of connection, of loss, of glory, of nothing that was easy, but everything that was worthy. When they were done, Tom sat back with a sigh and realized that the dead people around him were more alive than he ever was. Days later, with Scamper healing and Tom mostly recovered, they set him back on his raft with a supply of food and water and released Tom happily back into the water.

                Six weeks passed before Tom was spotted by a cargo ship. When he finally returned to shore, he quit his job for a life unsteady.

Mystery & Suspense Magazine Feature

January 8, 2021

Cool news today. I have a feature article published in Mystery & Suspense Magazine. Yay me! Yay for the little gals!

Check it out:

Amateur Sleuth Detectives