Brand Gamblin's Blog, page 9

Bodyswapping and having a soul

So, let's talk about Bodyswapping.

It's a pretty common storyline in Sci-Fi. The basic premise is that a person's conciousness can be transferred into another body. In "Dollhouse" people signed up to allow new psyche's into their bodies. In "Gamer" people got paid to let someone else control their bodies. Heck, in Red Dwarf, one character loaned his body away so that another one could exercise it and get it fit. Lots of shows harp on this as a terrible thing, a loss of identity. But, all morality plays aside, let's think about how we're doing it right now.

C.S. Lewis once said, "You don't have a soul. You are a soul. You have a body." Certainly, Mr. Lewis wasn't privy to modern Sci-Fi storylines, but even with the distance of science and time, he realized a fundamental truth. We are each hitchhiking on the back of a flesh-covered organ bag. We have so much control over the organs that we tend to act as though we were one with the body. Some people forget that there is a distinction at all. But the first time our organs fail on us, we realize (often painfully) that we are not the true masters of the flesh. The mind is not the brain, the heart is not the life.

Even with that belief, though, the practial philosopher has to ask, "So what?" What does it matter whether we are one with our bodies. After all, we can't jump into other bodies. We are only as alive as the flesh that holds us. So what practical benefit comes from thinking of ourselves as souls? Philosophers spend a lot of time thinking about the nature of nature, but unless it helps us make a change in the world, what good is it?

This is what I take from it: I take care of my car, make sure it has oil and gas and all that. I make sure to keep up with it's maintenance, and I try to keep it clean. I don't particularly like the car, but I do some basic work to keep it in line. If it were someone else's car, I would take even BETTER care of it, because I would want to be polite to the owner. I'm totally paranoid about that kind of thing. I always re-wound the video tapes from Blockbuster. I always clean the sink after I wash my hands. Polite to the point of being obsequious. It's just how I roll.

So, applying that to the bodyswapping idea, what if I were borrowing a body? I guarantee you that, if I were borrowing your body, I would return it in pristine condition, nails trimmed, hair neatly groomed, exercised and fed (though not too much). That's just the way I work. I take care of other people's stuff more than I do my own. I guarantee you that, if I were in charge of your body, I would return it in the same shape or better.

So, why don't I do that with my own body? Actors always say that their bodies are their tools. Why don't we all think of it that way? Imagine again that you are not tied to your body. Imagine that it was just something you are attached to, something you control. If that's the case, isn't it the most important tool you have? I mean, hell, your eyes are in that thing. Your mouth, your hands . . . It's the most important tool you've got.

Now I'm not trying to get all "the body is a temple" on this, because I don't really like going overboard on that. However, I do like the idea that I am just holding on to this body for a friend. I'm borrowing it for about seventy years or so. Because, when I think that I'm taking care of other people's stuff, I'm going to be even more careful about it. I'm in control of a body that is capable of amazing things, and if I don't do general maintenance, it's gonna fall apart. I looked in the mirror this afternoon and found myself thinking, "There's this guy, Brand. I'm borrowing his body. If I can't keep it exercised and healthy, I'm just letting him down. He may not ever let me borrow anything again!" For some reason, that really motivated me.

So yeah, it's not a new idea, but it did strike me as a new angle. I have to take care of this body, because I don't have the right to let it just fall apart. If I think of my body, not as a part of my soul, but as a thing that my soul is using for a while, it's abhorant to think that I would just let it wither.

Does that make it a good philosophy? Or does it just mean I'm going schizo?

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I'd like to remind you that I am a professional fiction writer, and each post I write takes time away from my fiction writing. So please, if you're getting something out of the blog, help fund my blogging habit. Thanks so much.

Every Sale Helps: Amazon Analysis

I just discovered something cool about Amazon sales rank. We already know that your rank is based on current sales from that day, week, and month, but did you know that all books by an author have the same boost in rank?

Check this out: I have three books available on Kindle. My bestseller "Tumbler" was released a year ago and sells for $2.99. It hovers at around 50-75k in sales rank. My second book "The Hidden Institute" is very new (priced at $4.99) and has far less of a following. It generally hovers at around 75-100k. My third book, a short story collection called "The Danny", costs only $0.99 but is the newest of them all, and has the lowest sales. It is in the 200k range.

Earlier today (see point 1 on the graph) I made the first sale in several hours. That made a big drop in my sales rank, pushing it from 72k down to 35k. Now look at the other sales at the same time. . . no change. They continue to rise at the same level. So, when there is only one new sale, there's a big change for the first, but little change on the others.

Now look at point 2. Clearly, there has been another sale, but this one has far less change. Whereas the previous sale dropped our rank by 37k, this one only dropped by 15k. The interesting thing to note here is what happened to Hidden Institute and Danny at the same time. As soon as Amazon realized that there were multiple sales in a short time, they halted the rank drop for both of my other books.

Now, take a look at point 3. By this time, Amazon has realized that there were several sales within the same timeframe. Note how the angle of growth on Tumbler's rank started to flatten out. At this point, Amazon isn't ready to make Tumbler start rocketing back up because of sales. (It's worth noting that, as time goes on, the rank starts growing at it's original rate. If you don't make consistent sales, the rate starts to move faster.)

But again, the cool thing to note is what happens to Hidden Institute and Danny at the same time. Their growth flattens out the same way that Tumbler's did.

So, a lot of this is just general chart fun. What does it actually mean for the writer?

For me, it means that I should be writing. Every time I make a sale, I don't just help the rank of that book, but all the books I've written. Therefore, the more books you have, the more sales (overall) you will make, and the more you will help all of your back catalog.

So the lesson is pretty obvious. Get back to writing.

The Old Gray Fool

They say that all sorts of men walk into a tavern, and I'm not going to argue it, but they do still fall into two groups. The first one is the social drinker. He's there looking for friends and drinking with friends. You can spot them by the grin on their faces and the expectant way they look around a place as they enter.

The other sort is trying to drink alone. He wants to get away from something, wants to hide. He wants to drown out a woman, a mistake, a life badly lived. That sort will walk in without looking at anything, head to the far end of the bar, and wait to give their order.

That was the sort of fool who walked in last night. He was utterly gray and featureless, his clothes were a drab, weatherbeaten motley. They looked like rags torn from a dozen bright dresses and stitched together without care. Mud and sweat and ceaseless wear had sapped them of their fine colors. His long, pale face blended perfectly with the gray of his former finery.

Pale, haunted eyes were set deep within dark rings that framed a long, thin, imperious nose. A kind of blonde stubble had gone to gray around his chin, looking not so much like a beard as part of a charicature of a man that the painter had smudged with lack of care. Dark lines dragged from the sides of his mouth, looking as much like wine stains as palsied skin. His gray hair was long and wispy, trailing down to his shoulders on the sides and radiating from a wide bald spot in the center of his pate.

He moved slowly and without care, drifting down to the end of the bar as though he didn't see us. He didn't sit down at the stool. He just picked that spot to stop.

Once he was settled, I headed over to him. My part was clear, and I knew how to play it with his sort. I moved to the end of the bar and stood across from him quietly, still cleaning a glass with my apron.

Behind him, a minstrel had given up on wooing the candlemaker's wife, and had switched to a jaunty tune meant to enflame the people with gaity and dancing. The tone of the room lightened as people clapped and laughed and sang with the lyrics they knew. I just watched the gray man. He moved not an inch.

I waited as a courtesy, knowing the drink choice before he spoke it. I reached for the fortified wine and gave him a cup, leaving the bottle within arms reach. He filled the cup twice while I stood there and waited. Some wanted to drink alone, lost in their thoughts. Some wanted to share their sorrows as a form of exorcism.

"A fool is the joy of the king," he muttered. I nodded sagely and waited. He took a deep breath, "A fool doesn't just bring joy to the king. He is the joy."

I nodded for a moment, then sensing that he was done, I shook my head, "I don't get that. Are you the king's fool?"

The old man looked up at me, as if seeing me for the first time. "I am no man's joy. Not anymore."

He looked around us, at the merrymaking tables, "A king can't do this, you know. He can't dance with ordinary people or sing bawdy songs. Every ball, every dance, every movement must be carefully measured out so that he does not offend this lord or that. He cannot dance with one woman too much, for fear that they be seen as courting. He cannot dance with her too rarely, or he is thought cruel. He can't tell a joke without fearing that the wrong one may laugh. He can't laugh at jokes without considering the subject, the teller of the tale, and the diplomatic situation with one group or another. A king measures out his vitality, and shares it with few." He shook his head slowly, "There is no joy in that."

I nodded, "A lonely life, to be sure. But that's what you lot are for, yes? Everyone laughs at the fool." He glared at me for a moment, "No offense, brother. But that's your place, isn't it?"

"No." He said it flat and emotionless, and it seemed to punch a hole through the gaity around us. He gripped the cup and looked back down at the wine within, "A king must mete out his attention, even to the fool. A good fool knows this, and learns when to tell the jokes. A good fool knows who can be made fun of, and when." He looked up at the beaten brass mirror behind me, and stared himself down, "A good fool becomes the joy of the king. He can tell the jokes the king cannot. He can insult the people that the king cannot. When a king laughs along with his jester's jokes, he supports the jesters position without actually saying it himself. A good fool can find the strong petitioners and the weak. He celebrates the ones that the king wishes to prosper, and humiliates the kings secret enemies. A good fool makes sure that every joke he tells is one the king can laugh at, and in doing so, he learns the king's business just as surely as the king does."

"I can see you're one of the good ones." He frowned at me, and I smiled, "Well, you've got me in stitches already."

"You don't understand. The king . . . he knows the fool's place. The king watches his every move, measures his every reaction. He wearies of watching all the intrigue and treachery. After a time, he just wants to let someone else do the choosing for him. He wants someone to tell him who to trust and who to fear. He wants an advisor who has no political stake."

I frowned now, and placed the glass on the bar, "Are you saying the king listens to the fool?"

"I'm saying that the king can be led by his joy." The gray man pulled his hands back away from the cup, and stared down into the open palms. "My king trusted me. He knew I saw with clear eyes and listened to the whispers behind his back. More than once, in times of troublesome conflict, I saw his eyes dart to me, to see where I would stand. If I mocked one side, he would agree with the other."

I think the music was still playing, but I couldn't hear it. The soft words of the gray fool captured my attention, and I was aware of nothing else. He kept staring into his hands as he said, "I doubted, of course. How could a fool have that kind of power? What kind of King would follow the wishes of the fool? So, I tested my mad idea. When next I saw a lordling come to call on the King, I targeted him."

One corner of his mouth quirked upward for a moment, as he stared at his hands, "The lordling had the largest, most ridiculous red ears, so I deliberately ignored them. I found other things to ridicule him about, and I mocked him ruthlessly. I said his family name reminded me of an old bay my father had ridden. I asked him if his mother had known the horse, as he was a randy beast. The court laughed as I asked him impossible questions like, 'Do you still patronize the stables with such vigor?' The lordling laughed along at first, but grew redder and more upset by the minute. When I was done with him, the court had turned against him with suspicion and bile. He excused himself from the royal presence in haste, and I worried little, for the king had done nothing to him. I thought, briefly, that if the king had acted against him, I would stop and through my words, redeem him in the eyes of the court."

The old man looked up at him, his bottom lip shaking, "I slept the untroubled sleep of the dead that night, and by morning the lordling was dead. Pulled from his bed by a pack who had heard the tales and spun them into accusations of perversion which were presented before the king. My king. . . my king passed judgement and sentence that night."

The old man looked down at his cup and sobbed. I watched him for a moment, then walked away. I knew that, if there was justice in the world, the gray fool would find his end peacefully.

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I'd like to remind you that I am a professional fiction writer, and each post I write takes time away from my fiction writing.  So please, if you're getting something out of the blog, help fund my blogging habit.  Thanks so much.

Calls For Cthulhu Episode 11 is now live!

It has been so long since the last episode, I wasn't even sure I remembered how everything worked. But after the success of the Kickstarter fund, I was determined to make the best C4C episode I could, and the longest one to date.

Thanks to everyone who donated to bring the series back, and I hope you enjoy the fruits of this effort.

My Real Name

My real name is Brand.

When I was born, no one knew that. Even I was not aware. The words on the government paper read "Brandon" and that was enough for us all. The word identified me, but did not define me. That was enough, for a child.

However, as I outgrew my name, it began to show wear. It was a formal name, and I was not a formal person. I was rambuctious, garrulous, quick to action and willing to laugh at myself in the attempt to commune with friends. And so those friends gave me a new name, Brand.

The new name fit better, it not only identified me, it defined me. It was intimate and casual, while still asserting my individual attitude. It had the inferance of business, a buzzword that referred to a unique and valuable idea worth defending.

It's not an easy name for many people, because it is so closely tied to my birthname. When I shake hands with someone and say, "Brand Gamblin, nice to meet you," they invariably frown and blink at the name.

Many will try to correct it in their minds, "Did you say 'Brian'?"

But I've seen that reaction so many times, I've turned it into a joke, "No, Brand. Like what you do to a cow."

More blinking. (Honestly, this is one of my ways of feeling out new people. The smartest, geekiest people will comprehend quicker)

I don't mind that my name is uncommon. It is a Brand, and I want to tell people about it.

My friends, my co-workers, the guy at Pizza Hut, they all know me as Brand.

It is my real name.

If I had to sign in online as "Brandon" it would feel wrong. Disingenuous. Officious. It would turn social media into the DMV.

And as uncomfortable as it would feel to me, I'm one of the lucky ones.

There are those who would be hunted if they used their "real" name online. There are some who would be taunted, tracked, and terrorized by the people around them if their psuedonym were revealed. Some would be stalked merely because their name was feminine. For them, social media wouldn't become the DMV. For them, it would become a nightmare, forcing them to hide in the corners of the internet.

And some of the people I most respect would be encouraging it, saying, "If you don't have anything to hide, you wouldn't mind saying it out loud." They would be branding me and all those like me as perverts, conspirators, frauds, and terrorists. They would paint us with a broad brush, making every pseudonym into a crime.

This is not a problem with names. This is not a problem with Google. This is not a problem with the Internet. This is a problem with people, and it needs to be discussed. Only education can fix this.

Remember, a name is only the psuddonym that you have used more than all the others. A name is still a nym.

For more than half of my life, I have used a name that was not on my drivers license. How can you say that one name is "real" and the other isn't?

My real name is Brand. I can't prove it with government papers, but you know it to be true.

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I'd like to remind you that I am a professional fiction writer, and each post I write takes time away from my fiction writing.  So please, if you're getting something out of the blog, help fund my blogging habit.  Thanks so much.

Without purpose, not without worth

I was supposed to write a blog post about writing for audio, but early in the post, I got distracted with another theme. I'd love to finish it, but I have to get back to the original topic. So, I thought I would share it with you, because while I can't use it, it's not exactly useless. And hey, there's stuff here that people might like to argue with me.

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Pick a novel, open to a page, and before you start reading it, just look at it. Without knowing what book you chose, without knowing what page you flipped to, I would bet I can guess what you're looking at.

Dialog and action. The page has chunks of it, right? There are really only four types of paragraphs that I've seen. Setting, Contemplation, Action, and Dialog. While I've heard of many books being heavy on setting or too introspective, I've never heard of a book that had too much action or dialog.

Now, before you start casting me as the lead in the Micheal Bay biography, please understand that I'm not advocating more action or dialog in a book. I'm just trying to recognize what is already there. A good book is a story. A story has movement and change.

Now here's the interesting thing. The best way to tell a story is through a storyteller. Look at how many novels are written as old men reminiscing about their past adventures. Look at how many are told from the first-person perspective. People love a storyteller.

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I'd like to remind you that I am a professional fiction writer, and each post I write takes time away from my fiction writing.  So please, if you're getting something out of the blog, help fund my blogging habit.  Thanks so much.

A Fun Lie About History

On Monday, the tribe sat down around the fire to eat. As was normal in the silence of the meal, the chief called on one of his warriors, "Tell us what great things you did today!"

The warrior sat up straight, "I killed two boars. One of them we are eating now."

The chief said, "That is good," and they continued their meal in silence.

On Tuesday, the chief called upon another of his hunters, "What great things did you do today?"

"My chief, I saw a mighty ox, which I tracked all morning, but when I caught it at mid-day, it escaped."

"You lie!" The mighty warrior Tak stood up. He was as large and as strong as the chief, though he would never presume. "I saw you in the camp at midday!"

The chief stood up, "A liar! We will not abide liars! Strip his clothes and stripe his skin!" And so, the liar was dragged away, and the meal continued.

On Wednesday, the chief called out to another warrior, "What great things did you do today?"

The warrior looked worried, then after a moment, he said, "Well, as I was going to refresh myself at the pool this morning, I came across a giant sabertoothed tiger, with three tusks! He was as tall as a man, and as long as a mastodon!"

"You lie!" Tak jumped up again, "We have not seen a sabertoothed tiger for generations!"

"Of course not," the warrior thought quickly, "This giant one ate all the others. He was a vicious creature, and a cannibal besides!"

Unable to refute this logic, Tak sat down.

The warrior continued, "Of course, I am a brave man, but even I found my bravery tested. My skin prickled, and my stomach churned. I hoped the creature could not hear my stomach rumbling, because it had a head as wide as a man's arm is long. Then, as I turned to slink away, I tripped over a twig, and it looked up. It ran for me, roaring, as I lay there -"

"Lies!" shouted Tak. "Three tusks! A head as wide as a man's arm is long? No such creature exists! Kill the liar!" He jabbed an accusing finger at the liar, and three men grabbed him.

As they began to drag him away, the chief shouted, "Wait!"

They all stopped and Tak looked at him, unbelieving, "My chief! He has lied to us! He must be punished!"

"Yes, I know but. . ." The chief's brow furrowed, "Well, I want to know how it ends."

Tak gaped, "But he's not telling the truth!"

"I know, but he tells it so well!" The chief said, "You, tell us what happened next."

The men let go of the liar, who looked at the chief, unsure, "So, you won't kill me?"

"Not if you tell us."

"How big a lie can I tell?"

The chief's eyes grew big, "I don't know."

The liar grinned, "Very well then." He clapped his hands together and went back to the fire, taking the best seat next to the chief, "Break us off a knuckle of that meat, would you dear? So, there I was . . ."

And so, storytelling was born. We storytellers celebrate thousands of years of not getting killed for our lies.

Sneak peak inside my WIP

Here is a short sample from the first third of my work-in-progress, tentatively titled "We Fulfill Prophecies" (it is, obviously, unedited, and I apologize for spelling, grammar, etc.):

Anvir fumed from the bottom of the gangplank, "It's all a collosal waste of time you know."

Amory helped Josh plug in the last few connectors, "Your position has been made known, Mr. Moore."

"I'm just saying, isn't it better to be rich, and happy in a quiet little country than being poor, unimportant, and outcast in the bigger universe?"

Amory turned to face him, "Your thoughts are well known, sir. You don't want to go back, because you rightly fear incarceration."

Josh piped up, "Okay, we're all set." Everyone stepped back away from the device. Anvir sulked at the bottom of the gangplank, while Tandy moved over behind the crates used to carry the radio down.

It looked like an oversized can, the sort one would use for carrying a large fuel tank. Along the outside, there were monitor lights, all quietly glowing green. In the center, near the base of the can, was a single monitor. Beneath the can sprouted three solid steel feet that extended in places to bring the radio around and aim it at the particular location they wanted to talk to. Wires descended from the bottom of the radio, and ran back to connect to the ship's propulsion. On top of the can sat a large parabolic radio dish, with three smaller dishes inside it that whirred and rolled around a central axis.

Josh beamed up at it. He made one quick circuit of the can, checking to see that everything was in place. Once he had checked all the lights and satisfied himself that it was working, he turned back to the group.

"The way it works is very simple." He said, "A standard radio signal could never reach as far as we need our signal to go. It would take hundreds of years to reach the closest waypoint. So, instead, I have set up a laser radio beacon. This radio will fire a laser in hundreds of different directions at the same time." He pointed at a bulbous antenna that stuck out of the center of the radio dish. "Those lasers will be modulating constantly, at a very high frequency. That modulation carries the signal we mean to get across. Now, normally, a laser is only useful if the listening party is also prepared to recieve at the same time. Since we're trying to get someone's attention, we cannot assume that they are already listening."

Anvir chuffed, "So, your choices are to send a standard radio signal, which would take hundreds of years to reach them, or to use lasers, which no one is looking for, and will never reach them. Brilliant. We're practically saved already."

Josh ignored him, "The positive side of using lasers is that they will reach further, with less dissolution of the signal. What's more, anyone who gets the signal could tell just by the red shift how far out we were."

"But you still have no one listening! Doesn't matter how efficient it is if no one is listening."

"That's the thing. Nobody's listening for us, but everybody's listening for this message."

Amory blinked, "Ah. You lost me there."

Josh turned to face him, still grinning, "You see, every ship is required, at every waypoint, to do a basic scan of the area. It's company SOP."

"Right."

"The standard sweep checks that the ship's coordinates match up with star charts, and the observed stars in the sky. Every ship gets a snapshot of nearby stars, and compares that before moving on."

Amory frowned, "I see that, but I don't see how -"

"We will show up on their snapshot! We won't show as a star on their charts, but they'll be seeing the light from this laser. The message that's hidden in the laser will look like a tiny dot, flickering on the ship's viewports. The ship may not be looking for us, but they'll be seeing a new star in the sky. And what is the SOP for finding a new star in the sky?"

Amory started to smile, "Stop immediately, and radio into headquarters for further instructions."

"Exactly. And while they're waiting for instructions, somebody clever is going to notice that there's a pattern in the light. By the time they get the order to check us out, one of their comms guys will crack the code, and tell the captain that there's a group in need of rescue."

Amory nodded, "That's still a kinda slim chance, isn't it? That we'll hit a ship in the area with a laser from so far away?"

Josh shrugged, "Yeah. It is kinda like hitting a missile with a speck of dirt, but it's the best chance we've got."

"Then let's take it. Mr. Kemuel, please start up the radio."

"Gladly, sir!" Josh stepped up to the immense can and hit two keys on the monitor. A low thrum sounded from the base of the can, and the satellite dish atop it sprang to life. It began orienting itself slowly on the target sector, "I'm going to have it look in the sector where we last jumped in. That way, we're going to hit the closest ship around."

The thrum built up to a bass rumbling, causing the can to vibrate a bit. Josh frowned and tapped a few more keys on the monitor. The bass rumbling subsided, as if multiple spinning internals synchronized with each other. The sound got louder as it reached a harmonic. Josh smiled and stood back.

"Now, obviously," he said, "we're not going to hear anything back. This is a transmitter, after all. It's not meant to recieve transmissions. But even so, just letting them know we're out here should be enough to . . ." he trailed off as he stared at the can.

Around the middle of the can, green lights winked off. A couple turned red, but more just switched off entirely. The top half of the can began to stretch outward slightly, wobbling on an unseen rotation. Josh stepped forward to deal with it, but Amory grabbed his arm, "Stay back!"

As they watched, the top half of the can began to glow with an eerie red luminescence. Most of the dummy lights were off already, and some were melting away. In the space where the can had started stretching, bits of the skin turned red and drained away, like melting ice. Josh tried to shrug Amory off, but he grabbed the engineer and pulled him away.

Josh reached for it, even as the low whirring rose to a fevered pitch. Everyone clapped hands over their ears except Josh, who ran for the radio. His powerful lumbering gait carried him up to the can and got him close enough to touch the monitor before the whole unit exploded.

The metal burst outward, spraying the area with hot metal. Tandy screamed and Amory fell back from the blast. Josh was thrown back about ten feet as the bright red bulb of the explosion knocked everything away. They all took cover, shielding their faces and eyes, but there was nothing more.

The noise of the explosion still echoed in their ears, making them all temporarily deaf. Tandy looked around to see the others unmoving. From behind the crates, she was not affected by the bulk of the blast. She staggered toward Josh, still unable to hear anything. Amory crawled up to his knees, and looked around. He saw Tandy dealing with Josh, and crawled over to Anvir.

Amory took the con man's shoulders and shook him. The thin man blinked and reflexively covered his face, coiling up into the fetal position. Amory tried to tell him it was over, but neither one of them could hear it. After a moment, Anvir brought his hands down and blinked up at Amory. He asked something, but neither one of them could hear it. They looked over at Tandy and Josh.

Josh was still lying flat on his back, and Tandy was crouched next to him, feeling for a pulse. They ran drunkenly over to her and dropped next to her. Tandy put her head down on Josh's chest, then brought it back up. She shook her head violently while saying something, but Amory couldn't tell whether she was saying she couldn't hear a heartbeat, or she was saying she couldn't hear anything from anyone.

Anvir reached around her and ripped open Josh's shirt. There were rents and burns in the shirt from where the explosion had hit him, and the skin underneath was no better. Anvir felt around the cuts, pushing down on some of them, covering others. He grabbed Tandy's hand and put it down hard on one seeping wound. He caught her eye and said something she couldn't hear, but the intent was obvious enough. She put pressure on the wound as best she could.

Josh was a heavy-worlder, which made his skin thick, and his heart strong. Anvir felt around on his neck until he could get a pulse. Then, once he was satisfied with that, he reached for one of Josh's eyes. Anvir pried the eye open, and nodded, then made sweeping motions with his arms. Amory and Tandy both stared at him, nonplussed for a moment, then they grabbed Josh and began to turn him over on his side.

Once he was resting on one shoulder, Anvir inspected the back of his head. There were cuts on his head and back, but nothing life threatening. He told them to turn Josh back over, and everyone could tell that they were getting their hearing back as he said, "He'll live, but we need to patch him up, and get him rest. I don't think he's concussed, but we won't know until he wakes up."

Amory looked back at the smoking husk of the radio. Their hearing was still patchy, so Amory shouted, "Anybody know what went wrong?"

They all looked at each other, but no one answered.

Sharon's Text

Photo by ZenRoxie

Sharon ran down the stairs, putting on her earrings. She shouted upstairs, "You have one minute, and then I'm leaving without you!"

She stood in front of the mirror, checking her hair, her lipstick, and her eye shadow. From above, she heard, "You can't go to ballet without me!"

"You don't know that. I may just go to hang out with the other mothers."

Scotty wasn't home. It didn't worry her a lot, because his schedule was erratic recently, but she had hoped he would get home before they left for class.

"Mom!"

Sharon talked around the lipstick, "Fifty-two seconds, and we'll know for sure."

From the kitchen, her phone chimed. She walked in, reaching for her purse. It would be Scotty, texting her about being late. He loved texting, and generally chose it over calling her phone every time.

Cindy came barreling down the stairs in sneakers, a leotard and an oversized sweater. She held a toeshoe in one hand, "Oh. I thought you'd gone."

Sharon picked up the phone, talking to her without looking, "You called my bluff. Get your other shoe and fix your hair." She looked at the phone, expecting to see another three-paragraph explanation for why he was still at work. It surprised her to see only one line.

"car crack hlep"

She blinked at it for a second, wondering if the message was even from Scotty. Then, as realization hit, a cold chill ran down her back.

"I'm thinking about leaving it down," Cindy said, looking around the living room, "It doesn't really help to tie it up, anyway."

Sharon whispered, "Be quiet, honey." Her hand felt disconnected and seemed to float as she hit the "callback" button.

Cindy started checking under the cushions of the sofa, "Because it really gets hot in there, and it doesn't exactly keep the sweat out of my eyes to have my hair back."

She listened to the phone ringing on the other side. It rang for a long time.

"And besides, I saw Mike and some of the others hanging around outside the studio last time. If they see me, I don't want to look all -"

Sharon shouted, "Shut up!" and held the phone with both hands. It rang for a long time.

Cindy looked up at her, stricken, and slowly walked over. At last, the phone crackled with a connection. Sharon asked, "Honey? Are you okay?"

She could hear him, but he seemed to be a long way away, "Sharon? I . . . something happened. . . " He wasn't holding the phone up to his ear.

"Honey? Are you okay? Where are you?" She shouted into the phone.

"I'm . . . I - I don't know what happened. Something . . . I don't know what -"

Sharon hung up and dialed 9-1-1. The phone didn't ring for as long this time, "911, what's your emergency?"

Cindy, standing next to her, whispered, "What happened?"

"Yes. My husband has been in a car wreck. He's hurt, but I don't know how bad." Cindy covered her mouth with her free hand.

The voice on the other end was calm and measured, "Are you in a safe place, ma'am."

"I'm fine. I wasn't there. He texted me. I tried to call him, but he's in shock or something. He can't talk in the phone."

"Ma'am. I'm sending a car out there right now. I need to know where he is." Sharon could hear the quiet tapping of keys.

"I don't know where he is. Can't you find him by his phone or something? You can do that, right?"

"What is his number, ma'am?"

"555-470-0235. You can find him, right?"

"We're working on it now. It would help if you could tell us where he is." Cindy started pacing, hands over her head.

"I don't know! I don't know where he was!" Sharon closed her eyes and put her free hand up to her forehead. "He's probably just left work, so it would be somewhere on the 35, between the King's Fortune exit and the Calloway exit. But that's about twenty miles!"

"Yes ma'am. We've had a report of an accident along the 35, and there are officers headed there now."

Sharon grabbed the phone with both hands, "What did they say? The reports! Was it a bad wreck?"

The voice on the other end remained calm, "We have officers on the way now, ma'am. I need you to stay by the phone so that we can call you with other news. Are you in a safe place where you can wait by the phone?"

Sharon looked around the kitchen, and nodded, "I - yes. I'll hold. I mean, I'll be here. I - Oh, God." Cindy walked over to Sharon and put her arms around her shoulders.

"Thank you, ma'am. We will call you back as soon as we have any news." The phone went dead and Sharon slowly eased it onto the counter next to her purse.

Cindy held her mother and said, "It's gonna be okay. He'll be okay. It's okay, Mom. Really."

Sharon nodded and hugged her close, not hearing the repeated mantra.

Tumbler writeup in "Reading the Paranormal"

I don't know how I missed this, but the good folks at the "Reading the Paranormal" blog had an excellent review of my first novel, "Tumbler". Check it out.