Libby Doyle's Blog, page 5
May 21, 2017
We All Needs Friends like Mel
The Pain Season: Book II of the Covalent Series continues the dramatic love story between Alexandra “Zan” O’Gara, fearless FBI agent extraordinaire, and Rainer Barakiel, a superhuman warrior from another dimension.Zan’s best friend Melissa Romani is also an FBI agent affectionately dubbed Mel. (Evidently, I have a thing for women with three-letter names.) In fact, Mel is Zan’s FBI partner. Zan went into the Bureau a badass because of skills she acquired in the army, but what she learned from Mel kicked it up to a whole new level.
When our story begins, outside of Zan’s army buddies, Mel is the only person in the world who knows what her friend has been through and what she’s done. A recovering alcoholic, Zan’s past is filled with ugliness. Her experiences in Afghanistan and her own behavior left her emotionally scarred, but she dealt with it. Over her roughly two years in the FBI, Zan has earned Mel’s respect. These women love each other.
Below is a scene between Mel and James Nguyen, the ladies’ boss at the FBI. This scene is not in the book, but one I imagined happening off-camera, so to speak, after Zan has left Rainer and is plunged into misery because of it.
“Good Morning, Agent Romani, please sit down,” Nguyen said, waving Mel into his office.Mel nodded and took the hot seat, as the agents called it, because of Nguyen’s habit of fixing its occupants with a slow-burn cat stare whenever he was annoyed. She pasted a sunny smile on her face and willed her leg to stop twitching.
“What can I do for you, sir?”
“You can tell me what the hell is wrong with Agent O’Gara.”
“Is there something wrong with her?”
That was all it took. Out came the unwavering glare. Nguyen probed her face with his dark eyes for a good fifteen seconds. He frowned.
“I know you have a close relationship with your partner, so your denial is not going to work,” Nguyen said. “The other day she came in all puffy eyed. She looked exhausted. The security guard downstairs told me someone sent her a truckload of flowers. Literally a truckload! Has someone died? Why wouldn’t she tell the Bureau?”
Damn you, Harry. I wanted you to keep that shit to yourself.
“No one has died, sir.”
“Then what's the matter with her?”
“Has her performance been suffering?”
Nguyen leaned back, put his elbow in the arm of his chair and rubbed his chin, sizing Mel up. “No,” he said, “but I believe in prevention, Agent Romani.”
Mel wanted to grab her boss’s hand and pour it all out. How Zan had fallen crazy in love with a man, a bizarre man. A ridiculously sexy man, who Zan left for reasons she wouldn’t reveal. How Mel was worried sick about her. She wanted to tell Nguyen this because she knew he had Zan’s best interests at heart, same as her. But she wouldn’t tell him because she didn’t know the whole story. She squared her shoulders to take the heat.
“I appreciate your concern, sir. You’re a rare boss, really. But if her performance isn’t suffering, I’d have to say it’s none of your business.”
Again with the cat stare, but then Nguyen forcefully blew a stream of air from his lips that was almost a laugh.
“I don’t know why I thought you’d tell me anything. The two of you wouldn’t give up each other’s secrets if I waterboarded you. Just keep this in mind. I’m on her side. The Bureau is on her side. We have an employee assistance program if she needs confidential help. If you could remind her of that, I’d appreciate it.”
This time Mel’s sunny smile did not need to be pasted. “I will, sir. Thank you for reminding me.”
April 3, 2017
The Hubby and I Get Malled
#wsite-video-container-529824647451667677{ background: url(//www.weebly.comhttp://libbydoyle.com/u... } #video-iframe-529824647451667677{ background: url(//cdn2.editmysite.com/images/util/video... } #wsite-video-container-529824647451667677, #video-iframe-529824647451667677{ background-repeat: no-repeat; background-position:center; } @media only screen and (-webkit-min-device-pixel-ratio: 2), only screen and ( min-device-pixel-ratio: 2), only screen and ( min-resolution: 192dpi), only screen and ( min-resolution: 2dppx) { #video-iframe-529824647451667677{ background: url(//cdn2.editmysite.com/images/util/video... background-repeat: no-repeat; background-position:center; background-size: 70px 70px; } } Ah, a trip to the mall, that most American of activities. Malls are wondrous things, repositories of such abundance it would make a Soviet-era Russian weep. Yet I hate them.
Nevertheless, come one Sunday I broke down. I needed a few things. Most urgently, I needed what I consider a staple of every wardrobe: a black leather belt with a simple, silver-colored buckle. I thought this would be easy to procure. I should get out more.
Really, what better place than the mall? If you are looking for something specific, it should be the most time-efficient way to get it, right? All those stores in one place? If you don’t find it one, just pop into another. Right?
Those of you with more mall experience must be chuckling at me right now. I can imagine your thoughts.
No, it’s called Amazon. You may be familiar with it. Your books are sold there.
So we set out, the hubby and me. We drive to New Jersey. Our first sign that we have made a mistake is the parking lot. We are city people. At times we don’t see our car for a week. I walk or ride a bike to work. My husband walks. We used to live in the ‘burbs, but I had forgotten the hellscape that is a giant, crowded mall parking lot. All we want to do is park, but we are confronted by all manner of obstacles. Families laden with strollers and bags who struggle to control their wandering tots. People who have no business driving an SUV roughly the size of a locomotive. Other people who have no awareness of their surroundings whatsoever. I want to shout at them, “What? Are you hypnotized?” (Steve Buscemi line from Ghost World [www.imdb.com/title/tt0162346/]. Good movie.)
The trail of walking dead continues inside the mall. I’m a strider. I do not stroll or meander. I especially want to be quick this day. Our plan is to drive to the country. Take in sunshine on fields. Release our stress to the wind. Instead, we get stuck in a line of zombie shoppers, walking four abreast, every attempt to pass thwarted by people coming from the other direction. I imagine myself a brain-hungry ghoul from Dawn of the Dead. (See giphy above. Great flick. www.imdb.com/title/tt0077402/?ref_=tt_rec_tti)
All this would have been tolerable if I could have easily found the fucking belt. But no. I find chain belts and glitter belts and belts with little metal stars on them. Belts with buckles that look like a candelabrum used by a low-rent Liberace impersonator. Belts that look like they have leprosy. I suppose these were supposed to be fashionable. Textured. But really, leprosy.
And the music! A heavy beat with some vocal acrobatics. I can tell this is popular stuff because I see a teenager dancing.
Alas, the mall has pushed my frustration level to critical. The pounding beat and the high-pitched tones of a synthesizer have me ready to stab someone. AND NO BELT. I can’t even find leather. Only some horrible poly-something-or-other. What’s the world coming to when you can’t buy a black leather belt?
One woman advised we go to the Harley Davidson store on a highway the next town over. I will remember this advice.
In the end, we find our oasis. We push through the hypnotized walkers and the crazed beats and enter a zone of soothing blues and grays and Miles Davis. The Hugo Boss store. Mind you, the hubby and I are not the type to frequent Hugo Boss. We are not fashion-minded. But on this day, it is our refuge.
We walk past the pricey suits arranged in pleasing lines on chrome racks. Past the neat stacks of shirts and hanging silk ties to the back of the store where we find it! A rack of belts. Leather! Black! Silver buckles! The price should give me pause but I don’t care. I want the hell out of that mall. I consider it the bribe I have to pay a sadistic guard at a checkpoint during my escape from a totalitarian state.
Belt in hand, we go to pay. To further redeem the whole nasty business, the guy at the register is HOT. Of course, he’s in a perfectly tailored suit. He’s got a voice like honey and light cocoa skin, warm and smooth. Lovely hazel eyes. I tell him I couldn’t find a decent belt in any women’s clothing store. He tells me his girlfriend is always stealing his belts. He is charming.
The hubby and I head out. We are happy now. We can leave. The hubby says, “That guy was smooth.”
“That guy was hot,” I say. The hubby laughs.
The mall had consumed all our time. We never did get to the country. I could have used it, before my grueling week. But at least I have a super cool belt.
Nevertheless, come one Sunday I broke down. I needed a few things. Most urgently, I needed what I consider a staple of every wardrobe: a black leather belt with a simple, silver-colored buckle. I thought this would be easy to procure. I should get out more.
Really, what better place than the mall? If you are looking for something specific, it should be the most time-efficient way to get it, right? All those stores in one place? If you don’t find it one, just pop into another. Right?
Those of you with more mall experience must be chuckling at me right now. I can imagine your thoughts.
No, it’s called Amazon. You may be familiar with it. Your books are sold there.
So we set out, the hubby and me. We drive to New Jersey. Our first sign that we have made a mistake is the parking lot. We are city people. At times we don’t see our car for a week. I walk or ride a bike to work. My husband walks. We used to live in the ‘burbs, but I had forgotten the hellscape that is a giant, crowded mall parking lot. All we want to do is park, but we are confronted by all manner of obstacles. Families laden with strollers and bags who struggle to control their wandering tots. People who have no business driving an SUV roughly the size of a locomotive. Other people who have no awareness of their surroundings whatsoever. I want to shout at them, “What? Are you hypnotized?” (Steve Buscemi line from Ghost World [www.imdb.com/title/tt0162346/]. Good movie.)
The trail of walking dead continues inside the mall. I’m a strider. I do not stroll or meander. I especially want to be quick this day. Our plan is to drive to the country. Take in sunshine on fields. Release our stress to the wind. Instead, we get stuck in a line of zombie shoppers, walking four abreast, every attempt to pass thwarted by people coming from the other direction. I imagine myself a brain-hungry ghoul from Dawn of the Dead. (See giphy above. Great flick. www.imdb.com/title/tt0077402/?ref_=tt_rec_tti)
All this would have been tolerable if I could have easily found the fucking belt. But no. I find chain belts and glitter belts and belts with little metal stars on them. Belts with buckles that look like a candelabrum used by a low-rent Liberace impersonator. Belts that look like they have leprosy. I suppose these were supposed to be fashionable. Textured. But really, leprosy.
And the music! A heavy beat with some vocal acrobatics. I can tell this is popular stuff because I see a teenager dancing.
Alas, the mall has pushed my frustration level to critical. The pounding beat and the high-pitched tones of a synthesizer have me ready to stab someone. AND NO BELT. I can’t even find leather. Only some horrible poly-something-or-other. What’s the world coming to when you can’t buy a black leather belt?One woman advised we go to the Harley Davidson store on a highway the next town over. I will remember this advice.
In the end, we find our oasis. We push through the hypnotized walkers and the crazed beats and enter a zone of soothing blues and grays and Miles Davis. The Hugo Boss store. Mind you, the hubby and I are not the type to frequent Hugo Boss. We are not fashion-minded. But on this day, it is our refuge.
We walk past the pricey suits arranged in pleasing lines on chrome racks. Past the neat stacks of shirts and hanging silk ties to the back of the store where we find it! A rack of belts. Leather! Black! Silver buckles! The price should give me pause but I don’t care. I want the hell out of that mall. I consider it the bribe I have to pay a sadistic guard at a checkpoint during my escape from a totalitarian state.
Belt in hand, we go to pay. To further redeem the whole nasty business, the guy at the register is HOT. Of course, he’s in a perfectly tailored suit. He’s got a voice like honey and light cocoa skin, warm and smooth. Lovely hazel eyes. I tell him I couldn’t find a decent belt in any women’s clothing store. He tells me his girlfriend is always stealing his belts. He is charming.
The hubby and I head out. We are happy now. We can leave. The hubby says, “That guy was smooth.”
“That guy was hot,” I say. The hubby laughs.
The mall had consumed all our time. We never did get to the country. I could have used it, before my grueling week. But at least I have a super cool belt.
February 5, 2017
No Sense Here
Trump. Where do I begin? I feel as if I’m living in an absurdist novel. I can’t digest what’s going on in my country. Sure, I’m angry, but it’s more than that. Disbelief, and I’ll admit, something resembling fascination with how fucked up it all is.
Let me offer just a taste of the events and actions that have me ready to don my black garb, shove a copy of Kurt Vonnegut’s Cat’s Cradle in my back pocket and blow shit up. No logic, no compassion, no common sense.
Last week, the U.S. Congress voted to repeal a regulation meant to stop coal companies from dumping potentially toxic mining debris in streams. The rule was complicated, but suffice it to say that coal companies in the business of mountain-top removal mining (absurd enough in itself) will no longer be required to determine if their dumping policies will damage the ecosystem of the stream where they’re tossing their foul, cancerous crap. They will no longer be required to restore streams to their former state after they’ve blown the top off a fucking mountain to make some money. Read the story by Brad Plumer for Vox here:
www.vox.com/2017/2/2/14488448/stream-protection-rule.
And get a load of this. Trump also directed his administration to stop implementation of a rule that says financial advisors have to act in the best interest of their clients when recommending retirement products. So, beware grandma. That nice young man in the suit and tie may be selling you a risky product that is more designed to net him nice fat fees than to safeguard your golden years. Yep. Let’s make America great again! Charles P. Pierce captures the absurdity quite nicely in this Esquire piece:
www.esquire.com/news-politics/politics/news/a52809/trump-financial-deregulation.
I would be remiss if I did not mention the move that is sure to bring a tear of happiness to the eye of our esteemed Secretary of State, lately the CEO of ExxonMobil. According to a story by Lisa Lambert and Sarah N. Lynch for The Huffington Post, the Republican-controlled Senate has repealed a key anti-corruption rule that required oil and gas companies to disclose the taxes and fees they pay to foreign governments. Woohoo!
Now our corrupt oligarchy can spread some cash around the corrupt oligarchy of a developing country. And they're off! It's drill-baby-drill, with no environmental or labor protections, therefore heaping more misery on the backs of people who already shoulder too much of the burden of this darkening world. Read the details here:
www.huffingtonpost.com/entry/senate-regulations-sec-oil_us_58947228e4b040613136476d?section=politics.
I’ll confess to being at a loss. Oh, I won’t remain passive. I will listen to wise people. I’ll call my Senators, for all the good it will do. I’ll give money to environmental organizations for their court battles. Occasionally, I will march. I will also turn to books, not only for escapism but for cathartic experiences that tell me, “You see, these writers, these characters, have felt what you are feeling. Through this story, you know you are not alone.”
I don’t know about you, but this always makes me feel less hopeless, less helpless.
Now, there’s been talk about how George Orwell’s 1984 has become a best seller. I’ve also heard many a person—including myself—whisper about Margaret Atwood's The Handmaid’s Tale becoming reality as Mike Pence salivates over rolling back women’s reproductive freedoms. But my impulse is to turn not to novels about authoritarian regimes, but to absurdist stories. ‘Cause ain’t none of this shit make sense.
According to Wikipedia, absurdist fiction calls into question the "certainty of existential concepts such as truth or value.”
So, when the my country has been poisoned by misinformation, here are a few books I’ve read that capture the brew of dread and black humor bubbling in my head right now. Naturally, each of these has a lot more going on than is conveyed by my impressionistic blurbs.
The writer Joseph Grand agonizes over the opening sentence of his novel. His ambition is to write the perfect sentence, but what he’s come up with isn’t even close:
The whole thing reminds me of the way we’re destroying our own environment.
A man is tricked into joining a woman in her home at the bottom of a sand pit. Her job is to perpetually shovel away the sand that threatens to engulf her small house. The sand is ever shifting, ever falling, and her task is never done. The man thought he was to stay only for a night, but the next day he discovers that the villagers have taken away the ladder, the only way out of the pit. The man is condemned to stay there with the woman, to make a life and family with her while working at this never-ending task. He never receives any explanation as to why the villagers want this woman to continuously shovel the sand away from her home, why they won’t let her leave, or why they want him to stay with her. It is endless toil with no goal.
I'll share a famous quote:
I first read this book in high school, and it has stayed with me. Filled with Vonnegut’s signature black humor, this novel revolves around a substance called Ice-9 that crystallizes water at room temperature. As you can imagine, Ice-9 could destroy almost all life. The man who invented it was completely indifferent to its possible consequences. It could be invented, so it was invented. Then his children got rich off selling the deadly isotope to whomever would buy it.
The story also involves a farcical religion that the leaders of the poorest country on Earth have foisted on its citizens as a tool of control. The religion preaches the inevitability of all that occurs and the leaders go so far as to ban its practice so the people will feel like they’re doing something meaningful and brave just to follow it.
Back when George W. Bush started a war for no fucking reason I started thinking about this book again. The Trump nightmare has put me in mind of one of my favorite quotes:
Let me offer just a taste of the events and actions that have me ready to don my black garb, shove a copy of Kurt Vonnegut’s Cat’s Cradle in my back pocket and blow shit up. No logic, no compassion, no common sense.
Last week, the U.S. Congress voted to repeal a regulation meant to stop coal companies from dumping potentially toxic mining debris in streams. The rule was complicated, but suffice it to say that coal companies in the business of mountain-top removal mining (absurd enough in itself) will no longer be required to determine if their dumping policies will damage the ecosystem of the stream where they’re tossing their foul, cancerous crap. They will no longer be required to restore streams to their former state after they’ve blown the top off a fucking mountain to make some money. Read the story by Brad Plumer for Vox here:
www.vox.com/2017/2/2/14488448/stream-protection-rule.
And get a load of this. Trump also directed his administration to stop implementation of a rule that says financial advisors have to act in the best interest of their clients when recommending retirement products. So, beware grandma. That nice young man in the suit and tie may be selling you a risky product that is more designed to net him nice fat fees than to safeguard your golden years. Yep. Let’s make America great again! Charles P. Pierce captures the absurdity quite nicely in this Esquire piece:
www.esquire.com/news-politics/politics/news/a52809/trump-financial-deregulation.
I would be remiss if I did not mention the move that is sure to bring a tear of happiness to the eye of our esteemed Secretary of State, lately the CEO of ExxonMobil. According to a story by Lisa Lambert and Sarah N. Lynch for The Huffington Post, the Republican-controlled Senate has repealed a key anti-corruption rule that required oil and gas companies to disclose the taxes and fees they pay to foreign governments. Woohoo!Now our corrupt oligarchy can spread some cash around the corrupt oligarchy of a developing country. And they're off! It's drill-baby-drill, with no environmental or labor protections, therefore heaping more misery on the backs of people who already shoulder too much of the burden of this darkening world. Read the details here:
www.huffingtonpost.com/entry/senate-regulations-sec-oil_us_58947228e4b040613136476d?section=politics.
I’ll confess to being at a loss. Oh, I won’t remain passive. I will listen to wise people. I’ll call my Senators, for all the good it will do. I’ll give money to environmental organizations for their court battles. Occasionally, I will march. I will also turn to books, not only for escapism but for cathartic experiences that tell me, “You see, these writers, these characters, have felt what you are feeling. Through this story, you know you are not alone.”
I don’t know about you, but this always makes me feel less hopeless, less helpless.
Now, there’s been talk about how George Orwell’s 1984 has become a best seller. I’ve also heard many a person—including myself—whisper about Margaret Atwood's The Handmaid’s Tale becoming reality as Mike Pence salivates over rolling back women’s reproductive freedoms. But my impulse is to turn not to novels about authoritarian regimes, but to absurdist stories. ‘Cause ain’t none of this shit make sense.
According to Wikipedia, absurdist fiction calls into question the "certainty of existential concepts such as truth or value.”
So, when the my country has been poisoned by misinformation, here are a few books I’ve read that capture the brew of dread and black humor bubbling in my head right now. Naturally, each of these has a lot more going on than is conveyed by my impressionistic blurbs.
The writer Joseph Grand agonizes over the opening sentence of his novel. His ambition is to write the perfect sentence, but what he’s come up with isn’t even close: One fine morning in the month of May an elegant young horsewoman might have been riding a handsome sorrel mare along the flowery avenues of the Bois de Boulogne.Grand muses and sweats over his sentence. He’s convinced a tweak or two will create a master work. Meanwhile, a deadly epidemic ravages Oran, a city on Africa’s Mediterranean coast. Just as Grand denies his sentence is terrible, the authorities deny the sickness is a problem, even as people die in droves. When they’re forced to acknowledge what is happening, people retreat into their own suffering and petty concerns, without realizing that they must come together if any of them are to have any hope of survival.
The whole thing reminds me of the way we’re destroying our own environment.
A man is tricked into joining a woman in her home at the bottom of a sand pit. Her job is to perpetually shovel away the sand that threatens to engulf her small house. The sand is ever shifting, ever falling, and her task is never done. The man thought he was to stay only for a night, but the next day he discovers that the villagers have taken away the ladder, the only way out of the pit. The man is condemned to stay there with the woman, to make a life and family with her while working at this never-ending task. He never receives any explanation as to why the villagers want this woman to continuously shovel the sand away from her home, why they won’t let her leave, or why they want him to stay with her. It is endless toil with no goal.I'll share a famous quote:
There wasn't a single item of importance [in the newspaper]. A tower of illusion, all of it, made of illusory bricks and full of holes. If life were made up only of important things, it really would be a dangerous house of glass, scarcely to be handled carelessly. But everyday life was exactly like the headlines. And so everybody, knowing the meaninglessness of existence, sets the center of his compass at his own home.Abe’s novel is haunting, beautiful and filled with dread. I’d also recommend his novel The Ark Sakura, if you like a little dystopia mixed in with your existential crisis.
I first read this book in high school, and it has stayed with me. Filled with Vonnegut’s signature black humor, this novel revolves around a substance called Ice-9 that crystallizes water at room temperature. As you can imagine, Ice-9 could destroy almost all life. The man who invented it was completely indifferent to its possible consequences. It could be invented, so it was invented. Then his children got rich off selling the deadly isotope to whomever would buy it.The story also involves a farcical religion that the leaders of the poorest country on Earth have foisted on its citizens as a tool of control. The religion preaches the inevitability of all that occurs and the leaders go so far as to ban its practice so the people will feel like they’re doing something meaningful and brave just to follow it.
Back when George W. Bush started a war for no fucking reason I started thinking about this book again. The Trump nightmare has put me in mind of one of my favorite quotes:
“No wonder kids grow up crazy. A cat’s cradle is nothing but a bunch of X’s between somebody’s hands, and little kids look and look and look at all those X’s . . .”I hope you got something out of my spasm of absurdity. I'd be interested to hear your recommendations in the comments for similar stories, whether old books, new books, TV shows or movies.
“And?”
“No damn cat, and no damn cradle.”
January 14, 2017
The Pain Season Trailer
Take a gander at the trailer for The Pain Season: Book II of the Covalent Series. Not bad for homemade, eh? #wsite-video-container-395564420271840223{ background: url(//www.weebly.comhttp://libbydoyle.com/u... } #video-iframe-395564420271840223{ background: url(//cdn2.editmysite.com/images/util/video... } #wsite-video-container-395564420271840223, #video-iframe-395564420271840223{ background-repeat: no-repeat; background-position:center; } @media only screen and (-webkit-min-device-pixel-ratio: 2), only screen and ( min-device-pixel-ratio: 2), only screen and ( min-resolution: 192dpi), only screen and ( min-resolution: 2dppx) { #video-iframe-395564420271840223{ background: url(//cdn2.editmysite.com/images/util/video... background-repeat: no-repeat; background-position:center; background-size: 70px 70px; } } I took a few of the photographs. The others are licensed. The sound came from a wonderful resource called freesound.org. I hope you enjoy my video!
January 8, 2017
The Pain Season Playlist
Now that I have obsessively facebook posted and tweeted The Pain Season playlist, it’s time for me to share the list here, in all its entire glory. Music is important to my two main characters, Zan and Barakiel. They are both excellent musicians. It helps them understand one another. So, here you have it, the playlist for Book II of the Covalent Series. Think of it like a movie soundtrack. Each song is paired with a quote from the novel. Enjoy!
1. Requiem – Killing Joke
"I am empty without you, my love. My duty will turn to dust."
www.youtube.com/watch?v=U7WPI4TJImo
2. Superman – REM
Barakiel slowed the train as if it were a toy.
www.youtube.com/watch?v=IxQS6lfn0yU
3. That’s When I Reach for my Revolver – Mission of Burma
Two twenty-round clips. That should do me.
www.youtube.com/watch?v=I8piMHsOya4
4. I am a Scientist – Guided by Voices
Pellus bent forward, pretending to catch his breath as he broke the bonds that held the metal in the form of shell casings.
www.youtube.com/watch?v=zN9x6zckn18
5. All Mixed Up – The Cars
“That amazing woman,” Barakiel said, his eyes unfocused, his voice quiet. “I have betrayed her trust.”
www.youtube.com/watch?v=E9d-1d0ltCM
6. Descending Angel – The Misfits“His power lies in all that destroys and deceives. All that dies and decays. An inevitable force.”
www.youtube.com/watch?v=HJpaqOFjJME
7. Bones – Radiohead
“Listen, Georgie-boy. If the demons get hungry we’ll toss them a couple sweet Cambodian girls, all right? Got to be tastier than us.”
www.youtube.com/watch?v=PdJN4Hu5IX8&index=5&list=PLzUV2Ef5cwk7_HtZf3mn3zXoRlzN3dZ-C
8. Violet – Hole
Angel, fucking devil
Adonis, avatar
He opened my secrets
Filled me with lies
He ruined me
www.youtube.com/watch?v=cH_rfGBwamc
9. Take It Down – John Hiatt
“I made choices for her I had no right to make. I thought loving her would be enough. I ruined her. I had no right.”
www.youtube.com/watch?v=oa3uuj0gx4g
10. Jesus Christ Pose – Soundgarden
Under a pile of dark warriors, Barakiel growled and cursed, punched and bit and jabbed with his dagger until he fought his way free.
www.youtube.com/watch?v=Tn5OIo4FuPc
11. One Way or Another – BlondieAs the agents headed back to the office to start the search warrant paperwork, they rolled down the windows, shouting the lyrics to Blondie’s “One Way or Another” at the top of their lungs.
www.youtube.com/watch?v=pryJYyzoSpA
12. Christine’s Tune (Devil in Disguise) – Flying Burrito Brothers
“The traitor you are looking for might be Domist.”
The adept’s jaw hung open. “Domist? Balance help us all.”
www.youtube.com/watch?v=BITiY8M_oDo
13. Fight the Power – Public Enemy
“Do you think it would be an easy decision to foment rebellion?”
www.youtube.com/watch?v=2WHe5fxS3dA
14. Passacaglia, the Guardian Angel – Heinrich von Biber
“Holy hell. I’m not even sentimental and I can’t take this,” Mel said.
www.youtube.com/watch?v=aLjqm5t69qw
15. Reclamation – Fugazi“I’m about to fall apart. I want you to go away.”
“Then why does your heart beat faster when I’m near you?”
www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ozi4U5pWc3w
16. Your Ghost – Kristin Hersh
Barakiel woke in a dread sweat, as he had every time he tried to sleep since Zan walked down the wide staircase away from him.
www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZfW4-nP2G1Q
17. Something Else is Working Harder – Golden Palominos
Whoever, or whatever, had grabbed her was gone. She thought. She couldn’t tell. She had no sense of space or time.
www.youtube.com/watch?v=obXD2vTb5pw
18. I Against I – Bad Brains
“That adept is stopping me from creating the barrier,” he said, in an attempt to quiet Zan.
“Adept?”
“Someone like me.”
“Where is she? I’ll kill that freaky bitch.”
www.youtube.com/watch?v=cCEkuo94X6I
19. Wolf Like Me – TV on the Radio
A split second later, Pellus defeated the barrier and Barakiel resumed his charge, but he slowed when the beast brandished an ax over Zan's head.
www.youtube.com/watch?v=j1-xRk6llh4
20. So You Want to be Rock-n-Roll Star – The ByrdsTo Zan’s astonishment, Barakiel leaned to her mic to sing with her on the string of “la, la, la” that ended the song.
www.youtube.com/watch?v=XMoop0rn780
21. I Will Dare – the Replacements
“I do not know why we want this. I have explained the risks, but I am sure they do not seem real to Zan. The adventure is too tempting.”
www.youtube.com/watch?v=0cjVMOvJywk
22. Nous Sommes du Soleil (The Ritual) – Yes
“I want you to know, I realize what I’ve cost you.”
“Rainer.” She took his hands. “What you cost me was temporary. What you’ve given me is immeasurable.”
www.youtube.com/watch?v=YFc6lEXbSp4
December 10, 2016
Passion Season Outtake
During my writing process I may fire off a lot of scenes that ultimately do not make it into my books. These scenes get the ax because the book is too long, or they travel a path my unruly brain wants to explore, but leave my story lost in the woods. Often, I write scenes to get to know my characters, to allow them to reveal themselves. I thought it would be fun to post some of them. I cut the following scene from The Passion Season because my word count was getting high. It was the lead-in to a scene readers have told me they love, in which Rainer Barakiel gets a tad annoyed when a drunk cop slaps Zan O'Gara on the ass. You know the scene I'm talking about, readers. I'd be curious to know if you think I should have kept this in. Let me know your opinion on the comments!
Zan watched Rainer curiously slap a giant baseball glove open and shut. She had bought it for him because today, he was coming out in front of law enforcement. Rainer was going to play in the annual softball game of the joint gang-violence task force. "I don’t understand why I can’t just catch the ball in my hand," he said.
"The glove makes it easier, Rainer. Haven't you ever watched a baseball game?"
"They've been on when I was present, but I can't say I ever paid attention."
Great. Be prepared to get shit because Rainer can't play softball to save his life. I just hope they don’t give me any more shit about him showing up at the raid.
"Don't worry if you don’t know anything about the game," Zan said, putting her arms around his waist. "We stink anyway. Philly PD always beats us. That's why we try new people. You can’t make us any worse."
Rainer twirled a piece of her hair. "Why do you continue to play in such a terrible state?"
"We try to win and we talk a lot of trash, but it's really just a friendly game. My boss started it to improve relations between the FBI and the police. He hates turf wars and thinks cooperation makes us all more effective."
"He's a wise man."
"Yes, he is. I'd have to say it's worked. We all look forward to it. We have fun."
They left and drove to the ball field at Penn Park, on the western bank of the Schuylkill River, part of the University of Pennsylvania. Mel was already there when they arrived. Michael was ensconced in the dugout with a cooler full of water, beer and snacks.
"Lucy with your mom?” asked Zan. Mel nodded and looked at Rainer.
"Don’t you look cute in your track suit."
"Is she making fun of me, Michael?" Rainer asked.
"I believe so, Rainer. Don’t worry. It will be nothing compared to how much fun she makes of me when I once again attempt to play softball."
Jamal walked over, crowing about how their fancy equipment couldn't help them now. He was trying not to stare at Rainer as he spoke.
"Christ, Jamal. Can’t you at least wait until the game to start talking trash?" Zan said. Jamal grinned and glanced sidelong at Rainer again.
"Oh, right," Zan said. “Jamal, this is Rainer Barakiel, my boyfriend. Rainer, this is Jamal Williams, the best detective in Philadelphia PD's narcotics unit. We work together a lot." The two exchanged pleasantries and shook hands, before Jamal turned to Zan.
"Um, no offense, Rainer, but you're crazy, Zan, if you think we're going to let this guy play."
"Of course he's playing. What are you talking about?"
"Don't you remember the rules? No ringers. That's why you guys can’t have that agent who played college ball on your team. No ringers. Just regular dudes."
"He's not a ringer, Jamal. He's German. He's never played softball in his life."
"Yes, listen to me speak. I'm not American,” Rainer added.
"C'mon, Zan. No way he's not a ringer. Look at him. He’s the freaking übermensch."
Rainer tipped his head up slightly and focused icy eyes on Jamal.
"No offense, Rainer. Uh, sorry." Jamal shifted his feet in the dirt. Zan stifled a laugh.
Oh my god, that was hilarious.
"Not to worry," Rainer said, though his eyes were still a bit icy.
"Look, let’s prove it, Jamal," Zan said. "Go out and pitch to him a few times. You’ll see."
They gave Rainer a bat and Jamal took the ball and went out to the mound. By this time more team members had arrived and were standing along the base line. watching.
Poor Rainer. I hope he manages to connect with the ball, at least. Jamal can pitch.
Zan stood behind Rainer. She reached around to show him how to hold his arms, pressing herself up against him in the process. She could barely reach his arms.
"If this is how you play this game, it's quite distracting," Rainer said.
"Oh, stop it." Zan said. "Hold it this way, keep your eye on the ball and use your hips when you swing."
"Yes, my love."
"Stop your flirting and let me pitch the damn ball,” Jamal yelled. Zan backed away and nodded. Jamal pitched the ball with serious velocity. Rainer gracefully lifted his front foot, dipped his head, and applied the bat to the ball with such torque and it went sailing over the fence out of the park, prompting a few onlookers to whistle. When he had finished he leaned back, the bat hanging loosely in his right hand. He smiled at Zan.
"Was that good?" he asked.
"You know goddamn well it was good. Sorry, Jamal," she said, calling over to him although she had locked eyes with Rainer. "You were right. He's a ringer. But he's my ringer."
You are so fucking hot. Let’s go make out under the bleachers.
Jamal spread his arms out as he walked toward home plate. "Does anyone have another ball? Because that one's in the next county."
"Yes, we have a few," Mel said. "You know, one for every time Rainer comes up to bat."
"Oh, no, no, no. Zan admitted it now, he’s a ringer."
"No, no, no," Mel said. "I took the liberty of digging the written rules out of my bag. They say no one is allowed to play who played softball or baseball in college or in a league. They say nothing about natural talent, detective. Rainer's playing, and he’s batting cleanup."
November 7, 2016
The City is a Character
Recognize the image above? You do if you're from my town, or if you're lucky enough to be well-acquainted with the back of the hundred-dollar bill. It's Independence Hall, where the Declaration of Independence was signed and the U.S. Constitution was written. In honor of election day, I offer this photo essay from Philadelphia, an historic city on the East Coast of United States, and my home. It's also the setting of The Covalent Series, my urban fantasy. The part that's on Earth, anyway.Let me tell you about my town. One day not long ago my husband posted a meme on facebook that said:
People in Philly whisper "What the fuck," to themselves twenty times a day.
I laughed, because it’s true. I set my books in Philadelphia because I know it so well, but also because it has a rich history and the kind of character that comes with age, diversity, and a powerful (and infamous) ornery streak. Plus, its people have a truly world-class sense of humor.
A scene in The Passion Season: Book I of the Covalent Series features a dinner date between Zan O’Gara, a beautiful badass FBI agent, and Rainer Barakiel, a superhuman warrior from another dimension who is masquerading as German businessman. Zan asks Barakiel why he chose to live in Philadelphia.
“I like it,” he says. “For an American city it is old, tarnished. You can feel the history. And it has a healthy streak of the bizarre.”
Barakiel speaks the truth. Philadelphia is a city of startling contrasts. Old money and high culture crammed up against horrible poverty. Crime, drugs and hostility relieved by an easy camaraderie, a resigned smile that says, “We’re all in this absurd mess together.”
In so far as it is possible, my scenes take place in or near real places. For your enjoyment, here are some of them.
Zan meets Barakiel meet when he offers to help the FBI solve a gruesome crime. Someone found a human spleen in the bushes inside Independence National Historical Park. Specifically, it was found next to the Second United States Bank, pictured below. By the way, unless otherwise noted, I took all these photographs.
Later in The Passion Season, Barakiel battles the deadly alien warriors his father, Lucifer, sends to the Earthly Realm to kill him. The fight takes place at the post-apocalyptic FDR Skatepark in South Philadelphia. I've wanted to set a fight scene at this place ever since I laid eyes on it. 
The Pain Season: Book II of the Covalent Series, opens with another battle. Barakiel confronts a gang of demons behind 30th Street Station, the city’s main train station. The building is gorgeous, neoclassical architecture with an art deco interior. I took this shot last month. The statute is the Angel of the Resurrection. Michael the Archangel is lifting a dead soldier out of the “flames of war.” It memorializes the 1,300 employees of the Pennsylvania Railroad who died in WWII. 
Later in the book, Zan and Barakiel play out an emotionally and sexually charged scene at Milkboy, a small music venue in Center City Philadelphia, pictured below. Zan plays guitar in a band. They have a gig at the club, where Barakiel shows up unexpectedly. 
Emotionally and sexually charged pretty much describes the entirety of The Pain Season. To continue the music theme, Barakiel isn't the only one who can show up unexpectedly. Zan appears at a fundraiser for the Philadelphia Orchestra to which Barakiel had invited her. He didn't think she would come. The two sneak into the empty Verizon Hall -- the concert venue -- while the party goes on just outside. I'll leave it to your imagination what they do in there. This is not my photograph. The orchestra offers plenty of images of Verizon Hall. 
Finally, the climatic events of The Pain Season take place in the gorgeously spooky Laurel Hill Cemetery, pictured below in this fine photograph by Sarah Ricks. Founded in 1836, the 81-acre cemetery sits on a bluff overlooking the Schuylkill, one of Philadelphia's two rivers. I don't want to reveal too much about the scene I've set there. Suffice it to say, it's told from three different points of view, involves demons, automatic weapons, a sword, double-sided axes, energy barriers, and two powerful beings who can manipulate the properties of matter and energy battling it out on the quantum level. Sounds fun, doesn't it? 
I hope you've enjoyed my visual feast and you're inspired to read my books. The Covalent Series. Pulp fiction for the intelligentsia!
September 18, 2016
Who's Afraid of Big, Bad Sex?
Since I released my first novel in March of this year I’ve had the pleasure of getting to know other independent authors. One of the things I’ve learned from the community – and experienced myself – is that if your stories have an erotic component, people tend to regard them with a certain amount of bias.I don’t think this is due to mere prudishness. I suppose it could be any number of things, and I do acknowledge that some sex writing is ludicrous and bad. But it irks me. Strictly speaking, I do not write erotica or erotic romance. According to the professional organization Romance Writers of America, this genre is defined as “novels in which strong, often explicit, sexual interaction is an inherent part of the love story, character growth and relationship development and could not be removed without damaging the story line.”
In my books, the explicit sex could easily be removed without damaging the story line or the characterization. But I have sex in my books because I think those passages are fun to read and write, and because, if you’re doing it right, sex is one of life’s great joys.
Let me make this bold statement, as well: Writing about sex from a perspective of female pleasure is an essential thing to do, because women deserve this great joy.
I recognize that a lot of erotica isn’t exactly empowering to women in the way that I think about it. If some people like fantasies where they are “owned” and “dominated” by partners who seem piggish to me, then that’s their thing and they should enjoy it. The point is to invite people to celebrate their sexuality in an open and healthy manner. We’re all sexual animals. Every single culture in history has a canon of tales that deal with the awesome power of sex. The disdain with which this kind of story is treated makes no sense to me. Often, it reeks of sexism.Now some may think, well of course you’re going to say this. You’re a too-big-for-your-britches hack writer trying to make money by appealing to prurient interest. In answer, I’d like to discuss an article by Peggy Orenstein that appeared in the opinion section of New York Times back in March under the headline “When Did Porn become Sex Ed?” goo.gl/DdO1lN
The article starts with good news and a caveat.
And while we are more often telling children that both parties must agree unequivocally to a sexual encounter, we still tend to avoid the biggest taboo of all: women’s capacity for and entitlement to sexual pleasure.Ms. Orenstein told an anecdote about a teenage girl who didn’t know where to turn for information about sex, so she went to pornography. While there is good “porn” out there that treats the genders in a balanced way, the mainstream stuff, the most accessible stuff, tends to be male fantasy in which women’s pleasure is forgotten. All rules have their exceptions, but I’m going to venture out there to say that when some hung guy sticks it in with hardly a preamble and a second later the woman is screaming in pleasure, it’s a male fantasy.
A further point from the Orenstein article? The erasure of the female body’s amazing capacity for pleasure starts young.
When my daughter was a baby, I remember reading somewhere that while labeling infants’ body parts (“here’s your nose,” “here are your toes”), parents often include a boy’s genitals but not a girl’s. Leaving something unnamed, of course, makes it quite literally unspeakable.
And whereas males’ puberty is often characterized in terms of erections, ejaculation and the emergence of a near-unstoppable sex drive, females’ is defined by periods. And the possibility of unwanted pregnancy. When do we explain the miraculous nuances of their anatomy? When do we address exploration, self-knowledge?
The way female pleasure and the female anatomy has been neglected is astonishing and infuriating (well, to me). According to an article on the website of The Museum of Sex ( http://www.museumofsex.com/the-internal-clitoris/ ), the medical world didn’t see fit to properly study the clitoris until 2009! That year, French researchers Dr. Odile Buisson and Dr. Pierre Foldès completed the first a 3-D sonography of the stimulated clitoris. Can you imagine if they hadn’t imaged the penis until 2009?Ladies, let’s take a moment to thanks these French doctors in our heads. Now we understand “how the erectile tissue of the clitoris engorges and surrounds the vagina—a complete breakthrough that explains how what we once considered to be a vaginal orgasm is actually an internal clitoral orgasm.”
It boggles the mind, how little importance has been attached to female pleasure. Inevitably, the result is too many young women indoctrinated into the mindset that their primary job is to pleasure their male partner. Take this passage, from the Orenstein article again. This makes my blood boil. I mean BOIL.
A 2014 study of 16- to 18-year-old heterosexuals — and can we just pause a moment to consider just how young that is? — published in a British medical journal found that it was mainly boys who pushed for [anal sex] approaching it less as a form of intimacy with a partner (who they assumed would both need to be and could be coerced into it) than a competition with other boys. They expected girls to endure the act, which young women in the study consistently reported as painful. Both sexes blamed the girls themselves for the discomfort, calling them “naïve or flawed,” unable to “relax.”Is your blood boiling? I sure as hell hope so.
This is what is done to girls and women. We need to assertively pursue our own pleasure, and erotic writing can be a healthy part of it. As for the people who find it distasteful and aver that it is not to be taken seriously, I think you’re “‘naïve or flawed,’ unable to ‘relax.’”
August 24, 2016
Fish in a Well
Newfoundland and Labrador Tourism Board When I was a kid my parents used to take us to Newfoundland, a rocky island off the eastern coast of Canada, a land of pristine seas, icebergs, puffins, and moose. We went to visit our relatives. Hardy women who could fillet fish and make jam. Ruddy-faced men who drank too much and sang old Hank Williams tunes in their cozy kitchens. They all spoke with a variation of an Irish brogue.My parents were born there. To their little Yankee kids, it was fantasy land. We grew up in New Jersey in a blighted urban landscape, a town with whose creek had become a “cric,” filled with garbage and topped with the sheen of petroleum. Our favorite place to play was an old trash incinerator that had been shut down when it was revealed to be raining hazardous particulates upon the town. But Newfoundland sparkled and smelled good. The rocky hills, the thick grass and the deep blue sea were more vivid because the air was clean.
My aunts and uncles lived in a town where everybody let their horses run free in the summer. They’d be hanging out in the church parking lot or in front of the only store in town. My aunts and uncles had an outhouse and a barn and an old tom cat. The trail behind the house was filled with yellow-streaked spiders. My uncles raised hares for meat. The male hare was gigantic. He must have weighed twenty pounds, with a thick dewlap. Needless to say, my little friends back in New Jersey did not believe me when I told them about the monster bunny.
Not my uncle's hare, but very much like it. Newfoundland was the first place I trudged through a bog, climbed up a cliff face and shot a gun (it was a .22 rifle). It was also the first place I’d ever been where you had to go outside in the morning and draw water from a well to brush your teeth, or in the case of the adults, make your morning tea.The well had a fish in it. Every morning I went out more to see the fish than to draw water. I felt bad for it. My uncle explained that the fish ate the bugs in the well. That for a fish, it was a good, safe life. I felt a little better after that, but I realize now, I should have liberated that fish. I think it would have much rather lived in the harbor, even if it wasn’t as safe.
I remember that fish when I get discouraged being an independent author and freelance editor. To be an entrepreneur is a difficult road. I’ve made so many mistakes. I’m sure I’ll make many more. I’ve tried to hold my pages of lovingly produced prose up above the flood of books on the market, so many of them engaging and well-written. Social media is not second nature to me like it is to the young. There are times I loathe it with a nuclear intensity.
I try to hang on to the great feeling I get when readers tell me they loved my book. I tell myself that bad reviews have value, even when they give me horrible stomach aches.
Sometimes I want to hang it up. Get a better day job. Focus on my external career and not spend so much time in my head.
Then I remember the fish.
Not the well fish. Just a fish. Who wants to live in a well, snatching safe paychecks from the surface of the water? Who wants to live in a tiny space, according to other people’s rhythms? Oh, I know, we all have to do it to an extent. But I’ll keep trying to swim in the indie ocean, because when I reach the open sea, the only boundary is my imagination, and that's hell of a lot of fun.
August 4, 2016
Meet Barakiel, the beautiful badass of The Passion Season.
Welcome to the SFR Brigade Showcase! Check out all the showcase authors at: http://sfrcontests.blogspot.com/p/sfr-brigade-presents.htm Hello! Let me introduce you to Barakiel, the male protagonist of The Passion Season: Book I of the Covalent Series, an erotic urban fantasy available now on Amazon @ http://goo.gl/Ix0v3V.
Barakiel (ba-ra-kee-el) is Covalent, a race of ancient beings from another dimension who keep the elemental forces of Creation and Destruction in Balance. Without these aliens, the elemental forces would crush everything into oblivion. The Covalent sit at the still center of everything that exists.
While The Passion Season is a love story set partly in an alien world and partly in contemporary Philadelphia, Barakiel has been around a long time. The rulers of his world exiled him to Earth centuries ago, after his father rebelled against the Covalent Council. He has lived in many places and times. What follows is a story from his past. This is a stand-alone story, not an excerpt, though you can find excerpts elsewhere on my website. Enjoy!
Courtesy of the New York Public Library KAMI
Darkness spread between the velvet green hills of Nagasaki as the sun disappeared into the sea. Barakiel walked towards Dejima Island. He was late for a meeting with some merchants, but he didn’t care. He would savor his walk. This was his favorite time of day, when the lanterns grew brighter against the fading light.
The merchants didn’t like him anyway. He was pretending to be a Dutch trader like them, but since the Shōgunate had barred most foreigners from entering Japan, the community had become insular. Because no one had known him in Holland, they suspected he was not who he claimed to be.
Lucky for me they like my money just fine.
Barakiel paid his coins to be ferried across the channel. The small boat rode low in the water and the ferryman grimaced at him, as he did every single time they made the brief trip.
“Don’t worry, Junichi. My size has not sunk us yet.”
Junichi waved happily when Barakiel jumped out of the craft onto the strip of tumble-down brothels at the edge of Dejima, the foreigners’ enclave. The hawkers mostly gaped at him from their crooked door frames. A few were brave enough to shout, “Come in, honorable sir. We have new girls. Virgins!” Barakiel glared at them and they disappeared into the shadows of their foul establishments.
Courtesy of the New York Public Library A ruckus broke out a little farther up the strip. As Barakiel approached, he saw a middle-aged man dragging a girl by the arm.“No, Otōsan. Please. Please don’t sell me, Otōsan!” The girl was twelve or thirteen. She was putting up an admirable fight, her long black hair whipping as she tried to wrench herself from her father’s grip. “I can clean,” she screeched. “I will work hard. Harder than my brothers. No!”
They were dressed in the short robes of the hinin, Japanese who worked cleaning filth from the streets. They were untouchables. Outcasts.
“I’m sorry, Hanako,” her father said. “You fetched a good price. I’ve already been paid and spent the money.” He continued to drag her toward a string of leering men at the entrance to the most popular brothel on the strip.
Barakiel considered offering the men a huge sum of money for the girl, but they would think he had purchased her for a vile purpose. He couldn’t bear it.
Besides, to smash them will be much more fun.
In a bound, he caught up to the girl and her father. “Let her go,” he said, his deep voice booming over the channel and down narrows alleys between dark wooden shacks.
The father snapped his head up at the sound, took one look at Barakiel and ran away. The girl lay on the ground, evidently stunned. The gang of men by the brothel approached, shouting.
“You there, foreign devil. Stay away from our property! Get out of here.”
“This girl is no one’s property.”
“You don’t know who you’re tangling with, devil.” One of the men ran into the brothel. He emerged a moment later with two flush-faced samurai. Barakiel snorted.
They think a couple of drunk ronin will handle me?
The girl took her feet and was sensible enough to get behind him. He grinned at her then turned to meet the ronin, who rushed him with their katana drawn. With a burst of speed, he evaded their thrusting blades to swing to the side. He punched one in the side of the head, knocking him unconscious, into his drunk companion. They both fell to the ground. Barakiel picked up their swords, brandishing one in each hand. The still-conscious ronin scrambled out from under his friend and stumbled off.
By this time, the gang of men from the brothel had armed themselves with sticks, shovels and bricks. They kept their distance and threw their bricks at Barakiel, who swatted them away. He dropped the swords, not wanting to tempt his bloodlust. He walked toward them.
I will do this slowly. It will be more fun if they can see me coming.
When one man swung a shovel at him, Barakiel grabbed the shaft and yanked it free. He discarded the shovel then twirled, disarming them all with pinpointed blows to their hands. They looked at each other, bewildered. Barakiel spun the other way, striking with his hands and feet until every one of the men had fallen to a heap on the ground, groaning and cursing.
He turned to find the girl staring at him, holding the two katana.
“Are you planning to run me through?” he asked.
“No, sir,” she said. “But these are valuable.”
Barakiel chuckled. “Yes, they are. Now, girl, I suspect you cannot go home,” he continued. “Where would you like to go?”
“I don’t have anywhere to go.”
A few of the men managed to rise. Barakiel glanced at them. They hustled into the brothel. “Follow me,” he said to the girl. They went to the dock and climbed into a small craft. Barakiel snapped the line and shoved off. The boat went skittering across the channel until it banged into the mainland dock. Barakiel steadied the craft with his hand while the girl jumped ashore. He followed her, then swept her and her swords into his arms and barreled out of the city so fast she screamed.
When they had reached a quiet road leading south through the hills, he set her down. She was crying. She fell down and looked up at him, her lower lip quivering. “What was that?” she asked. “How did you do that?”
“Nevermind,” he said. “How would you like to live at a Buddhist monastery? The monks value compassion. I’m sure they will take you in. You can earn your keep. You can cook and clean for them.”
“Monks?” she said. “I like them. They are so peaceful.”
“Good. That settles it. We will reach the monastery in a few days. Unless you want me to go fast.”
“No, please. I was scared.”
He glanced at her fondly. They walked along in the faint starlight, listening to the chirps of small animals in the trees.
“Sir,” the girl said after some time. “May I ask you a question?”
“How could I refuse when you asked me so politely?”
“Are you kami?”
Barakiel laughed so uproariously that the girl jumped back and fell into the brush at the side of the road. Kami were the spirits and forces of nature worshipped in Shinto, the indigenous religion of Japan.
“No, I am not kami,” he said, helping her up. He tilted his head, squinting down at her. He had to leave Japan, as much as he loved its people and its aesthetic. Now that the Shōgunate had restricted foreigners to a small island in Nagasaki, he was far too conspicuous.
Why not tell a human the truth for once?
“But I can see why you would ask that. I am different, even from the other foreign devils. I am Covalent, a being from another world.” A thrill surged through him as he spoke. “You see the stars?” He gestured toward the sky. She nodded, her dark eyes big and round. “I come from a land behind the stars. My world is not far, but you cannot see it, like when the hills are hidden in mist.”
The girl opened her mouth, gazed up at the sky, closed her mouth, then looked back at Barakiel.
“You are kami,” she announced. “You are golden like the sun. Amaterasu-ōmikami must have made you.”
Barakiel sighed.
For all I know their goddess of the sun is a Covalent who came here once, more than happy to be thought a god.
“Very well, Hanako.”
She beamed and took his hand and they walked on through the soft night.
Courtesy of the New York Public Library 
Courtesy of the New York Public Library 
