B.R. Stateham's Blog, page 27

The Conundrum of Charlie Chan

A mystery, Eunice.  You know how I like a good mystery.  What mystery, you ask?  Why . . . the mystery about Charlie Chan, of course.

Charlie Chan, you ask.  What so mysterious about a Chinese detective from Hawaii?

This is the mystery, ole' girl.  The mystery is--how does a stalwart, upright, forward minded, honest Chinese cop like Charlie Chan become so reviled and so deeply held in contempt by his fellow Chinese today?  I mean, the fictional cop is like a Typhoid Mary to a whole group of people.  People who should be looking at Chan with admiration--along with the writer who cooked up the character in the first place, Earl Derr Biggers.

I mean---think about it, Eunice.  Biggers comes out with the first Charlie Chan novel, The House Without a Key, in 1925.  Now I know you think I'm ancient, Eunice.  But I ain't that old.  So I can't say I've had first-hand experience in the blatant racism Americans had for the Chinese in that era.  And that's the mystery, love.  Biggers--already an accomplished, and acclaimed, American writer--goes out of his way to create a police detective, a Chinese police detective living in Hawaii, that is just the opposite of the racial stereotypes most Americans had at that time.

Charlie Chan is intelligent, loyal, honest, astute.  And a damn good cop.  So good, in fact, his boss--a white American--thinks Chan is the best detective on the force.  If you read all six Chan novels you quickly notice two facts.  One, most whites look at Chan, in the beginning, as almost less than human.  They are skeptical a Chinese detective can solve a major case.  But the second thing you notice is--Chan's talent wins over his white peers.  His talent, and his infinite patience at confronting racism aimed in his direction with quite, soft--yet unquenchable determination to prove himself to one and all.

And this is the mystery to me.  Chinese-Americans should--we all should, for that matter--applaud and admire a character like this.  We should admire a writer like Biggers who took on racism head on and unflinchingly.  But most people don't.  That think of Chan as a stereotype.  A laughable clown.

And that's sad, Eunice.  Just said.  Charlie Chan . . . and his creator, Earl Derr Biggers . . . deserve better than that. 

Short story entitled, 'Silence.'

Thought I would share one of my Turner Hahn/Frank Morales stories.  One that I think came out particularly good.  One that shows that homicide detective Turner Hahn, a tough guy by anyone's standards, sometimes isn't so tough.

Turner his the one half of the Turner Hahn/Frank Morales homicide detective team.  Turner isn't your usual cop.  The same can be said about his partner. Frank Morales.

Turner looks like a '30's mantinee movie star.  But bigger.  Meaner.  For most of his adult life he's been a working stiff barely surviving on his paycheck.  But one day serendepity strikes.  He is given an inheritance.  A huge wad of cash that makes him very rich.

Yet he continues to be a cop.  A working cop.

Sometimes the job has its down side.  Hope you enjoy it

Silence



I walked into the kitchen, shrugged off the sport jacket and draped it over a chair, then slipped out of the shoulder holster and dropped gun, holster, and webbing on the kitchen table before moving over to the fridge. Reaching inside I pulled out a Boston Lager, flipped the cap off and sat down at the table. From underneath the sink I gripped a small gun-cleaning kit and tossed it onto the table top beside the holster before kicking a chair out from underneath the table and sitting down. Pulling out the 9 mm Kimber I slipped the clip out of the handle and ejected the single round in the firing chamber before laying the gun on the table.


And through all these little distractions I tried not to notice my hands were shaking.


Shaking violently.


Sipping some of the ice cold brew a little of the golden liquid slopped out of the bottle and splashed onto the table top. Setting the bottle down I placed my hands, palms down, onto the surface of the table and held them there. Held them there until they stopped shaking.


I live down in the warehouse district. Up in a long, narrow loft I converted into an apartment. I own the building. It's a big red brick dump not too far away from the Little Brown River. Used to be a mechanic's garage downstairs while the upstairs was used as a storage room. But I converted the loft into my living quarters and kept the garage downstairs for my toys. My car collect. I collect Muscle Cars. Have six of'em downstairs. And counting.


The nice thing about living in a loft down in the warehouse district is that there are no neighbors. There's no lawns to cut every Sunday afternoon. No kids goofing off in their swing sets or trying to run down old people walking on the sidewalks while cruising on their bicycles. No gossiping house wives sitting and talking quietly in the kitchen smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee as they exchange the latest bad news about their 'other' neighbors. No boozy ex-jocks lounging round in man-caves watching pro football smoking cigars and reliving youths they really never had.


None of that.


When I come home the district is empty. There's no truck traffic on the streets. No teenagers cruising around erratically. No mailman walking the sidewalks oblivious to the world around him. Just silence. Silence and emptiness. And there are times . . . like now . . . when I needed silence. When I needed space.


It all began twelve hours ago.


Frank and I were standing in front a Hispanic mother–a woman in her late forties, with a gaggles of small children clinging to her like she was the last life boat on a sinking ship–her hands covering her face and tears making her chubby cheeks glisten under the soft kitchen lights. She was beside herself in agony.


Frank's my partner in Homicide down at Southside Precinct. We've been working together as partners since dirt was invented. First as patrol officers and then as detectives. He's as big as a Himalayan mountain side with stringy, short, carrot colored hair and tiny little piggish eyes only a mother could love. But he's married to an Italian that's stunningly beautiful. And they have kids. Lots of kids.


Lots of . . . kids.


"They have my Jorge," the woman said between her quiet sobbing. "They took him last night and I haven't seen or heard from him since."


"Who is Jorge," Frank asked quietly. "And who are they?"






"He is my son. My oldest. Only fourteen, officers. Only fourteen. A nice boy. A good boy. But they wanted him. Wanted him to join their gang. Call themselves the Tenth Street Boys. They came and got him last night. Dragged him out of the house. Threatened me and my little ones. Said if I called the police they would come back and hurt all of us. But . . . but I fear for my Jorge."


We knew the Tenth Street Boys. Boys no more. A pack of wolves now. Snarling and deadly and muscling in on just about street crime they could get their hands on. Heavy into drug trafficking. Extortion. Murder. If they wanted Jorge bad enough to come and drag him out of his house there was more to the story than what the mother was telling us. Glancing at Frank I said nothing. But we both knew.


"Can you find my Jorge and bring him back to me? Please. Please, can you do that for me?"


We heard the pain in her voice. The fear. The ragged fear of perhaps knowing her Jorge was already dead–but she didn't want to admit it yet. Still held onto a sliver of hope. Looked at us with her big brown eyes filled with tears. Filled with a need for us to come to her son's rescue. So we told her we would find her Jorge. We would bring him back to her. Bring him back if at all possible.





"Over on the next block, Turn. Three members of a family found in their bedrooms. Dead. Shotgun blasts to their faces as the slept. Should be four bodies. Found only three."


"Who's missing?" Frank asked.


"Fifteen year old girl. She used to be the girlfriend for the leader of the Tenth Street Boys. But word has it she told him to fuck off about a week ago. Apparently the new guy doesn't take bad news too well."


"New guy? There's been a change?" I asked.


"Yep. Found Huey Johnson in an alley off Baxter with his throat cut and a bullet in his forehead. Rumor is the new guy didn't like Huey dissing him in front of the gang members. Decided there had to be a change in the leadership."


Jesus. Huey Johnson was one crazy sonofabitch. And mean. If someone took out Huey he had to be certifiable psychopath.


"Who's the new guy?" I asked.


For an answer Flattery glanced at the house and nodded his head in that direction before turning around and walking back to his black-and-white. Turning, I looked at Frank. All the big man could do was shake his head and shrug.


It went down like this.


The Tenth Street Boys owned a garage on the corner of Toledo and Benjamin Streets. The front part of the building was the garage. And like any garage it was littered with junk heaps waiting to be fixed and big open bay doors with cars and trucks up on lifts and people milling about inside. But the back of the building was the hang out for the gang members. Back there maybe ten or fifteen members could be found at any one time. Armed and dangerous. Packing enough fire power to take on a company of marines. It would be suicide for a cop to walk in there alone without backup–lots of backup–and check the place out.


So we called for backup and then drove over to the garage, just the two of us, to check out the place. Climbing out of the car about six of the members came strolling out of the garage. And in the middle of the pack was the new gang leader with a big grin on his young face. Beside him was a girl. A girl much younger than he was. A girl with bruises on her face and terror in her eyes.


"What the hell are cops doing down here in my neighborhood?"


"Came down to take the girl, scooter." Frank said, nodding toward the girl as we walked around to stand in front of the Mustang we were driving. "And to take you in as well. Seems like you've been a bad boy lately. Have some questions to ask you downtown. And then we need to take you home. Get you out of this bad influence."


"Take me downtown? For what? I haven't done anything. Get the fuck out of here before you two get hurt."


"Sorry, scooter. But we're here for the girl. And for you," I said, smiling and turning to stare into the face of a particularly large teenage male who carried himself like some kind of wannabe thug. "So how do you want to play it, Jorge. You're call."


Behind us came the rumble of a big diesel engine. Turning onto the street leading down to the garage appeared the blocky form of an armored truck with a bumper made of steel plate and about as wide as an aircraft carrier riding on its front.


"I'm not going anywhere! And I'd like to see . . . ."


"Shut up," Frank grunted, looking at the small kid named Jorge and not looking happy. "Tell your men to look at their chests."


"What?" the kid asked, blinking in confusion and starting to say something, but glancing at his men and suddenly growing very pale.


Plastered dead center on the chest of the six goons standing around Jorge and the girl were bright red laser dots–laser range finders from six snipers hidden from view. But close enough to drill each of the six with a 7.56 mm bullet with deadly accuracy.


"Make a wrong move and lot's of people are going to be hurt," I said, looking over at the fourteen year old killer and straight into his eyes. "And believe when I tell you you will be the first to go down."


"You wouldn't kill a kid," Jorge grinned, dropping his arm from the shoulder of the girl beside him.


"Think so?"


For several seconds I could see it in his eyes. For several seconds his dark brown eyes stared at me, blinked a couple of times, and then glanced over at Frank. Both Frank and I were standing with are feet slightly apart, our hands down by our sides. On either side of the kid his six goons looked scared shitless as they stared first at the red dots painted on their chest and then up and out toward where the dots were coming from.


But Jorge wasn't scared. He was grinning. Grinning, blinking his brown eyes, and thinking about doing something crazy. I could see he was going to do it. Going to test me.






He shoved the girl toward Frank violently as he dived behind one of his goons, a hand reaching up to yank a .357 out of the goon's blue jeans. The kid was fast. Very fast. But not quite fast enough. As he dived toward the ground, raising the Smith & Wesson up at the same time, my lift foot kicked the gun out of the kid's hand. A hand reached out, grabbed Jorge by the collar, and yanked him up to an upright position where it met the boney knuckles of my other hand as it smashed into the kid's face. The kid's eyes rolled up into his head but I didn't let him go. Twisting him around I pulled both of his hands behind his back and slapped cuffs on him before he shook the cobwebs out of his skull.


We arrested them all. Took their guns. Their dope. Their stolen goods. Took the terrified statement of the girl who had seen her family slaughtered. Booked them all for Murder One downtown. And after the paperwork was done I went home. Went to my loft. Went to drink a beer and clean my gun. And found my hands shaking. Shaking violently. Shaking at the thought of the carnage that might have happened.


Went home to sit alone and think about coming oh-so-close in killing a kid with my own hands.


I heard the collective thuds of several people climbing the wooden stairs leading up from the garage floor to the loft. I recognized the sounds. Frank. Frank and his entire family. Without knocking the Morales clan came striding into the kitchen with grins on their faces and plates of food in their hands.


"Thought we'd drop by and sit down and have supper with you," Frank grunted as he came over and laid a big hand on my shoulders.


"That sounds great, buddy. But right now I'd just like to be alone for awhile. "


"You big dope," Frank said, shaking his head but speaking surprisingly gentle to me. "When you gonna learn sitting in this dump alone isn't good for you? Especially so when you know you have family waiting for you. Besides, the little one has a present for you."


I turned and looked at little Bianca. Bianca Morales. Age six and the spitting image of her beautiful mother. She came walking up to me dressed in a dainty little blue dress, holding in her hands a big yellow envelope. She stood directly in front of me where I was sitting and looked up at me with her beautiful blue eyes and smiled.


"I made this for you, Uncle Turn. With my own hands."


It was a piece of paper with stick figures drawn in crayons on it. One stick figure was labeled 'Uncle Turn' on it. Above it was a big red heart drawn in a child's jagged script.


"Here, take it Uncle Turn."


A soft voice. A quiet child's voice. A tender voice. I dunno . . . for some reason I found myself choking up and my vision blurring. It was hard to breath. Wiping moisture from my eyes I reached down and took the card from her tiny little hands and then picked her up and held her in my arms.


And within me, like a violent thunderstorm suddenly erupting, my soul wept.

Recognize this famous writer?

Recognize this bloke, Eunice?  You don't?!  And you call yourself a fan of Fantasy and Science Fiction!

This good ole' Texas boy is Robert E. Howard .  In the 1930's he wrote lots of imaginative tales for the pulp magazines. Especially for one called Weird Tales . In fact it was this mag that got the man started in his brief writing gig.  Yeah, I know you may not be familiar with the guy's name.  But I'd bet your next alimony check, Eunice, you're quite familiar with one of Howard's fictional characters.

Conan the Barbarian.

Big guy with muscles bulging all over his body.  Wore a loin cloth all the time.  Had long brown hair falling past his shoulders.  Used a broad sword chopping down hundreds of his foes at a time.  Even a recent governor of California became an internationally know movie star thanks to Conan.

Conan as the more famous of Howard's many creations.  But Howard created a character earlier in his career that really is more intriguing, more mysterious, than his muscle bound freak show named Conan would ever be.  A dark character with lots of secrets.  A sinful man trying to make good for past sins.  The name of this character?  Solomon Kane .

Kane was a Puritan killer.  There's no other way to describe him.  You could call him a hunter.  His main occupation hunting Evil and dispensing Puritanical justice.  Which made sense, really, since Solomon Kane was a Puritan.  All of Howard's stories featuring Kane were set in the 17the Century--the prime time for Puritan dogma.   Howard wrote a number of short stories featuring this character--and in their time they were quite successful.  But for some reason Solomon Kane's name never developed the buzz . . . or the following . . . as his Conan the Barbarian did.

Which is too bad.  Kane had vastly more potential as a character.  If Howard had become as proficient writing novels as he did in writing short stories, maybe Kane would have become the famous entity and Conan as the also-ran.  But the troubled Howard never developed as a novelist.  Frankly he wasn't around long enough to become one.

The guy was a troubled man who committed suicide when he was 30 years old.  A waste.  A tragedy.  Many think Howard invented the Swords and Sorcery sub-genre found in Fantasy.   I have a tendency to agree with that summation.  Too bad imagination--and a trouble mind--seem to go glove-in-hand with so many brilliant writers.

Go up and ready about Howard's life on the link I left.  A fascinating read.  And then go to the library and find the stories featuring Solomon Kane.  You won't be disappointed.

Thought I would share one of my Smitty stories today. As...

Thought I would share one of my Smitty stories today.  As you may or may not know, Smitty is a dark-eyed hitman of, shall we say, rather unusual talents.  He's very intense in his profession.  Intense, yet with an unsual emotional streak running through his psyche.  Ocassionally he shows compassion.  Mercy.  And always he has this sense of biblical justice which sets him apart from others who work his trade.



Hope you enjoy it.











Something Deadly







In the dead of the night. An hour before dawn. The phone.





Suddenly demanding immediate attention.





Insisting.





"Yes,"





The voice is quiet. Measured. Unhurried. Almost a whisper. But there's something in the voice—something dark and lurking. Something deadly. Something incredibly deadly.





"Listen, Smitty. You got to stop him. Now—tonight! Before it's too late. Jesus Chirst, this is crazy. Fucking crazy!"





"Stop who?"





"Vinny. He's gone nuts. Ever since that cop arrested his brother and sent him up to prison. He's gone off his rocker. Got just enough alcohol in him to go nuts. He's gone. Said he's gonna make that fucking cop pay. Make'em all pay for screwing his brother over. Stop him, Smitty. Stop him before it's too late!"





"Where?"





"Cop lives on Melrose. That's all I know. But Smitty . . . listen. Vince says he's going to kill the cop's family first. One by one and make the cop watch. Took a friggin axe with him. He's gonna chop'em all to pieces, for chrissakes! I'm tellin'ya, Vince has flat gone off the deep end!"





Click. The phone went dead.





The night.





Cold. Moonless. Fog drifting in off the lowlands. Over empty city streets Smitty drove the car. Black leather gloves on his hands. Black eyes as dark as the ocean abyss. In the darkness of the Caddy Smitty makes no sound. Makes no effort to hurry. Yet the drive across town went by effortlessly. The six or more traffic lights clicking green every one the moment he entered the intersection.





Fate, brother. Fate.





The Angel of Death is Fate itself when he slips through the night looking for his prey.





The Caddy rolls to a quiet stop behind a large red GMC van sitting in front of 11159 Melrose Drive. The passenger side of the van is wide open—hanging from its hinges in the night after being angrily flung open. Rolling out of his car Smitty makes sure each black leather glove is on tightly as he walks around the car and steps up onto the sidewalk leading to the low slung, long ranch house. Eyeing the house Smitty circles around to the back yard—and finds a sliding glass door leading into the dining room wide open.





Darkness litters the interior of the house like a heavy blanket. But it is as if Smitty sees everything in the night as easily as he does in the daylight. Sliding in soundlessly he moves through the dining room—through the living room—turning to enter the long hall which will take him to the bedrooms of the sleeping family.





And pauses.





Ahead to his left he hears the half snoring, half wheezing of a man. Lying on the carpet in the middle of the bedroom door is a toy stuffed animal. Vinny is in one of the kid's rooms. Axe in both hands. Standing over the bed of a sleeping six year old blond waif. A tiny angel with a thumb stuck securely between her lips. Vinny leers. Vinny licks his lips, grips the axe firmly, and begins to lift it up and over his head. Suffer they will, this cop. Suffer and grieve for sending his brother to prison.





The axe, high in the air, vibrates with pent up rage as he gathers all his strength for the blow. With all his might he starts to hurl the axe toward the child's face, the mask of a grinning madman alit in Vinny's eyes.





From behind—from out of the blackness itself—a gloved hand reaches out and grabs the right wrist holding the descending axe blade. A grip as strong as the jaws of a Great White Shark. The gloved hand twists to one side violently and the pulls backward. The pain, flooding through the mind of the madman, is enough to buckle his knees and make him want to scream out in the night. But a second gloved hand comes out from nowhere, claps around his mouth, and yanks him back and away from the child.





In the darkness of the hallway they struggle. Angel of Death and Madness struggle. Veins on their necks and foreheads bulge. Twisting, staggering back, every ounce of strength both can muster being used to counter the other's hold. The seconds move slowly by. The short coughs of sudden breaths hurriedly taken the only sound the two struggling forms make.





But it ends. Ends with a sudden—definite—finality.





There is a sharp Crack! Like the sound of a thick tree branch suddenly being snapped in two. Instantly one of the black figures in the hallway goes limp and starts to collapse to the carpeted floor. But the second figure catches the falling body, bends down suddenly before standing up. Over his shoulders is the dead form of Vinny. Lifeless. Never to bother another soul. Turning, meaning to leave as silently as he came, Smitty stops in mid-stride and stares.





In the hall—for how long?—the dark form of a small child standing in the middle of the carpet and staring up into the night at the black forms in front of him. In one hand the child drags a small blanket behind him. In the other is a baby bottle stuck firmly to his lips. For several seconds child and the Angel of Death laden with his prize stare at each other. Neither sound does one make. It is Smitty who moves first. Stepping around the child, the corpse of Vinny over a shoulder, he makes his way down the hall, through the living room and to the open patio door waiting for him in the dining room. Behind him the child follows dragging his favorite blanket with him.





Closing the sliding glass door behind him Smitty takes two steps away from the house—pauses—and turns to look back at the child standing in the house peering out into the night. For several seconds each observes the other.





And then a light far into the house explodes into life.





"Chuckie! Chuckie! Are you sleep walking again?"





A woman's voice. A mother's voice. Filled with worry and love. Hurry she does to find the child standing beside the patio door staring out into the night. She bends down, folds child into loving arms, and stands up. As she do her eyes turn to stare out into the darkness of the back yard.





Nothing. Nothing.





Only darkness and the vague image of patio furniture and children's toys littering the patio landing.





"Let's put you back to bed, baby. There's nothing out there, hon. No monster out there to bother you tonight."





Sleep, child.





Sleep the sleep of the innocent.





Sleep, mother.





Sleep knowing Fate has been kind, this night, to you and yours.





For the Angel of Death never sleeps.

Thought I would share one of my Smitty stories today.&nbs...

Thought I would share one of my Smitty stories today.  As you may or may not know, Smitty is a dark-eyed hitman of, shall we say, rather unusual talents.  He's very intense in his profession.  Intense, yet with an unsual emotional streak running through his psyche.  Ocassionally he shows compassion.  Mercy.  And always he has this sense of biblical justice which sets him apart from others who work his trade.

Hope you enjoy it.





Something Deadly



In the dead of the night. An hour before dawn. The phone.


Suddenly demanding immediate attention.


Insisting.


"Yes,"


The voice is quiet. Measured. Unhurried. Almost a whisper. But there's something in the voice—something dark and lurking. Something deadly. Something incredibly deadly.


"Listen, Smitty. You got to stop him. Now—tonight! Before it's too late. Jesus Chirst, this is crazy. Fucking crazy!"


"Stop who?"


"Vinny. He's gone nuts. Ever since that cop arrested his brother and sent him up to prison. He's gone off his rocker. Got just enough alcohol in him to go nuts. He's gone. Said he's gonna make that fucking cop pay. Make'em all pay for screwing his brother over. Stop him, Smitty. Stop him before it's too late!"


"Where?"


"Cop lives on Melrose. That's all I know. But Smitty . . . listen. Vince says he's going to kill the cop's family first. One by one and make the cop watch. Took a friggin axe with him. He's gonna chop'em all to pieces, for chrissakes! I'm tellin'ya, Vince has flat gone off the deep end!"


Click. The phone went dead.


The night.


Cold. Moonless. Fog drifting in off the lowlands. Over empty city streets Smitty drove the car. Black leather gloves on his hands. Black eyes as dark as the ocean abyss. In the darkness of the Caddy Smitty makes no sound. Makes no effort to hurry. Yet the drive across town went by effortlessly. The six or more traffic lights clicking green every one the moment he entered the intersection.


Fate, brother. Fate.


The Angel of Death is Fate itself when he slips through the night looking for his prey.


The Caddy rolls to a quiet stop behind a large red GMC van sitting in front of 11159 Melrose Drive. The passenger side of the van is wide open—hanging from its hinges in the night after being angrily flung open. Rolling out of his car Smitty makes sure each black leather glove is on tightly as he walks around the car and steps up onto the sidewalk leading to the low slung, long ranch house. Eyeing the house Smitty circles around to the back yard—and finds a sliding glass door leading into the dining room wide open.


Darkness litters the interior of the house like a heavy blanket. But it is as if Smitty sees everything in the night as easily as he does in the daylight. Sliding in soundlessly he moves through the dining room—through the living room—turning to enter the long hall which will take him to the bedrooms of the sleeping family.


And pauses.


Ahead to his left he hears the half snoring, half wheezing of a man. Lying on the carpet in the middle of the bedroom door is a toy stuffed animal. Vinny is in one of the kid's rooms. Axe in both hands. Standing over the bed of a sleeping six year old blond waif. A tiny angel with a thumb stuck securely between her lips. Vinny leers. Vinny licks his lips, grips the axe firmly, and begins to lift it up and over his head. Suffer they will, this cop. Suffer and grieve for sending his brother to prison.


The axe, high in the air, vibrates with pent up rage as he gathers all his strength for the blow. With all his might he starts to hurl the axe toward the child's face, the mask of a grinning madman alit in Vinny's eyes.


From behind—from out of the blackness itself—a gloved hand reaches out and grabs the right wrist holding the descending axe blade. A grip as strong as the jaws of a Great White Shark. The gloved hand twists to one side violently and the pulls backward. The pain, flooding through the mind of the madman, is enough to buckle his knees and make him want to scream out in the night. But a second gloved hand comes out from nowhere, claps around his mouth, and yanks him back and away from the child.


In the darkness of the hallway they struggle. Angel of Death and Madness struggle. Veins on their necks and foreheads bulge. Twisting, staggering back, every ounce of strength both can muster being used to counter the other's hold. The seconds move slowly by. The short coughs of sudden breaths hurriedly taken the only sound the two struggling forms make.


But it ends. Ends with a sudden—definite—finality.


There is a sharp Crack! Like the sound of a thick tree branch suddenly being snapped in two. Instantly one of the black figures in the hallway goes limp and starts to collapse to the carpeted floor. But the second figure catches the falling body, bends down suddenly before standing up. Over his shoulders is the dead form of Vinny. Lifeless. Never to bother another soul. Turning, meaning to leave as silently as he came, Smitty stops in mid-stride and stares.


In the hall—for how long?—the dark form of a small child standing in the middle of the carpet and staring up into the night at the black forms in front of him. In one hand the child drags a small blanket behind him. In the other is a baby bottle stuck firmly to his lips. For several seconds child and the Angel of Death laden with his prize stare at each other. Neither sound does one make. It is Smitty who moves first. Stepping around the child, the corpse of Vinny over a shoulder, he makes his way down the hall, through the living room and to the open patio door waiting for him in the dining room. Behind him the child follows dragging his favorite blanket with him.


Closing the sliding glass door behind him Smitty takes two steps away from the house—pauses—and turns to look back at the child standing in the house peering out into the night. For several seconds each observes the other.


And then a light far into the house explodes into life.


"Chuckie! Chuckie! Are you sleep walking again?"


A woman's voice. A mother's voice. Filled with worry and love. Hurry she does to find the child standing beside the patio door staring out into the night. She bends down, folds child into loving arms, and stands up. As she do her eyes turn to stare out into the darkness of the back yard.


Nothing. Nothing.


Only darkness and the vague image of patio furniture and children's toys littering the patio landing.


"Let's put you back to bed, baby. There's nothing out there, hon. No monster out there to bother you tonight."


Sleep, child.


Sleep the sleep of the innocent.


Sleep, mother.


Sleep knowing Fate has been kind, this night, to you and yours.


For the Angel of Death never sleeps.

Finally, Roland of the High Crags is out. I love this s...

 Finally, Roland of the High Crags is out.  I love this series I am trying to write.  Fantasy with a different twist.  So, when Treastle Press agreed to re-issue the first novel, and agreed to possibly continue the series, I leapt at it with both feet flying.



Today, I thought I'd write a synopsis of the book.



For more than a thousand years Dragon and Man have been warring with each other.  A war fought for so long both have forgotten what Honor, Mercy, and Peace actually mean.



But not just mortal Dragon and Man war.  The gods themselves war against each other.  Dragon gods warring against the gods of Man.  A vicious war.  Each the nemesis of the other.  A war that stretches so far back in time no one remembers how it originated.



Therein lies the first mystery of the series.  The reasons why the war began in the first place.



Mankind has been pushed off the rolling plains and fertile valleys, their kingdoms destroyed, and forced to flee high into the snow capped mountain regions.  The high country offers Mankind their only refuge.  Dragons fear mountains.  Their supersititions and mythical stories tell them mountains have spirits that reside within powerful enough to destroy all.  So for a thousand-plus years Dragon and Man have fought every time Man descended from the high peaks--or when one or more daring Dragon lords decided to assault the heights.



But one year a human warrior/monk-wizard feels the stirrings of an ancient Evil.  Dragon prophecy says that one particular Dragon clan will rise again and wage war on mankind.  From this clan will be born a Dragon child--a female who possesses all the powers of the Netherworld.  And when she grows to adulthood, she will unify all the Dragon clans and lead them on the last great war against humanity.



The Netherworld is the supernatural world.  And Infinity.  And the River of Time.  It is where Evil resides.  It is where Knowledge resides.  Where the Past, Present, and the Future resides.  It is the source of magic.  Only a select few have the powers to tap the powers of the Netherworld.



Roland of the High Crags has that power.  A Bretan wizard and warrior monk, Roland has fought the Dragon all his life.  Confronted Evil whenever, and wherever, he has found it.  But when the day comes he discovers a dragon child is the promised Fifth Sister--the female child of the Dragon clan prophecised to come and destroy Mankind--he finds himself in an quandry.



Dragon prophecy says she is the weapon created by the Dragon gods to destroy Mankind.  His holy vows demand he destroy her.  Destroy prophecy.  But he hesitates.  She is only a child.  At the moment, an innocent child with no Evil residing in her heart.  To kill her would mean to destroy an innocent life.  His vows also forbid him from such an act.



To kill the child or not kill the child.  Roland finds himself in a most delicate situation.



But he also sees opportunity.  An idea awakes in his soul.  A way may be at hand which could end the endless warring between foes.  And the key to this offering for peace lies in the hands of the Dragon child.  The weapon designed by the Dragon gods themselves.



Essentially, could he take a Dragon weapon and turn it against those who had so carefully forged it into existence?  Could he destroy Dragon prophecy by using the ultimate Dragon weapon?  The plan is frought with dangers.  The child is already a powerful, but untrained, wizardress.  She has powers far stronger than his own.  Could he guide her, train her, to resist Dragon prophecy and become an ally?



We shall find out.  Interestingly, I don't know how the series is going to end.  Roland could very well lose his life.  Dragon prophecy might indeed be too strong to destroy.  Evil, in the end, could become the victor.



For, as any true believer of the Bretan Way knows;  Evil can never be destroyed.  Only momentarily defeated.

Finally, Roland of the High Crags is out. I l...

 Finally, Roland of the High Crags is out.  I love this series I am trying to write.  Fantasy with a different twist.  So, when Treastle Press agreed to re-issue the first novel, and agreed to possibly continue the series, I leapt at it with both feet flying.

Today, I thought I'd write a synopsis of the book.

For more than a thousand years Dragon and Man have been warring with each other.  A war fought for so long both have forgotten what Honor, Mercy, and Peace actually mean.

But not just mortal Dragon and Man war.  The gods themselves war against each other.  Dragon gods warring against the gods of Man.  A vicious war.  Each the nemesis of the other.  A war that stretches so far back in time no one remembers how it originated.

Therein lies the first mystery of the series.  The reasons why the war began in the first place.

Mankind has been pushed off the rolling plains and fertile valleys, their kingdoms destroyed, and forced to flee high into the snow capped mountain regions.  The high country offers Mankind their only refuge.  Dragons fear mountains.  Their supersititions and mythical stories tell them mountains have spirits that reside within powerful enough to destroy all.  So for a thousand-plus years Dragon and Man have fought every time Man descended from the high peaks--or when one or more daring Dragon lords decided to assault the heights.

But one year a human warrior/monk-wizard feels the stirrings of an ancient Evil.  Dragon prophecy says that one particular Dragon clan will rise again and wage war on mankind.  From this clan will be born a Dragon child--a female who possesses all the powers of the Netherworld.  And when she grows to adulthood, she will unify all the Dragon clans and lead them on the last great war against humanity.

The Netherworld is the supernatural world.  And Infinity.  And the River of Time.  It is where Evil resides.  It is where Knowledge resides.  Where the Past, Present, and the Future resides.  It is the source of magic.  Only a select few have the powers to tap the powers of the Netherworld.

Roland of the High Crags has that power.  A Bretan wizard and warrior monk, Roland has fought the Dragon all his life.  Confronted Evil whenever, and wherever, he has found it.  But when the day comes he discovers a dragon child is the promised Fifth Sister--the female child of the Dragon clan prophecised to come and destroy Mankind--he finds himself in an quandry.

Dragon prophecy says she is the weapon created by the Dragon gods to destroy Mankind.  His holy vows demand he destroy her.  Destroy prophecy.  But he hesitates.  She is only a child.  At the moment, an innocent child with no Evil residing in her heart.  To kill her would mean to destroy an innocent life.  His vows also forbid him from such an act.

To kill the child or not kill the child.  Roland finds himself in a most delicate situation.

But he also sees opportunity.  An idea awakes in his soul.  A way may be at hand which could end the endless warring between foes.  And the key to this offering for peace lies in the hands of the Dragon child.  The weapon designed by the Dragon gods themselves.

Essentially, could he take a Dragon weapon and turn it against those who had so carefully forged it into existence?  Could he destroy Dragon prophecy by using the ultimate Dragon weapon?  The plan is frought with dangers.  The child is already a powerful, but untrained, wizardress.  She has powers far stronger than his own.  Could he guide her, train her, to resist Dragon prophecy and become an ally?

We shall find out.  Interestingly, I don't know how the series is going to end.  Roland could very well lose his life.  Dragon prophecy might indeed be too strong to destroy.  Evil, in the end, could become the victor.

For, as any true believer of the Bretan Way knows;  Evil can never be destroyed.  Only momentarily defeated.

Magical Props in Fantasy

Magic swords.Or some other prop which has magical properties which, when wielded by the hero or the evil main character, carries along the story.  In movie Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon  we have The Green Destiny.  A magical sword that glows a slight green color when handled by a master swordsman.  In the Lord of the Rings novels and movies we have the evil forged ring everyone seems to be compelled to posses.
Props.
I don't know if I am for them or against them.  But I do know that in my fantasy series called Roland of the High Crags a magical sword is indispensable in the overall plot.  The sword is, like the photo above, a scimitar.  But a strange weapon indeed.  It is made of an extremely odd metal that has the color of brightly polished bronze only a few select owners of the weapon can see.  Down the length of the blade, on both sides, is blue lettering of a language long dead and forgotten.  But lettering that, when confronted with genuine evil, visibly moves.  The blade is called Helshvingar.  The Killer of Evil.
The blade has that name for a reason.  Which, ultimately, will be revealed.
Ah.  But is the sword magical?
I think in my last blog I said I've never been really impressed with ordinary fantasy novels.  Magic, dragon, warlocks--all of it.  My dream has always been to write something 'magical' and turn it--eventually--into hard science fiction.  So instead of writing a 'fantasy' novel--it eventually turns into 'heroic' science-fiction.
Like an illusionist I'm trying to weave an act that looks like magic.  But in reality it is nothing but a slight-of-hand magic trick.  Done expertly in front of an audience it creates that 'Wow!' effect.  Okay; that's my challenge.  Write a series with the same set of principals in hand and create that 'Wow!' effect for the reader.

Writing Fantasy and Science Fiction

Yes, I write fantasy and science fiction as well.  Dark stuff when it comes to fantasy.  The series I've been trying to get up and running for the last few years, Roland of the High Crags, is really dark.  Almost brooding in nature.  As I think good fantasy could be--dark and brooding.To be honest, Eunice, I've never been a fan of the traditional fantasy novel.  Over the years one epic series has began to sound like the last one I read.  The quest story in fantasy, as it seems all fantasy novels are, can get boring.  Boring and predictable.
And Eunice, dear--boring and predictable is the death knell for any book.  Or series.
So I wanted to create a series dressed in the garments of the traditional quest story; but make it far, far more complex.  I wanted to create a 'hero' who was, occasionally, not so heroic.  He had his flaws.  Tragic flaws.  He struggles to keep himself on the straight-and-narrow of his religious order's training.  But situations happen which makes him slip dangerous close to the Dark Side (how's that for a Star Wars hint, Eunice?)
And magic; what's this with unlimited magic without consequences?  Or limitations?  How about if we make magic like a kind of narcotic--the more you use, the closer you step to the edge of that abyss we call insanity.  How about if we created a place where all supernatural powers originate from.  Where the River of Time flows endlessly.  Where the Past, the Present, and the Future all reside in the same place.  Where, if you had the magical touch, you could meet . . . . you . . . from the past, present, or future and out of a myriad of different universes.
What if we created a fantasy series where both friendship--and treachery--walked hand in hand with each other.  Where enemies might prove to be the most devout of stalwart friends and allies--and normal friends and allies were all too likely to stab you in the back.
Hmm . . . . .see what I'm driving at, dar'lin?
Traditional fantasy that is not so traditional.  That's Roland of the High Crags.  A warrior/monk/wizard who is asked by a dying dragon nobleman to promise him he, Roland, would safe and raise his last remaining heir to his barony; a dragon female child of seven.  An innocent, naive child.  For now.  But soon--very soon--she could be something else.  Something not so innocent.  Not so naive.
Ah, Eunice old girl, when was the last time you read a fantasy novel that promised so much intrigue and moody subterfuge?  Yes . . . yes, grab another bottle of beer and let's talk about writing fantasy novels that make you want to stop and think about what's been revealed as you read.
And don't forget the pretzels, hun.

Guest Blogging: Ben Sobieck

I've know Ben Sobieck now for over a year.  Ben's a gifted writer who has a book recently published by Trestle Press in both ebook format and in traditional print.  Called Cleaning Eden, it is a powerful novel about drugs, addiction, murder, and charismatic personalities who prey upon those in need of something . . . or someone . . . to believe in.

Ben's pinned a formula on how to write a novel/characters.  Put in it mathmatic formulas.  Interesting (and I wish I got past basic Arithmatic in the fifth grade).

Take a peak at it.  Tell us what you think .

"A Literal Formula for Creating Quirky Characters"

by Benjamin Sobieck

At the end of the day, everything is numbers. Even as I type this, the letters are represented as numbers in the computer. They stack up into patterns called formulas. Therefore, everything is a formula.

Is there even a formula for building a quirk into a character? I think so. But this "formula" is usually thrown around as a figure of speech. (i.e. "The characters in that Sobieck guy's latest book are so formulaic, I was surprised when they DIDN'T drink beer in church.")

However, I think the figurative expression can be express as a literal algebraic equation.

Here's my non-scientific scientific-sounding attempt at that:

((W - X) * Y) / Z = C

The algebra breaks down like this:

W = A stereotypical set of character traits. If the character is a private investigator, there are certain things you can expect. X represents the most literal, written-in-stone expectations.

X = The under-ability or over-ability to do something. This doesn't have to be a flaw per se. It also could be a trait that conflicts with the stereotypes in Y. For example, a hit man who doesn't use weapons.

Y = An environmental factor that exacerbates the difference of (W - X). It's no good to have a quirk that doesn't get exploited to the full measure possible. From the example above, the hit man would be tasked to take down a samurai armed like a walking tank. In a gun store.

Z = A grounding force. Whatever the equation equaled up to this point, it is offset by Z ever so slightly. This could be supporting characters that help mitigate the effects of our quirky character. Think of the stereotypical boss screaming, "You're a loose cannon, buy a damn pistol already," at the hit man over the telephone.

C = Your quirky character. Call him Biff, won't you? Biff the Quirky Hit Man.

Plugging those variables into the equation to create Biff would look like this:

((Hit man - doesn't use weapons) * samurai) / Overbearing boss = Biff the Quirky Hit Man

Here's another example using a character most everyone knows:

((Private detective - really smart and addicted to drugs) * Fame) / Watson = Sherlock Holmes

Now plug some of your favorite quirky crime fiction characters into this equation. Does it work?

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Benjamin Sobieck is the author of the crime novel, "Cleansing Eden," and numerous flash fiction pieces. His website is CrimeFictionBook.com.