P.S. Baber's Blog, page 3
October 13, 2010
Prologue and Metalogue from Cassie Draws the Universe....
Prologue
Approximately nine months from now, the body will be found soaking in a pool of tepid blood on the wood-paneled floor of a nondescript, two-story, pale blue house. The blood will have escaped the body through an artificial orifice created by a .357 caliber bullet exploding through the back of the head. Though there will be no sign of forced entrance, tables and chairs will be found overturned. A telephone will hang limp from the wall. Upon the kitchen counter will sit an open, empty box wrapped in red cellophane and a white bow. Next to it will lie an opened manila envelope.
Metalogue
The town was dying.
Everyone knew this, of course, but no one discussed it openly. Not in polite company. The words were unnecessary, as is always the case when such knowledge is held in common by so many. Instead of speaking, the people shared their sentiments in more subdued ways, such as a knowing nod at the market or a sympathetic stare cast across a row of half-empty pews during worship on any sullen Sunday morning. These were the only words the people knew to use, and, for most intents and purposes, they sufficed.
Among the elder inhabitants, knowledge of the town’s fate manifested itself as a sort of ineffable, gray sorrow that tinged the corners of their deteriorating consciousnesses, invading the spaces left behind by an ever-dulling sense of self-awareness. Failure and remorse rested heavily on the slumping shoulders of these once proud men and women. And for this reason, in small, antiseptic green rooms, they huddled together quietly and ignored as best they could the poorly concealed disappointment that each expressed through his or her own dim eyes and short, shallow breaths.
The children of that elder remnant—those who had not yet joined the exodus—actively fought against the town’s inevitable demise. Habitually, they came together under colorful banners inscribed with pithy slogans to discuss the matter over coffee and cake. They convened meetings with individuals who believed themselves to be men and women of consequence. They devised and revised plans and schemes. And despite a paucity of tangible or measurable results, these men and women never ceased to meet, and plan, and tilt at windmills.
The young of the town, preoccupied with their own germinating angst, which each possessed in varying degree (though few were ever fully aware of its existence), felt no particular connection to the land, its people, its structures, or its history. As such, they had no inclination to defend its invisible borders from declared enemies within or without. They desired only escape from this small village, which each viewed as an existential prison built upon the antiquated expectations of their parents and their parents’ parents. And because of their invisible bondage, the young of this town were possessed by a quiet rage. But this rage laid torpid and inert within them, dulled to sleep by the tired repetition of nothing happening over and over and over again, day after day after day.
This is the story of one of those young people, and the terrible things that happened to her, and the terrible things she did as a result.
Approximately nine months from now, the body will be found soaking in a pool of tepid blood on the wood-paneled floor of a nondescript, two-story, pale blue house. The blood will have escaped the body through an artificial orifice created by a .357 caliber bullet exploding through the back of the head. Though there will be no sign of forced entrance, tables and chairs will be found overturned. A telephone will hang limp from the wall. Upon the kitchen counter will sit an open, empty box wrapped in red cellophane and a white bow. Next to it will lie an opened manila envelope.
Metalogue
The town was dying.
Everyone knew this, of course, but no one discussed it openly. Not in polite company. The words were unnecessary, as is always the case when such knowledge is held in common by so many. Instead of speaking, the people shared their sentiments in more subdued ways, such as a knowing nod at the market or a sympathetic stare cast across a row of half-empty pews during worship on any sullen Sunday morning. These were the only words the people knew to use, and, for most intents and purposes, they sufficed.
Among the elder inhabitants, knowledge of the town’s fate manifested itself as a sort of ineffable, gray sorrow that tinged the corners of their deteriorating consciousnesses, invading the spaces left behind by an ever-dulling sense of self-awareness. Failure and remorse rested heavily on the slumping shoulders of these once proud men and women. And for this reason, in small, antiseptic green rooms, they huddled together quietly and ignored as best they could the poorly concealed disappointment that each expressed through his or her own dim eyes and short, shallow breaths.
The children of that elder remnant—those who had not yet joined the exodus—actively fought against the town’s inevitable demise. Habitually, they came together under colorful banners inscribed with pithy slogans to discuss the matter over coffee and cake. They convened meetings with individuals who believed themselves to be men and women of consequence. They devised and revised plans and schemes. And despite a paucity of tangible or measurable results, these men and women never ceased to meet, and plan, and tilt at windmills.
The young of the town, preoccupied with their own germinating angst, which each possessed in varying degree (though few were ever fully aware of its existence), felt no particular connection to the land, its people, its structures, or its history. As such, they had no inclination to defend its invisible borders from declared enemies within or without. They desired only escape from this small village, which each viewed as an existential prison built upon the antiquated expectations of their parents and their parents’ parents. And because of their invisible bondage, the young of this town were possessed by a quiet rage. But this rage laid torpid and inert within them, dulled to sleep by the tired repetition of nothing happening over and over and over again, day after day after day.
This is the story of one of those young people, and the terrible things that happened to her, and the terrible things she did as a result.
October 12, 2010
To Learn More About Cassie....
... go to www.cassiedrawstheuniverse.com
You can find links to purchase, reviews, excerpts, etc. Also, I am available to speak to book clubs, so if you might be interested, please contact me and book early as I don't know what my availability will look like for long.
psb
You can find links to purchase, reviews, excerpts, etc. Also, I am available to speak to book clubs, so if you might be interested, please contact me and book early as I don't know what my availability will look like for long.
psb
Excerpt for Cassie Draws the Universe
I attempted to upload a preview of Cassie Draws the Universe in epub format to goodreads... but I failed miserably. So if anyone would like to read the first few pages of the book, go to http://cassiedrawstheuniverse.com/exc...
psb
psb
