Sean Sweeney's Blog, page 2
June 27, 2020
Inside the characters of GLORIOUS SLIP
Over the last few weeks, I've let you know about the pre-order for Glorious Slip as well as gave you a chapter snippet that you can peruse at your leisure.
Today, I'm going to tell you about the characters.
Characters are so important to any story; we see through their eyes, we feel what they are experiencing. And in Glorious Slip , the characters are on the verge of the American Revolutionary War, so there's plenty to see and feel as they go about their lives.
Nick Smith
Nick is our protagonist. He is a 21st Century boy who loves American history, and little does he know as our story opens that he's about to live it. Nick is a tall young man from Fitchburg, Mass., and he looks to keep the Wood Family safe when he arrives in 1765. He meets a young lady whose mother dies soon after his arrival, and he must navigate through early family squabbles while debating with himself about telling the young lady the truth. He bears witness to several key points in history during this series.
Constance Wood
Constance is the aforementioned young lady. She helps manage the Wood Farm after her mother Wilma's passing, and falls for the handsome stranger that her mother has hired. She accepts Nick's word pretty much as gospel, and after marriage, does her level best to support him in every decision he makes... like witnessing a pivotal moment in American history that could, if the shots go errant, kill him.
Samuel Adams
One of the heroes of the American Revolution, Adams lives near the Wood Farm and meets Nick in the intervening minutes following Wilma Wood's passing. He invites Nick to join the Sons of Liberty, as well as doing a number of tasks for him. The two men are close, as if Samuel knows the truth about Nick.
Henry Knox
At 15 years old, a young supporting character that rises to do great things for his country in due time. Henry is a bookseller in Colonial Boston during this time, and he meets up with Nick every so often to converse. Nick, even though he's older, holds young Henry in high esteem -- and for good reason.
John Wood
Our main antagonist in the story. John is the oldest surviving male at the Wood Farm, and he is an arrogant bastard. He is kicked out of the family, and he eventually gets his revenge. Is a Crown Loyalist among Colonists upset at the continued taxation.
Colton Wood
At first Colton is on Nick's side, but after one particular event, he turns on his siblings and Nick to join John's side. Both become Customs Commissioners and welcome the embargo of Boston.
And there are more where this comes from.
Reserve your copy at the links below in time for its July 1 release:
Amazon USAmazon UKNookKoboiBooks (coming soon)
Smashwords
www.seansweeneyauthor.com
June 17, 2020
A First Glimpse: A chapter of GLORIOUS SLIP
With just under two weeks to go until Glorious Slip is live (July 1!) for only 99 cents, I'd like to give you a glimpse into the book with one chapter of the story.
I hope you enjoy, and after reading, I hope you pre-order your copy at the links provided. And just so you know, you can order the paperback and read it before the ebook goes live. I'm just saying.
#####
Nick flailed his arms as his head broke the surface some eight-to-ten seconds after colliding with it. A lacy cloud poured from his mouth as he gasped, taking in the cool air through wet lips. He bobbed slightly, his chin and mouth ducking underneath the surface. He choked as he noticed water had flowed in with that initial bob, his gag reflex kicking in as the panic instantly swept through him.
The water inside him didn’t get out fast enough: Nick managed to spit it out in a torrent.
Yuck, Charles River water! he cried internally. Charles River water in my mouth! The worst! Fuck, god-damn it, stay out of my belly!
The coughs racked his clenched chest as he tried treading water, swinging his arms back and forth and letting his shod feet kick out beneath the surface. He felt the chill nibbling against his face even as the water lapped against him, and he did quick math.
If I climb out of wherever the hell I am, he thought, then I’m going to catch a pneumonia. But if I stay in here, wherever here is, then I’ll turn into an icicle and die. He exhaled; another cloud spilled and twisted away to nothingness. The thoughts stemmed from a long lost memory: he was in his single digits back then, and the stubborn little boy wouldn’t get out of the local YMCA pool following a swimming lesson — the air outside the pool was too cold that day, he recalled, leading to his continual bobbing and subsequent demerit as soon as someone yanked him from the water. The latter, though, emerged from his ceaseless watching of Titanic around the same time. The decisions I have to make.
Nick tried to calm himself even as he remained buoyant. He tried to breathe normally, even as the cold water surrounded him and made his heart thump quicker than usual. He shook his head and blinked his eyelids, if only to make sure no stubborn droplets clung.
Up ahead, Nick noticed the moonlight dancing on the water, as well as what looked like a rather curved land mass just beyond it. He made out a few rocks on what he felt was a jetty, much like the one in Provincetown, since he couldn’t see over it. He guessed the jetty was only about one hundred feet away, which he figured would only take a few strokes of his water-logged jacket to reach.
Nick nodded, all as he shivered. He used both hands to displace the water in front of him, the motion countering the knife-like pains shooting through him. The cold seeped into his brain, which forced him to concentrate on getting to shore.
God, if you get me through this, he thought, I’ll go to church on Sunday. I don’t know where, but I’ll get there. Jesus Christ, this is cold.
The distance between Nick and the jetty dwindled over the next few chill-induced minutes until he felt safe enough to set his feet on the sloping scree. He closed his eyes as he hit the shallower waters and hefted himself up onto his quivering legs. Nick took three sloshing steps before he hit his knees on a somewhat un-rocky area, pulling his soaked body ashore. He kept his head bowed as he breathed, his eyes closed. His breath tingled as it escaped, caressing his cheeks like a lover.
Even as the water behind him stilled from his motions after a few moments, he heard the collision of beads against the rock, as if his harrowing ordeal gave him extra-sensory perception. He knew that wasn’t true, but with every drip from his hair to the rock, it resembled the slow pop of bacon frying on medium-low heat.
Nick blew out another long breath between pursed lips, all while the blood rampaged in his ears; he wanted to groan as he felt the sides of his head develop their own heartbeat, but he stifled himself.
The shivering — much like he had feared in that pool at the Y — started soon after.
“Warm,” he managed to spit. “Need to get warm.” Another breath vomited from deep within. “Need to get warm now.”
His teeth started their repeated chattering as the cold slowly moved deeper into him. He tried to think of warmth, if only to trigger a psychosomatic response within him. He thought of the Florida Keys where his wizened second cousin once removed had lived before he died a year ago, and how the old man had showed him where all the twenty-something co-eds skinny-dipped in a private cove off the Caribbean. Nick tried to get his lips to respond to that memory, to no avail.
He thought of sitting in a sauna, the steam canvassing its depths as he waited for a lovely co-ed or a twenty-something like himself to enter, her dirty blonde hair pulled up into a teacher-like bun, and subsequently drop her towel, exposing herself to his gaze, all while a mischievous smile played all over her face. He felt a bit of heat radiate from his groin.
Still, it wasn’t enough. He grimaced as he stood, his body trembling from the cold, and tried looking out in a 360-degree pattern, all as his clothes clung to him like a second skin.
“Where the hell am I?” he asked.
It was a good question, he had to admit. He saw nothing resembling lights in any direction, only the darkness of distant hills reflecting the moonlight. One looked impossibly high for Boston.
If I’m still in Boston, he thought. There are no lights anywhere, no sign of lights atop the skyscrapers. Maybe I got carried all the way over to Nahant? Nick shook his head, thinking it impossible. Even if I did, I would see something resembling life here, or some streetlights. He raised his hand. This isn’t life. The stars ain’t streetlights.
Nick turned and sat down, taking the opportunity to look out at the moon and where he had emerged from the water — or where he had dropped into it.
That vortex, or whatever the fuck it was, carried me a long way from Boston, that’s for sure, Nick thought with a few bobs of his head. The chills returned, even though there was no wind to be had. He instinctively wrapped his arms tight around himself, if only to try to withhold as much warmth as he had within his body for as long as possible. His jacket felt heavy, even in a sitting position. Then it dropped me, right here, into whatever this is. He stared out at the moon’s reflection before letting a tenuous swallow slip into his gullet.
Nick soon felt numb, as if he’d never feel warm again.
God, don’t let me freeze here, he thought, all as the darkness closed in on him.
***
He didn’t freeze.
Nick awoke just as a strengthening sun rose over his right shoulder. Pushing himself up, he detected a weight against his right cheek; he brushed the gravel and dirt aside, then rubbed the excess off with his fingertips until he felt sure he had a somewhat clear face. The shivering didn’t exactly return at once, though; seeing the sun so bright and unencumbered by practically anything made his heart swell double its size. He smiled, even though it hurt his flesh to do so.
The smiling, though…
Nick groaned reflexively, all as the sides of his head continued their incessant thrum. He swallowed, even though his saliva dragged down a parched throat with the effectiveness of rubbing sandpaper against a sheet of damp particleboard.
“I shouldn’t have drunk that much on an empty stomach,” he mused. “One would think I would have learned that lesson by now. Oy.”
He managed to get to his feet, the air pockets snapping inside his knees — he groaned — and looked toward the rising sun, holding his hands out in welcome, trying to draw in all the heat. He kept his eyes closed, the exhilaration at the warm touches seeping into his flesh. Nick shoved his shoulders back, the stiffness in his lower back giving way; he let another groan fly. A renewed vigor seeped into his joints with every deep, salt-infused breath; he wanted to stay there until he deemed himself adequately warm and dry from the mid-evening plunge, but he knew he had to find a way home, back to his off-campus apartment. He had class in only a few hours, and he needed to put the finishing touches on his discussion paper before handing it in. If there was anything he felt especially proud about, it was his penchant to stick to deadlines.
His thoughts about meeting it dissolved as soon as his eyes widened.
He had turned ninety degrees to his right. In that simple gesture, that simple movement, he finally got a good look at his surroundings.
The gasp rippled from Nick’s mouth as he took it all in, all while shuddering in quiet disbelief. In the full light of day, unencumbered by the veil of night, he looked out and just from the sight alone, he knew right away that he was not in Boston any longer — but he couldn’t place where on Earth he now stood, either. For a moment, he thought the vortex, or whatever it was, had flung him halfway across the state, yet he wiped the thought clear even as it came to him: even in the rural towns beyond Sturbridge, the roads were paved and well maintained.
Here, wherever the hell here was, they weren’t. The roads looked incredibly narrow, far narrower than anything he had experienced in his life, and puddles dotted the ways, darkening the dirt and softening it.
He saw sturdy constructions here and there, some nearly on top of their neighbors. He saw red brick forming the façade of each, yet the roofing, from his rather distant vantage point, looked rather primitive. Large pastures full of green and blooming flowers flanked the rearsides of these buildings — he felt sure they were dwellings, for a light gray smoke trickled from well-used chimneys — with livestock munching away at a fence abutting the nearby road.
Yet his eyes grew even larger as he set his gaze on the recognizable dark mountain from last night. Unmistakable, there were paths carved into it, and even from this distance, about a mile or so away, maybe even less, he saw several different things scurrying about its side.
He swallowed. He hoped they were friendly, and that they’d have an idea of how to get back to Boston from here.
Am I in Amish country? he added as an afterthought. That’s the only explanation as to where I am. I’m hanging with the fucking Amish.
Nick walked away from the shoreline and wandered down a house-less lane, taking great care not to sink into the mud. A light pile of snow caressed the side of it, caked in the same stuff on which he now stood. It was no more than five inches high at the base of the long fence, which he noticed was built almost in an X pattern between the fat posts set ten feet apart. He had seen fences constructed like that during field trips to Old Sturbridge Village during his high school years.
And on days warmer than this, too, he thought as he shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and pulled it closer to his belly. Thankfully, I didn’t catch pneumonia, unless I did, I’m dead now, and this is whatever paradise is supposed to be. Although I have to say I didn’t think paradise would be this muddy, or have the remnants of a winter storm on the side of the road, but hey, who am I, really?
Nick turned right onto a wider boulevard, this one just as muddy as the last. He noticed several piles of horse droppings smack dab in the middle, and he immediately side-stepped the first batch. In doing so, he almost stepped in the second, missing it by mere centimeters.
He let go of a throaty grunt and refrained from pulling the back of his wrist against his brow.
“So much for looking at the scenery,” he muttered, “of which there is none. Have to watch out for landmines instead.” Nick twisted his lips in disgust. “Crap.”
He continued his impromptu morning stroll, the sun clearly behind him. His shadow remained tight to him, he saw, while he tried to find the source of chickens cooing nearby. His sneakers only sank by a couple of millimeters in the loose mud; the corners of his mouth sank that amount, too.
Definitely Amish, Nick thought as he firmed his jaw and nodded his head.
“Are you lost?” a voice called from behind.
Nick whipped around and found a matronly woman standing several feet away. She had the look of Mary Poppins, but with light wrinkles near the corners of her eyes. The woman’s dress was well worn and not a bright navy, and she carried a rather large bag on her arm that was just as well-worn as her clothes. Her gaze pierced him, as if doing so with a great deal of scrutiny.
Surely she’s looking at my damp clothing and wondering if she should call the police, he thought. Yet now that I think about it, maybe I should be the one calling police. She certainly doesn’t look like she belongs in, well, my time — unless she’s Amish, of course.
“Yeah,” he replied softly. “I don’t know where I am.”
The woman approached cautiously. Her head tilted to the left as she halted practically in front of him.
“Are you looking for work, by any chance?”
Nick blinked. He didn’t understand the question, nor did he understand why she continued to shower him with that intrusive look. He wanted to say, “No, I’m looking for a way home because I’m going to miss class,” but he wasn’t sure if she would understand that — especially if she were Amish; ending one’s schooling in the eighth grade sounded too foreign to him, and he didn’t have much time left to get his degree.
What he did after that was purely up to the job market. He had thought about teaching history at a high school — his alma mater was in the process of phasing his old history teacher out, given that he neared 70 and really didn’t want to slow down, despite the superintendent’s misgivings about the man’s age and drinking problems — but wondered if teaching at a middle school was a safer bet.
“I don’t really know?” He didn’t try to hide his anxiety, at least not in his voice. Did she want him to work as her private dancer, a take-it-off kind of boy? As a masseur? “Don’t really think I’m looking for a job, but I think I’m open to anything?”
“I have a farm that needs a hand,” the woman said. “My husband passed away a few weeks ago; murdered, actually —”
Nick blinked again at her forwardness. Who is so open about such things? Christ, if my pseudo-wife was murdered — okay, let’s not go that far. I don’t even have a girlfriend, the woman in the bar with the skin-tight dress notwithstanding. It’s been a while since I’ve had a true blue lady in my life, one that actually wants to Netflix and Chill with me. But I don’t believe I’d be telling total strangers that my spouse was recently murdered and that my farm is looking for a hand, but what do I know?
“I’m so sorry to hear that, ma’am, but I’m not a farmer. Really,” he said as soon as the woman’s sadness and her own anxiety rippled, “I’m just a student of history.”
“Oh,” the woman replied. “It would be nice to have someone to give my son a hand. Lord knows my eldest remaining son doesn’t know which end of a hoe goes in the ground. Too busy playing politics.”
“I’m sorry, eldest remaining son?”
He knew he shouldn’t have asked, but it came out too fast, even before his brain had the opportunity to put his tongue on lockdown. But since she was being so open and honest, he might as well pry even more information from her.
“Yes, my eldest first-born son died in the war. Left us in a right pickle, not his fault of course, and now with my husband gone and our youngest ones doing what they can, we could use a man of strength around our farm, especially with John, the eldest remaining son, that is, being such a useless Crown sympathizer.”
Nick tilted his head by a fraction of an inch at hearing those last words and tried to process what it meant. He had never heard the words “Crown sympathizer” outside of his classes — not even in the small work groups the professor wanted did he heard those words flung about in such haphazard fashion — and hadn’t considered using them in any every day conversation.
“I’m sorry — did you just say Crown sympathizer?” he asked, growing aware that he felt a numbness near his shoulders, his flesh tingling.
“I did. My son thinks George, king for all of nearly four and a half years now, is the bee’s knees, if that’s the proper saying. Glory in the name of Britain indeed. Boy wishes he could live in London. If we could afford it, I would have put his powdered wig-loving self on an outgoing ship and made sure he stays in that dirty little town long before now. But no, the Sugar Act hurt us, even though he says it was necessary.”
Nick tried to move his lips, but he heard nothing emerge from his throat, other than a light gurgle. He thought he was in the midst of choking, or worse, having a stroke, but he didn’t feel his left arm going completely numb, or that the side of his face sloped, as if his skin and flesh wanted to fall off his skull. None of that was happening, but he realized that he didn’t feel so good.
He tried to process everything the widow woman had said, and it made his mind spin: from her eldest son being killed in the war to Crown sympathizing eldest-remaining son, to George — certainly she can’t mean Prince William’s son, right? he wondered — but what really threw him for a loop was her casual mention of the Sugar Act. That meant —
Nick never got the words out. He felt his eyelids shoot back into his skull, all while his legs lost all connectivity with his brain.
He toppled hard as they gave way, and saw nothing else.
#####
Thanks for reading! You can reserve your copy at the links below.
Amazon USAmazon UKNookKoboiBooks (coming soon)Smashwords
I hope you enjoy, and after reading, I hope you pre-order your copy at the links provided. And just so you know, you can order the paperback and read it before the ebook goes live. I'm just saying.
#####
Nick flailed his arms as his head broke the surface some eight-to-ten seconds after colliding with it. A lacy cloud poured from his mouth as he gasped, taking in the cool air through wet lips. He bobbed slightly, his chin and mouth ducking underneath the surface. He choked as he noticed water had flowed in with that initial bob, his gag reflex kicking in as the panic instantly swept through him.
The water inside him didn’t get out fast enough: Nick managed to spit it out in a torrent.
Yuck, Charles River water! he cried internally. Charles River water in my mouth! The worst! Fuck, god-damn it, stay out of my belly!
The coughs racked his clenched chest as he tried treading water, swinging his arms back and forth and letting his shod feet kick out beneath the surface. He felt the chill nibbling against his face even as the water lapped against him, and he did quick math.
If I climb out of wherever the hell I am, he thought, then I’m going to catch a pneumonia. But if I stay in here, wherever here is, then I’ll turn into an icicle and die. He exhaled; another cloud spilled and twisted away to nothingness. The thoughts stemmed from a long lost memory: he was in his single digits back then, and the stubborn little boy wouldn’t get out of the local YMCA pool following a swimming lesson — the air outside the pool was too cold that day, he recalled, leading to his continual bobbing and subsequent demerit as soon as someone yanked him from the water. The latter, though, emerged from his ceaseless watching of Titanic around the same time. The decisions I have to make.
Nick tried to calm himself even as he remained buoyant. He tried to breathe normally, even as the cold water surrounded him and made his heart thump quicker than usual. He shook his head and blinked his eyelids, if only to make sure no stubborn droplets clung.
Up ahead, Nick noticed the moonlight dancing on the water, as well as what looked like a rather curved land mass just beyond it. He made out a few rocks on what he felt was a jetty, much like the one in Provincetown, since he couldn’t see over it. He guessed the jetty was only about one hundred feet away, which he figured would only take a few strokes of his water-logged jacket to reach.
Nick nodded, all as he shivered. He used both hands to displace the water in front of him, the motion countering the knife-like pains shooting through him. The cold seeped into his brain, which forced him to concentrate on getting to shore.
God, if you get me through this, he thought, I’ll go to church on Sunday. I don’t know where, but I’ll get there. Jesus Christ, this is cold.
The distance between Nick and the jetty dwindled over the next few chill-induced minutes until he felt safe enough to set his feet on the sloping scree. He closed his eyes as he hit the shallower waters and hefted himself up onto his quivering legs. Nick took three sloshing steps before he hit his knees on a somewhat un-rocky area, pulling his soaked body ashore. He kept his head bowed as he breathed, his eyes closed. His breath tingled as it escaped, caressing his cheeks like a lover.
Even as the water behind him stilled from his motions after a few moments, he heard the collision of beads against the rock, as if his harrowing ordeal gave him extra-sensory perception. He knew that wasn’t true, but with every drip from his hair to the rock, it resembled the slow pop of bacon frying on medium-low heat.
Nick blew out another long breath between pursed lips, all while the blood rampaged in his ears; he wanted to groan as he felt the sides of his head develop their own heartbeat, but he stifled himself.
The shivering — much like he had feared in that pool at the Y — started soon after.
“Warm,” he managed to spit. “Need to get warm.” Another breath vomited from deep within. “Need to get warm now.”
His teeth started their repeated chattering as the cold slowly moved deeper into him. He tried to think of warmth, if only to trigger a psychosomatic response within him. He thought of the Florida Keys where his wizened second cousin once removed had lived before he died a year ago, and how the old man had showed him where all the twenty-something co-eds skinny-dipped in a private cove off the Caribbean. Nick tried to get his lips to respond to that memory, to no avail.
He thought of sitting in a sauna, the steam canvassing its depths as he waited for a lovely co-ed or a twenty-something like himself to enter, her dirty blonde hair pulled up into a teacher-like bun, and subsequently drop her towel, exposing herself to his gaze, all while a mischievous smile played all over her face. He felt a bit of heat radiate from his groin.
Still, it wasn’t enough. He grimaced as he stood, his body trembling from the cold, and tried looking out in a 360-degree pattern, all as his clothes clung to him like a second skin.
“Where the hell am I?” he asked.
It was a good question, he had to admit. He saw nothing resembling lights in any direction, only the darkness of distant hills reflecting the moonlight. One looked impossibly high for Boston.
If I’m still in Boston, he thought. There are no lights anywhere, no sign of lights atop the skyscrapers. Maybe I got carried all the way over to Nahant? Nick shook his head, thinking it impossible. Even if I did, I would see something resembling life here, or some streetlights. He raised his hand. This isn’t life. The stars ain’t streetlights.
Nick turned and sat down, taking the opportunity to look out at the moon and where he had emerged from the water — or where he had dropped into it.
That vortex, or whatever the fuck it was, carried me a long way from Boston, that’s for sure, Nick thought with a few bobs of his head. The chills returned, even though there was no wind to be had. He instinctively wrapped his arms tight around himself, if only to try to withhold as much warmth as he had within his body for as long as possible. His jacket felt heavy, even in a sitting position. Then it dropped me, right here, into whatever this is. He stared out at the moon’s reflection before letting a tenuous swallow slip into his gullet.
Nick soon felt numb, as if he’d never feel warm again.
God, don’t let me freeze here, he thought, all as the darkness closed in on him.
***
He didn’t freeze.
Nick awoke just as a strengthening sun rose over his right shoulder. Pushing himself up, he detected a weight against his right cheek; he brushed the gravel and dirt aside, then rubbed the excess off with his fingertips until he felt sure he had a somewhat clear face. The shivering didn’t exactly return at once, though; seeing the sun so bright and unencumbered by practically anything made his heart swell double its size. He smiled, even though it hurt his flesh to do so.
The smiling, though…
Nick groaned reflexively, all as the sides of his head continued their incessant thrum. He swallowed, even though his saliva dragged down a parched throat with the effectiveness of rubbing sandpaper against a sheet of damp particleboard.
“I shouldn’t have drunk that much on an empty stomach,” he mused. “One would think I would have learned that lesson by now. Oy.”
He managed to get to his feet, the air pockets snapping inside his knees — he groaned — and looked toward the rising sun, holding his hands out in welcome, trying to draw in all the heat. He kept his eyes closed, the exhilaration at the warm touches seeping into his flesh. Nick shoved his shoulders back, the stiffness in his lower back giving way; he let another groan fly. A renewed vigor seeped into his joints with every deep, salt-infused breath; he wanted to stay there until he deemed himself adequately warm and dry from the mid-evening plunge, but he knew he had to find a way home, back to his off-campus apartment. He had class in only a few hours, and he needed to put the finishing touches on his discussion paper before handing it in. If there was anything he felt especially proud about, it was his penchant to stick to deadlines.
His thoughts about meeting it dissolved as soon as his eyes widened.
He had turned ninety degrees to his right. In that simple gesture, that simple movement, he finally got a good look at his surroundings.
The gasp rippled from Nick’s mouth as he took it all in, all while shuddering in quiet disbelief. In the full light of day, unencumbered by the veil of night, he looked out and just from the sight alone, he knew right away that he was not in Boston any longer — but he couldn’t place where on Earth he now stood, either. For a moment, he thought the vortex, or whatever it was, had flung him halfway across the state, yet he wiped the thought clear even as it came to him: even in the rural towns beyond Sturbridge, the roads were paved and well maintained.
Here, wherever the hell here was, they weren’t. The roads looked incredibly narrow, far narrower than anything he had experienced in his life, and puddles dotted the ways, darkening the dirt and softening it.
He saw sturdy constructions here and there, some nearly on top of their neighbors. He saw red brick forming the façade of each, yet the roofing, from his rather distant vantage point, looked rather primitive. Large pastures full of green and blooming flowers flanked the rearsides of these buildings — he felt sure they were dwellings, for a light gray smoke trickled from well-used chimneys — with livestock munching away at a fence abutting the nearby road.
Yet his eyes grew even larger as he set his gaze on the recognizable dark mountain from last night. Unmistakable, there were paths carved into it, and even from this distance, about a mile or so away, maybe even less, he saw several different things scurrying about its side.
He swallowed. He hoped they were friendly, and that they’d have an idea of how to get back to Boston from here.
Am I in Amish country? he added as an afterthought. That’s the only explanation as to where I am. I’m hanging with the fucking Amish.
Nick walked away from the shoreline and wandered down a house-less lane, taking great care not to sink into the mud. A light pile of snow caressed the side of it, caked in the same stuff on which he now stood. It was no more than five inches high at the base of the long fence, which he noticed was built almost in an X pattern between the fat posts set ten feet apart. He had seen fences constructed like that during field trips to Old Sturbridge Village during his high school years.
And on days warmer than this, too, he thought as he shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and pulled it closer to his belly. Thankfully, I didn’t catch pneumonia, unless I did, I’m dead now, and this is whatever paradise is supposed to be. Although I have to say I didn’t think paradise would be this muddy, or have the remnants of a winter storm on the side of the road, but hey, who am I, really?
Nick turned right onto a wider boulevard, this one just as muddy as the last. He noticed several piles of horse droppings smack dab in the middle, and he immediately side-stepped the first batch. In doing so, he almost stepped in the second, missing it by mere centimeters.
He let go of a throaty grunt and refrained from pulling the back of his wrist against his brow.
“So much for looking at the scenery,” he muttered, “of which there is none. Have to watch out for landmines instead.” Nick twisted his lips in disgust. “Crap.”
He continued his impromptu morning stroll, the sun clearly behind him. His shadow remained tight to him, he saw, while he tried to find the source of chickens cooing nearby. His sneakers only sank by a couple of millimeters in the loose mud; the corners of his mouth sank that amount, too.
Definitely Amish, Nick thought as he firmed his jaw and nodded his head.
“Are you lost?” a voice called from behind.
Nick whipped around and found a matronly woman standing several feet away. She had the look of Mary Poppins, but with light wrinkles near the corners of her eyes. The woman’s dress was well worn and not a bright navy, and she carried a rather large bag on her arm that was just as well-worn as her clothes. Her gaze pierced him, as if doing so with a great deal of scrutiny.
Surely she’s looking at my damp clothing and wondering if she should call the police, he thought. Yet now that I think about it, maybe I should be the one calling police. She certainly doesn’t look like she belongs in, well, my time — unless she’s Amish, of course.
“Yeah,” he replied softly. “I don’t know where I am.”
The woman approached cautiously. Her head tilted to the left as she halted practically in front of him.
“Are you looking for work, by any chance?”
Nick blinked. He didn’t understand the question, nor did he understand why she continued to shower him with that intrusive look. He wanted to say, “No, I’m looking for a way home because I’m going to miss class,” but he wasn’t sure if she would understand that — especially if she were Amish; ending one’s schooling in the eighth grade sounded too foreign to him, and he didn’t have much time left to get his degree.
What he did after that was purely up to the job market. He had thought about teaching history at a high school — his alma mater was in the process of phasing his old history teacher out, given that he neared 70 and really didn’t want to slow down, despite the superintendent’s misgivings about the man’s age and drinking problems — but wondered if teaching at a middle school was a safer bet.
“I don’t really know?” He didn’t try to hide his anxiety, at least not in his voice. Did she want him to work as her private dancer, a take-it-off kind of boy? As a masseur? “Don’t really think I’m looking for a job, but I think I’m open to anything?”
“I have a farm that needs a hand,” the woman said. “My husband passed away a few weeks ago; murdered, actually —”
Nick blinked again at her forwardness. Who is so open about such things? Christ, if my pseudo-wife was murdered — okay, let’s not go that far. I don’t even have a girlfriend, the woman in the bar with the skin-tight dress notwithstanding. It’s been a while since I’ve had a true blue lady in my life, one that actually wants to Netflix and Chill with me. But I don’t believe I’d be telling total strangers that my spouse was recently murdered and that my farm is looking for a hand, but what do I know?
“I’m so sorry to hear that, ma’am, but I’m not a farmer. Really,” he said as soon as the woman’s sadness and her own anxiety rippled, “I’m just a student of history.”
“Oh,” the woman replied. “It would be nice to have someone to give my son a hand. Lord knows my eldest remaining son doesn’t know which end of a hoe goes in the ground. Too busy playing politics.”
“I’m sorry, eldest remaining son?”
He knew he shouldn’t have asked, but it came out too fast, even before his brain had the opportunity to put his tongue on lockdown. But since she was being so open and honest, he might as well pry even more information from her.
“Yes, my eldest first-born son died in the war. Left us in a right pickle, not his fault of course, and now with my husband gone and our youngest ones doing what they can, we could use a man of strength around our farm, especially with John, the eldest remaining son, that is, being such a useless Crown sympathizer.”
Nick tilted his head by a fraction of an inch at hearing those last words and tried to process what it meant. He had never heard the words “Crown sympathizer” outside of his classes — not even in the small work groups the professor wanted did he heard those words flung about in such haphazard fashion — and hadn’t considered using them in any every day conversation.
“I’m sorry — did you just say Crown sympathizer?” he asked, growing aware that he felt a numbness near his shoulders, his flesh tingling.
“I did. My son thinks George, king for all of nearly four and a half years now, is the bee’s knees, if that’s the proper saying. Glory in the name of Britain indeed. Boy wishes he could live in London. If we could afford it, I would have put his powdered wig-loving self on an outgoing ship and made sure he stays in that dirty little town long before now. But no, the Sugar Act hurt us, even though he says it was necessary.”
Nick tried to move his lips, but he heard nothing emerge from his throat, other than a light gurgle. He thought he was in the midst of choking, or worse, having a stroke, but he didn’t feel his left arm going completely numb, or that the side of his face sloped, as if his skin and flesh wanted to fall off his skull. None of that was happening, but he realized that he didn’t feel so good.
He tried to process everything the widow woman had said, and it made his mind spin: from her eldest son being killed in the war to Crown sympathizing eldest-remaining son, to George — certainly she can’t mean Prince William’s son, right? he wondered — but what really threw him for a loop was her casual mention of the Sugar Act. That meant —
Nick never got the words out. He felt his eyelids shoot back into his skull, all while his legs lost all connectivity with his brain.
He toppled hard as they gave way, and saw nothing else.
#####
Thanks for reading! You can reserve your copy at the links below.
Amazon USAmazon UKNookKoboiBooks (coming soon)Smashwords
June 10, 2020
Introducing GLORIOUS SLIP, now available for pre-order
After a year or so of waiting for the right moment, Glorious Slip under my D.L. Boyd pen name is now available to pre-order, and available for print copies. I'll share a snippet of the book in the coming days, just as a taste, but first I want to tell you what the book -- and eventually the series -- is about.
First, the blurb:
Science fiction meets adventure meets romance in this first of a planned historical trilogy by D.L. Boyd!
Nick Smith is a student of history, especially that of his state’s capital, Boston.
Little does he know that he is about to live it.
Jettisoned some two and a half centuries into the past, Nick discovers that he has landed in Colonial Boston. He marvels at finding the Shawmut Peninsula in the years before the Revolutionary War, and witnesses Bostonians’ palpable anger.
Working a farm and falling in love with a young lady three years his junior, Nick must avoid conflicts with his new brother-in-law, a Crown loyalist.
Ride along with Nick as he rubs elbows with early America’s greatest minds, all while concealing America’s destiny.
Not a bad pull, huh?
I conceived the story, an Outlander-esque tale but not as long-winded, back in the fall of 2017, and it took until February 2019 to get the first draft done. Lots stood in my way in 2018, mainly in the form of a new job, and there was the whole two radio shows that I did, which inevitably de-railed any momentum. I managed to finish it when the New England Revolution were in Spain for preseason training in February 2019.
The story, set in the years leading up to the Revolutionary War, was intended to be a historical romance, but as it happens, I focused more on the adventure side of things... there is romance, just enough for a taste, but the story is more adventure than anything. You will feel Nick's feelings pulling you in several directions, you will feel for him when he makes an important realization of what he must do.
And not only that, you will feel his pulse quicken as he watches an important event in American history play out before his eyes.
Glorious Slip is the first of three books in this series (I will start writing book two starting this fall, after I finish the first draft to Incoming Private Show, which I hope to resume writing sometime next week), and is available for pre-order at the rather low introductory price of 99 cents for ebook, and $9.95 for trade paperback.
For those picking up the ebook, it will go live on Wednesday, July 1 -- right in time for the Independence Day holiday.
Reserve your copy here:
Amazon USAmazon UKNookKoboiBooks (coming soon)Smashwords
Print copies are available through Amazon.
First, the blurb:
Science fiction meets adventure meets romance in this first of a planned historical trilogy by D.L. Boyd!
Nick Smith is a student of history, especially that of his state’s capital, Boston.
Little does he know that he is about to live it.
Jettisoned some two and a half centuries into the past, Nick discovers that he has landed in Colonial Boston. He marvels at finding the Shawmut Peninsula in the years before the Revolutionary War, and witnesses Bostonians’ palpable anger.
Working a farm and falling in love with a young lady three years his junior, Nick must avoid conflicts with his new brother-in-law, a Crown loyalist.
Ride along with Nick as he rubs elbows with early America’s greatest minds, all while concealing America’s destiny.
Not a bad pull, huh?
I conceived the story, an Outlander-esque tale but not as long-winded, back in the fall of 2017, and it took until February 2019 to get the first draft done. Lots stood in my way in 2018, mainly in the form of a new job, and there was the whole two radio shows that I did, which inevitably de-railed any momentum. I managed to finish it when the New England Revolution were in Spain for preseason training in February 2019.
The story, set in the years leading up to the Revolutionary War, was intended to be a historical romance, but as it happens, I focused more on the adventure side of things... there is romance, just enough for a taste, but the story is more adventure than anything. You will feel Nick's feelings pulling you in several directions, you will feel for him when he makes an important realization of what he must do.
And not only that, you will feel his pulse quicken as he watches an important event in American history play out before his eyes.
Glorious Slip is the first of three books in this series (I will start writing book two starting this fall, after I finish the first draft to Incoming Private Show, which I hope to resume writing sometime next week), and is available for pre-order at the rather low introductory price of 99 cents for ebook, and $9.95 for trade paperback.
For those picking up the ebook, it will go live on Wednesday, July 1 -- right in time for the Independence Day holiday.
Reserve your copy here:
Amazon USAmazon UKNookKoboiBooks (coming soon)Smashwords
Print copies are available through Amazon.
July 22, 2019
Getting another project off the ground
Over the last couple of years, many readers have inquired as to which book I'm writing, and which books -- if my WIP happens to be part of a series -- they should re-read or catch up on in time for that WIP's release in ebook or print form.
As you already know, my book production has slowed to a crawl over most of the last two years, since the Fall of 2017. I lost a lot of time due to a pair of radio shows, and those shows really slowed my roll. You can't really get into a groove when you write for three days, take a day to drive half an hour, do an hour radio show, and then drive home and collapse, then write for two days and take another day for a show. You just can't.
At least I can't. Your mileage may vary.
And with the exception of The Jaclyn Johnson Experience's long-awaited release back in May... I can't tell you how much of a relief it was to get something out in 2019, especially not having released anything in some 15-16 months before that.
But there is more coming on the horizon. It may be in the distant horizon, but it's coming. The first book in the Glorious series is currently at my editing crew. I think there will be some work to do on it when I get it back at the end of the American soccer season, but I'm not really worrying about it until then.
The erotic thriller I penned? I truncated the thriller aspects and just made it an erotic novella. It's at a group of editors now, and I suspect that will be out in due time.
Yet... there's more.
Over the last couple of days, I've spent some time brainstorming out a new book that'll be part of my Ricky Madison series -- you know, The Long Crimson Line and Persuaded By The Reflections. I don't have a title just yet, but I have five pages, printed, of plot, character sketches, and thoughts for Ricky to encounter during this tale. Generally, Ricky novels are 90,000-100,000-word behemoths, and I think it's fair to say this one will be, too.
In reading over my outline -- which right now is jumbled and really in no particular order -- I have to say that I'm actually impressed. I really like how this story came together, all done in a few days. Moving my fingers across the keyboard like lightning as I let my thoughts flow across the screen. It was almost too easy to let things come to my mind.
I found there will be a couple of redundancies, such as characters' mothers who have no idea what's going on with their sons -- which is, when one thinks about it, realistic. It's something that Ricky might expound on in thought. We'll see. I don't think that it's a bad thing to have a redundancy such as these. You don't necessarily run into two people who are exactly alike... but sometimes you encounter similar traits and things in different people. It happens, and I think -- at least what I have written now -- that's how this novel will play out.
My hope is that I'll get started on it either this week or next, and we'll see how far I get. I'll still have soccer to cover, so the thought of plowing through this story is out -- and I doubt that I get to do something like that again. The days of 3,000 words per day are long gone. I'm not going to rush this book, and my hope is that it'll be just as gritty as Persuaded is.
Even so, the fact that I've managed to get another project off the ground -- one which I think will be so much easier to write than Glorious -- is pretty remarkable.
www.seansweeneyauthor.com
As you already know, my book production has slowed to a crawl over most of the last two years, since the Fall of 2017. I lost a lot of time due to a pair of radio shows, and those shows really slowed my roll. You can't really get into a groove when you write for three days, take a day to drive half an hour, do an hour radio show, and then drive home and collapse, then write for two days and take another day for a show. You just can't.
At least I can't. Your mileage may vary.
And with the exception of The Jaclyn Johnson Experience's long-awaited release back in May... I can't tell you how much of a relief it was to get something out in 2019, especially not having released anything in some 15-16 months before that.
But there is more coming on the horizon. It may be in the distant horizon, but it's coming. The first book in the Glorious series is currently at my editing crew. I think there will be some work to do on it when I get it back at the end of the American soccer season, but I'm not really worrying about it until then.
The erotic thriller I penned? I truncated the thriller aspects and just made it an erotic novella. It's at a group of editors now, and I suspect that will be out in due time.
Yet... there's more.
Over the last couple of days, I've spent some time brainstorming out a new book that'll be part of my Ricky Madison series -- you know, The Long Crimson Line and Persuaded By The Reflections. I don't have a title just yet, but I have five pages, printed, of plot, character sketches, and thoughts for Ricky to encounter during this tale. Generally, Ricky novels are 90,000-100,000-word behemoths, and I think it's fair to say this one will be, too.
In reading over my outline -- which right now is jumbled and really in no particular order -- I have to say that I'm actually impressed. I really like how this story came together, all done in a few days. Moving my fingers across the keyboard like lightning as I let my thoughts flow across the screen. It was almost too easy to let things come to my mind.
I found there will be a couple of redundancies, such as characters' mothers who have no idea what's going on with their sons -- which is, when one thinks about it, realistic. It's something that Ricky might expound on in thought. We'll see. I don't think that it's a bad thing to have a redundancy such as these. You don't necessarily run into two people who are exactly alike... but sometimes you encounter similar traits and things in different people. It happens, and I think -- at least what I have written now -- that's how this novel will play out.
My hope is that I'll get started on it either this week or next, and we'll see how far I get. I'll still have soccer to cover, so the thought of plowing through this story is out -- and I doubt that I get to do something like that again. The days of 3,000 words per day are long gone. I'm not going to rush this book, and my hope is that it'll be just as gritty as Persuaded is.
Even so, the fact that I've managed to get another project off the ground -- one which I think will be so much easier to write than Glorious -- is pretty remarkable.
www.seansweeneyauthor.com
June 27, 2019
Jaclyn Johnson box set now available, on sale at a low introductory price... for now
Early in May, I released THE JACLYN JOHNSON EXPERIENCE, a box set on ebook only to all online retailers. Right now, it's priced at the low, introductory price of $4.99. Five bucks for nine books, plus a novella and a few never-before-seen short stories tied into the world? Really, it's an unbeatable bargain.
How long will I keep the price at $4.99? Right now, I haven't decided. I had originally said that price would remain in effect until Mother's Day. That was last month, and it's still priced at $4.99. I could keep it there until the Fourth of July, but again... I want as many eyes on the box set as possible, and who knows how many shares, retweets, etc. that I'll get. I want many people to purchase this set at $4.99 before I raise the price. After all... it's a bargain. Legal thievery. And all that. People should easily one-click a nine-book box set at that price.
And that cover is absolute fire.
Seriously, there are flames in the cover. That's just how fire it is.
I'll take a few questions now.
Q: Why just ebook? Why not an ink-and-paper version?
A: The answer is simple: I've always been about producing low-cost books for consumers. I know it's their money and they can spend it how they want, but I don't want people to drop a ton of cash on me. Back when I originally published The Obloeron Trilogy, back when it was just a trilogy, it cost readers upward of $30 for a trade paperback book, with the fonts uber-tiny to make sure the costs were kept to an absolute minimum... and it was still $30. That's just how it is in the indie world. This is a nine-book endeavor, plus a novella, plus some short stories. This would be upward of $100 for three separate thrillogies -- if that's a word -- editions, because there's no way to get all nine in one. No way at all.
Q: If I have all nine books separate, why would I get the box set?
A: Do you have the novella? I know you don't have the shorts. This edition gives you everything. And it's only $4.99 that you weren't using, right?
Q: What will happen if you decide to write another Jaclyn novel? It wouldn't be the complete collection then, would it?
A: At some point, I will write another Jaclyn... just not right now. I have an outline/plot treatment that's been stewing for some time. Maybe I will get to it in a couple of years, after the Glorious series is done and dusted, or after I get fired from the soccer job. And then again, I could start a whole new JJ series, just not under the AGENT moniker... which is how I had planned to do things seven or eight years ago, but I was talked out of it. We'll see. My mind might change by then.
Q: Can I have it for free?
A: Sure! I'm sure it's up on a pirate site by now; download to your heart's content. But please be sure to tell 10 people about it, because that would be so nice.
Q: And where can I get it should I want to get it by legal means?
A: Very simple. It's available on Kindle (US/UK), Nook, Kobo, and Apple iBooks. If you're in another country outside of the US/UK, you can always click the link and easily pop in your Amazon extension (.de, .ca, .au, etc) in place of .com or .co.uk.
Q: What are you working on now?
A: Right now I'm a few days away from giving Glorious Slip -- current working title, may revise it -- its third-draft read-through. The hope is that I have nothing to do to it and that I can ship it off to Kim by the Fourth of July for her eyes, as well as to Bruce for re-title suggestions. Once that's done and dusted, I can get started on the cover -- I have to give Kent a call -- as well as the second book in the series. I'm hoping to get that started in August, but if not, October is a more reasonable time frame to get it underway. I'm also halfway through an erotic thriller that I will release under a pen name. Just need to work on the transition from the erotica part to the thriller part.
Thanks for your support!
www.seansweeneyauthor.com
How long will I keep the price at $4.99? Right now, I haven't decided. I had originally said that price would remain in effect until Mother's Day. That was last month, and it's still priced at $4.99. I could keep it there until the Fourth of July, but again... I want as many eyes on the box set as possible, and who knows how many shares, retweets, etc. that I'll get. I want many people to purchase this set at $4.99 before I raise the price. After all... it's a bargain. Legal thievery. And all that. People should easily one-click a nine-book box set at that price.
And that cover is absolute fire.
Seriously, there are flames in the cover. That's just how fire it is.
I'll take a few questions now.
Q: Why just ebook? Why not an ink-and-paper version?
A: The answer is simple: I've always been about producing low-cost books for consumers. I know it's their money and they can spend it how they want, but I don't want people to drop a ton of cash on me. Back when I originally published The Obloeron Trilogy, back when it was just a trilogy, it cost readers upward of $30 for a trade paperback book, with the fonts uber-tiny to make sure the costs were kept to an absolute minimum... and it was still $30. That's just how it is in the indie world. This is a nine-book endeavor, plus a novella, plus some short stories. This would be upward of $100 for three separate thrillogies -- if that's a word -- editions, because there's no way to get all nine in one. No way at all.
Q: If I have all nine books separate, why would I get the box set?
A: Do you have the novella? I know you don't have the shorts. This edition gives you everything. And it's only $4.99 that you weren't using, right?
Q: What will happen if you decide to write another Jaclyn novel? It wouldn't be the complete collection then, would it?
A: At some point, I will write another Jaclyn... just not right now. I have an outline/plot treatment that's been stewing for some time. Maybe I will get to it in a couple of years, after the Glorious series is done and dusted, or after I get fired from the soccer job. And then again, I could start a whole new JJ series, just not under the AGENT moniker... which is how I had planned to do things seven or eight years ago, but I was talked out of it. We'll see. My mind might change by then.
Q: Can I have it for free?
A: Sure! I'm sure it's up on a pirate site by now; download to your heart's content. But please be sure to tell 10 people about it, because that would be so nice.
Q: And where can I get it should I want to get it by legal means?
A: Very simple. It's available on Kindle (US/UK), Nook, Kobo, and Apple iBooks. If you're in another country outside of the US/UK, you can always click the link and easily pop in your Amazon extension (.de, .ca, .au, etc) in place of .com or .co.uk.
Q: What are you working on now?
A: Right now I'm a few days away from giving Glorious Slip -- current working title, may revise it -- its third-draft read-through. The hope is that I have nothing to do to it and that I can ship it off to Kim by the Fourth of July for her eyes, as well as to Bruce for re-title suggestions. Once that's done and dusted, I can get started on the cover -- I have to give Kent a call -- as well as the second book in the series. I'm hoping to get that started in August, but if not, October is a more reasonable time frame to get it underway. I'm also halfway through an erotic thriller that I will release under a pen name. Just need to work on the transition from the erotica part to the thriller part.
Thanks for your support!
www.seansweeneyauthor.com
February 20, 2019
A little flash fiction for you
A few months ago, before I started the stretch run in GLORIOUS SLIP, I needed to get my fingers back into fiction mode after X amount of time away from it. This flash fiction piece was the result; I had seen a cartoon on Facebook depicting this scene, and I figured it was a good exercise to get the writing muscles re-attuned.
Hope you enjoy.
Copyright 2019, Sean Sweeney
***
Death Meets An Alien
Passing the TV, Bob flicked the porn off as he returned to his bed, feeling plenty lighter in his groin. He had just left the bathroom, content with his clean-up abilities for the present, the tissues wadded and sent to his septic tank. Traces of his seminal fluid remained on his skin, matting the thin hairs between his groin and navel to his body. He didn’t care about that; the cleaning job was to make sure that his baby-making goo didn’t coat the inside of his underwear and turn it into a crusty mess; the rest, he figured, would come off in the shower tomorrow morning.
“Ah, lesbians are like plumbers,” he said as he slid under the covers again. “They never cease to help clear my pipe.”
Bob’s head hit the pillow a heartbeat later. As soon as he closed his eyes, the scenes from the porno replayed over and over again as he drifted off, a dreamy smile tracing along his lips. He saw their bodies collide together, their legs scissoring as they mashed their groins against the other. He didn’t remember anything else after the duo separated and approached him; two pairs of breasts, full and fake and coming to rest alongside each other, came crashing down across his conscious self before sleep claimed him.
The heavy clunk of metal against the wall jolted Bob from his heavy slumber hours later, the breath catching in his throat as he jerked from the mattress. He didn’t make a move for the slick goop lingering in the corner of his eye, focused he was on the open door and the darkness beyond it.
“Hello?! Who’s there?!”
No answer came. Bob ground his teeth together.
“I’m calling the police!” he shouted.
“The police won’t help you.”
Bob felt the blood draining from his face, replaced by cold clamminess. The voice came through high-pitched and Arctic, and with such force that it felt all the air in the room had departed. He couldn’t help but notice just how his body shivered from hearing it; he clenched his buttocks almost on instinct, as if preventing his bowels from voiding its contents into his jammies.
The creature slipped into the bedroom a moment later, and Bob didn’t hear his floorboards shifting under the being’s weight. He heard nothing over the sound of his blood thundering in his inner ears.
But the being’s voice sliced through the din with utter sharpness, with the force of a razor grating against Bob’s nerves.
“I have come for you, Robert Wellington,” it said half a moment before the door closed of its own volition. “Your time has reached its end.”
Bob tried to speak. He did his best to pry open his jaws and let sounds flow, but the fright at the being’s presence — a long black cowl shielding its face from anyone’s gaze, along with the scythe it held in one bony hand — reverted him to mere babble. His throat felt as if a python had slithered across and held him within its mighty grasps, for his breath felt choked. His chest ached from the fierce beating his heart gave the inside of his sternum. He continued his lengthy shiver, even as he did his best to shrink underneath the heft of his comforter.
“Why?” Bob squeaked. He thought he had shouted the word, but it came through his lips like a whisper.
“Do not ask why,” the specter of death hissed. “Accept.” It moved forward, easing itself toward Bob’s left foot. It lowered the scythe, almost bringing it parallel to the bed. “Accept. Your soul is mi—”
Crack. The door flung itself open again, the knob driving into the wall. This time, the angel of death spun to see who dared intrude; Bob glanced that way and saw rays of bright light streaming into his room — along with fog rolling and rising.
Bob blinked.
What the f—? he thought, his mind spinning.
The fog cloud grew in size and density until it filled the threshold to Bob’s bedroom. Bob blinked again, then glanced at the specter; it kept whatever served as its gaze fixed on the doorway.
Can I get away? he wondered. Its concentrations are now elsewhere; surely I can slide out of bed, open a window, crawl out, and shimmy down the drainpipe. And without making a single noise.
The thought disappeared as eerie tones resembling a long, throaty whistle purred from the hall. The resonance made Bob recall the times he watched War of the Worlds, right before —
He sought out the bedclothes and grasped them, hard, until the cartilage in his knuckles popped.
Then, Bob stared deep into the fog as it shifted, and through the vapor stepped an extra terrestrial, an alien, its ovoid head and beady black eyes seeking one thing — him, its own gaze landing right on him, almost immediately upon entry.
“Robert,” it said, its voice almost sounding computerized, “we have come to take you away from Earth. The information you have garnered for us resides in the probe we inserted into your rectum the last time—”
Bob wanted to scream.
“Which Robert are you looking for?” the specter of death interrupted, gliding toward the alien.
The alien, to its credit, blinked its eyes and turned to face the specter.
“Gilbride. He lives here, right?”
Bob blinked as the alien pulled what looked like a map from hammerspace; the being wore no pants. All extraneous sounds save Bob’s racing heart and that of the paper unfolding disappeared.
“See, our information led us here. Robert Gilbride lives here.”
“No, no,” the specter rebutted. “He doesn’t live here any longer. I took his soul ages ago.”
“Are you sure?”
“Quite positive. Once you’re mine, you’re mine. No ifs, ands, or buts about it.”
The alien threw up its hands, almost in defeat.
“Rats. You didn’t happen to retrieve a probe, did you?”
“That,” the specter replied, “is not in my purview.”
“Damn it. That information is critical to our intended invasion. But onto other matters: Since you are so in-the-know, do you happen to know where Evelyn Bulfinch lives?”
“Why yes, she’s in the next town. Double chimney, satellite dish. Colonial home. Scheduled for reclaiming in October 2025.”
Bob noticed the alien almost grinned when the angel of death gave the month and year.
“We’ll have her back well before that,” it said. “You have my guarantee.”
The alien then crossed its thin arms against its chest and raised its head toward the ceiling. It shimmered into nothingness, almost as if it defragmented itself. The fog cloud fizzled away, and the supernatural light retreated, leaving everything dark — almost too dark for Bob’s liking.
Then, the specter spun again, facing the bed, and Bob knew this was it. The end of the road.
www.seansweeneyauthor.com
Hope you enjoy.
Copyright 2019, Sean Sweeney
***
Death Meets An Alien
Passing the TV, Bob flicked the porn off as he returned to his bed, feeling plenty lighter in his groin. He had just left the bathroom, content with his clean-up abilities for the present, the tissues wadded and sent to his septic tank. Traces of his seminal fluid remained on his skin, matting the thin hairs between his groin and navel to his body. He didn’t care about that; the cleaning job was to make sure that his baby-making goo didn’t coat the inside of his underwear and turn it into a crusty mess; the rest, he figured, would come off in the shower tomorrow morning.
“Ah, lesbians are like plumbers,” he said as he slid under the covers again. “They never cease to help clear my pipe.”
Bob’s head hit the pillow a heartbeat later. As soon as he closed his eyes, the scenes from the porno replayed over and over again as he drifted off, a dreamy smile tracing along his lips. He saw their bodies collide together, their legs scissoring as they mashed their groins against the other. He didn’t remember anything else after the duo separated and approached him; two pairs of breasts, full and fake and coming to rest alongside each other, came crashing down across his conscious self before sleep claimed him.
The heavy clunk of metal against the wall jolted Bob from his heavy slumber hours later, the breath catching in his throat as he jerked from the mattress. He didn’t make a move for the slick goop lingering in the corner of his eye, focused he was on the open door and the darkness beyond it.
“Hello?! Who’s there?!”
No answer came. Bob ground his teeth together.
“I’m calling the police!” he shouted.
“The police won’t help you.”
Bob felt the blood draining from his face, replaced by cold clamminess. The voice came through high-pitched and Arctic, and with such force that it felt all the air in the room had departed. He couldn’t help but notice just how his body shivered from hearing it; he clenched his buttocks almost on instinct, as if preventing his bowels from voiding its contents into his jammies.
The creature slipped into the bedroom a moment later, and Bob didn’t hear his floorboards shifting under the being’s weight. He heard nothing over the sound of his blood thundering in his inner ears.
But the being’s voice sliced through the din with utter sharpness, with the force of a razor grating against Bob’s nerves.
“I have come for you, Robert Wellington,” it said half a moment before the door closed of its own volition. “Your time has reached its end.”
Bob tried to speak. He did his best to pry open his jaws and let sounds flow, but the fright at the being’s presence — a long black cowl shielding its face from anyone’s gaze, along with the scythe it held in one bony hand — reverted him to mere babble. His throat felt as if a python had slithered across and held him within its mighty grasps, for his breath felt choked. His chest ached from the fierce beating his heart gave the inside of his sternum. He continued his lengthy shiver, even as he did his best to shrink underneath the heft of his comforter.
“Why?” Bob squeaked. He thought he had shouted the word, but it came through his lips like a whisper.
“Do not ask why,” the specter of death hissed. “Accept.” It moved forward, easing itself toward Bob’s left foot. It lowered the scythe, almost bringing it parallel to the bed. “Accept. Your soul is mi—”
Crack. The door flung itself open again, the knob driving into the wall. This time, the angel of death spun to see who dared intrude; Bob glanced that way and saw rays of bright light streaming into his room — along with fog rolling and rising.
Bob blinked.
What the f—? he thought, his mind spinning.
The fog cloud grew in size and density until it filled the threshold to Bob’s bedroom. Bob blinked again, then glanced at the specter; it kept whatever served as its gaze fixed on the doorway.
Can I get away? he wondered. Its concentrations are now elsewhere; surely I can slide out of bed, open a window, crawl out, and shimmy down the drainpipe. And without making a single noise.
The thought disappeared as eerie tones resembling a long, throaty whistle purred from the hall. The resonance made Bob recall the times he watched War of the Worlds, right before —
He sought out the bedclothes and grasped them, hard, until the cartilage in his knuckles popped.
Then, Bob stared deep into the fog as it shifted, and through the vapor stepped an extra terrestrial, an alien, its ovoid head and beady black eyes seeking one thing — him, its own gaze landing right on him, almost immediately upon entry.
“Robert,” it said, its voice almost sounding computerized, “we have come to take you away from Earth. The information you have garnered for us resides in the probe we inserted into your rectum the last time—”
Bob wanted to scream.
“Which Robert are you looking for?” the specter of death interrupted, gliding toward the alien.
The alien, to its credit, blinked its eyes and turned to face the specter.
“Gilbride. He lives here, right?”
Bob blinked as the alien pulled what looked like a map from hammerspace; the being wore no pants. All extraneous sounds save Bob’s racing heart and that of the paper unfolding disappeared.
“See, our information led us here. Robert Gilbride lives here.”
“No, no,” the specter rebutted. “He doesn’t live here any longer. I took his soul ages ago.”
“Are you sure?”
“Quite positive. Once you’re mine, you’re mine. No ifs, ands, or buts about it.”
The alien threw up its hands, almost in defeat.
“Rats. You didn’t happen to retrieve a probe, did you?”
“That,” the specter replied, “is not in my purview.”
“Damn it. That information is critical to our intended invasion. But onto other matters: Since you are so in-the-know, do you happen to know where Evelyn Bulfinch lives?”
“Why yes, she’s in the next town. Double chimney, satellite dish. Colonial home. Scheduled for reclaiming in October 2025.”
Bob noticed the alien almost grinned when the angel of death gave the month and year.
“We’ll have her back well before that,” it said. “You have my guarantee.”
The alien then crossed its thin arms against its chest and raised its head toward the ceiling. It shimmered into nothingness, almost as if it defragmented itself. The fog cloud fizzled away, and the supernatural light retreated, leaving everything dark — almost too dark for Bob’s liking.
Then, the specter spun again, facing the bed, and Bob knew this was it. The end of the road.
www.seansweeneyauthor.com
February 19, 2019
Second draft was -- surprisingly -- enjoyable to write
By a general rule, I do not like to do massive changes to a story once the first draft is written. I just don't. Pulling at a plot thread leads to unraveling, and soon I have a mess on my hands. I prefer to make cosmetic changes -- i.e. grammar, word choice, punctuation, expounding on certain thoughts -- and let the book go from there.
Of course, there are exceptions to the rule: I obviously made massive changes to THE OBLOERON SAGA a few years ago; I re-wrote the opening to MODEL AGENT, but didn't do a massive re-tooling of the book. I believe that I'm going to do something similar to TURNING BACK THE CLOCK this summer, and get it out in time for the book's 10th anniversary -- not to mention the 100th anniversary of the Black Sox Scandal and the Sale of Babe Ruth -- in October.
But I couldn't do that with GLORIOUS SLIP. There were some egregious errors -- stuff that just wasn't realistic -- in the first five chapters (well, from Ch. 2 to Ch. 5, and into Ch. 6) that just needed changing. I couldn't let them stay.
And to my surprise, the second draft as a whole was actually pleasurable to write. I believe that it was more pleasurable than writing the first draft. I actually felt more alive during the second draft than I did pulling teeth for the first.
Now don't get me wrong; the first draft read well despite the problems, but now I believe that the book is absolutely solid and I don't believe I'll have much to change when I re-read the book in June. Of course, I could be wrong and that there will be loads to do, putting the kibosh on me working on TBTC's 10th Anniversary edition.
If all goes well and we get a cover that is fire for this book, it is entirely possible that this book will be available for September 2019.
Again, and I keep saying this... I can't wait to show you the book.
www.seansweeneyauthor.com
Of course, there are exceptions to the rule: I obviously made massive changes to THE OBLOERON SAGA a few years ago; I re-wrote the opening to MODEL AGENT, but didn't do a massive re-tooling of the book. I believe that I'm going to do something similar to TURNING BACK THE CLOCK this summer, and get it out in time for the book's 10th anniversary -- not to mention the 100th anniversary of the Black Sox Scandal and the Sale of Babe Ruth -- in October.
But I couldn't do that with GLORIOUS SLIP. There were some egregious errors -- stuff that just wasn't realistic -- in the first five chapters (well, from Ch. 2 to Ch. 5, and into Ch. 6) that just needed changing. I couldn't let them stay.
And to my surprise, the second draft as a whole was actually pleasurable to write. I believe that it was more pleasurable than writing the first draft. I actually felt more alive during the second draft than I did pulling teeth for the first.
Now don't get me wrong; the first draft read well despite the problems, but now I believe that the book is absolutely solid and I don't believe I'll have much to change when I re-read the book in June. Of course, I could be wrong and that there will be loads to do, putting the kibosh on me working on TBTC's 10th Anniversary edition.
If all goes well and we get a cover that is fire for this book, it is entirely possible that this book will be available for September 2019.
Again, and I keep saying this... I can't wait to show you the book.
www.seansweeneyauthor.com
February 16, 2019
First draft to GLORIOUS SLIP finally done, on to the second draft
Phew. That took a while, didn't it?
This past Wednesday afternoon, I put the capper on the first draft to GLORIOUS SLIP, the first book in my planned men's adventure time travel series. The draft checked in at 189 pages, and at 81,850 words, it is my shortest full-length novel. And with the exception of THE QUEST FOR THE CHALICE, my first novel (part of THE OBLOERON SAGA), the 15 months it took me to complete the first draft was the longest I've ever needed to do so.
Take a bow? Not quite yet.
On Friday, I dove into the start of the second draft, added about 101 words to the prose, tweaking the first chapter and a half. I stopped after coming to a part which will need all my attention in the next few days: a massive re-write of a 1,900-word scene that just doesn't make sense to anything resembling a realistic happening -- or realism, period. I suspect it shouldn't take me more than a few days to straighten out, but there are some other threads attached to this scene in the next chapter or so which also need re-writing; you pull at one thread, and the entirety of the project falls apart, right?
That can happen, but I don't think that will necessarily happen here: this activity should oh-most-definitely turn the start of the narrative to titanium.
So why did it take me so long to write? You have to remember something: when I started this novel back in November 2017, I ran into some issues that I didn't foresee whatsoever.
There was The Great Root Canal post Thanksgiving, which took me out of service for a couple of days (seriously, so many dental issues that took up a lot of time between then and this past Christmas... 13 months of driving back and forth to my dentist in Holden, about 45 minutes or so each way).
There was the fact I really couldn't get a handle on this project; I wanted to tell a complete story, like I always do, and I wanted to do so in a completely different voice, so it made the writing feel like I was pulling teeth.
I also had two trips to my hometown every week to do a pair of local sports radio shows, which also demanded on my time, especially when it came to teams that I didn't cover personally; I couldn't write afterward, because those trips and shows took a lot out of me emotionally.
And in April of last year, I took on a wonderful dream job: on top of covering the local high schools, I started covering the New England Revolution soccer team, and even though it's considered part time, I threw myself into it like I always do. All of those things wrapped into one, unfortunately, and it meant GLORIOUS had to go on the shelf. I did get a little written during the tail end of the World Cup in July, but that was it for the first draft until the offseason began -- and even then I was still busy with high school sports until December. And even then, with me taking some time off from the high school sportswriting because the newspaper owed me so much money from November alone, it was still a challenge to open the file and get some words in.
With the Revs spending the preseason in Spain and now in Florida, and with what appears like no streams of the matches in sight, I resolved at the end of January to get the first draft, at the very least, completed by the start of the regular season on March 2. That's accomplished, yes, but I'm not giving the story time to breathe like I usually do; I feel that with the time I have afforded to me, I should at the very least try to get most of the book's issues sorted -- which, like I always say, are in the first half of the book.
Will I get the full second draft completed by the start of the regular season? Probably not. Maybe; I'm not counting on it, though. I should be able to crank the re-writes out this week, and then there's some additions to the story that I came up with a couple of weeks ago: some Doc Brown-esque letters by the protagonist to his parents that wouldn't be delivered until after he had disappeared, so I have those to write. If I get the second draft finished by then, fantastic. If not, it won't bother me until June, when the Revs have a few weeks off due to the Gold Cup. I don't suspect that there will be too much to re-write in the second half of the novel, but you never know.
In all seriousness, I don't want to rush such an important book. It's the first in a planned trilogy, with a lot of the action happening in books two and three. This is a set-up book, to hook the readers and get them to buy books two and three, whenever I get to write them (and if something else gets in my way, it may be a few years before I get the opportunity to sit down and churn out the pages). I'm going to take my time with these re-writes and revisions (read: small tweaks, such as grammar or expounding on other things), and make sure the book is pure fire before I send it to Kim for her edits. I may send it to Bruce, too. He's a history buff, and I'm sure that he'll have things to contribute, advice-wise.
I really can't wait to show you the first book. It's going to be some time, though, so please be patient with me.
Thanks for your time, as always.
www.seansweeneyauthor.com
This past Wednesday afternoon, I put the capper on the first draft to GLORIOUS SLIP, the first book in my planned men's adventure time travel series. The draft checked in at 189 pages, and at 81,850 words, it is my shortest full-length novel. And with the exception of THE QUEST FOR THE CHALICE, my first novel (part of THE OBLOERON SAGA), the 15 months it took me to complete the first draft was the longest I've ever needed to do so.
Take a bow? Not quite yet.
On Friday, I dove into the start of the second draft, added about 101 words to the prose, tweaking the first chapter and a half. I stopped after coming to a part which will need all my attention in the next few days: a massive re-write of a 1,900-word scene that just doesn't make sense to anything resembling a realistic happening -- or realism, period. I suspect it shouldn't take me more than a few days to straighten out, but there are some other threads attached to this scene in the next chapter or so which also need re-writing; you pull at one thread, and the entirety of the project falls apart, right?
That can happen, but I don't think that will necessarily happen here: this activity should oh-most-definitely turn the start of the narrative to titanium.
So why did it take me so long to write? You have to remember something: when I started this novel back in November 2017, I ran into some issues that I didn't foresee whatsoever.
There was The Great Root Canal post Thanksgiving, which took me out of service for a couple of days (seriously, so many dental issues that took up a lot of time between then and this past Christmas... 13 months of driving back and forth to my dentist in Holden, about 45 minutes or so each way).
There was the fact I really couldn't get a handle on this project; I wanted to tell a complete story, like I always do, and I wanted to do so in a completely different voice, so it made the writing feel like I was pulling teeth.
I also had two trips to my hometown every week to do a pair of local sports radio shows, which also demanded on my time, especially when it came to teams that I didn't cover personally; I couldn't write afterward, because those trips and shows took a lot out of me emotionally.
And in April of last year, I took on a wonderful dream job: on top of covering the local high schools, I started covering the New England Revolution soccer team, and even though it's considered part time, I threw myself into it like I always do. All of those things wrapped into one, unfortunately, and it meant GLORIOUS had to go on the shelf. I did get a little written during the tail end of the World Cup in July, but that was it for the first draft until the offseason began -- and even then I was still busy with high school sports until December. And even then, with me taking some time off from the high school sportswriting because the newspaper owed me so much money from November alone, it was still a challenge to open the file and get some words in.
With the Revs spending the preseason in Spain and now in Florida, and with what appears like no streams of the matches in sight, I resolved at the end of January to get the first draft, at the very least, completed by the start of the regular season on March 2. That's accomplished, yes, but I'm not giving the story time to breathe like I usually do; I feel that with the time I have afforded to me, I should at the very least try to get most of the book's issues sorted -- which, like I always say, are in the first half of the book.
Will I get the full second draft completed by the start of the regular season? Probably not. Maybe; I'm not counting on it, though. I should be able to crank the re-writes out this week, and then there's some additions to the story that I came up with a couple of weeks ago: some Doc Brown-esque letters by the protagonist to his parents that wouldn't be delivered until after he had disappeared, so I have those to write. If I get the second draft finished by then, fantastic. If not, it won't bother me until June, when the Revs have a few weeks off due to the Gold Cup. I don't suspect that there will be too much to re-write in the second half of the novel, but you never know.
In all seriousness, I don't want to rush such an important book. It's the first in a planned trilogy, with a lot of the action happening in books two and three. This is a set-up book, to hook the readers and get them to buy books two and three, whenever I get to write them (and if something else gets in my way, it may be a few years before I get the opportunity to sit down and churn out the pages). I'm going to take my time with these re-writes and revisions (read: small tweaks, such as grammar or expounding on other things), and make sure the book is pure fire before I send it to Kim for her edits. I may send it to Bruce, too. He's a history buff, and I'm sure that he'll have things to contribute, advice-wise.
I really can't wait to show you the first book. It's going to be some time, though, so please be patient with me.
Thanks for your time, as always.
www.seansweeneyauthor.com
February 26, 2018
Getting into my new hobby
Just a couple of paintings that I've done over the last week or so. I bought the Bob Ross "Liquid White," and that has helped with my mountains. I've wanted to do the wet-on-wet technique, but I don't think my paints--$6 paints at Michael's--have the firmness he requires. So I'll do what I can with what I have.
One of the things I've also wanted to do: self-painted book covers for the Obloeron Saga. So that's a possibility.
We'll see.
www.seansweeneyauthor.com
January 25, 2018
Scouring Agent: A Thriller, now available for pre-order!
It's getting to be about that time!
And what time is it? You guessed right: it's time for a new Jaclyn Johnson novel!
Scouring Agent: A Thriller, the ninth Jaclyn Johnson adventure, is ready for pre-order at all ebook platforms. A trade paperback edition is coming, too.
Here's what it's all about:
A well-timed string of attacks and events in Washington, D.C. has President Eric B. Forrister and the CIA scrambling for answers in the ninth Jaclyn Johnson thriller novel.
How well-timed are they? It just so happens the attacks occur as Jaclyn is out of the country, on her honeymoon in Wales.
With Tasha Verkler, Jaclyn’s ward and confidante, at the head of the investigation alongside Desmond Daly, a.k.a. Salt, the duo look to discover who’s behind these brazen attacks—the new Supreme Court Museum has been bombed, two Justices dead; the Senate Majority Leader killed by a sniper—until the unthinkable occurs: Jaclyn and Tom’s ride home from Heathrow is also bombed.
Do Jaclyn and Tom make it back to the United States, or does Tasha manage to solve it herself?
Intense!
Get it at the following links!
Amazon Kindle USAmazon Kindle UKNookKoboApple iBooks
www.seansweeneyauthor.com
