R. Thomas Riley's Blog, page 7
March 25, 2012
March 4, 2012
Grand Mal Press publishes new Weird Western novella by Roy C. Booth and R. Thomas Riley (March 1, 2012)
American writers, Roy C. Booth and R. Thomas Riley, havesold a new Weird Western novella entitled, The Flesh of Fallen Angels, to USpublisher, Grand Mal Press for publication in 2012. The novella will beavailable in all formats, including Kindle and in paperback where ever booksare sold. According to the authors, The Flesh of Fallen Angels containsfast-paced, horror, sci-fi and Old West themes that explore the dark side ofhuman nature.
About the Novella:It's the eve of The Ripening as Gibson Blount discovers the secrethistory of an ancient race and the true outcome of Lucifer's fall. Now, thefallen angel, Azazel, has horrific plans for Blount's town...and the world.With the help of a local priest, a prostitute, an orphan, historical figureWilliam Quantrill, and one of God's chief angels, Blount must dig for truth andunearth secrets woven deeply within Time itself to uncover a supernatural plotput into motion by the Church to punish the Roanoke Puritans. The War in Heavenhas been lost and the flesh of fallen angels hangs in the balance. Analternative 1860's history Weird Western, The Flesh of Fallen Angels is filledwith fast-paced action, intrigue, and good-versus-evil what-ifs.
Grand Mal Press is a US based small-press book publisherof novels, collections, and anthologies from such esteemed authors as David T.Wilbanks, Randy Chandler, Ryan C. Thomas, and Gregory L. Norris, Iain Robert Wright,Craig Saunders, among others.
"I'm delighted that The Flesh of Fallen Angels willbe published by Grand Mal Press who are making tremendous strides forward inpublishing genre fiction" says Riley.
R. Thomas Riley is the author of The Monster WithinIdea, Diaphanous (w/ Roy C. Booth), If God Doesn't Show (w/ John Grover), andPhrenetic, a post-apocalyptic horror novella. Roy C. Booth is an author, comedian, poet,journalist, essayist, and screenwriter/doctor (w/. screenplays optioned).Internationally award-winning playwright with 55 plays published (SamuelFrench, Heuer, et al) with 725+ productions worldwide in 28 countries.Check out his books on Amazon.com/Kindle, Goodreads, and elsewhere.
Riley's website can be found at http://www.rthomasriley.com and Booth'swebsite can be found at http://www.facebook.com/roy.c.booth
Grand Mal Press can be contacted atgrandmalpress@gmail.com
www.grandmalpress.com
ISBN-10: 1937727130ISBN-13: 978-1937727130
December 12, 2011
The Monster Within Idea - Re-released
Back in August, my collection The Monster Within Idea (2009-2011, Apex Books) was dropped from print with very little warning. It was gaining ground on Kindle (reached the top 100 in the horror category twice) and starting to find its legs, I thought, but I opened an email from my publisher stating they were releasing it. It was a bit surprising, but I understood the logic. The book was selling, albeit slowly and print copies were all but nonexistent.
I won't lie and say it didn't sting a bit. It did. The collection is very dear to my heart and, I think, holds some of my best work to date. I feel both I and the publisher did everything in our power (minus a few missteps along the way) to get the collection noticed and copies sold. Story collections are just notoriously a hard sell as it is. The reviews were solid ( I don't think I ever saw an entirely negative review) for the most part, but the collection simply never sold steadily, there were spurts of activity (Kindle Top 100 2x) but we could never get the collection out of the valleys it fell into.
I debated re-releasing it. I didn't want to feel like I was resting on my previous accomplishments, but the stories were too good to let disappear (the readers who did read it said so).
So, it's back available on Kindle. I've added a new afterword, a never before published story, and a sneak peek at mine and John Grover's novel from Permuted Press, If God Doesn't Show, coming in 2012.
Hopefully, it'll finally find its legs and new readers will discover it. There's also a MMPB in the works, soon as I receive the proof and approve it, that'll be available as well.
Please consider picking up a copy of either or both, I'd really appreciate it. http://amzn.to/s7teEC
In the meantime, here are some reviews the collection garnered when it was available through Apex.
http://jennifer-brozek.livejournal.com/29811.html
http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/160539251
http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/197544653
http://shroudmagazinebookreviews.blogspot.com/2010/09/monster-within-idea-apex-publications.html
http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/54138675
http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/48877617
http://horrornews.net/25759/book-review-the-monster-within-author-r-thomas-riley/
http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/46485513
Amazon Reviews Page
December 6, 2011
Sometimes Looking Back...Helps Moving Forward
I've been in this business for over a decade now. I'm tired. I really am. I've accomplished a few things, but I want to be much further than where I am currently. I'm never going to be satisfied, I know this and have accepted it. The drive is too strong, but sometimes you just have to look back to see where you've been, so you can find the strength to move forward.
I've had a few career changing opportunities over the years. Some, I've failed, others I haven't. Some, I was ready for, others, not so much. But I tried and gave it my best. I'd like to think my best has gotten better. I'd like to think my skill as a writer has improved. Ray Bradbury said something along the lines that, every writer has a million bad words in them, once those million bad words written, they can finally write something worth reading. I'm getting pretty close to my million. How did I do it? The answer is easy and hard at the same time: I wrote them.
Writing is a solitary process. You do it, nobody else can do it for you. The rest of it, isn't done alone, however. That's were friends come into play. I've met and talked with quite a few other writers in this business since I started. Some of helped me, others not so much. I firmly believe that those that have gone before should mentor as much as they can. They received advice from their own mentors and they should strive to pay it forward. They owe it to the next generation of writers coming up behind them. Now, I'm not advocating, you walk up to them and demand advice, not at all. 99% of the time all you have to do is shut up and listen. Just listen, watch their mistakes (they'll make plenty, we all do) and learn. I've done my best to pass on what I've learned over the years and seen.
This business will chew you up and spit you out without a second thought. How you respond is what determines if you make it or not. We've all heard the horror stories and the success stories and the horror stories far outweigh the successes. That's how it is, it's not going to change. You simply accept it and roll with the kicks to the teeth. You get back up, you trudge forward and you write your million words, and then you keep writing.
Writing has to come from somewhere deep inside you, if it doesn't, you'll never last. I've had my teeth kicked in more than I care to remember in this business. I've had writers I thought were friends, take projects we were working on together and sell them out from under me. I've had writers steal my work. I've had multiple publishers lie, cheat, and steal my work. I've been dumped from publication more than once. Yet, I'm still here. I'm still writing because it's what I do. Sure, I can stop writing (done it quite a few times), but I always come crawling back. It's who I am, it's what I do. It's my identity, my outlet. It's my coping mechanism. Without it, I'd be lost.
A few years back, I wrote something for Ray Garton for WHC 2006, I believe.
"Ray, I met you awhile back in a chat room, somehow we ended up alone and I was scared to death to actually carry on a conversation with you, but somehow I relaxed and had a great time talking with you. I know you may not remember it, but I sure do, because of that night and something you said, I'm where I'm at today with my writing. You took the time to be honest with a nobody and that seed you planted, without realizing it, gave me the confidence to succeed in this business. Something you said stuck with me, so much that I can quote it word for word: " I think you're going to go places. You crack that novel length, and I think you'll be outta here."
"Thanks Ray for taking the time to take a fledgling writer under your wing and offering some encouragement. I've watched you and you've been nothing but professional and writerly to everyone you come into contact with and whether you've realized it or not, you've provided an example to follow, not just with me, but with everyone you come into contact with. Thanks for being who you are, Ray."
What I wrote above all those years ago, still stands. If it weren't for writers like Ray, James A. Moore, Tom Piccirilli, Brian Keene, John Grover, Roy C. Booth, John Paul Allen, Nikki Edwards, Mari Adkins, and a host of others, I wouldn't be where I'm at today. That's the part where the writing isn't a solitary exercise. Friends, you need them. You need to them to vent, so you don't go on a public rant on FaceBook, Twitter, or elsewhere and embarrass the crap out of yourself. You need them to kick your ass and tell you to not quit. You need them to tell you your work sucks and you can do better. You need them to commiserate when you're getting nothing but rejections and nothing is selling.
Put simply, you need them and they are integral to your success.
Later this week..."Readers, Why We Need YOU..."
November 29, 2011
Revenants, Gibson Blount, and Other Things
My most recent project is now available on Kindle. Revenants is a digital chapbook with over 30k of fiction from John Grover and myself. There's also an exclusive excerpt/sneak peek at our upcoming novel If God Doesn't Show from Permuted Press next year. For those of you who know my work I've also included an essay on the history of Gibson Blount and where you can expect to find more stories about him and what's in the works.
John and I have been collaborating for nearly five years now. Time sure does fly. It's truly been a blast and an honor to work with him. He gets me, and I get him. We work extremely well together, practically finishing each other's sentences as we write.
The ink is dry on the contracts and Grand Mal Press will be publishing The Flesh of Fallen Angels, co-written with Roy C. Booth, sometime next year. This novel has had a precarious road to publication and hopefully this time it will actually see the light of day. This novel is very important to me as it is basically Gibson Blount's origin story. Some of the same characters also appear in If God Doesn't Show, so it'll be nice to see how you, the reader, receive Blount and if there's enough interest to keep his story evolving.
Diaphanous has been available for nearly six months now. If you've read it, please consider leaving a review on the Amazon page, your blog, your Facebook, or wherever you hang your internet hat. Roy and I have started work on Diaphanous: Bug Collector and slowly making progress. We really need to see more movement and interest with Diaphanous and we'd love all the help and word of mouth you could give.
I've also starting writing a few stories with Nikki Edwards as well. Those have been submitted to various markets and hopefully will find a home in the very near future.
Thanks for reading and hope you continue to enjoy what we're putting out.
John and I have been collaborating for nearly five years now. Time sure does fly. It's truly been a blast and an honor to work with him. He gets me, and I get him. We work extremely well together, practically finishing each other's sentences as we write.
The ink is dry on the contracts and Grand Mal Press will be publishing The Flesh of Fallen Angels, co-written with Roy C. Booth, sometime next year. This novel has had a precarious road to publication and hopefully this time it will actually see the light of day. This novel is very important to me as it is basically Gibson Blount's origin story. Some of the same characters also appear in If God Doesn't Show, so it'll be nice to see how you, the reader, receive Blount and if there's enough interest to keep his story evolving.
Diaphanous has been available for nearly six months now. If you've read it, please consider leaving a review on the Amazon page, your blog, your Facebook, or wherever you hang your internet hat. Roy and I have started work on Diaphanous: Bug Collector and slowly making progress. We really need to see more movement and interest with Diaphanous and we'd love all the help and word of mouth you could give.
I've also starting writing a few stories with Nikki Edwards as well. Those have been submitted to various markets and hopefully will find a home in the very near future.
Thanks for reading and hope you continue to enjoy what we're putting out.
November 4, 2011
The Pieces Shatter Just So (Part 2)
"I don't know whether I'm the boxer or the bag..." Pearl Jam
As a writer, if you want to really write something well, potent, you have to dig deep into yourself, prod those dark things that lurk in the back of your head. Those regrets, those painful memories, those things that paralyze you for hours if you let yourself dwell on them.
Regrets, we all have them. Things we should've done different, things we could've done different. If you think about your past for too long, you'll find yourself never moving forward. But when it comes to fiction, the more "truth" you let slip in, the better the story will be for it. Write what you know, is a mantra we've all heard before and it applies here.
Regrets. Such a simple word, but it's pregnant with meaning specific to each individual. Me? Boy, do I have plenty. To list them all, would fill this blog up. I usually don't talk about my own regrets, at least not in public, but if you read my work, you'll see them all. They're a part of who I am and they form all my decisions as I move forward. I'm a very analytical person, I approach things from every imaginal angle and I'm not an emotional decision maker, usually. The few times I have made decisions based on emotion they've turned out disastrous. If that makes me cold, then so be it, it works for me.
No one knows you like you know yourself. I'm constantly analyzing my motives and actions, I need to know why I do what I do in certain situations so I don't repeat past mistakes. But being completely honest with one's self can be pretty disheartening. Pulling at those old wounds, bleeding them onto a page, is draining and you have to be careful to leave yourself crumbs so you don't get lost in the words. You have to be able to pull yourself out of the deep, dark hole you just dug for yourself and make sure the rope you're using to pull yourself back out doesn't end up around your own neck.
My biggest regret is losing my son. I was an idiot back then. Lots of things I could've done differently. I was a very unhappy person and didn't even know why back then. I made a ton of mistakes, took a lot of bad roads, and ended up losing the most important thing to me. And I pay for it each and every day. It's a hole that I can't fill no matter what lies I tell myself to cope and feel better. I'm missing his life, sure I get to talk with him on the phone as time permits, but I'm not there to see him play basketball, baseball, football. To see him be a KID. I'm missing it all and it's the worst feeling in the world. This isn't a pity party, an oh poor me rant, it's simply stating facts. I miss having my son, seeing him grow up and being a part of his life. Despite everything, this is the knife that constantly twists in my gut when I think about him, I'm missing his childhood because I couldn't fix myself. Being honest with myself, that's the one thing, despite a huge list of wrongs on both sides of the DMZ, that I'll never be able to forgive her for, she stole my son and there's nothing I can do to make that right.
Nothing...
October 20, 2011
The Pieces Shatter Just So
Writing is everything to me. It's what I do. It's what I am. If I'm not writing, I'm thinking about writing. I've said this many, many times over the years, if I don't write, people around me know. I've gone months without writing anything for any number of reasons. Every time I sit down to write, everything comes out crap, or I just don't "feel" anything coming out on the page. I've decided multiple times over the years to stop writing, but I always, always, always come crawling back.
What is it about writing? Where did this desire come from? Why do I do it? That is one of the most burning questions I constantly think about it. Why? Why dig so deep and prod those dark thoughts swirling about my head. Why dwell on such horrible things and put my characters through such hell? Why can't I write about bright and shinny happy things? Believe me, I've tried and there's always something dark that slips in under the door and oozes it's way into the story. I could blame my upbringing, but that's just a cop out. I could blame many things that have gone wrong in my life...my marriage, my relationships, whatever...but again that's a cop out and it's never that simple.
The title of this blog is from a recent story that I wrote. There was no idea for it, it simply stumbled out one night. I had no idea what the story was going to be about or even if I was going to finish it, until I did. Those are the best kinds of stories, those that come out of nowhere. Sneak up on you and fester until it simply HAS to come out. You wanna know why I write? This is why, for that feeling, that surge of desire to see where this rabbit hole goes. Even now, the words I'm using to describe this feeling are inadequate, I really can't put into words this feeling I get when I'm in the zone. But if you're a writer, then you know that I'm trying to describe.
No matter what happens, no matter how many times I may stumble into a depressive hole of self loathing and self pity, I will always write, even if it's only in my head for a time, I will always write. It's who I am.
What is it about writing? Where did this desire come from? Why do I do it? That is one of the most burning questions I constantly think about it. Why? Why dig so deep and prod those dark thoughts swirling about my head. Why dwell on such horrible things and put my characters through such hell? Why can't I write about bright and shinny happy things? Believe me, I've tried and there's always something dark that slips in under the door and oozes it's way into the story. I could blame my upbringing, but that's just a cop out. I could blame many things that have gone wrong in my life...my marriage, my relationships, whatever...but again that's a cop out and it's never that simple.
The title of this blog is from a recent story that I wrote. There was no idea for it, it simply stumbled out one night. I had no idea what the story was going to be about or even if I was going to finish it, until I did. Those are the best kinds of stories, those that come out of nowhere. Sneak up on you and fester until it simply HAS to come out. You wanna know why I write? This is why, for that feeling, that surge of desire to see where this rabbit hole goes. Even now, the words I'm using to describe this feeling are inadequate, I really can't put into words this feeling I get when I'm in the zone. But if you're a writer, then you know that I'm trying to describe.
No matter what happens, no matter how many times I may stumble into a depressive hole of self loathing and self pity, I will always write, even if it's only in my head for a time, I will always write. It's who I am.
October 10, 2011
As The Worm Burrows (Free Story)
Einstein once said, "Nature shows us only the tail of the lion. But I do not doubt that the lion belongs to it even though he cannot at once reveal himself because of his enormous size."
He opened his eyes to utter darkness. It was so complete, he wasn't certain if he really had his eyes open. He tried to raise a hand to ensure this but they didn't move. The smell of cedar was redolent all around him. He began to panic. A memory sprung up unbidden in his mind. As a small child, stricken with grief, he'd climbed into his mother's coffin. He'd closed the lid and snuggled with her corpse and wasn't discovered until the next morning by a surprised undertaker. The smell surrounding him smelled just like the inside of the coffin. Cedar fresh.
He flung his head to the side and cried out as something raked through his face. A lot of somethings. He ignored the pin pricks of miniature pain that erupted on his face, hands, chest and legs as his struggles became more desperate. Violent. He knew he was bleeding because his arms and legs slid more easily now with the bloody lubrication.
He paused as something tapped against the side of his wooden prison. A garble of voices chattered. He opened his mouth to scream for help. He choked as he inhaled millions of splinters. The agony of their descent down his windpipe was a caustic supernova. The blood gurgled in his throat and his scream died in its wet embrace. He flinched as a buzzing sound tore through his entire body. It vibrated his entire prison.
The voices had been shouting in Spanish, he realized as his neck was sheared through.
***
Pyper read the article intently. Her brow furrowed in concentration, she didn't hear her mother's question.
"Pyper!" her mother raised her voice.
"Huh?" she responded as if arousing from a deep sleep.
"I said, make sure you return those books to the library today. I'm not paying your late fees this time," her mother reiterated.
"Yeah, sure thing," Pyper muttered, her eyes dropping back to the magazine.
"Yeah what?"
"Yes ma'am," she reluctantly answered.
"I don't know why you read that trash," her mother sniffed. "None of it's true, you know."
"Whatever," Pyper muttered. "Why are there boxes and boxes of these down in the basement if they're all crap?"
Her mother slapped a hand down on the magazine. Pyper continued to stare at the glossy print that peeked out from between her mother's splayed fingers. The battle of wills would've gone on indefinitely had her mother not cupped her chin in her hand forcing eye contact.
"Your attitude really stinks, young lady," her mother growled. "Just because you're fifteen doesn't mean that you can treat me like crap."
"Do I bother you when you're reading?" Pyper asked, tone dripping with false sweetness.
"Jesus! You're impossible," Maggie fumed. "Just because your father isn't here anymore—,"
"You screwed that up. Not me," Pyper exploded as she ripped her face out of her mother's grasp and leapt to her feet.
The chair she'd been sitting in shot away from the kitchen table and clattered across the floor. As it crashed into the far wall, the two of them hunched over as if about to do physical battle. Her mother's nostrils flared as she unconsciously flexed her hands as if they longed to encircle her daughter's throat.
The room was silent except for labored breathing as daughter and mother stared daggers at each other. An unseen breeze fluttered the glossy pages of the magazine.
"You're father left us," Maggie stated slowly.
"Getting caught going down on the Fed Ex guy certainly facilitated his leaving," Pyper shot back.
Maggie was across the room in a flash. She smiled as her daughter's face exploded in surprise from the resounding slap. She reached for the table before Pyper could recover and grabbed the milk carafe. She swung.
***
She came back up the stairs from the basement a short time later. As she passed the table, Maggie glanced down at the magazine page lying open. A picture of a group men gathered around a huge tree caught her eye. Her breathed hitched in her throat as recognition coursed through her.
The gaudy headline screamed:
Man found encased in tree! Ecuadoran lumber crew swears man was alive when their chain saw cut through his neck! They heard the screams!
She smiled. So that's where Ed had gotten off to. She never knew where the things she pushed into the wormhole in the basement would end up. That's why she religiously bought the tabloid. Not everything between its pages was a lie.
She wondered where Pyper would pop up? She couldn't wait for the next issue.
The End
If you enjoyed this story please considering picking up a copy of Diaphanous or Temple of Strays and supporting my work.
He opened his eyes to utter darkness. It was so complete, he wasn't certain if he really had his eyes open. He tried to raise a hand to ensure this but they didn't move. The smell of cedar was redolent all around him. He began to panic. A memory sprung up unbidden in his mind. As a small child, stricken with grief, he'd climbed into his mother's coffin. He'd closed the lid and snuggled with her corpse and wasn't discovered until the next morning by a surprised undertaker. The smell surrounding him smelled just like the inside of the coffin. Cedar fresh.
He flung his head to the side and cried out as something raked through his face. A lot of somethings. He ignored the pin pricks of miniature pain that erupted on his face, hands, chest and legs as his struggles became more desperate. Violent. He knew he was bleeding because his arms and legs slid more easily now with the bloody lubrication.
He paused as something tapped against the side of his wooden prison. A garble of voices chattered. He opened his mouth to scream for help. He choked as he inhaled millions of splinters. The agony of their descent down his windpipe was a caustic supernova. The blood gurgled in his throat and his scream died in its wet embrace. He flinched as a buzzing sound tore through his entire body. It vibrated his entire prison.
The voices had been shouting in Spanish, he realized as his neck was sheared through.
***
Pyper read the article intently. Her brow furrowed in concentration, she didn't hear her mother's question.
"Pyper!" her mother raised her voice.
"Huh?" she responded as if arousing from a deep sleep.
"I said, make sure you return those books to the library today. I'm not paying your late fees this time," her mother reiterated.
"Yeah, sure thing," Pyper muttered, her eyes dropping back to the magazine.
"Yeah what?"
"Yes ma'am," she reluctantly answered.
"I don't know why you read that trash," her mother sniffed. "None of it's true, you know."
"Whatever," Pyper muttered. "Why are there boxes and boxes of these down in the basement if they're all crap?"
Her mother slapped a hand down on the magazine. Pyper continued to stare at the glossy print that peeked out from between her mother's splayed fingers. The battle of wills would've gone on indefinitely had her mother not cupped her chin in her hand forcing eye contact.
"Your attitude really stinks, young lady," her mother growled. "Just because you're fifteen doesn't mean that you can treat me like crap."
"Do I bother you when you're reading?" Pyper asked, tone dripping with false sweetness.
"Jesus! You're impossible," Maggie fumed. "Just because your father isn't here anymore—,"
"You screwed that up. Not me," Pyper exploded as she ripped her face out of her mother's grasp and leapt to her feet.
The chair she'd been sitting in shot away from the kitchen table and clattered across the floor. As it crashed into the far wall, the two of them hunched over as if about to do physical battle. Her mother's nostrils flared as she unconsciously flexed her hands as if they longed to encircle her daughter's throat.
The room was silent except for labored breathing as daughter and mother stared daggers at each other. An unseen breeze fluttered the glossy pages of the magazine.
"You're father left us," Maggie stated slowly.
"Getting caught going down on the Fed Ex guy certainly facilitated his leaving," Pyper shot back.
Maggie was across the room in a flash. She smiled as her daughter's face exploded in surprise from the resounding slap. She reached for the table before Pyper could recover and grabbed the milk carafe. She swung.
***
She came back up the stairs from the basement a short time later. As she passed the table, Maggie glanced down at the magazine page lying open. A picture of a group men gathered around a huge tree caught her eye. Her breathed hitched in her throat as recognition coursed through her.
The gaudy headline screamed:
Man found encased in tree! Ecuadoran lumber crew swears man was alive when their chain saw cut through his neck! They heard the screams!
She smiled. So that's where Ed had gotten off to. She never knew where the things she pushed into the wormhole in the basement would end up. That's why she religiously bought the tabloid. Not everything between its pages was a lie.
She wondered where Pyper would pop up? She couldn't wait for the next issue.
The End
If you enjoyed this story please considering picking up a copy of Diaphanous or Temple of Strays and supporting my work.
Finding a Balance
Recently I got an invitation to Google+. Exploring Google's social networking attempt a revelation occurred to me. This light bulb moment has been crawling around in the back of my brain for a few months now, but I wasn't completely aware of it, until Google+. Let me explain:
I've been doing this writing thing for a little over a decade now. Every so often, I find myself pausing and looking back, reevaluating my goals and progress. I've had two story collections published, a few pro sales and a fairly respectable showing in anthologies. Most of those goals have been reached and surpassed. Still, I'm nowhere near being able to do this gig full time. Every serious writer dreams to write full time, but it never quite materialized for one reason or another for me. I've made some money over the years, but considering the hours spent and the monetary return to ratio? I'd make way more money flipping burgers.
The Internet is an amazing thing to have at your disposal as an author. I shudder to think what it was like pre-internet when there was no MySpace, Facebook, Twitter, or any number of other Internet social media platforms. Research? While it may seem romantic to haunt the library stacks of old, it would be a dreary, daunting task, to say the least. As an author, Google is my best friend; it's my lifeline during research. When nearly anything we may want to find out is merely a few mouse clicks away, I think, this Internet generation of writers is well and truly spoiled. Gone are the days of going to a local library, pouring over ancient newspaper articles and dusty textbooks, interviewing people to find out details to make your novel that much more real. I don't know, maybe I'm romanticizing it a bit.
Back to Google+ and my "aha" moment. As I began adding to my circles I realized these people were now spamming me across at least 3 platforms now. I became more selective in adding people on Google+ without really realizing it at first. I took a look at my Facebook page and saw I had nearly 1,800+ friends, and then I realized I barely knew the majority of them, much less ever interacted with them since they were added. Then I began to realize that the majority of them were other authors who were constantly in my news feed hawking their various eBooks and novels. And then? I realized I had no interest in reading or buying their works because they simply did not interest me. I was tired of seeing posts bragging about word counts. So what? If you're writer, you should write, correct? Quit bragging about it and write. I was tired of seeing them bitch and moan about not having any sales or the opposite, crowing loudly about selling X amount of books in a single day. Then I realized every new release I posted on my own pages, they were ignoring me as much as I was ignoring them. I write because it's what I do, but I also crave to be read. Call it ego, it's very healthy, trust me, but nothing makes my day more than some random reader leaving a review or emailing me to let me know they enjoyed the story. That's the icing on the cake.
Take this in for a minute…other than the 20 or so friends I knew personally, and the other 20 or so authors I've spoken to on a regular basis or personally met at one point or another, the rest of these "friends" I knew little to nothing about. In reality, with nearly 1,800+ friends, I should be getting at least half of that in sales for every new thing I release? Not so, not so at all. I realized I'd become stuck in a relentless cycle of self-promotion to people that really had no interest in buying my work or supporting my career, because they were just as hung up on their own career trying to sell me their stuff.
So all those Facebook blasts about something new of mine was falling on deaf ears and going absolutely nowhere, for all intents and purposes, I was wasting my time and not gaining any new readership. I'd been doing this for years, first on MySpace and then carrying this flawed model over to Facebook, then Twitter. Other than the initial flurry of sales for my new releases, there was nothing after, just a stale sales sheet. I realized those people that initially bought my work were the ones I personally knew or had interacted with. Everyone else on my Facebook? I'd attempted to read a few of their works, you know, to support other fellow authors, but they, put simply, sucked and couldn't write. I had no interest in their new work, vice versa, they had no interest in mine because we were both trying to preach to the choir, and sell to people that had no intention of buying our work because we were both authors.
So if you've been removed from my friends list, this was the reasoning behind the decision. From here on out, I will be even more selective on Facebook and probably even more so on Google +, with the recent developments with Facebook and their continual "improvements". I'm grateful for those of you who share my links and comment on successes, failures, and my status updates. I will continue to return the favor. I want to be a part of your successes and I hope you will be a part of mine.
I've been doing this writing thing for a little over a decade now. Every so often, I find myself pausing and looking back, reevaluating my goals and progress. I've had two story collections published, a few pro sales and a fairly respectable showing in anthologies. Most of those goals have been reached and surpassed. Still, I'm nowhere near being able to do this gig full time. Every serious writer dreams to write full time, but it never quite materialized for one reason or another for me. I've made some money over the years, but considering the hours spent and the monetary return to ratio? I'd make way more money flipping burgers.
The Internet is an amazing thing to have at your disposal as an author. I shudder to think what it was like pre-internet when there was no MySpace, Facebook, Twitter, or any number of other Internet social media platforms. Research? While it may seem romantic to haunt the library stacks of old, it would be a dreary, daunting task, to say the least. As an author, Google is my best friend; it's my lifeline during research. When nearly anything we may want to find out is merely a few mouse clicks away, I think, this Internet generation of writers is well and truly spoiled. Gone are the days of going to a local library, pouring over ancient newspaper articles and dusty textbooks, interviewing people to find out details to make your novel that much more real. I don't know, maybe I'm romanticizing it a bit.
Back to Google+ and my "aha" moment. As I began adding to my circles I realized these people were now spamming me across at least 3 platforms now. I became more selective in adding people on Google+ without really realizing it at first. I took a look at my Facebook page and saw I had nearly 1,800+ friends, and then I realized I barely knew the majority of them, much less ever interacted with them since they were added. Then I began to realize that the majority of them were other authors who were constantly in my news feed hawking their various eBooks and novels. And then? I realized I had no interest in reading or buying their works because they simply did not interest me. I was tired of seeing posts bragging about word counts. So what? If you're writer, you should write, correct? Quit bragging about it and write. I was tired of seeing them bitch and moan about not having any sales or the opposite, crowing loudly about selling X amount of books in a single day. Then I realized every new release I posted on my own pages, they were ignoring me as much as I was ignoring them. I write because it's what I do, but I also crave to be read. Call it ego, it's very healthy, trust me, but nothing makes my day more than some random reader leaving a review or emailing me to let me know they enjoyed the story. That's the icing on the cake.
Take this in for a minute…other than the 20 or so friends I knew personally, and the other 20 or so authors I've spoken to on a regular basis or personally met at one point or another, the rest of these "friends" I knew little to nothing about. In reality, with nearly 1,800+ friends, I should be getting at least half of that in sales for every new thing I release? Not so, not so at all. I realized I'd become stuck in a relentless cycle of self-promotion to people that really had no interest in buying my work or supporting my career, because they were just as hung up on their own career trying to sell me their stuff.
So all those Facebook blasts about something new of mine was falling on deaf ears and going absolutely nowhere, for all intents and purposes, I was wasting my time and not gaining any new readership. I'd been doing this for years, first on MySpace and then carrying this flawed model over to Facebook, then Twitter. Other than the initial flurry of sales for my new releases, there was nothing after, just a stale sales sheet. I realized those people that initially bought my work were the ones I personally knew or had interacted with. Everyone else on my Facebook? I'd attempted to read a few of their works, you know, to support other fellow authors, but they, put simply, sucked and couldn't write. I had no interest in their new work, vice versa, they had no interest in mine because we were both trying to preach to the choir, and sell to people that had no intention of buying our work because we were both authors.
So if you've been removed from my friends list, this was the reasoning behind the decision. From here on out, I will be even more selective on Facebook and probably even more so on Google +, with the recent developments with Facebook and their continual "improvements". I'm grateful for those of you who share my links and comment on successes, failures, and my status updates. I will continue to return the favor. I want to be a part of your successes and I hope you will be a part of mine.
September 8, 2011
Let Sirius into Fire Melt (Free Story)
Let Sirius into Fire Melt
(Heroes, Villains, and Myths)
Andrew Negman kept his head low as he hurried down the hall. All around him lockers clanged as other students hurried to retrieve books and supplies in preparation for the next class period. He'd almost made it to his own locker when he heard his name shouted.
"Hey! Negman!"
Andrew quickened his pace making a beeline for his locker.
"Hey! Negman! I'm talking to you!"
Andrew stiffened as he felt the other boy's hand grip his shoulder. Derrick Rainer, his own personal bully. "What do you want?" he said softly.
"Got any change on ya, Negman?" Rainer taunted.
Andrew opened his locker and unburdened his books. He dug into his pocket as Rainer poked him in the back with a finger. Without turning around Andrew held out the change he'd fished from his jeans. Rainer took a swipe at the change and a few coins clattered to the floor.
"Well?" Rainer said when Andrew didn't move. "Pick 'em up and hand them to me."
Andrew turned and knelt down. His face burned as he caught sight of Misty Nelson standing at the edge of the gawking students. Misty was the prettiest girl he'd ever laid eyes on. Completely out of his reach, yet he couldn't help but imagine what it would be like to kiss her. She looked on, her face unreadable. Their eyes locked for the briefest of moments and something clicked in Andrew's chest. Suddenly, he couldn't breathe. The hallway narrowed and she was all he saw. His hand hovered above the coins, but they were forgotten.
Rainer nudged Andrew with a foot. "Sometime today, Negman."
Andrew glanced up for the first time and stared hard at Rainer. The boy grinned back urged on by the other students' chuckles and laughs. The pressure in his chest was near bursting and Andrew suddenly remembered to breathe once again.
"Got something to say, Negman?"
The tips of Andrew's fingers burned and ached. He grimaced as the pain shot up his arms and settled in his chest. A void rested there, cold and desolate. The void burned as Andrew's psyche raged. He quickly gathered up the coins and thrust them out to Rainer. The boy grabbed the coins and shoved Andrew back into the lockers. The students laughed as Andrew sprawled out.
I'd seen enough. It was time to intervene. The students dispersed swiftly as I approached. Andrew gathered his legs beneath him and leaned back against the locker and closed his eyes. He willed the pressure in his chest to subside with slow, deep breaths. The heat subsided and the coldness returned like an old familiar friend.
You may be wondering how I knew what he was feeling. That will be explained in time, if you care to stick around for the rest of this story.
"Mr. Negman? Everything all right?" I asked as I reached out a hand.
Andrew opened his eyes and he reached up, but just as he was about to grasp my hand, I jerked back.
"Oww," I gasped, rubbing my hands together. A weird look passed over Andrew's face as he stared up at me.
Andrew placed a hand on the locker behind him and gained his feet. My eyes were drawn to the locker behind him. My breath caught in my throat. Confused at my sudden silence, Andrew glanced behind him to where my gaze was riveted. A handprint, his handprint, could be clearly seen on the metal. The paint had been seared from the locker.
Keeping my distance, I said, "Come with me, Andrew." My tone was soft. "We need to talk."
Andrew followed me down the empty hall as the first period bell began to ring.
- In the Beginning -
At the turn of the century, superheroes were everywhere. It seemed that even the smallest of towns boasted a metahuman. There was Memory Man who could absorb memories. People from around the world would come to his lair in the Louisiana bayou to unburden themselves of painful memories. There was Card Trick, a master magician based out of Las Vegas, who made headlines on a daily basis as he traveled the country fighting crime and injustice. The list went on and on and the world was a wondrous, mysterious, and masked place.
Then, the metahumans began to die off. No one was sure why these heroes were dying by the handful. Was it some hideous plot by arch villain, Mind Gallery? Had the villain figured out a virus that would kill them? This was the common opinion, until even Mind Gallery succumbed to whatever had killed the rest of the heroes. In just a few short months there were no more metahumans left alive. It had been thirty years since the last of the metahumans had died and as the years passed mankind forgot about the masked heroes.
I knew the truth, however. Those in our government were terrified of the metahumans and what their kind represented. What was to stop one of them from rising to power and making their jobs obsolete? So a virus was created in the darkest reaches of power by a scientist named Vernus Malcum and unleashed on the unsuspecting heroes. Only the virus worked a little too well. Hundreds of millions of innocent civilians died as well decimating the world's population by more than a third. Chaos erupted and mankind was plunged into a new Dark Age. Families turned against each in vain attempts to live. Who was infected, who were carriers of the Malcum Virus? In trying to protect their seat of power, the government had effectively destroyed it's self.
The world was a much smaller place now. Travel was almost non-existent. Commerce was a thing of the past. Our colony was known as Sirius 7 and boasted a population of two thousand souls. In the beginning our part of the system moved underground and constructed nano shield over our spot of the world. So far, we had been safe. Those infected with the deadly Malcum Virus the Phalanx took care of. Those suspected of being infected the Phalanx dealt with. For the good of the group, the Phalanx ensured there were no exceptions or uncertainties. I'm sure there were many that had not been infected that were taken care of. I try not to think about that too much. We, the Phalanx, did what needed to be done to survive as a race.
We did what we did best as a species. We buried the truth. We taught our children an alternate history. We clouded their minds with hypno drugs and misdirection. The sky above our children was manufactured. There was night and there was day. There were stars, clouds, a sun and moon. All nano-manufactured to keep our past sins buried.
Thirty winters ago the Malcum Virus was released and the world changed forever. As suddenly as the virus had appeared, it had vanished, having done its vile job. In the back of all our heads, those that remembered what we'd done, the new government we called the Phalanx, watched for the signs of the virus' re-emergence. We all cowered in our colonies and hoped for the best.
"You've got to be kidding me," Andrew said as I finished speaking.
"Yes, Andrew. It's true. It's something we don't talk about anymore. You're special. I'm part of an interested group that have searched for the rise of the next metahuman all these years."
"Metahumans are myths," Andrew scoffed. "It says so in all the history books. There are logical, scientific explanations for the supposed powers they had. I've been to Rizen, every summer; I've been to the beach with my family. We've taken road trips!"
"Are you sure about that?" I countered. "Think about it? What exactly do you remember? Have you ever wondered about the pills you've taken since you were little?"
Andrew's brow furrowed and a frown grew on his face. "They're vitamins. They…I'm not…sure."
"I know better," I responded. "I was there. You are in great danger. You mustn't exhibit your powers in public."
"You're crazy."
"Explain your handprint on the locker. Explain the way you've been feeling lately."
"How did you know about me?"
"Someone like you was bound to happen somewhere."
"Wait a minute," Andrew interrupted. "You said I was in danger. From whom?"
I paused and creased my brows. I pursed my lips and shook my head. "We're not sure, but someone was responsible for killing all the metahumans thirty years ago. We're sure about that."
"You said so yourself, you're not even sure what killed them in the first place. What makes you think anyone did?"
The kid was sharp. I wasn't going to be able sneak anything past him. He would have to be convinced. I stared at Andrew for a long moment. He smirked and crossed his arms. It was an act. Inside, I could sense, his mind was awhirl with the possibilities. He was scared to death. What if what I were telling him was the truth? What if he were in danger? At the same time he was excited to find out he was special, exhilaration and terror felt at odds in his head.
I weighed telling him the truth. Not just yet. I finally broke the silence, "It didn't happen by itself."
- Revelations -
The conversation played relentlessly in his head as he sat in second period Algebra. It didn't happen by itself. Christ! How was he supposed to concentrate with this crap in his head? He kept his books open but he was oblivious to anything going on around him. He glanced out the window and peered at the sky. Was it false? He had now way of knowing. The sky was something he'd never questioned before. It was just there, a fact of his existence. Deep down he realized he really didn't remember those family trips as if he'd experienced them personally. Sure, he remembered them, but the memories were like a second-hand telling, overheard from a friend. He stared down at his hand in his lap, palm up. Was that a glow just below the skin? He concentrated and the glow spread until he could see his metacarpals faintly beneath the skin of his palm.
"Neat," he whispered.
Andrew, I said, stop doing that.
Andrew sat up straight in his chair and glanced around the room. He'd heard the voice as clearly as if it were right beside him, yet he didn't see Mrs. Keene.
I'm in your head, Andrew, I answered in response to his question.
I was sitting in my office at the opposite end of the school, yet I could see Andrew as clearly as if I were standing right next to him.
It's not a special power, I continued, it's a natural skill everyone possesses.
Andrew frowned and whispered, "Not a special power? You're in my head!"
Easy, just think what you want to say, I instructed. Meet me in my office after classes. We have to talk.
I watched Andrew as he came into my office and closed the door slowly behind him. I motioned for him to take a seat at one of the chairs in front of my desk. He chose the right chair and settled in. He fidgeted as he tried to appear cool, but I could see right through his brave façade. His belief system was crumbling.
His hands glowed softly and he self-consciously tried to hide them in his lap. The heat was potent as it wafted off his body in waves. I wiped the sweat from my neck and wondered why his clothes weren't catching fire. That I didn't know the reason troubled me.
"You need to control your new ability," I began. "If you don't learn how quickly before it fully manifests it's self, you could hurt a lot of people."
"What's happening to me?"
"Your body is changing. Adjusting to the new chemical processes awakening in your genes."
"What if I can't control it?"
"There is no choice, you must learn how," I answered sternly.
"Why me?"
"Why not you? This you must remember," I continued. "There are always two sides to a transformation. One hero and one villain. You need to find out who the villain is, before they find out who you are. Until you do, you will not be safe."
Andrew stared at his hands and sighed. They glowed a bright red and then dulled. "What about you?"
I smiled and tented my fingers. "What do you mean?" I asked, even though I saw clearly the real question behind the innocent one he'd just asked.
"You can read my thoughts."
"I told you, that's natural, anybody can do it. It's not special."
"Then why doesn't everybody do it?"
"Have you ever been thinking about something and someone mentioned it out loud without you having to?"
"Well, yeah," Andrew said slowly.
I tented my fingers and nodded my head sagely. "I want to show you something." I stood and walked to the door. "Follow me," I said over my shoulder.
- The Hour Approaches -
Andrew stared dubiously at my car as I motioned for him to get in. I offered a reassuring smile and shrugged. "You really need to see this." I got in the car without waiting for his response and started the engine.
He rolled his eyes and opened the door. He slid into the seat and looked at me. I shifted the car into drive and pulled out of the school parking lot. He kept looking at me the whole time I navigated the small town. I turned onto a side road and he cleared his throat.
"Yes?" I asked knowingly.
"This road is closed," he answered as if I were a small child.
"Yes."
"So why are you taking it?"
"You'll see," I said with a wink. "Here's a question for you: How long as this road been closed?"
"Um…forever?"
"You ever wondered about the way things are? Why you've never had any new neighbors and you have the same friends. Why there aren't ever any new kids in class?"
I could tell my questions were making him wonder for the first time in his life. It's funny how the human mind works when it's never been challenged. The majority of people, especially children, are curious by nature. Naturally, but we'd engineered the perfect cocktail of hypnotics that repressed this natural inclination. It was in their food, in their sodas, in their candies. In the beginning, before the Phalanx had gotten the dosage correct children had ventured past the safe zones. It was a necessary evil. These adventurous ones were dealt with.
I glanced nervously in my rearview. The Phalanx were everywhere in our colony. They monitored these routes and they monitored our children. I was auspicious to have discovered Andrew before they did. I had to trust I was the first to discover him. From all signs, I was fairly confident I was. Still, that niggling of doubt tickled the back of my mind.
"So tell me about Misty."
Andrew blanched and coughed with embarrassment.
"Come on now," I encouraged. "It's all you think about. I can see her quite clearly, you know."
"She's just a girl."
"She's more than that," I prodded. "Have you told her how you feel about her?"
Andrew fixed me with a flabbergasted look. "Are you serious? I could never do that!"
I chuckled and slowed the car. We were nearing the end of the road, so to speak. A brightly colored construction sign loomed before us blocking the road. A dozen yards further the bridge was clearly missing.
I exited the car and rested my rear on the hood of the car. Andrew came to stand beside me and stared at the expanse between us and the other side of the road. "Go on," I said. "Walk past the sign." I knew he wouldn't take the bait, but I had to offer him the choice.
He shook his head and stood his ground. I smiled and walked forward. A few seconds later I heard him gasp. Naturally, he would gasp as I'd effectively disappeared from his sight.
"Where'd you go?" he asked. The beginnings of fear were evident in his voice.
I turned around and walked back towards his voice. He gasped again as I reappeared before him.
"It's a hologram," I explained. "An illusion."
"You were telling the truth!"
He started to walk forward and I grabbed his arm. "No, I wouldn't advise that. I can walk through it because I am a member of the Phalanx. If you walk through without an adult deactivating the field they'll know the illusion has been shattered."
"Why are you telling me all of this?"
"Because you're special. If you are one of the next metahumans then maybe we can return to the surface after all these years. You will be our Savior, our Hero."
"I'm no hero," Andrew muttered. "I'm nobody."
"That's enough for now," I said. "Too much revelation too fast and you'll be too overwhelmed."
The seeds had been planted. My job had been done superbly. Now I had to hope that those seeds took root and wrought their intended harvest
I kept my distance the next few days to ensure the Phalanx hadn't detected my actions. Andrew walked around in a daze. He attempted to talk to me a few times and I rebuffed his advances and impressed upon him the need for secrecy. I knew he was practicing his powers in the woods and was getting more proficient. The desire to do so was my doing. My gentle mental prodding when he needed motivation. Things were in motion and would come to head that afternoon. All the pieces were in place. I tempered my excitement with the utmost caution.
- Fate Blooms -
"Hi."
Andrew glanced up from his meal and gawked. He eventually realized his mouth was open and he closed it quickly.
"This seat taken?"
"Um, no," he managed. His hands burned and he squeezed them tightly and shoved them into his lap beneath the lunch table.
Misty sat her tray down and settled at the table. "I'm sorry about what happened the other day with Derrick."
Andrew's cheeks burned with embarrassment. He shoved a good helping of mashed potatoes into his mouth because he couldn't think of anything to say. As soon as he did so he realized it had been a mistake. The potatoes turned to paste in his mouth and he found he couldn't swallow. Panic set in and Andrew was seconds from either spewing his food all over Misty or bolting from the table. Misty reached over and placed a hand on his and smiled. The tightness in his chest loosened and Andrew swallowed. He grinned.
"There. That's better," Misty said with a laugh. "Hey…you wanna…" she took a deep breath and plunged on, "You wanna hang out sometime?"
"Are you serious?" Andrew blurted.
"Well, yeah. I'm serious, that is, unless you don't want to?"
"Of course, I want to!"
"Great!" Misty laughed. "Meet me after school and we'll hang out."
- The Dominos Are Set -
Andrew searched the parking lot and sighed. There was no sign of Misty. She was messing with him. He should've known better. He shouldered his backpack and fought the sting of humiliation. A scream stopped him in his tracks. He glanced over between two of the school buildings and spotted Misty being dragged by Derrick. He started running before he realized he was.
"Hey!" he shouted.
Misty's dress was torn at the shoulder and her face was bloody. Derrick grinned at Andrew and punched Misty soundly. Her scream was cut short and she slumped in his hold. The two disappeared between the two buildings. Andrew ran even faster spurred on by the sudden blast of adrenaline. His hands glowed and his vision narrowed. He burst into the alleyway and stopped short.
Derrick was straddling an unconscious Misty. He had brick raised above his head. Andrew shouted, but knew he was too far away to stop what Derrick had set in motion.
The brick came down as if in slow motion.
- Let Sirius into Fire Melt -
I turn from the wasteland outside my pod window. The city's populous screams and moans below me. Desolate and foreboding, the nuclear-scarred sky swirls and moves with menace. The fruits of man's labors taunt me from below. There is no hope, no recourse. I must do this; wipe the slate clean.
I check the monitors pleased that all of the events I've programmed into the VR are nearing fruition. The emancipated boy moans and grunts as the events play out in his mind. His hands glow and pulse with undulating luminosity. Soon, he will do what I've influenced him to. Soon the world will pay for what they've done to us.
Every transformation requires a hero and a villain.
Soon, Andrew will obliterate this dystopia of pain, grief and suffering. If you haven't figured it out yet, I will help you. It really doesn't matter what you know now. It will all be over soon enough. I was once known as Memory Man.
I was a hero once.
Now, I am Andrew's villain.
Soon, very soon, a hero will make the world pay for what they've done.
The End
If you enjoyed this story please considering picking up a copy of Diaphanous and supporting my work.
(Heroes, Villains, and Myths)
Andrew Negman kept his head low as he hurried down the hall. All around him lockers clanged as other students hurried to retrieve books and supplies in preparation for the next class period. He'd almost made it to his own locker when he heard his name shouted.
"Hey! Negman!"
Andrew quickened his pace making a beeline for his locker.
"Hey! Negman! I'm talking to you!"
Andrew stiffened as he felt the other boy's hand grip his shoulder. Derrick Rainer, his own personal bully. "What do you want?" he said softly.
"Got any change on ya, Negman?" Rainer taunted.
Andrew opened his locker and unburdened his books. He dug into his pocket as Rainer poked him in the back with a finger. Without turning around Andrew held out the change he'd fished from his jeans. Rainer took a swipe at the change and a few coins clattered to the floor.
"Well?" Rainer said when Andrew didn't move. "Pick 'em up and hand them to me."
Andrew turned and knelt down. His face burned as he caught sight of Misty Nelson standing at the edge of the gawking students. Misty was the prettiest girl he'd ever laid eyes on. Completely out of his reach, yet he couldn't help but imagine what it would be like to kiss her. She looked on, her face unreadable. Their eyes locked for the briefest of moments and something clicked in Andrew's chest. Suddenly, he couldn't breathe. The hallway narrowed and she was all he saw. His hand hovered above the coins, but they were forgotten.
Rainer nudged Andrew with a foot. "Sometime today, Negman."
Andrew glanced up for the first time and stared hard at Rainer. The boy grinned back urged on by the other students' chuckles and laughs. The pressure in his chest was near bursting and Andrew suddenly remembered to breathe once again.
"Got something to say, Negman?"
The tips of Andrew's fingers burned and ached. He grimaced as the pain shot up his arms and settled in his chest. A void rested there, cold and desolate. The void burned as Andrew's psyche raged. He quickly gathered up the coins and thrust them out to Rainer. The boy grabbed the coins and shoved Andrew back into the lockers. The students laughed as Andrew sprawled out.
I'd seen enough. It was time to intervene. The students dispersed swiftly as I approached. Andrew gathered his legs beneath him and leaned back against the locker and closed his eyes. He willed the pressure in his chest to subside with slow, deep breaths. The heat subsided and the coldness returned like an old familiar friend.
You may be wondering how I knew what he was feeling. That will be explained in time, if you care to stick around for the rest of this story.
"Mr. Negman? Everything all right?" I asked as I reached out a hand.
Andrew opened his eyes and he reached up, but just as he was about to grasp my hand, I jerked back.
"Oww," I gasped, rubbing my hands together. A weird look passed over Andrew's face as he stared up at me.
Andrew placed a hand on the locker behind him and gained his feet. My eyes were drawn to the locker behind him. My breath caught in my throat. Confused at my sudden silence, Andrew glanced behind him to where my gaze was riveted. A handprint, his handprint, could be clearly seen on the metal. The paint had been seared from the locker.
Keeping my distance, I said, "Come with me, Andrew." My tone was soft. "We need to talk."
Andrew followed me down the empty hall as the first period bell began to ring.
- In the Beginning -
At the turn of the century, superheroes were everywhere. It seemed that even the smallest of towns boasted a metahuman. There was Memory Man who could absorb memories. People from around the world would come to his lair in the Louisiana bayou to unburden themselves of painful memories. There was Card Trick, a master magician based out of Las Vegas, who made headlines on a daily basis as he traveled the country fighting crime and injustice. The list went on and on and the world was a wondrous, mysterious, and masked place.
Then, the metahumans began to die off. No one was sure why these heroes were dying by the handful. Was it some hideous plot by arch villain, Mind Gallery? Had the villain figured out a virus that would kill them? This was the common opinion, until even Mind Gallery succumbed to whatever had killed the rest of the heroes. In just a few short months there were no more metahumans left alive. It had been thirty years since the last of the metahumans had died and as the years passed mankind forgot about the masked heroes.
I knew the truth, however. Those in our government were terrified of the metahumans and what their kind represented. What was to stop one of them from rising to power and making their jobs obsolete? So a virus was created in the darkest reaches of power by a scientist named Vernus Malcum and unleashed on the unsuspecting heroes. Only the virus worked a little too well. Hundreds of millions of innocent civilians died as well decimating the world's population by more than a third. Chaos erupted and mankind was plunged into a new Dark Age. Families turned against each in vain attempts to live. Who was infected, who were carriers of the Malcum Virus? In trying to protect their seat of power, the government had effectively destroyed it's self.
The world was a much smaller place now. Travel was almost non-existent. Commerce was a thing of the past. Our colony was known as Sirius 7 and boasted a population of two thousand souls. In the beginning our part of the system moved underground and constructed nano shield over our spot of the world. So far, we had been safe. Those infected with the deadly Malcum Virus the Phalanx took care of. Those suspected of being infected the Phalanx dealt with. For the good of the group, the Phalanx ensured there were no exceptions or uncertainties. I'm sure there were many that had not been infected that were taken care of. I try not to think about that too much. We, the Phalanx, did what needed to be done to survive as a race.
We did what we did best as a species. We buried the truth. We taught our children an alternate history. We clouded their minds with hypno drugs and misdirection. The sky above our children was manufactured. There was night and there was day. There were stars, clouds, a sun and moon. All nano-manufactured to keep our past sins buried.
Thirty winters ago the Malcum Virus was released and the world changed forever. As suddenly as the virus had appeared, it had vanished, having done its vile job. In the back of all our heads, those that remembered what we'd done, the new government we called the Phalanx, watched for the signs of the virus' re-emergence. We all cowered in our colonies and hoped for the best.
"You've got to be kidding me," Andrew said as I finished speaking.
"Yes, Andrew. It's true. It's something we don't talk about anymore. You're special. I'm part of an interested group that have searched for the rise of the next metahuman all these years."
"Metahumans are myths," Andrew scoffed. "It says so in all the history books. There are logical, scientific explanations for the supposed powers they had. I've been to Rizen, every summer; I've been to the beach with my family. We've taken road trips!"
"Are you sure about that?" I countered. "Think about it? What exactly do you remember? Have you ever wondered about the pills you've taken since you were little?"
Andrew's brow furrowed and a frown grew on his face. "They're vitamins. They…I'm not…sure."
"I know better," I responded. "I was there. You are in great danger. You mustn't exhibit your powers in public."
"You're crazy."
"Explain your handprint on the locker. Explain the way you've been feeling lately."
"How did you know about me?"
"Someone like you was bound to happen somewhere."
"Wait a minute," Andrew interrupted. "You said I was in danger. From whom?"
I paused and creased my brows. I pursed my lips and shook my head. "We're not sure, but someone was responsible for killing all the metahumans thirty years ago. We're sure about that."
"You said so yourself, you're not even sure what killed them in the first place. What makes you think anyone did?"
The kid was sharp. I wasn't going to be able sneak anything past him. He would have to be convinced. I stared at Andrew for a long moment. He smirked and crossed his arms. It was an act. Inside, I could sense, his mind was awhirl with the possibilities. He was scared to death. What if what I were telling him was the truth? What if he were in danger? At the same time he was excited to find out he was special, exhilaration and terror felt at odds in his head.
I weighed telling him the truth. Not just yet. I finally broke the silence, "It didn't happen by itself."
- Revelations -
The conversation played relentlessly in his head as he sat in second period Algebra. It didn't happen by itself. Christ! How was he supposed to concentrate with this crap in his head? He kept his books open but he was oblivious to anything going on around him. He glanced out the window and peered at the sky. Was it false? He had now way of knowing. The sky was something he'd never questioned before. It was just there, a fact of his existence. Deep down he realized he really didn't remember those family trips as if he'd experienced them personally. Sure, he remembered them, but the memories were like a second-hand telling, overheard from a friend. He stared down at his hand in his lap, palm up. Was that a glow just below the skin? He concentrated and the glow spread until he could see his metacarpals faintly beneath the skin of his palm.
"Neat," he whispered.
Andrew, I said, stop doing that.
Andrew sat up straight in his chair and glanced around the room. He'd heard the voice as clearly as if it were right beside him, yet he didn't see Mrs. Keene.
I'm in your head, Andrew, I answered in response to his question.
I was sitting in my office at the opposite end of the school, yet I could see Andrew as clearly as if I were standing right next to him.
It's not a special power, I continued, it's a natural skill everyone possesses.
Andrew frowned and whispered, "Not a special power? You're in my head!"
Easy, just think what you want to say, I instructed. Meet me in my office after classes. We have to talk.
I watched Andrew as he came into my office and closed the door slowly behind him. I motioned for him to take a seat at one of the chairs in front of my desk. He chose the right chair and settled in. He fidgeted as he tried to appear cool, but I could see right through his brave façade. His belief system was crumbling.
His hands glowed softly and he self-consciously tried to hide them in his lap. The heat was potent as it wafted off his body in waves. I wiped the sweat from my neck and wondered why his clothes weren't catching fire. That I didn't know the reason troubled me.
"You need to control your new ability," I began. "If you don't learn how quickly before it fully manifests it's self, you could hurt a lot of people."
"What's happening to me?"
"Your body is changing. Adjusting to the new chemical processes awakening in your genes."
"What if I can't control it?"
"There is no choice, you must learn how," I answered sternly.
"Why me?"
"Why not you? This you must remember," I continued. "There are always two sides to a transformation. One hero and one villain. You need to find out who the villain is, before they find out who you are. Until you do, you will not be safe."
Andrew stared at his hands and sighed. They glowed a bright red and then dulled. "What about you?"
I smiled and tented my fingers. "What do you mean?" I asked, even though I saw clearly the real question behind the innocent one he'd just asked.
"You can read my thoughts."
"I told you, that's natural, anybody can do it. It's not special."
"Then why doesn't everybody do it?"
"Have you ever been thinking about something and someone mentioned it out loud without you having to?"
"Well, yeah," Andrew said slowly.
I tented my fingers and nodded my head sagely. "I want to show you something." I stood and walked to the door. "Follow me," I said over my shoulder.
- The Hour Approaches -
Andrew stared dubiously at my car as I motioned for him to get in. I offered a reassuring smile and shrugged. "You really need to see this." I got in the car without waiting for his response and started the engine.
He rolled his eyes and opened the door. He slid into the seat and looked at me. I shifted the car into drive and pulled out of the school parking lot. He kept looking at me the whole time I navigated the small town. I turned onto a side road and he cleared his throat.
"Yes?" I asked knowingly.
"This road is closed," he answered as if I were a small child.
"Yes."
"So why are you taking it?"
"You'll see," I said with a wink. "Here's a question for you: How long as this road been closed?"
"Um…forever?"
"You ever wondered about the way things are? Why you've never had any new neighbors and you have the same friends. Why there aren't ever any new kids in class?"
I could tell my questions were making him wonder for the first time in his life. It's funny how the human mind works when it's never been challenged. The majority of people, especially children, are curious by nature. Naturally, but we'd engineered the perfect cocktail of hypnotics that repressed this natural inclination. It was in their food, in their sodas, in their candies. In the beginning, before the Phalanx had gotten the dosage correct children had ventured past the safe zones. It was a necessary evil. These adventurous ones were dealt with.
I glanced nervously in my rearview. The Phalanx were everywhere in our colony. They monitored these routes and they monitored our children. I was auspicious to have discovered Andrew before they did. I had to trust I was the first to discover him. From all signs, I was fairly confident I was. Still, that niggling of doubt tickled the back of my mind.
"So tell me about Misty."
Andrew blanched and coughed with embarrassment.
"Come on now," I encouraged. "It's all you think about. I can see her quite clearly, you know."
"She's just a girl."
"She's more than that," I prodded. "Have you told her how you feel about her?"
Andrew fixed me with a flabbergasted look. "Are you serious? I could never do that!"
I chuckled and slowed the car. We were nearing the end of the road, so to speak. A brightly colored construction sign loomed before us blocking the road. A dozen yards further the bridge was clearly missing.
I exited the car and rested my rear on the hood of the car. Andrew came to stand beside me and stared at the expanse between us and the other side of the road. "Go on," I said. "Walk past the sign." I knew he wouldn't take the bait, but I had to offer him the choice.
He shook his head and stood his ground. I smiled and walked forward. A few seconds later I heard him gasp. Naturally, he would gasp as I'd effectively disappeared from his sight.
"Where'd you go?" he asked. The beginnings of fear were evident in his voice.
I turned around and walked back towards his voice. He gasped again as I reappeared before him.
"It's a hologram," I explained. "An illusion."
"You were telling the truth!"
He started to walk forward and I grabbed his arm. "No, I wouldn't advise that. I can walk through it because I am a member of the Phalanx. If you walk through without an adult deactivating the field they'll know the illusion has been shattered."
"Why are you telling me all of this?"
"Because you're special. If you are one of the next metahumans then maybe we can return to the surface after all these years. You will be our Savior, our Hero."
"I'm no hero," Andrew muttered. "I'm nobody."
"That's enough for now," I said. "Too much revelation too fast and you'll be too overwhelmed."
The seeds had been planted. My job had been done superbly. Now I had to hope that those seeds took root and wrought their intended harvest
I kept my distance the next few days to ensure the Phalanx hadn't detected my actions. Andrew walked around in a daze. He attempted to talk to me a few times and I rebuffed his advances and impressed upon him the need for secrecy. I knew he was practicing his powers in the woods and was getting more proficient. The desire to do so was my doing. My gentle mental prodding when he needed motivation. Things were in motion and would come to head that afternoon. All the pieces were in place. I tempered my excitement with the utmost caution.
- Fate Blooms -
"Hi."
Andrew glanced up from his meal and gawked. He eventually realized his mouth was open and he closed it quickly.
"This seat taken?"
"Um, no," he managed. His hands burned and he squeezed them tightly and shoved them into his lap beneath the lunch table.
Misty sat her tray down and settled at the table. "I'm sorry about what happened the other day with Derrick."
Andrew's cheeks burned with embarrassment. He shoved a good helping of mashed potatoes into his mouth because he couldn't think of anything to say. As soon as he did so he realized it had been a mistake. The potatoes turned to paste in his mouth and he found he couldn't swallow. Panic set in and Andrew was seconds from either spewing his food all over Misty or bolting from the table. Misty reached over and placed a hand on his and smiled. The tightness in his chest loosened and Andrew swallowed. He grinned.
"There. That's better," Misty said with a laugh. "Hey…you wanna…" she took a deep breath and plunged on, "You wanna hang out sometime?"
"Are you serious?" Andrew blurted.
"Well, yeah. I'm serious, that is, unless you don't want to?"
"Of course, I want to!"
"Great!" Misty laughed. "Meet me after school and we'll hang out."
- The Dominos Are Set -
Andrew searched the parking lot and sighed. There was no sign of Misty. She was messing with him. He should've known better. He shouldered his backpack and fought the sting of humiliation. A scream stopped him in his tracks. He glanced over between two of the school buildings and spotted Misty being dragged by Derrick. He started running before he realized he was.
"Hey!" he shouted.
Misty's dress was torn at the shoulder and her face was bloody. Derrick grinned at Andrew and punched Misty soundly. Her scream was cut short and she slumped in his hold. The two disappeared between the two buildings. Andrew ran even faster spurred on by the sudden blast of adrenaline. His hands glowed and his vision narrowed. He burst into the alleyway and stopped short.
Derrick was straddling an unconscious Misty. He had brick raised above his head. Andrew shouted, but knew he was too far away to stop what Derrick had set in motion.
The brick came down as if in slow motion.
- Let Sirius into Fire Melt -
I turn from the wasteland outside my pod window. The city's populous screams and moans below me. Desolate and foreboding, the nuclear-scarred sky swirls and moves with menace. The fruits of man's labors taunt me from below. There is no hope, no recourse. I must do this; wipe the slate clean.
I check the monitors pleased that all of the events I've programmed into the VR are nearing fruition. The emancipated boy moans and grunts as the events play out in his mind. His hands glow and pulse with undulating luminosity. Soon, he will do what I've influenced him to. Soon the world will pay for what they've done to us.
Every transformation requires a hero and a villain.
Soon, Andrew will obliterate this dystopia of pain, grief and suffering. If you haven't figured it out yet, I will help you. It really doesn't matter what you know now. It will all be over soon enough. I was once known as Memory Man.
I was a hero once.
Now, I am Andrew's villain.
Soon, very soon, a hero will make the world pay for what they've done.
The End
If you enjoyed this story please considering picking up a copy of Diaphanous and supporting my work.
