Carl Alves's Blog, page 45
July 21, 2014
Dead Trash by Ed Kurtz
Dead Trash perfectly captures the seventies style grindhouse films that it tries to emulate. The tone, style, and content set the right mood for the novel, which features two woman, Irma and Arkansas, who are incarcerated while a zombie apocalypse unfolds. They are able to break out of the prison as the zombies are storming the place. There they go on the run, first joining a biker gang, and then a man trying to keep his falling ghetto neighborhood intact. Their ultimate goal is to reach Irma’s ex, an abusive creep whose supposed murder she was convicted for. When she finds out that he isn’t actually dead, she makes it her mission to eliminate him from the crazed world they inhabit. They run across strong-willed characters who seem capable of handling themselves, but no matter where they go, their allies are overtaken either by the zombies or the nasty humans who are just as bad if not worse than the zombies themselves.
The strongest element of this novel is the writing itself. There isn’t anything overly original about the plot. Zombie apocalypses have become fairly commonplace in literature, television, and movies. But the story moves at a fast pace with little wasted motion or words. The action never stops until the explosive conclusion. The characters are well-developed. Besides Irma and Arkansas, many of the minor characters are fleshed out and relatable. My only complaint is the lack of realism in the fighting scenes that can be found in the final part of the novel. Otherwise, this might just be the best zombie novel I have ever read.
The strongest element of this novel is the writing itself. There isn’t anything overly original about the plot. Zombie apocalypses have become fairly commonplace in literature, television, and movies. But the story moves at a fast pace with little wasted motion or words. The action never stops until the explosive conclusion. The characters are well-developed. Besides Irma and Arkansas, many of the minor characters are fleshed out and relatable. My only complaint is the lack of realism in the fighting scenes that can be found in the final part of the novel. Otherwise, this might just be the best zombie novel I have ever read.
July 13, 2014
Reconquest: Mother Earth for 99 cents for Kindle
For a limited time you can purchase the Kindle version of my new novel Reconquest: Mother Earth for 99 cents at
http://www.amazon.com/Reconquest-Moth...
Here is the first chapter of my novel.
Chapter I
Charles Amato stared at the enclosed area. His three years of Navy SEAL training and ops could hardly prepare him for what he was witnessing.
Charles closed his eyes and shook his head. When he opened them, the impossible scene had not changed. He fought his instincts to run away. He had to take responsibility and do something.
Clutching his gun, he did not take it out. The threat wasn't immediate, and he did not want to appear hostile to the alien life forms fenced inside the motor pool storing military vehicles.
The alien nearest him was a large, stocky light-blue skinned creature whose spiky head looked oddly small in comparison to its tall, wide frame, which was over three meters in height. Its long tongue darted in and out from its sharp teeth. Four short and stocky legs supported the alien’s hairless body. Its four spindly arms, each with six thin fingers, shot out in all directions.
The alien looked like it was jumping rope as it bobbed its head and shifted its weight to each of its four feet. It gazed at Charles, but did not move toward him.
The second alien had a tall, angular body with a dark brown face and wide, oval eyes that looked almost human. Its pupils were the size of a quarter. Wiry tendrils just below its nose had the appearance of a long mustache except that the tendrils shifted and moved like appendages. Short, matted hair covered its head. Its mouth was located just above its neck. Two sets of short, mosquito-like wings from its back flapped continuously, creating a buzzing sound.
The second alien stood on an open-air vehicle that resembled a train, except that it hovered in the air and was not supported by tracks. A trail of smoke emanated from the rear of the vehicle. The alien’s upper torso stuck out, and it drove in a circle, not paying any attention to Amato.
Charles slowly stepped backward, hardly believing what he was seeing. Perhaps this was a hologram created by a computer wiz on a SEAL team, but these creatures occupied physical space and had mass.
Mentally retracing his tracks, he had returned from the base’s infirmary after receiving treatment on his sprained ankle. He had injured it on a jump during HALO training when he had been trying a maneuver while falling through the air.
After getting his ankle evaluated and rewrapped, his mind had been locked in on rest and relaxation during the upcoming weekend until he had encountered this situation. First, he had heard a buzzing sound. Then, he had spotted the vehicle moving, before getting a full view of the two aliens.
Other than the sprained ankle, Charles felt fine. He was not sick, hallucinating or delirious.
He considered his options. If they were hostile, he did not want to attract their attention. Although he was armed, he had no idea of their capabilities and did not want to find out.
He looked around, but could not see anyone nearby. He felt alone and isolated, wishing there was an officer to advise him.
The two aliens continued to ignore him. How the hell did they get here? Not just to the planet Earth, but within the Navy SEAL base on Coronado Island. They did not have a ship adequate for transport from a location thousands or millions of miles away. What did they want? They were not wearing any suits, which meant they were capable of breathing the Earth’s air. They probably came from an environment similar to this one. What did it all mean? Were these two a precursor of what was to come or had they arrived here accidentally?
The light blue alien chirped something incomprehensible. The second more human-looking alien did not reply. It tilted its head back and forth in a swaying motion. He wanted to call out and announce his presence, but the words stuck in his throat.
Charles had to do something. He was not a helpless civilian. He was a member of the most elite naval special warfare unit on the planet. It was time for him to get past his fear and act.
The second alien drove its hover-train towards the edge of the fence. The alien shook violently and screeched as its tendrils grabbed the fence.
The light blue alien began to jump up and down on its four legs and shrieked in unison with the other alien.
“What the hell?” Charles shook his head. He had to get help.
***
Navy SEAL Ensign Peter Estabrook sat behind his desk listening to the sob story of First Class SEAL trainee Pappalardo.
He had no time for this nonsense. Not everybody was cut out to be in the SEALs. Peter had discovered that firsthand when more than three quarters of his training class dropped out. They only wanted the very best, and not everybody could cut it. He had known many good men who did not make it through training, but to whine and complain on your way out like Pappalardo was pathetic. According to Pappalardo, it was everybody else’s fault but his own.
“The instructors aren’t giving me a fair shake, sir,” Pappalardo said. “I mean I could do this stuff. They just aren’t being fair.”
Peter tried to hold back his anger. He felt like grabbing the kid by his throat. If Pappalardo couldn’t make it through this stage of the training, there was no way he would make it through Hell Week, where many strong men folded under the pressure.
“I can assure you that none of the trainers have treated you unfairly,” Peter said. “We only accept the best and don't make apologies for our high standards. I am sure that there are other careers within the US Navy that would be more suitable for you.”
“Hey, I can be a SEAL, sir,” insisted Pappalardo. “I’m better than a lot of these other guys. They ain’t got nothin’ on me.”
Peter gritted his teeth. “You have some kind of nerve, Pappalardo. You come into my office making all kinds of demands. I was trying to let you off easy, but you want to push it. Do you have any idea of what it means to be a SEAL? Do you?”
Pappalardo stammered but did not reply.
“Let me tell you, son, I have served as a Navy SEAL in two wars and more combat missions than I can remember. It means sitting in a lake for hours hoping you don’t get discovered, waiting to ambush your enemy. It means diving off of a plane four miles up in the air and trying to land on a moving target. It means going into enemy territory in the middle of a firefight and rescuing a POW. Do you have any idea what it would be to have an Al Qaeda officer interrogate you? You make me sick. Do the right thing and drop out, because I can assure you that things will get worse, and you'll experience hell unlike anything you've ever known. I'll start the paperwork to get you transferred. Go pack your bags.”
Pappalardo started to argue, but Peter ushered him out of his office. He shut the door and returned to his desk.
Thinking of Pappalardo made his stomach turn. Being treated like dirt was the norm in the Navy SEAL program. That had been going on since JFK had first commissioned the teams. It was necessary because battlefield conditions were worse than training conditions. In his day, nobody complained to the officers unless they lost a limb.
A knock on the door caused Peter to groan. If that was Pappalardo again, he was going to strangle the kid.
"Come in."
First Class Torpedoman Charles Amato stood at the door. His face was flushed and he was perspiring heavily. He shook as he spoke. “Sir, I have a situation that requires your immediate attention.”
Peter sighed. “What’s the problem?”
“Sir, I need you to come with me immediately.” Amato’s voice wavered.
Peter's face tightened. “Gain control of yourself. What's the problem?”
“Sir, I can't even begin to describe what I witnessed by the vehicle storage area. Please follow me.”
“This better be good,” Peter said.
“Sir, this is a matter of national security.”
Peter put on a light jacket and walked out of the building. His senses were immediately alerted to a change in the air as they walked through the base. It was nothing tangible. It felt like the onset of a major storm, except that the skies were cloudless and it was a perfectly sunny day. The base looked like any ordinary college campuses, save for the drab buildings and lack of color.
Amato breathed heavily as they walked. He had known Charles Amato for three years and had always found the kid to be mentally and emotionally stable. He had seen Amato perform quite admirably in training when they went to Nova Scotia in the depths of the Canadian winter.
An eerie buzzing noise grew louder. “What’s that?”
Amato had a tremor in his voice. “You’ll see.”
They turned around the bend and approached the motor pool. When he first saw them, Peter was too stunned to speak. It took him a minute to finally say, “What the hell is this?”
“Sir, I have no idea. My guess is that they are alien life forms.”
Alien life forms. The words hung in the air as if frozen by liquid nitrogen. Of course they’re alien life forms, dummy, Peter felt like saying. Do they look like they came from the San Diego Zoo? “This is insane,” Peter muttered. The air around him seemed to tighten.
“I agree, sir.” Amato approached the fence and looked closely at the alien on top of the vehicle. “They don’t seem to be trying to communicate with us?”
Peter stood next to Amato as the two aliens chirped. The large, squatty alien with the eight limbs had a shrill, high-pitched voice, while the alien with the tendrils that resembled a mustache spoke in a flat, monotone voice.
“Maybe they don’t know how to communicate with us,” Peter replied in a low voice. “Perhaps they’re as confused about the situation as we are.”
The large, light blue alien jumped up and down on its many legs. The earth shook underneath it. It tilted its spiky head and issued a loud cry as its tongue swirled in the air. It then looked at the alien in the vehicle, who appeared to be nodding.
After observing for some time, Peter asked, “Amato, have you tried to initiate contact with the alien subjects?”
Amato shook his head. “I didn’t know what to do, sir, so I observed their actions, much like we are doing now. Instead of trying to initiate communication, I went to find you. Should I have tried to talk to them?”
Peter shook his head. “What you did was fine.” Peter stepped forward. “I am Ensign Peter Estabrook of the United States Navy. You have landed in Coronado, California at a US naval facility. We would like to help you in any way possible, but we need to know your intentions.”
Still inside of his vehicle, the smaller alien approached the fence. He spoke something incomprehensible as his mustache flailed wildly.
“I guess we don’t speak the same language,” Peter said.
“So what do you think they want?”
Peter's face tightened. “How should I know? I'm as lost as you are.” He continued to watch in lurid fascination. “You know what I've been wondering since I got here?”
“What's that, sir?”
“Why are these two alien creatures staying within the fence? It should not be difficult to leave, especially for the one in the vehicle.”
Amato frowned. “I don’t know, sir. Perhaps they feel the barrier is more impenetrable than it actually is.”
“If I landed on a foreign planet and found myself in a cage or an enclosed area, I would try to find a way out. Thus far, these two haven’t shown any inclination to escape.
“Well, we can’t stand here all day waiting for something to happen. This is going to be big, Amato. Real big.”
Peter took out his cell phone and called Lieutenant Mitch Grace. He had more confidence in Mitch than any man alive, but what would Mitch do when he saw these aliens?
***
Mitch Grace worked the grill in his kitchen like a seasoned professional, whipping up hash browns, sausage and eggs on his cast-iron skillet. Normally he would not cook such an elaborate breakfast, but this morning he was not dining alone.
The scent wafted through the small apartment. Wearing her powder blue bathrobe, Deborah kissed him lightly on the back of his neck. Her long brown hair was still damp from taking a shower. “What did I do to deserve you, Mr. Grace?” She peeked over his shoulder. “You’re too good to me.”
“That’s Lieutenant Grace to you. I’d like to refute your statement, but as the forefather of our great nation once said, I cannot tell a lie.” He turned and gave her a kiss.
“Smells great.”
“I’m using a special recipe I learned when I was out in Guam, lots of exotic spices. In a few minutes this bountiful feast will be all yours. Well yours and mine.” Mitch lowered the flame on the burner and began setting the table. “In that case, you’ll get nothing. This was a test and you failed miserably.”
“What are you going to do, take a stripe away from me?”
“I just might,” Mitch replied. “I know people in the Navy.”
“Fortunately the rest of the Navy doesn’t take the SEALs seriously. We think you’re a bunch of yahoos.”
They sat down to eat on the cozy wooden kitchen table. Mitch savored every bite, much better than anything he had eaten in Afghanistan. It felt strange being home after completing his second tour of duty. He had arrived in San Diego last night. Deborah had picked him up at the airport. They spent so much time away from each other, it was hardly ideal for a successful relationship. Deborah, a naval intelligence officer, had recently spent time in the Persian Gulf. Besides being his significant other, her high level of clearance in the navy allowed her to be privy to his missions.
Their time apart had been torture. In the middle of the war zone, no matter how tough things got, thinking of Deborah always pulled him through.
Upon his return, all Mitch wanted was a good meal and a good bottle of wine. He and Deborah had gone out to eat at one of their favorite restaurants in Little Italy. It felt so good to be back home, certainly better than wearing heavy gear in sweltering heat.
As they were doing dishes, he said, “Maybe we should do it. You know, tie the knot, make it official. I wouldn’t make you change your name if you didn’t want to.”
Deborah put down the wet dishrag. “We’ve been down this road before. What kind of marriage can we have if each of us is going to be in Timbuktu for God knows how long? You know I love you. I absolutely do, but being in a relationship with you is trying. There are nights when I can’t sleep because I’m worried sick that some terrorist is going to ignite a bomb and kill you.”
Deborah had been married and divorced once. Her ex-husband was a car salesman who had not been able to handle her being away so often, finding solace with another woman. She had explained to Mitch that she had been young and naïve, thinking her ex-husband would love her enough to stick with her even when her schedule got difficult. To her credit, she made the divorce quick and painless, and moved on with her life.
“If that happened would you be any less heartbroken if we weren't married?”
“No.” Deborah closed her eyes. “But my idea of getting married would mean to raise a family and have a house with a white picket fence. When I made my career choice, I knew that would be difficult. I’ve already tried once unsuccessfully. If we’re going to be married, I don’t want to be away from you for so long.”
“Then I’ll quit.”
“I don’t want you to quit. You’re the best of the best. It would be selfish for me to let you quit just so that I could have you at home. What you do is more valuable than anything you could do in the private sector or in another branch of the military.”
“And all this time I thought you hated us SEALs. What did you say the first time we met? All we do is smash and bash everything in front of us?”
Deborah smiled. “But you do it so well.”
“Maybe I don’t have to quit. I just finished my second tour. They won't send me back again unless I petition for a third tour, not to mention the war efforts are winding down. I could become a full-time instructor. If now isn’t a good time to get married, then when is?”
Deborah shook her head. “I don’t know.”
Mitch sensed he had struck a nerve. “You have to concede that the timing is good.”
“You know the statistics. Most SEAL marriages don’t last more than a few years.”
“We’ll make it work. I love you.”
“Yeah, but who knows what the future will bring?” Deborah asked.
Mitch gestured wildly with his hands. “We’ll deal with the future later. Let’s deal with the here and now. So, are we going to do this?”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe? I just argued a great case, counselor, and all you could give me is a maybe.”
Deborah asked questions about the logistics of a wedding, and Mitch had an answer for each of her concerns.
“So is this a proposal?”
Mitch pulled out a one carat diamond ring from his pants pocket. Just then his phone rang. Only important calls came in on this cell phone.
Mitch felt torn between love and duty. He searched Deborah’s eyes.
“Answer it,” she said after the second ring.
He answered. For nearly a minute he did not say anything. “Okay…Can you tell me what it is? It’s happening right now…I’ll be there.” Mitch frowned and turned to Deborah. “This isn’t happening the way I planned it.”
She chuckled. “Does it ever? So what’s the emergency?”
Mitch shrugged. “I don’t know. It was Peter Estabrook. He said that it was an extreme emergency involving national security. Whatever's going on has to be huge. Estabrook sounded…scared.”
“Huh. That’s not reassuring.”
Deborah’s cell phone rang, and she answered. After thirty seconds she hung up. “Well, it looks like whatever this emergency is, I’m involved too.”
“Let’s go to the base. I’ll drive.” He put the diamond ring back in his pocket. It would have to wait.
After putting on their uniforms, Mitch and Deborah hardly spoke on the drive to the naval base. Estabrook had not given much detail on the phone, which meant the situation was grave.
He put on a news station. The governor of California was giving a speech on his plan to fix California’s economy.
As they pulled into the base, he asked Deborah, “Are you ready for this?”
“I certainly hope so.”
http://www.amazon.com/Reconquest-Moth...
Here is the first chapter of my novel.
Chapter I
Charles Amato stared at the enclosed area. His three years of Navy SEAL training and ops could hardly prepare him for what he was witnessing.
Charles closed his eyes and shook his head. When he opened them, the impossible scene had not changed. He fought his instincts to run away. He had to take responsibility and do something.
Clutching his gun, he did not take it out. The threat wasn't immediate, and he did not want to appear hostile to the alien life forms fenced inside the motor pool storing military vehicles.
The alien nearest him was a large, stocky light-blue skinned creature whose spiky head looked oddly small in comparison to its tall, wide frame, which was over three meters in height. Its long tongue darted in and out from its sharp teeth. Four short and stocky legs supported the alien’s hairless body. Its four spindly arms, each with six thin fingers, shot out in all directions.
The alien looked like it was jumping rope as it bobbed its head and shifted its weight to each of its four feet. It gazed at Charles, but did not move toward him.
The second alien had a tall, angular body with a dark brown face and wide, oval eyes that looked almost human. Its pupils were the size of a quarter. Wiry tendrils just below its nose had the appearance of a long mustache except that the tendrils shifted and moved like appendages. Short, matted hair covered its head. Its mouth was located just above its neck. Two sets of short, mosquito-like wings from its back flapped continuously, creating a buzzing sound.
The second alien stood on an open-air vehicle that resembled a train, except that it hovered in the air and was not supported by tracks. A trail of smoke emanated from the rear of the vehicle. The alien’s upper torso stuck out, and it drove in a circle, not paying any attention to Amato.
Charles slowly stepped backward, hardly believing what he was seeing. Perhaps this was a hologram created by a computer wiz on a SEAL team, but these creatures occupied physical space and had mass.
Mentally retracing his tracks, he had returned from the base’s infirmary after receiving treatment on his sprained ankle. He had injured it on a jump during HALO training when he had been trying a maneuver while falling through the air.
After getting his ankle evaluated and rewrapped, his mind had been locked in on rest and relaxation during the upcoming weekend until he had encountered this situation. First, he had heard a buzzing sound. Then, he had spotted the vehicle moving, before getting a full view of the two aliens.
Other than the sprained ankle, Charles felt fine. He was not sick, hallucinating or delirious.
He considered his options. If they were hostile, he did not want to attract their attention. Although he was armed, he had no idea of their capabilities and did not want to find out.
He looked around, but could not see anyone nearby. He felt alone and isolated, wishing there was an officer to advise him.
The two aliens continued to ignore him. How the hell did they get here? Not just to the planet Earth, but within the Navy SEAL base on Coronado Island. They did not have a ship adequate for transport from a location thousands or millions of miles away. What did they want? They were not wearing any suits, which meant they were capable of breathing the Earth’s air. They probably came from an environment similar to this one. What did it all mean? Were these two a precursor of what was to come or had they arrived here accidentally?
The light blue alien chirped something incomprehensible. The second more human-looking alien did not reply. It tilted its head back and forth in a swaying motion. He wanted to call out and announce his presence, but the words stuck in his throat.
Charles had to do something. He was not a helpless civilian. He was a member of the most elite naval special warfare unit on the planet. It was time for him to get past his fear and act.
The second alien drove its hover-train towards the edge of the fence. The alien shook violently and screeched as its tendrils grabbed the fence.
The light blue alien began to jump up and down on its four legs and shrieked in unison with the other alien.
“What the hell?” Charles shook his head. He had to get help.
***
Navy SEAL Ensign Peter Estabrook sat behind his desk listening to the sob story of First Class SEAL trainee Pappalardo.
He had no time for this nonsense. Not everybody was cut out to be in the SEALs. Peter had discovered that firsthand when more than three quarters of his training class dropped out. They only wanted the very best, and not everybody could cut it. He had known many good men who did not make it through training, but to whine and complain on your way out like Pappalardo was pathetic. According to Pappalardo, it was everybody else’s fault but his own.
“The instructors aren’t giving me a fair shake, sir,” Pappalardo said. “I mean I could do this stuff. They just aren’t being fair.”
Peter tried to hold back his anger. He felt like grabbing the kid by his throat. If Pappalardo couldn’t make it through this stage of the training, there was no way he would make it through Hell Week, where many strong men folded under the pressure.
“I can assure you that none of the trainers have treated you unfairly,” Peter said. “We only accept the best and don't make apologies for our high standards. I am sure that there are other careers within the US Navy that would be more suitable for you.”
“Hey, I can be a SEAL, sir,” insisted Pappalardo. “I’m better than a lot of these other guys. They ain’t got nothin’ on me.”
Peter gritted his teeth. “You have some kind of nerve, Pappalardo. You come into my office making all kinds of demands. I was trying to let you off easy, but you want to push it. Do you have any idea of what it means to be a SEAL? Do you?”
Pappalardo stammered but did not reply.
“Let me tell you, son, I have served as a Navy SEAL in two wars and more combat missions than I can remember. It means sitting in a lake for hours hoping you don’t get discovered, waiting to ambush your enemy. It means diving off of a plane four miles up in the air and trying to land on a moving target. It means going into enemy territory in the middle of a firefight and rescuing a POW. Do you have any idea what it would be to have an Al Qaeda officer interrogate you? You make me sick. Do the right thing and drop out, because I can assure you that things will get worse, and you'll experience hell unlike anything you've ever known. I'll start the paperwork to get you transferred. Go pack your bags.”
Pappalardo started to argue, but Peter ushered him out of his office. He shut the door and returned to his desk.
Thinking of Pappalardo made his stomach turn. Being treated like dirt was the norm in the Navy SEAL program. That had been going on since JFK had first commissioned the teams. It was necessary because battlefield conditions were worse than training conditions. In his day, nobody complained to the officers unless they lost a limb.
A knock on the door caused Peter to groan. If that was Pappalardo again, he was going to strangle the kid.
"Come in."
First Class Torpedoman Charles Amato stood at the door. His face was flushed and he was perspiring heavily. He shook as he spoke. “Sir, I have a situation that requires your immediate attention.”
Peter sighed. “What’s the problem?”
“Sir, I need you to come with me immediately.” Amato’s voice wavered.
Peter's face tightened. “Gain control of yourself. What's the problem?”
“Sir, I can't even begin to describe what I witnessed by the vehicle storage area. Please follow me.”
“This better be good,” Peter said.
“Sir, this is a matter of national security.”
Peter put on a light jacket and walked out of the building. His senses were immediately alerted to a change in the air as they walked through the base. It was nothing tangible. It felt like the onset of a major storm, except that the skies were cloudless and it was a perfectly sunny day. The base looked like any ordinary college campuses, save for the drab buildings and lack of color.
Amato breathed heavily as they walked. He had known Charles Amato for three years and had always found the kid to be mentally and emotionally stable. He had seen Amato perform quite admirably in training when they went to Nova Scotia in the depths of the Canadian winter.
An eerie buzzing noise grew louder. “What’s that?”
Amato had a tremor in his voice. “You’ll see.”
They turned around the bend and approached the motor pool. When he first saw them, Peter was too stunned to speak. It took him a minute to finally say, “What the hell is this?”
“Sir, I have no idea. My guess is that they are alien life forms.”
Alien life forms. The words hung in the air as if frozen by liquid nitrogen. Of course they’re alien life forms, dummy, Peter felt like saying. Do they look like they came from the San Diego Zoo? “This is insane,” Peter muttered. The air around him seemed to tighten.
“I agree, sir.” Amato approached the fence and looked closely at the alien on top of the vehicle. “They don’t seem to be trying to communicate with us?”
Peter stood next to Amato as the two aliens chirped. The large, squatty alien with the eight limbs had a shrill, high-pitched voice, while the alien with the tendrils that resembled a mustache spoke in a flat, monotone voice.
“Maybe they don’t know how to communicate with us,” Peter replied in a low voice. “Perhaps they’re as confused about the situation as we are.”
The large, light blue alien jumped up and down on its many legs. The earth shook underneath it. It tilted its spiky head and issued a loud cry as its tongue swirled in the air. It then looked at the alien in the vehicle, who appeared to be nodding.
After observing for some time, Peter asked, “Amato, have you tried to initiate contact with the alien subjects?”
Amato shook his head. “I didn’t know what to do, sir, so I observed their actions, much like we are doing now. Instead of trying to initiate communication, I went to find you. Should I have tried to talk to them?”
Peter shook his head. “What you did was fine.” Peter stepped forward. “I am Ensign Peter Estabrook of the United States Navy. You have landed in Coronado, California at a US naval facility. We would like to help you in any way possible, but we need to know your intentions.”
Still inside of his vehicle, the smaller alien approached the fence. He spoke something incomprehensible as his mustache flailed wildly.
“I guess we don’t speak the same language,” Peter said.
“So what do you think they want?”
Peter's face tightened. “How should I know? I'm as lost as you are.” He continued to watch in lurid fascination. “You know what I've been wondering since I got here?”
“What's that, sir?”
“Why are these two alien creatures staying within the fence? It should not be difficult to leave, especially for the one in the vehicle.”
Amato frowned. “I don’t know, sir. Perhaps they feel the barrier is more impenetrable than it actually is.”
“If I landed on a foreign planet and found myself in a cage or an enclosed area, I would try to find a way out. Thus far, these two haven’t shown any inclination to escape.
“Well, we can’t stand here all day waiting for something to happen. This is going to be big, Amato. Real big.”
Peter took out his cell phone and called Lieutenant Mitch Grace. He had more confidence in Mitch than any man alive, but what would Mitch do when he saw these aliens?
***
Mitch Grace worked the grill in his kitchen like a seasoned professional, whipping up hash browns, sausage and eggs on his cast-iron skillet. Normally he would not cook such an elaborate breakfast, but this morning he was not dining alone.
The scent wafted through the small apartment. Wearing her powder blue bathrobe, Deborah kissed him lightly on the back of his neck. Her long brown hair was still damp from taking a shower. “What did I do to deserve you, Mr. Grace?” She peeked over his shoulder. “You’re too good to me.”
“That’s Lieutenant Grace to you. I’d like to refute your statement, but as the forefather of our great nation once said, I cannot tell a lie.” He turned and gave her a kiss.
“Smells great.”
“I’m using a special recipe I learned when I was out in Guam, lots of exotic spices. In a few minutes this bountiful feast will be all yours. Well yours and mine.” Mitch lowered the flame on the burner and began setting the table. “In that case, you’ll get nothing. This was a test and you failed miserably.”
“What are you going to do, take a stripe away from me?”
“I just might,” Mitch replied. “I know people in the Navy.”
“Fortunately the rest of the Navy doesn’t take the SEALs seriously. We think you’re a bunch of yahoos.”
They sat down to eat on the cozy wooden kitchen table. Mitch savored every bite, much better than anything he had eaten in Afghanistan. It felt strange being home after completing his second tour of duty. He had arrived in San Diego last night. Deborah had picked him up at the airport. They spent so much time away from each other, it was hardly ideal for a successful relationship. Deborah, a naval intelligence officer, had recently spent time in the Persian Gulf. Besides being his significant other, her high level of clearance in the navy allowed her to be privy to his missions.
Their time apart had been torture. In the middle of the war zone, no matter how tough things got, thinking of Deborah always pulled him through.
Upon his return, all Mitch wanted was a good meal and a good bottle of wine. He and Deborah had gone out to eat at one of their favorite restaurants in Little Italy. It felt so good to be back home, certainly better than wearing heavy gear in sweltering heat.
As they were doing dishes, he said, “Maybe we should do it. You know, tie the knot, make it official. I wouldn’t make you change your name if you didn’t want to.”
Deborah put down the wet dishrag. “We’ve been down this road before. What kind of marriage can we have if each of us is going to be in Timbuktu for God knows how long? You know I love you. I absolutely do, but being in a relationship with you is trying. There are nights when I can’t sleep because I’m worried sick that some terrorist is going to ignite a bomb and kill you.”
Deborah had been married and divorced once. Her ex-husband was a car salesman who had not been able to handle her being away so often, finding solace with another woman. She had explained to Mitch that she had been young and naïve, thinking her ex-husband would love her enough to stick with her even when her schedule got difficult. To her credit, she made the divorce quick and painless, and moved on with her life.
“If that happened would you be any less heartbroken if we weren't married?”
“No.” Deborah closed her eyes. “But my idea of getting married would mean to raise a family and have a house with a white picket fence. When I made my career choice, I knew that would be difficult. I’ve already tried once unsuccessfully. If we’re going to be married, I don’t want to be away from you for so long.”
“Then I’ll quit.”
“I don’t want you to quit. You’re the best of the best. It would be selfish for me to let you quit just so that I could have you at home. What you do is more valuable than anything you could do in the private sector or in another branch of the military.”
“And all this time I thought you hated us SEALs. What did you say the first time we met? All we do is smash and bash everything in front of us?”
Deborah smiled. “But you do it so well.”
“Maybe I don’t have to quit. I just finished my second tour. They won't send me back again unless I petition for a third tour, not to mention the war efforts are winding down. I could become a full-time instructor. If now isn’t a good time to get married, then when is?”
Deborah shook her head. “I don’t know.”
Mitch sensed he had struck a nerve. “You have to concede that the timing is good.”
“You know the statistics. Most SEAL marriages don’t last more than a few years.”
“We’ll make it work. I love you.”
“Yeah, but who knows what the future will bring?” Deborah asked.
Mitch gestured wildly with his hands. “We’ll deal with the future later. Let’s deal with the here and now. So, are we going to do this?”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe? I just argued a great case, counselor, and all you could give me is a maybe.”
Deborah asked questions about the logistics of a wedding, and Mitch had an answer for each of her concerns.
“So is this a proposal?”
Mitch pulled out a one carat diamond ring from his pants pocket. Just then his phone rang. Only important calls came in on this cell phone.
Mitch felt torn between love and duty. He searched Deborah’s eyes.
“Answer it,” she said after the second ring.
He answered. For nearly a minute he did not say anything. “Okay…Can you tell me what it is? It’s happening right now…I’ll be there.” Mitch frowned and turned to Deborah. “This isn’t happening the way I planned it.”
She chuckled. “Does it ever? So what’s the emergency?”
Mitch shrugged. “I don’t know. It was Peter Estabrook. He said that it was an extreme emergency involving national security. Whatever's going on has to be huge. Estabrook sounded…scared.”
“Huh. That’s not reassuring.”
Deborah’s cell phone rang, and she answered. After thirty seconds she hung up. “Well, it looks like whatever this emergency is, I’m involved too.”
“Let’s go to the base. I’ll drive.” He put the diamond ring back in his pocket. It would have to wait.
After putting on their uniforms, Mitch and Deborah hardly spoke on the drive to the naval base. Estabrook had not given much detail on the phone, which meant the situation was grave.
He put on a news station. The governor of California was giving a speech on his plan to fix California’s economy.
As they pulled into the base, he asked Deborah, “Are you ready for this?”
“I certainly hope so.”
July 7, 2014
Movie Review: Godzilla
Godzilla has all of the elements of what makes for a summer blockbuster movie. It has massive action, big special effects and CGI, some scary looking monsters, and a venerable hero in Godzilla. For all of this, it has an interesting storyline. It also has gaping plotholes, movie clichés, and a lack of logic in certain spots, but hey, you can’t have it all.
The movie ramps up the tension right from the start when a nuclear power plant in Japan that houses the pod of the Muto, an ancient insectile monster that is about as large as a skyscraper, is destroyed. Bryan Cranston plays the lead engineer at the plant. He loses his wife in the disaster and becomes obsessed with determining what happened, even though there are forces at work to stop them. He gets arrested for trespassing in a quarantine zone in Japan, and his son goes to bail them out. They both wind up back at the power plant when the Muto hatches in a path of total destruction.
As it turns out there is a second Muto in Nevada. The response of the government is to lure them into a trap to destroy both Mutos and Godzilla, who is hunting down the Mutos, with a massive nuclear bomb. Why can’t the government judge put their trust in Godzilla? I mean, he’s been fighting for humanity for years against creatures like Mothra and Mecha-Godzilla. The only person who believes in Godzilla is a Japanese scientist, which should come as little surprise since everybody knows how popular Godzilla is in Japan.
Even though I found the movie to be highly entertaining, I’m not going to pretend that there weren’t massive plot holes and logic flaws. For instance, the Muto when it was still in a pod prior to hatching somehow made its way from the Philipines to Japan. Ford, the son of the engineer played by Bryan Cranston, somehow always seemed to go exactly where the Muto was going. His wife, back in San Francisco, abandons her son when the Mutos are destroying the city and they are evacuating the people. Despite the fact that the nuclear power plant in Japan was completely and utterly destroyed there was miraculously no nuclear radiation fallout. The bottom line is watch the movie for its entertainment purposes but try to think too hard about it.
The movie ramps up the tension right from the start when a nuclear power plant in Japan that houses the pod of the Muto, an ancient insectile monster that is about as large as a skyscraper, is destroyed. Bryan Cranston plays the lead engineer at the plant. He loses his wife in the disaster and becomes obsessed with determining what happened, even though there are forces at work to stop them. He gets arrested for trespassing in a quarantine zone in Japan, and his son goes to bail them out. They both wind up back at the power plant when the Muto hatches in a path of total destruction.
As it turns out there is a second Muto in Nevada. The response of the government is to lure them into a trap to destroy both Mutos and Godzilla, who is hunting down the Mutos, with a massive nuclear bomb. Why can’t the government judge put their trust in Godzilla? I mean, he’s been fighting for humanity for years against creatures like Mothra and Mecha-Godzilla. The only person who believes in Godzilla is a Japanese scientist, which should come as little surprise since everybody knows how popular Godzilla is in Japan.
Even though I found the movie to be highly entertaining, I’m not going to pretend that there weren’t massive plot holes and logic flaws. For instance, the Muto when it was still in a pod prior to hatching somehow made its way from the Philipines to Japan. Ford, the son of the engineer played by Bryan Cranston, somehow always seemed to go exactly where the Muto was going. His wife, back in San Francisco, abandons her son when the Mutos are destroying the city and they are evacuating the people. Despite the fact that the nuclear power plant in Japan was completely and utterly destroyed there was miraculously no nuclear radiation fallout. The bottom line is watch the movie for its entertainment purposes but try to think too hard about it.
July 3, 2014
Dr. Sleep by Stephen King
Stephen King had a stretch where his novels were not very good, but lately he has been back on his game, and that is clearly in evidence in Doctor Sleep. The story is a sequel to The Shining, but the events in this novel don’t follow what happened in the original. Danny Torrance, who was a young boy in the first novel, has grown up with the shining, and has a rough life because of it. Much like his father, he turned to alcohol to solve his problems. His lowpoint in his life is when on a morning following a drunken, drug addled binge with a woman, he steals money from her and her son and puts away a baggie of cocaine so the son can’t reach it. Although this was such a big deal for Danny Torrance, in light of what other alcoholics do, it doesn’t have quite the same impact and seemed overdone.
Danny’s path leads him to New Hampshire, where he finds sobriety and works at a hospice where he helps deliver death to people in the final stages. He comes into contact with Abra, a girl with the shining that’s much stronger than his version. When he learns of a group called the True Not who torture and kill kids with the shining, he takes on the role of her protector. Together they battle against the True Not, a group of immortals led by Rose the Hat.
The novel starts off slowly. That was my only real complaint about it. It takes a while for the novel to really get going, but eventually it kicks into high gear. I enjoyed Danny’s progression as a character. Abra, as well as many side characters, are well composed and add a lot to the novel. Even the True Not, who are ostensibly evil in what they do, are presented with a very human face. They care about each other and from their point of view, kids with the shining are food to them. The conclusion of the novel was well thought out and explosive. This may not have been as good as The Shining, but it’s well worth reading.
Danny’s path leads him to New Hampshire, where he finds sobriety and works at a hospice where he helps deliver death to people in the final stages. He comes into contact with Abra, a girl with the shining that’s much stronger than his version. When he learns of a group called the True Not who torture and kill kids with the shining, he takes on the role of her protector. Together they battle against the True Not, a group of immortals led by Rose the Hat.
The novel starts off slowly. That was my only real complaint about it. It takes a while for the novel to really get going, but eventually it kicks into high gear. I enjoyed Danny’s progression as a character. Abra, as well as many side characters, are well composed and add a lot to the novel. Even the True Not, who are ostensibly evil in what they do, are presented with a very human face. They care about each other and from their point of view, kids with the shining are food to them. The conclusion of the novel was well thought out and explosive. This may not have been as good as The Shining, but it’s well worth reading.
June 24, 2014
The Story Behind the Story: Let Us Prey
Let Us Prey was the first short story that I ever had published in the now defunct Nevermore magazine. What makes it all the more memorable was that it was published on the same day that my oldest son Max was born. I didn’t get to see it in print (in digital form) until a few days later after I was home with my son.
I based this story off of an urban legend, something I like to do with my short fiction. The urban legend that it was based on is someone hiding in the back of your car who follows you to your destination and then murders the person either along the way or at the destination. A pretty gruesome subject matter, but I like gruesome in my fiction. I tried to put some twists along the way so that everything is not as it appears to be based on the main character’s(victim’s) point of view. Check the story out on my blog at www.carlalves.com/blog and let me know what you think.
I based this story off of an urban legend, something I like to do with my short fiction. The urban legend that it was based on is someone hiding in the back of your car who follows you to your destination and then murders the person either along the way or at the destination. A pretty gruesome subject matter, but I like gruesome in my fiction. I tried to put some twists along the way so that everything is not as it appears to be based on the main character’s(victim’s) point of view. Check the story out on my blog at www.carlalves.com/blog and let me know what you think.
June 18, 2014
Let Us Prey
This was the first story I ever had published a decade ago in Nevermore magazine.
Let Us Prey
By Carl Alves
There he is again. It seemed like whenever Cindy Matlow left work, the midnight jogger was always around. She did not know the man’s name, and only referred to him as the midnight jogger out of convenience. She was sure he had selected her as his prey.
She could not pinpoint why she felt so unsafe around the man. It’s not like he had threatened her. Maybe it was the way he looked. Hard lines sunk into his dark face, like he had been through some tough times. Maybe he had done jail time. His cheeks were sunken. His eyes looked hollow. When it was dark, they appeared to be empty sockets. His hair was in a constant state of disarray. His lips were thin and chapped. And when he ran, his tongue stuck out, not more than an inch, but it was always out.
Then there was the twitch. Yeah, the twitch was what really bothered Cindy. He could not run more than fifteen feet without twitching. It was subtle, not a jerking, spasmodic movement. Twitch, pause, twitch, short pause, twitch, long pause, twitch.
And he was always around. At least two or three times a week, she would see him as she exited work and walked the five blocks to her parking lot. It wasn’t like Cindy always left work at a regular time. She left when the work was done for the day. This was rarely before five and sometimes as late as midnight. Yet invariably he would be there.
Cindy was a computer programmer for Netware, an Internet consulting company. It was rare for Cindy to leave work before dark during the winter. When she had first started working, she didn’t think it would be a problem. Netware’s office building was located in the Old City section of Philadelphia, which wasn’t a crime ridden area.
Plus, she didn’t scare easily. She had taken self-defense classes in high school and college. She had been a competitive swimmer who still swam when she found the time. If attacked, she could defend herself better than most people. She was no damsel in distress. But that did not reassure her when she encountered the midnight jogger.
Cindy assumed he ran all of the time, since she saw him so frequently. She wanted to find out if her co-workers had seen this man. She first asked Greg, one of the programmers from her office. “He’s got dark skin and these creepy eyes. He usually has a blue jogging suit and his hair’s always messed up.”
“Sorry, Cindy,” Greg had said. “That doesn’t sound at all familiar.”
“You sure? He twitches all the time. You can’t miss him.”
Greg had shaken his head. “Sorry.”
Exasperated, Cindy had passed the description along to others in the office, but they had responded in the same manner as Greg.
This had bugged her. What were the chances that all of these encounters were coincidence? If her co-workers saw him all the time, then it would not have bothered her.
Cindy then had questioned the security guards in the building. If the man worked there, then the guards would know him. Before leaving for home one evening, she had stopped by the security desk.
“Marlon, I was wondering if you could help me. I keep seeing this same man outside the building and I was wondering if he worked here.” She gave his description to the security guard.
“I know everybody who works here and he’s not one of them,” the guard had said.
“Shit! I think this guy might be stalking me.”
The guard frowned as Cindy stalked out of the building.
The thought of being stalked by the midnight jogger frightened Cindy. Although she was physically fit, he was undoubtedly stronger. She purchased a can of mace to defend herself against the inevitable attack.
The following evening, she approached the same guard. “The man I talked to you about last night is stalking me. I need you to do something about it.”
“Has he done anything threatening or intimidating?” Marlon asked.
Cindy sighed and shook her head. “No.
“Has he approached you and tried to talk to you?”
Cindy put her hands to her hips and stomped her feet. “No, he has not.”
“Do you have anything to back up your claim that this man is stalking you?”
“He’s always jogging when I leave the building.”
Marlon frowned. “You have to understand my position. If I contact the police, they’re going to want more than that. Why don’t you get one of your co-workers to walk with you to your car?”
“But I don’t have the same schedule as anybody else.”
“I’m really sorry, but there’s nothing I can do.”
Cindy threw her hands up in the air and left the building.
When she spoke to a police officer at the local precinct, he asked her similar questions and came to the same conclusion. There was no reason for them to suspect the jogger was stalking her and that she was in danger.
“You people will only be happy after he kills me!” She stormed out of the precinct.
As the winter grew harsher, her sense of imminent danger grew stronger. When she saw him, she would scamper to the other side of the street, trying to maximize the distance between them. She also planned escape routes if he ever attacked her.
***
Cindy was completely bug-eyed. She had started work that morning at five and just finished at eight thirty in the evening, stopping only to eat and use the bathroom. Her fingers ached from pounding her keyboard for so many hours. She was going to develop carpal tunnel syndrome one of these days. She was sure of it.
She was working against a tight deadline. Her client, a small pharmaceutical firm in Malvern, Pennsylvania, wanted to get their inventory management system running by the end of the week. And it was her job to make this happen. She despised working with all the asshole scientists at the drug company. They all wanted the system to work in a different way and didn’t know anything about computer programming.
Cindy did her best work under pressure. Tomorrow was the deadline and she was on schedule to deliver the final product to the client.
She was exhausted. All she wanted to do was go home, fill her bathtub with warm water, and soak until she fell asleep. She trudged out of the office building, her eyes heavy. The first snowflake of the evening touched her cheek. Although it was soft and gentle, she hoped it would be the last. She had enough snow this winter.
She turned the corner, and there he was, the midnight jogger. What the hell was he doing out here this late at night in the cold? Fear coursed through her body.
Steam came from his mouth. His face looked dark and dangerous.
Cindy wanted to cross the street. But his trajectory was going straight toward her. She clutched her purse. The mace was inside. She prayed that she could get it out in time.
“Hello,” the midnight jogger said, his thickly accented voice came out as little more than a croak. “It cold like hell tonight, huh?”
She detected a glint of malice in his eyes. He meant to hurt her. There was no doubt. On this frosty night, he would seize his opportunity.
As if to confirm her fears, the midnight jogger stopped just as he passed her. She stole a glance at him. He bent down and appeared to be tying his shoes, a devious ploy.
Her breathing became ragged. Adrenaline replaced the exhaustion she had felt. She had to run, but her legs felt like they were made of rubber. Would she be able to defend herself? In theory, she always felt that she could, but now that it was happening, she wasn’t sure. Be strong, she urged herself.
Cindy found it difficult to get her feet moving. She glanced at him, as he stretched. This had to be an extension of his ploy.
She took the opportunity to put distance between her and the midnight jogger. She crossed the street and glanced at him. He was still stretching. She picked up momentum when she reached the end of the block. Her car was still a few blocks away. That was her symbol of safety.
She took a quick look back. He was now coming straight for her. Not only had he turned around, he had also crossed the street.
They were too close. She had to pick up the pace, or he would overtake her before she reached her car. On the verge of hyperventilating, she tried to regulate her breathing.
He continued his chase. She looked around. There was nobody else on the street. It was the perfect opportunity for him to attack her. The hunter had found its prey, but she would not go down without a fight.
The midnight jogger was running too fast. He would still overtake her. Cindy regretted wearing heels today. Normally she wore sneakers on days she didn’t meet with clients. But she had recently purchased these shoes online and wanted to try them out.
Although not in a full out sprint, she ran hard. Every so often she glanced back. He still trailed her. Despite her best efforts, he continued to gain ground. She was close to her car now. She fumbled around her purse and grabbed the keys to her Honda Accord. As soon as she got close to the car, she would use her remote entry to unlock the doors. She would jump in the car, lock the doors and peel out of there. When she got home she would call the police. This time, they would have to listen to her.
She was a block away from her car and the midnight jogger was less than a block behind her and closing in quickly. He would not relent.
Finally she was at her car. Unlike in those cheesy horror movies, she had no problem opening the door.
She turned her head. The midnight jogger had his hands in the air. “Stop,” he yelled in a hoarse voice. “Don’t run. Come back.”
She shook her head. He would not get her. Not tonight or any other night.
“Lady, please!”
Cindy jumped in the car and immediately locked the doors. Breathlessly, she turned on the engine. She was glad that last month she got rid of the clunker that got her through college and bought a new car. She turned the car in a swerving motion, nearly hitting the midnight jogger. She would not have minded if she hit him. He deserved it for terrorizing her. He jumped against a parked car and avoided the collision.
As Cindy pulled away, the midnight jogger was in her rear view mirror. He ran after her car. He was yelling, but she could not hear what he said.
Cindy drove on. Eventually she caught her breath. She could not believe how close she had come to being attacked. During the drive, she visualized what he would have done with her.
She parked her Accord in her driveway and breathed easy. Home at last. She turned off her car and then froze.
She heard movement. Before she turned around, a hand covered her mouth. She tried to scream but the hand muffled it.
In the rear view mirror, she spotted a knife overhead, so she her attacker’s hand.
He let go momentarily, but did not stop the sweeping arc of the knife as it came down on her shoulder.
She felt excruciating pain and saw her own blood hit the windshield. The knife came down again as she screamed.
***
Navid Jantua sat at the police station with his head buried in his hands. He looked up when Officer Guerrero brought him a steaming cup of coffee. He took the coffee in the Styrofoam cup. “Thank you.” Navid’s voice was raw from screaming.
Officer Guerrero sat on the bench next to him and put his hand on Navid’s shoulder. “You can’t blame yourself. You did all you could.”
Navid nodded and sipped the coffee. Despite the police officer’s re-assuring words, he could not help but feel guilt. Maybe if he ran a little faster. Maybe if he had introduced himself even once. Maybe if he did a number of things differently, Cindy Matlow would still be alive.
Navid replayed the events in his head. He had approached Cindy’s car as she closed the door. That was when he saw a figure pop up in the back seat of the car, then lean back down behind the seat. He had tried to warn her, but she drove off.
Navid had found a pay phone and called the police immediately. Within minutes they arrived, and he had driven with them in the squad car to her office building. The security guard had ascertained her identity and employer. Someone at the company she worked for had confirmed her address.
When the police had arrived outside her apartment, they had encountered a trail of blood from her car that led to her corpse.
He never thought of himself as a stalker, he just liked her. But his shyness and lack of self-confidence prevented him from approaching her sooner.
Navid sighed. “Maybe if I look a little different, maybe she stop.”
Officer Guerrero shrugged. “Don’t kill yourself. You did what you could.”
Navid wished he could heed the officer’s advice, but he couldn’t help but think that picking this evening to finally muster enough courage to speak to her led to her death.
Let Us Prey
By Carl Alves
There he is again. It seemed like whenever Cindy Matlow left work, the midnight jogger was always around. She did not know the man’s name, and only referred to him as the midnight jogger out of convenience. She was sure he had selected her as his prey.
She could not pinpoint why she felt so unsafe around the man. It’s not like he had threatened her. Maybe it was the way he looked. Hard lines sunk into his dark face, like he had been through some tough times. Maybe he had done jail time. His cheeks were sunken. His eyes looked hollow. When it was dark, they appeared to be empty sockets. His hair was in a constant state of disarray. His lips were thin and chapped. And when he ran, his tongue stuck out, not more than an inch, but it was always out.
Then there was the twitch. Yeah, the twitch was what really bothered Cindy. He could not run more than fifteen feet without twitching. It was subtle, not a jerking, spasmodic movement. Twitch, pause, twitch, short pause, twitch, long pause, twitch.
And he was always around. At least two or three times a week, she would see him as she exited work and walked the five blocks to her parking lot. It wasn’t like Cindy always left work at a regular time. She left when the work was done for the day. This was rarely before five and sometimes as late as midnight. Yet invariably he would be there.
Cindy was a computer programmer for Netware, an Internet consulting company. It was rare for Cindy to leave work before dark during the winter. When she had first started working, she didn’t think it would be a problem. Netware’s office building was located in the Old City section of Philadelphia, which wasn’t a crime ridden area.
Plus, she didn’t scare easily. She had taken self-defense classes in high school and college. She had been a competitive swimmer who still swam when she found the time. If attacked, she could defend herself better than most people. She was no damsel in distress. But that did not reassure her when she encountered the midnight jogger.
Cindy assumed he ran all of the time, since she saw him so frequently. She wanted to find out if her co-workers had seen this man. She first asked Greg, one of the programmers from her office. “He’s got dark skin and these creepy eyes. He usually has a blue jogging suit and his hair’s always messed up.”
“Sorry, Cindy,” Greg had said. “That doesn’t sound at all familiar.”
“You sure? He twitches all the time. You can’t miss him.”
Greg had shaken his head. “Sorry.”
Exasperated, Cindy had passed the description along to others in the office, but they had responded in the same manner as Greg.
This had bugged her. What were the chances that all of these encounters were coincidence? If her co-workers saw him all the time, then it would not have bothered her.
Cindy then had questioned the security guards in the building. If the man worked there, then the guards would know him. Before leaving for home one evening, she had stopped by the security desk.
“Marlon, I was wondering if you could help me. I keep seeing this same man outside the building and I was wondering if he worked here.” She gave his description to the security guard.
“I know everybody who works here and he’s not one of them,” the guard had said.
“Shit! I think this guy might be stalking me.”
The guard frowned as Cindy stalked out of the building.
The thought of being stalked by the midnight jogger frightened Cindy. Although she was physically fit, he was undoubtedly stronger. She purchased a can of mace to defend herself against the inevitable attack.
The following evening, she approached the same guard. “The man I talked to you about last night is stalking me. I need you to do something about it.”
“Has he done anything threatening or intimidating?” Marlon asked.
Cindy sighed and shook her head. “No.
“Has he approached you and tried to talk to you?”
Cindy put her hands to her hips and stomped her feet. “No, he has not.”
“Do you have anything to back up your claim that this man is stalking you?”
“He’s always jogging when I leave the building.”
Marlon frowned. “You have to understand my position. If I contact the police, they’re going to want more than that. Why don’t you get one of your co-workers to walk with you to your car?”
“But I don’t have the same schedule as anybody else.”
“I’m really sorry, but there’s nothing I can do.”
Cindy threw her hands up in the air and left the building.
When she spoke to a police officer at the local precinct, he asked her similar questions and came to the same conclusion. There was no reason for them to suspect the jogger was stalking her and that she was in danger.
“You people will only be happy after he kills me!” She stormed out of the precinct.
As the winter grew harsher, her sense of imminent danger grew stronger. When she saw him, she would scamper to the other side of the street, trying to maximize the distance between them. She also planned escape routes if he ever attacked her.
***
Cindy was completely bug-eyed. She had started work that morning at five and just finished at eight thirty in the evening, stopping only to eat and use the bathroom. Her fingers ached from pounding her keyboard for so many hours. She was going to develop carpal tunnel syndrome one of these days. She was sure of it.
She was working against a tight deadline. Her client, a small pharmaceutical firm in Malvern, Pennsylvania, wanted to get their inventory management system running by the end of the week. And it was her job to make this happen. She despised working with all the asshole scientists at the drug company. They all wanted the system to work in a different way and didn’t know anything about computer programming.
Cindy did her best work under pressure. Tomorrow was the deadline and she was on schedule to deliver the final product to the client.
She was exhausted. All she wanted to do was go home, fill her bathtub with warm water, and soak until she fell asleep. She trudged out of the office building, her eyes heavy. The first snowflake of the evening touched her cheek. Although it was soft and gentle, she hoped it would be the last. She had enough snow this winter.
She turned the corner, and there he was, the midnight jogger. What the hell was he doing out here this late at night in the cold? Fear coursed through her body.
Steam came from his mouth. His face looked dark and dangerous.
Cindy wanted to cross the street. But his trajectory was going straight toward her. She clutched her purse. The mace was inside. She prayed that she could get it out in time.
“Hello,” the midnight jogger said, his thickly accented voice came out as little more than a croak. “It cold like hell tonight, huh?”
She detected a glint of malice in his eyes. He meant to hurt her. There was no doubt. On this frosty night, he would seize his opportunity.
As if to confirm her fears, the midnight jogger stopped just as he passed her. She stole a glance at him. He bent down and appeared to be tying his shoes, a devious ploy.
Her breathing became ragged. Adrenaline replaced the exhaustion she had felt. She had to run, but her legs felt like they were made of rubber. Would she be able to defend herself? In theory, she always felt that she could, but now that it was happening, she wasn’t sure. Be strong, she urged herself.
Cindy found it difficult to get her feet moving. She glanced at him, as he stretched. This had to be an extension of his ploy.
She took the opportunity to put distance between her and the midnight jogger. She crossed the street and glanced at him. He was still stretching. She picked up momentum when she reached the end of the block. Her car was still a few blocks away. That was her symbol of safety.
She took a quick look back. He was now coming straight for her. Not only had he turned around, he had also crossed the street.
They were too close. She had to pick up the pace, or he would overtake her before she reached her car. On the verge of hyperventilating, she tried to regulate her breathing.
He continued his chase. She looked around. There was nobody else on the street. It was the perfect opportunity for him to attack her. The hunter had found its prey, but she would not go down without a fight.
The midnight jogger was running too fast. He would still overtake her. Cindy regretted wearing heels today. Normally she wore sneakers on days she didn’t meet with clients. But she had recently purchased these shoes online and wanted to try them out.
Although not in a full out sprint, she ran hard. Every so often she glanced back. He still trailed her. Despite her best efforts, he continued to gain ground. She was close to her car now. She fumbled around her purse and grabbed the keys to her Honda Accord. As soon as she got close to the car, she would use her remote entry to unlock the doors. She would jump in the car, lock the doors and peel out of there. When she got home she would call the police. This time, they would have to listen to her.
She was a block away from her car and the midnight jogger was less than a block behind her and closing in quickly. He would not relent.
Finally she was at her car. Unlike in those cheesy horror movies, she had no problem opening the door.
She turned her head. The midnight jogger had his hands in the air. “Stop,” he yelled in a hoarse voice. “Don’t run. Come back.”
She shook her head. He would not get her. Not tonight or any other night.
“Lady, please!”
Cindy jumped in the car and immediately locked the doors. Breathlessly, she turned on the engine. She was glad that last month she got rid of the clunker that got her through college and bought a new car. She turned the car in a swerving motion, nearly hitting the midnight jogger. She would not have minded if she hit him. He deserved it for terrorizing her. He jumped against a parked car and avoided the collision.
As Cindy pulled away, the midnight jogger was in her rear view mirror. He ran after her car. He was yelling, but she could not hear what he said.
Cindy drove on. Eventually she caught her breath. She could not believe how close she had come to being attacked. During the drive, she visualized what he would have done with her.
She parked her Accord in her driveway and breathed easy. Home at last. She turned off her car and then froze.
She heard movement. Before she turned around, a hand covered her mouth. She tried to scream but the hand muffled it.
In the rear view mirror, she spotted a knife overhead, so she her attacker’s hand.
He let go momentarily, but did not stop the sweeping arc of the knife as it came down on her shoulder.
She felt excruciating pain and saw her own blood hit the windshield. The knife came down again as she screamed.
***
Navid Jantua sat at the police station with his head buried in his hands. He looked up when Officer Guerrero brought him a steaming cup of coffee. He took the coffee in the Styrofoam cup. “Thank you.” Navid’s voice was raw from screaming.
Officer Guerrero sat on the bench next to him and put his hand on Navid’s shoulder. “You can’t blame yourself. You did all you could.”
Navid nodded and sipped the coffee. Despite the police officer’s re-assuring words, he could not help but feel guilt. Maybe if he ran a little faster. Maybe if he had introduced himself even once. Maybe if he did a number of things differently, Cindy Matlow would still be alive.
Navid replayed the events in his head. He had approached Cindy’s car as she closed the door. That was when he saw a figure pop up in the back seat of the car, then lean back down behind the seat. He had tried to warn her, but she drove off.
Navid had found a pay phone and called the police immediately. Within minutes they arrived, and he had driven with them in the squad car to her office building. The security guard had ascertained her identity and employer. Someone at the company she worked for had confirmed her address.
When the police had arrived outside her apartment, they had encountered a trail of blood from her car that led to her corpse.
He never thought of himself as a stalker, he just liked her. But his shyness and lack of self-confidence prevented him from approaching her sooner.
Navid sighed. “Maybe if I look a little different, maybe she stop.”
Officer Guerrero shrugged. “Don’t kill yourself. You did what you could.”
Navid wished he could heed the officer’s advice, but he couldn’t help but think that picking this evening to finally muster enough courage to speak to her led to her death.
June 16, 2014
Death and Desire in the Age of Women by Michael Louis Calvillo
Michael Louis Calvillo came up with an absolutely killer premise in this novel. He was great at writing these high concept novels. The premise of the novel is that all women in the world of appropriate age menstruate all on the same day. They begin having dreams and visions of the Worm. This creates a big ruckus but nothing comes of it until nine months later when all at once the females around the world turn on the male population and try to kill them off. A biological change has come about them and whenever they see a male, they become enraged and want to kill them in the most violent way possible, regardless of their relationship.
The story itself centers on the Mendoza family. On the day of the change, Claudia, the mother, initially tries to protect her four-year-old son, Victor Jr. That changes when her twin daughters arrive at home and together they not only kill Little Victor, but do so by tearing him apart and eating him. Knowing that she can’t control herself, she takes her two daughters and leaves before her husband, Victor, arrives. Fast forward two years later, and Claudia and the girls are living in a compound. Women have taken control of the world and have imprisoned the men. Victor, who had been part of a resistance movement, finds himself arrested and goes to a prison near the compound. A female resistance movement grows and they try to use Claudia to test out a new protective suit that will allow her to be with her husband without feeling the need to tear him apart after they bust Victor out of prison. Things go horribly awry in the process.
Besides the cool high concept, the novel delivers in many other ways. The writing is really strong, something that I can appreciate as a fellow writer. The novel hits the write nerves. Claudia is the main character, but it’s hard to feel sympathy for her after she devours her own child, even though it wasn’t her fault and it was triggered by this Worm that has infiltrated all women. Victor, on the other hand, comes off as a much more heroic and sympathetic figure, transforming himself from a guy who works a nine to five to support his family to a warrior. The book doesn’t provide an explanation of how the Worm came into existence or how it infiltrates the female population or how the women are able to telepathically communicate with each other. An explanation would have served well. I also found a hard time believing that the women would have been able to take over society so easily. Granted, they had been plotting this attack for nine months and they certainly would have taken the men by surprise, but at the same time, without being sexist but just trying to be realistic, men are physically stronger, and have far greater numbers in areas such as law enforcement and the military including access to more weapons, etc. I also would have liked a happier ending. In all, this was a very enjoyable read that I would recommend.
The story itself centers on the Mendoza family. On the day of the change, Claudia, the mother, initially tries to protect her four-year-old son, Victor Jr. That changes when her twin daughters arrive at home and together they not only kill Little Victor, but do so by tearing him apart and eating him. Knowing that she can’t control herself, she takes her two daughters and leaves before her husband, Victor, arrives. Fast forward two years later, and Claudia and the girls are living in a compound. Women have taken control of the world and have imprisoned the men. Victor, who had been part of a resistance movement, finds himself arrested and goes to a prison near the compound. A female resistance movement grows and they try to use Claudia to test out a new protective suit that will allow her to be with her husband without feeling the need to tear him apart after they bust Victor out of prison. Things go horribly awry in the process.
Besides the cool high concept, the novel delivers in many other ways. The writing is really strong, something that I can appreciate as a fellow writer. The novel hits the write nerves. Claudia is the main character, but it’s hard to feel sympathy for her after she devours her own child, even though it wasn’t her fault and it was triggered by this Worm that has infiltrated all women. Victor, on the other hand, comes off as a much more heroic and sympathetic figure, transforming himself from a guy who works a nine to five to support his family to a warrior. The book doesn’t provide an explanation of how the Worm came into existence or how it infiltrates the female population or how the women are able to telepathically communicate with each other. An explanation would have served well. I also found a hard time believing that the women would have been able to take over society so easily. Granted, they had been plotting this attack for nine months and they certainly would have taken the men by surprise, but at the same time, without being sexist but just trying to be realistic, men are physically stronger, and have far greater numbers in areas such as law enforcement and the military including access to more weapons, etc. I also would have liked a happier ending. In all, this was a very enjoyable read that I would recommend.
June 5, 2014
10 Questions with Brett J Talley
1. What is the genesis of your story The Reborn and do you plan on writing additional stories set in that world?
It was definitely one of those lightning bolt things. I can remember exactly where I was. I was driving down Highway 280 in Birmingham, Alabama, and I turned to a friend and said, “Hey, wouldn’t it be crazy if reincarnation was real? And what if people blamed you or praised you based on what you did in a previous life, even if you didn’t remember it? And what if your talents or faults were all the same, each time you were born?” The rest, as they say, was history. I love the idea, and I think the world is a rich one with many more veins to be explored, so I do think I will go back to it. People seem to like it.
2. Who has been your biggest influence as a writer?
Definitely HP Lovecraft, even if it’s not so evident from this particular book. His willingness to challenge the accepted way of seeing and doing things, however, has application to all forms of writing. I also just love his style. Minimalism is in these days, with the whole “If you can say it in three words instead of four, say it in three” rule dominant. I’m not saying I don’t think there is some truth to that maxim, but I also think it robs the artistry from writing. We aren’t producing instruction manuals; we are making art. And sometimes four brush strokes can add something that three would never be able to produce.
3. Why did you choose Genghis Khan as the reborn leader that would conquer the world?
Well, I wanted someone who was a great conqueror, who was charismatic, who was fearless, who believed his mission was a divine one, and that was willing to do anything to accomplish his goals. Khan had all that. Before he conquered the world he had to conquer the warring nomadic tribes of the Mongols. He had to bring together people who had always hated each other. That was the most important thing to me. I wanted someone who could conceivable walk into a broken world, one that was questioning everything it was based on, and get people to leave everything they’d ever known behind to follow him. Frankly I needed a Christ figure who was willing to murder millions to see his Heaven on Earth realized.
4. If you could only read one book for the rest of your life, what would it be?
The Great Gatsby. I have read that book more times than I can count. It’s the perfect book in my view. Not a word out of place. Beautiful, poignant, touching, timeless, and readable too.
5. Do you feel that there is any validity to the possibility of reincarnation?
I’m certainly not a materialist. I do not believe that we live, die, and that’s it. I think reincarnation would answer a lot of questions, and the more we learn about the greater mysteries of science, I am fully willing to accept the consciousness flows in cycles, just like everything else. Personally, however, I’m a Christian, so I guess I don’t actually believe in reincarnation. Not yet at least.
6. Do you outline prior to writing your story, or do you work out the plot as you write?
I work it out as I write. I am a terrible outliner actually. When I start a project, I generally produce a single paragraph that lays out what’s going to happen in broad strokes. That stays at the bottom until the book is done. That’s about as far as the planning stage goes.
7. What current writing projects are you working on?
I am currently working on the sequel to my Lovecraftian novel, That Which Should Not Be. It’s tentatively titled He Who Walks In Shadow and is set immediately after the first book ends.
8. If you were reborn, what famous person in history would you have been reborn as?
That’s a great question. Probably either Leonardo Da Vinci, Ben Franklin, or Thomas Jefferson, just because they were guys who could do just about anything.
9. What type of scenes do you most enjoy writing?
This may sound strange, but I like either pure dialogue or pure description. I love scenes that are just two characters talking, going back and forth about something. But I also love scenes where there is no dialogue at all, and it’s just building atmosphere and tone and a feeling of dread.
10. If you could pick one other author to collaborate with on a novel or story, living or dead, who would it be?
Well Carl Alves of course! But if he wouldn’t take me, Lovecraft. I can only imagine what he would teach me.
It was definitely one of those lightning bolt things. I can remember exactly where I was. I was driving down Highway 280 in Birmingham, Alabama, and I turned to a friend and said, “Hey, wouldn’t it be crazy if reincarnation was real? And what if people blamed you or praised you based on what you did in a previous life, even if you didn’t remember it? And what if your talents or faults were all the same, each time you were born?” The rest, as they say, was history. I love the idea, and I think the world is a rich one with many more veins to be explored, so I do think I will go back to it. People seem to like it.
2. Who has been your biggest influence as a writer?
Definitely HP Lovecraft, even if it’s not so evident from this particular book. His willingness to challenge the accepted way of seeing and doing things, however, has application to all forms of writing. I also just love his style. Minimalism is in these days, with the whole “If you can say it in three words instead of four, say it in three” rule dominant. I’m not saying I don’t think there is some truth to that maxim, but I also think it robs the artistry from writing. We aren’t producing instruction manuals; we are making art. And sometimes four brush strokes can add something that three would never be able to produce.
3. Why did you choose Genghis Khan as the reborn leader that would conquer the world?
Well, I wanted someone who was a great conqueror, who was charismatic, who was fearless, who believed his mission was a divine one, and that was willing to do anything to accomplish his goals. Khan had all that. Before he conquered the world he had to conquer the warring nomadic tribes of the Mongols. He had to bring together people who had always hated each other. That was the most important thing to me. I wanted someone who could conceivable walk into a broken world, one that was questioning everything it was based on, and get people to leave everything they’d ever known behind to follow him. Frankly I needed a Christ figure who was willing to murder millions to see his Heaven on Earth realized.
4. If you could only read one book for the rest of your life, what would it be?
The Great Gatsby. I have read that book more times than I can count. It’s the perfect book in my view. Not a word out of place. Beautiful, poignant, touching, timeless, and readable too.
5. Do you feel that there is any validity to the possibility of reincarnation?
I’m certainly not a materialist. I do not believe that we live, die, and that’s it. I think reincarnation would answer a lot of questions, and the more we learn about the greater mysteries of science, I am fully willing to accept the consciousness flows in cycles, just like everything else. Personally, however, I’m a Christian, so I guess I don’t actually believe in reincarnation. Not yet at least.
6. Do you outline prior to writing your story, or do you work out the plot as you write?
I work it out as I write. I am a terrible outliner actually. When I start a project, I generally produce a single paragraph that lays out what’s going to happen in broad strokes. That stays at the bottom until the book is done. That’s about as far as the planning stage goes.
7. What current writing projects are you working on?
I am currently working on the sequel to my Lovecraftian novel, That Which Should Not Be. It’s tentatively titled He Who Walks In Shadow and is set immediately after the first book ends.
8. If you were reborn, what famous person in history would you have been reborn as?
That’s a great question. Probably either Leonardo Da Vinci, Ben Franklin, or Thomas Jefferson, just because they were guys who could do just about anything.
9. What type of scenes do you most enjoy writing?
This may sound strange, but I like either pure dialogue or pure description. I love scenes that are just two characters talking, going back and forth about something. But I also love scenes where there is no dialogue at all, and it’s just building atmosphere and tone and a feeling of dread.
10. If you could pick one other author to collaborate with on a novel or story, living or dead, who would it be?
Well Carl Alves of course! But if he wouldn’t take me, Lovecraft. I can only imagine what he would teach me.
June 3, 2014
Movie Review: X Men Days of Future Past
After watching XMen: First Class, the bar was set pretty high for this movie. XMen: Days of Future Past may have even exceeded its predecessor. The movie boasts a deep and complex story line starting off in the future and going back to 1973 where Wolverine, expertly played by Hugh Jackman, is sent into the past to prevent Mystique, played by Jennifer Lawrence, to assassinate Dr. Bolivar Trask, played by everyone’s favorite Game of Thrones character, Peter Dinklage. This is an attempt to prevent the government from using Mystique’s DNA to weaponize sentinels, robots used to fight against the X Men.
The ensemble cast boasts many very talented actors. Unfortunately, some of them like Anna Paquin and Hale Berry get very little screen time. Some of the many strong performances really carry the movie. The plot was also richly woven and rewarding. There was a lot going on in this movie beyond action and fight scenes, of which there were plenty. I enjoyed how the previous X Men trilogy was interwoven with First Class including the mixing of the actors. Peter Dinklage was a great choice for the movies villain, and he showed that he could do more than just play Tyrion Lannister.
One thing that disappointed me was that although Wolverine is ostensibly the main character and has the most screen time, he really had nothing to do with the conclusion and climactic scene of the movie, which made little sense seeing as how involved he was through the rest of it. This was an enjoyable movie experience, one of the better Marvel movies made.
The ensemble cast boasts many very talented actors. Unfortunately, some of them like Anna Paquin and Hale Berry get very little screen time. Some of the many strong performances really carry the movie. The plot was also richly woven and rewarding. There was a lot going on in this movie beyond action and fight scenes, of which there were plenty. I enjoyed how the previous X Men trilogy was interwoven with First Class including the mixing of the actors. Peter Dinklage was a great choice for the movies villain, and he showed that he could do more than just play Tyrion Lannister.
One thing that disappointed me was that although Wolverine is ostensibly the main character and has the most screen time, he really had nothing to do with the conclusion and climactic scene of the movie, which made little sense seeing as how involved he was through the rest of it. This was an enjoyable movie experience, one of the better Marvel movies made.
June 1, 2014
10 Questions with Mort Castle
1. Do you think there exists a group of people similar to the strangers in your novel The Strangers?
A group? Well, there's no question we do have sociopaths running around loose. And sometimes small groups of sociopaths, or those directly controlled by them (think Charles Manson!) might band together for a while ... But, when we consider the strong narcissistic element of the sociopathic personality ... A cohesive group acting together is not likely: Too many big egos involved.
2. If you could only read one book for the rest of your life, what would it be?
Probably wouldn't bother: rather have one banjo and play it. But, that said, I've read Hemingway's complete short story collection, the Finca Vigia edition, just about every year for at least the past 20 years and I'm still finding new insights and passages that I memorize without working to do so.
You do hear a number of readers and yappy writers (mostly newbies trying to pretend they are revolutionaries) knocking Hemingway: He didn't have the range of subject matter. He had only his one voice. He was mannered and artificial. He was overly romantic. He was misogynistic. He had a bad skin condition ...
The reason they knock him, rather than learning from and appreciating him, is because they're full of prune whip.
3. How has the digital revolution and the emergence of ebooks affected you as a writer?
Let's remember I've been doing this from way before the "digital revolution"; in a small way, I was part of the mimeo revolution and the American Samizdat movement. Hell, I was almost a part of the Gutenberg revolution. That means I've hit a point in my career at which I can pick and choose my venues. These days, I seldom submit anything over the transom (whether that's a digital transom or no). I don't have to. I'm grateful that editors ask me for my writing and I judge the soliciting publication, cyber, paper, or damp clay tablet, by its quality.
4. How have people and society in general changed since you wrote The Strangers?
A. Cell phones. Cell phones have messed us all up. Used to be, you used a camera to take a picture. You didn't get in touch with your pal in Singapore by talking into your camera. B. Americans have become much more informal and definitely more crude. "Hey, how the fuck you fuckers doing the fuck? WTF ..." That was the president of Harvard welcoming the class of 2018 to the school. C. Americans have really become much fatter. I sure have. But it's not my fault. It's an American thing. I'm patriotic is what it is.
5. What does Ray Bradbury mean to you as a writer?
Quite simply, he brought the magic. He's one of the reasons I write. Blame it directly on the slim novel SOMETHING WICKED THIS WAY COMES and the very different but still unmistakably Bradbury short story "I See You Never." I hit those works at the right for me, 13ish or so, and ... Poe had done it earlier. Then Ray affirmed it.
And of course, SHADOW SHOW, the anthology I edited with Sam Weller, earned a Bram Stoker Award (R). That book was a labor of love, a slew of writers, like me, saying "Thank You" to the splendid Mr. B. Ray did not live to see the book in print, but he did read the contents (Sam read some of the stories to him) and he was most gratified, "very, very happy," he said. (He cried at Alice Hoffman's wonderful story "Conjure.")
6. What's more satisfying to you, to write a novel or to edit an anthology?
Easy one. I've never written a novel that fully satisfied me. I've published seven novels. Some of them were competent beach reads, two of them were pretty good horror novels with some aspects that I thought pretty good, but that's all. Both CURSED BE THE CHILD and THE STRANGERS had excellent reviews and critical response and even decent sales. STRANGERS was named one of the "Ten Best Horror/Thriller Novels" published in Poland in 2008 by Newsweek. But by my standards, no, I have yet to write a fully successful novel, beginning to middle to end.
But I've been very pleased with what I've done as an editor of fiction and non-fiction. ON WRITING HORROR is non-fiction, of course; SHADOW SHOW is all fiction. But I have said about both of them, "Not a less than excellent piece in the book."
And hell, as a short story writer, well, I've published about 500 short STORIES and I do have around 30 now that make me say, "Yeah, Castle, you did it right."
Ah, maybe I'll tackle another novel or two to see if I can get it really right. Or maybe not.
7. Who is your favorite writer?
Has to be Hemingway, but there are so many wonderful writers, well established writers and up an coming ... Seems I come across a new writer every week that makes me say, "What a gift it is to be able to read."
What is the most common mistake that new writers make?
Oh, man, I'm regarded as something of the curmudgeon because I've said this so often. New writers, as such, make no more or different mistakes than new writers have always made. The real new writers.
It's the self-deluded and often self-published and typically epub only so called writers who are making the mistake of .... Not learning to write. Of course, they don't have to. They see their name in (pixel) print and think, Now I am a writer. Don't have to know storycraft, 'cause the alleged editor (if there is one) hasn't bothered to learn it. Don't have to consider audience, 'cause it's the same set of semi-literate readers who are likewise planning to publish semi-literate stuff for other semi-literate audiences ... Don't have to learn that grammar stuff 'cause it might inhibit my apostrophe rich style ... The wheel of delusion goes around and around.
9. Do you outline prior to writing your story, or do you work out the plot as you write?
I can hold a complete short story in my head without an outline. If a story tells me it wants to be other than what I planned, that's fine. I listen to the story.
Bigger stuff--say a three issue comics story or a lengthy novella (lengthy for a novella!), you bet I outline.
Jerry Williamson taught me a method I use and have shared with my classes. It gives you the reassurance that, "Yes, you can finish this because you've already thought of one way to get from beginning to end."
10. If you could pick one other author to collaborate with on a novel or story, living or dead, who would it be?
J. N. Williamson and I began working on a non-fiction book that could have come out okay. I'll give you the concept: It was called A WRITER'S ASTROLOGY. Jerry had been a professional astrologer, earning his living from it. I thought astrology was right up there with fortune cookie future predicting. We were alternating chapters. He was the believer. I was the skeptic. No publisher was interested in Jerry's belief or my cynicisms, so that died a'borning.
Right now, well, I have successfully collaborated with Edgar Allan Poe. I've written several Hemingway, Philip Jose Farmer, and HPL pastiches, and the pastiche is a form of collaboration, I'd think. It's fairly easy to work with dead authors.
But--well, like with the sociopaths mentioned above, there's too much ego in authors--at least in this author--to sublimate the Big Me so we could forge the identity of WE.
A group? Well, there's no question we do have sociopaths running around loose. And sometimes small groups of sociopaths, or those directly controlled by them (think Charles Manson!) might band together for a while ... But, when we consider the strong narcissistic element of the sociopathic personality ... A cohesive group acting together is not likely: Too many big egos involved.
2. If you could only read one book for the rest of your life, what would it be?
Probably wouldn't bother: rather have one banjo and play it. But, that said, I've read Hemingway's complete short story collection, the Finca Vigia edition, just about every year for at least the past 20 years and I'm still finding new insights and passages that I memorize without working to do so.
You do hear a number of readers and yappy writers (mostly newbies trying to pretend they are revolutionaries) knocking Hemingway: He didn't have the range of subject matter. He had only his one voice. He was mannered and artificial. He was overly romantic. He was misogynistic. He had a bad skin condition ...
The reason they knock him, rather than learning from and appreciating him, is because they're full of prune whip.
3. How has the digital revolution and the emergence of ebooks affected you as a writer?
Let's remember I've been doing this from way before the "digital revolution"; in a small way, I was part of the mimeo revolution and the American Samizdat movement. Hell, I was almost a part of the Gutenberg revolution. That means I've hit a point in my career at which I can pick and choose my venues. These days, I seldom submit anything over the transom (whether that's a digital transom or no). I don't have to. I'm grateful that editors ask me for my writing and I judge the soliciting publication, cyber, paper, or damp clay tablet, by its quality.
4. How have people and society in general changed since you wrote The Strangers?
A. Cell phones. Cell phones have messed us all up. Used to be, you used a camera to take a picture. You didn't get in touch with your pal in Singapore by talking into your camera. B. Americans have become much more informal and definitely more crude. "Hey, how the fuck you fuckers doing the fuck? WTF ..." That was the president of Harvard welcoming the class of 2018 to the school. C. Americans have really become much fatter. I sure have. But it's not my fault. It's an American thing. I'm patriotic is what it is.
5. What does Ray Bradbury mean to you as a writer?
Quite simply, he brought the magic. He's one of the reasons I write. Blame it directly on the slim novel SOMETHING WICKED THIS WAY COMES and the very different but still unmistakably Bradbury short story "I See You Never." I hit those works at the right for me, 13ish or so, and ... Poe had done it earlier. Then Ray affirmed it.
And of course, SHADOW SHOW, the anthology I edited with Sam Weller, earned a Bram Stoker Award (R). That book was a labor of love, a slew of writers, like me, saying "Thank You" to the splendid Mr. B. Ray did not live to see the book in print, but he did read the contents (Sam read some of the stories to him) and he was most gratified, "very, very happy," he said. (He cried at Alice Hoffman's wonderful story "Conjure.")
6. What's more satisfying to you, to write a novel or to edit an anthology?
Easy one. I've never written a novel that fully satisfied me. I've published seven novels. Some of them were competent beach reads, two of them were pretty good horror novels with some aspects that I thought pretty good, but that's all. Both CURSED BE THE CHILD and THE STRANGERS had excellent reviews and critical response and even decent sales. STRANGERS was named one of the "Ten Best Horror/Thriller Novels" published in Poland in 2008 by Newsweek. But by my standards, no, I have yet to write a fully successful novel, beginning to middle to end.
But I've been very pleased with what I've done as an editor of fiction and non-fiction. ON WRITING HORROR is non-fiction, of course; SHADOW SHOW is all fiction. But I have said about both of them, "Not a less than excellent piece in the book."
And hell, as a short story writer, well, I've published about 500 short STORIES and I do have around 30 now that make me say, "Yeah, Castle, you did it right."
Ah, maybe I'll tackle another novel or two to see if I can get it really right. Or maybe not.
7. Who is your favorite writer?
Has to be Hemingway, but there are so many wonderful writers, well established writers and up an coming ... Seems I come across a new writer every week that makes me say, "What a gift it is to be able to read."
What is the most common mistake that new writers make?
Oh, man, I'm regarded as something of the curmudgeon because I've said this so often. New writers, as such, make no more or different mistakes than new writers have always made. The real new writers.
It's the self-deluded and often self-published and typically epub only so called writers who are making the mistake of .... Not learning to write. Of course, they don't have to. They see their name in (pixel) print and think, Now I am a writer. Don't have to know storycraft, 'cause the alleged editor (if there is one) hasn't bothered to learn it. Don't have to consider audience, 'cause it's the same set of semi-literate readers who are likewise planning to publish semi-literate stuff for other semi-literate audiences ... Don't have to learn that grammar stuff 'cause it might inhibit my apostrophe rich style ... The wheel of delusion goes around and around.
9. Do you outline prior to writing your story, or do you work out the plot as you write?
I can hold a complete short story in my head without an outline. If a story tells me it wants to be other than what I planned, that's fine. I listen to the story.
Bigger stuff--say a three issue comics story or a lengthy novella (lengthy for a novella!), you bet I outline.
Jerry Williamson taught me a method I use and have shared with my classes. It gives you the reassurance that, "Yes, you can finish this because you've already thought of one way to get from beginning to end."
10. If you could pick one other author to collaborate with on a novel or story, living or dead, who would it be?
J. N. Williamson and I began working on a non-fiction book that could have come out okay. I'll give you the concept: It was called A WRITER'S ASTROLOGY. Jerry had been a professional astrologer, earning his living from it. I thought astrology was right up there with fortune cookie future predicting. We were alternating chapters. He was the believer. I was the skeptic. No publisher was interested in Jerry's belief or my cynicisms, so that died a'borning.
Right now, well, I have successfully collaborated with Edgar Allan Poe. I've written several Hemingway, Philip Jose Farmer, and HPL pastiches, and the pastiche is a form of collaboration, I'd think. It's fairly easy to work with dead authors.
But--well, like with the sociopaths mentioned above, there's too much ego in authors--at least in this author--to sublimate the Big Me so we could forge the identity of WE.
