Erik Wecks's Blog, page 7

The Last Five Reviews…

PURCHASE AETNA ADRIFT ON AMAZON

Recently, Aetna Adrift has been racking up some great reviews from readers on Amazon. In their entirety, here are the last five:

“Don’t start it at bedtime unless you want to be up until you finish it — it’s not the kind of book you stop until the end.”

“I really enjoyed this one! great space opera. the thoughts of the protagonist were rather interesting. somewhat unusual for a space opera genre tale.”

“A refreshing point of view on adult maturity set in a revolution in outer space. It’s easy to see where our nation could end up if the haves keep preventing the have nots from ever getting any.”

“I loved this book. It was well-written and kept my attention riveted from beginning to end, which is hard to do. I also enjoyed the life lesson that the main character learns that is intertwined within the plot. The characters are mostly well-developed and it was just overall a very good read. Kept me up all night! I would highly recommend it to anyone who loves sci-fi/fiction and fascinating story-lines.”

“I am extremely choosy about the science-fiction I read. While I profess to be in love with the genre, more often than not when I pick up a sci-fi book, I get bored or irritated and put it right back down. But this book, this book I absolutely love. I even convinced hubby, who doesn’t read nearly as much or as often as I do, that he had to read this book. Because it is simply fantastic. The characters, the plot, the world the author created. I love it, and you will too. It’s gritty and lively and emotional and keeps you on your toes. By the time I was halfway through the book I *could not stop* until I finished it (yes, I was supposed to be doing something else, but oh my god, this book). Read it. And then join me in impatiently waiting for the next one. Because oh my goodness, I can’t wait to read more about this universe.”

It isn’t just the readers who like this book, either. You can also find links to six different editorial reviews here.

If you haven’t read it yet, now is a great time to pick up a copy and give it a whirl. I am about ninety days out from publishing the sequel. But beware! As three of the reviewers pointed out, apparently you can’t stop once you start.

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Scapple Art?

Recently, I discovered Scapple by the makers of Scrivener—the greatest writing tool ever created. It’s a simple mind-mapping tool. Just write a note, drag it onto another, and you create a connection between the two.

Literature and Latte has an incredible talent for simplifying and streamlining, leaving behind the efficient essence of the tool. Scrivener is an incredibly powerful writing and publishing tool, which revels in its ability to do just what the writer wants. Yet, the experience for the user is clean and easy. If a large corporation tried to create Scapple, it would likely be so bloated with “options” for different ways to connect information as to be unusable.

As I have been finishing On the Far Bank of the Rubicon, Scapple has been an invaluable tool for getting things down where I can see them. One of my favorite parts of Scapple is that even the act of outlining a chapter can create something I find visually appealing. When the novel comes out, I will be publishing some of my chapter outlines for those of you who already have read the book, so you can get a “behind the scenes” look at my process.

For now, I can share the outline I created this morning for the writing class I will be teaching at the Cascade Park branch of the Fort Vancouver Regional Library. Just know there will be more to come.

 

 

War is Coming to the Pax!

I released a new short story on Amazon today. Taylor’s Watch has been described as “Die Hard” on a space station. You can find a complete description here.

The story developed as part of my upcoming novel, On the Far Bank of the Rubicon. That book tells the story of the first Pax War, but at the very moment the war starts all my main characters are busy elsewhere. I started telling Taylor’s story to fill in the gap and then realized it would work better as a stand alone piece of military heroism rather than as a chapter in the book. The story you just read is the result. That said, if you want to know more about what happens to Taylor, she will still have a small but significant role to play in the novel, and yes, I promise it will tell you who picked her up after she completed her mission. Look for that soon.

So now you know, war is coming for Jack and Anna, along with the whole rest of the Pax Imperium. Things are about to get messy for the Pax.

Purchase Taylor’s Watch on Amazon

Something Sad is About to Happen…

This Sunday on Fox, Neil deGrasse Tyson updates one of the most important television series ever created, Carl Sagan’s Cosmos. I can’t wait. I don’t remember when I have been this excited for a television event. Cosmos has been very precious to me since I was first introduced to the series by astronomy professor Doug McCarty at Mt. Hood Community College back in the early nineties. McCarty’s enthusiasm for the universe was infectious, inspiring, and filled with an appropriate sense of awe, just like Sagan’s

The winter I took his class, a friend of my parents let me borrow their ten inch telescope and use it in my back yard. On a cold February night, I saw all four major moons of Jupiter lined up across the face of the planet. It is a moment which has always remained with me.

Sagan, McCarty, and the personal exploration of the universe they inspired are a major reason I write science fiction. Cosmos helped foster in me a passionate belief in the need for our species to leave this planet and find our way to other places in our galaxy. It would be such a shame if our species died out before we had an opportunity to explore the beauty of the universe around us.

Yet for me, as a person of faith, I know that Sunday will be a bittersweet day. For there will be many others who in the name of faith will see Cosmos as something treacherous, something to be avoided like the plague. In doing so, they will miss the sense of awe and wonder a proper, fearless contemplation of our universe can create. For me the contemplation of the stars leads me to worship the creator who made them, who brought them forth with a word.

Neither the deceased Carl Sagan nor Neil deGrasse Tyson—nor Doug McCarty for that matter— share my worldview. Carl Sagan makes clear his position in the clip above. For Sagan, the universe itself is the sacred object of wonder and not any creator behind it.

For many physicists and astronomers, the existence of laws governing the processes of the universe is enough to cause them to reject the need for a creator of any form. In so doing, the physicist makes his leap from observation to faith. All human beings make this leap. By some weird farce of nature or some act of the divine, we all “make sense” of our observations. We all tell ourselves stories about the nature of existence and the cosmos. Human beings make profound meaning from their lives. At a very early age, we move from simply observing the world around us to asking the question why? In answering that question we always make a leap of faith.

The faith of the atheistic scientist is different from mine. However, that difference need not divide us when we look up in awe filled contemplation. We may see different sacred objects when we look at the night sky, but both of us recognize the act of looking up as an act of looking at the divine.

What makes me sad is that so much energy has been wasted, and will be wasted arguing with each other when our planet and our future as a species desperately need us to cooperate. No matter how you create meaning for yourself, it’s easy to get caught in the ritualized combat of identity politics and righteous indignation against the “heathens” on the other side of the divide. The real hurts we have received from those on one side of the culture wars or the other don’t help.

When I watch Cosmos on Sunday, I have no doubt there will be statements to which I can take offense if I am so inclined, but I will ignore them. Rather, I will try to keep in mind the future our species may hang upon our ability to love one another and cooperate across such lines.

It also hangs on our ability to be inspired, to dare and do great things. For me, and many like me, contemplation of the cosmos is a sirens song, an irresistible call to explore and expand our horizons. A call to something greater than ourselves. On Sunday, I will be watching in wonder.

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Aetna Adrift Continues to Pile Up the Editorial Reviews!

I just got an email in my inbox this morning saying that Paul Harrison had decided to review my book for arolemodel.com. It’s another great reveiw! It got me thinking. I now have a whole list of fantastic editorial reviews. Here they are all in one place.

LINKS TO FIVE STAR OR RECOMMENDED READ REVIEWS:

scifi.indieebookreviews.com

sweattearsanddigitalink.com

geekdad.com

arolemodel.com

rehunter.org

littleebookreviews.com

Erik Wecks provides a satisfying blend of sci-fi action, romance, believable world building, and timely social commentary. –SciFi Guy, indieebookreviews.com

And this world and this universe is colourful and richly illustrated. I love its decadence….You know it will collapse spectacularly in on itself eventually because it is in such a fragile state.–Matt Mason, sweattearsanddigitalink.com

Erik’s writing and plotting is right up there with the traditionally published writers, and I suspect that Erik could easily make the jump to a publishing house with the Aetna novel. –James Floyd Kelly, GeekDad.com

If this is the type of book you like, I recommend this one. I’m confident that you’ll enjoy it.”–RE Hunter

It’s rich world with believable characters and strong character development.– arolemodel.com

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The Garden Between

My family thinks this is the best thing I have written. I tend to agree.

Purchase The Garden Between on Amazon

Since time unremembered, Iorgas has lived a life of simple labor, tending the garden of the gods which lies between all things. But after his maker, Oikus, asks him to consider the question of his own contentment, he finds a longing nothing seems to quench. When he spies beautiful Antipone reading the poetry of his work in a way no other spirit has, he is transfixed, but he also discovers the source of his disquiet. Iorgas sets out to win her hand, but it remains to be seen if he can stand out among Antipone’s other suitors, the likes of which include the great Pan himself.

The Garden Between is a short literary fantasy from Erik Wecks, author of He Dug the Grave Himself, and Aetna Adrift. Consider it the perfect romantic bite for Valentine’s day.

Here’s a sample to whet your appetite:

 

The Garden Between

Erik Wecks

For Jaylene

Longing

“Are you content, Iorgas?” Until Oikus had asked, Iorgas had never really considered the question, but now that he had taken it up, it felt difficult to put down. He felt entangled with it, like a bur that had become embedded in the blue of his cowl.

“I want you to be content, Iorgas, not simply ignorant. I wish for you to know something of desire and fulfillment,” he had said.

They had been walking at the time—Oikus with his curly red hair and thick beard, dressed in white, and taking long thick strides. He towered over his three-foot-tall creation, Iorgas.

Iorgas didn’t look at Oikus when he answered him. Instead, the deep buried sparkle of his eyes turned away and sought solace in the living things he tended, as they often did when confronted by the great ones. The only thing which extended beyond the decorative stitching on the edge of the cowl was the protrusion of Iorgas’ gray nose. In his usual quiet and reserved voice, Iorgas answered, “Yes, I am content.”

But now, some time later, he wasn’t so sure. Now it appeared to Iorgas that the asking of the question had been like the planting of a seed—or perhaps the germination of a seed already implanted. For a while, it seemed as if nothing had changed, and then, slowly at first, Iorgas experienced a longing which he had not previously known.

Iorgas had no doubt this was exactly what Oikus had intended. Oikus was one of the great spirits who rested awhile in the garden before traveling onward through the gates to places and times Iorgas could not imagine. Charged with the care of all plants and forests, Oikus was ultimately responsible for the upkeep of this place. He had created Iorgas to be its tender.

Iorgas had tended the garden between the worlds for a time beyond times. In every moment he could remember, he had been a gardener, in love with all things which grew from the soil. For as long as he had known life, he had been content to trim, to tend, and to reshape the garden around him.

There was never a shortage of things to do. As far as Iorgas could tell, the garden was infinite. Over each rolling hill, there was always something else to see, another grove to order, another pond to put right, and another grand vista to overawe him.

Now, it didn’t feel like quite enough. There was in Iorgas a noticeable lack. Iorgas couldn’t have told you what he needed, but he knew he needed something—something that he did not possess.

 

Kinship

And so it was that a while after Iorgas recognized his longing for he knew not what, he found himself tending a small part of the garden near a great stone arch, a gateway to a different time and place with wrought iron bars. Through the arch he could see a dark forest, a kind of forest he did not know. In that forest, things unwanted might dwell.

Occasionally, Oikus told him about such places, and the adventures he had in them. Iorgas had no desire for such dangers. His sense of adventure was sated by the challenge of ruling the more aggressive plants of his world between worlds. That was enough adventure for his small spirit.

At that particular moment between times, two great worlds hung together in the sky above him, and overhead, Zephyr passed by in billows of white, bringing with him the tang of the sea, which Iorgas had never seen but always hoped would be over the next hill.

Iorgas was at work fine tuning the height of the cattails around the ornate stone bench near the pond when he saw a soft light in the forest through the gate.

Trembling, he hid.

With the exception of Oikus—with whom he still felt incredibly insecure—Iorgas never felt safe around the spirits and their attendants. In their presence, he always felt an outsider, intruding on matters far beyond his capacity to comprehend. Quiet and nimble, he most often hid from them when they passed by.

In this instance, he stepped behind the nearby gate, allowing the lithe, incandescent maidens to step into the garden of their rest without having to gaze on his gray and homely form.

As they entered, Iorgas peeked out from behind the cool gray stones. There were at least twelve of them, not including the goddess from which most of the radiance emanated. They twittered a little as they walked, giggling about this or that.

As they entered, one of the last noticed the bench. “My lady. Shall we not rest a while here by the water? The wind has the taste of the sea. The air is cool, and we have been long at our labors.”

The goddess turned. “Sweet Antipone, how quickly we forget your suffering on our behalf.” She smiled then. “Yes, we shall rest here and allow this wholesome place to heal the wounds you have taken.”

The party stopped and, not far from Iorgas, sat upon the grass, their white dresses flowing around their lovely forms.

Antipone seated herself a little apart, wrapping her hands around her knees and pulling them toward her chest. She looked younger than the rest and troubled. Iorgas couldn’t help wondering what could trouble that beautiful face.

While the rest of the party laughed and giggled, Antipone looked around. From his hiding place, Iorgas watched her brown eyes take in his world. As they did so, they seemed to soften, and she breathed a little easier.

He watched as they followed the dance he had been creating for himself with the cattails. Moving through the reeds, following their path until they came to the little pile of round stones he had placed at the water’s edge. Her eyes twinkled with delight, and she smiled softly.

Iorgas’ heart beat faster. Never before had one of the great ones read his designs—not even Oikus. Oh, they knew the quietude they experienced in this place. Instinctively they felt its healing rest, but never before had one of them taken the time to so carefully read the lines of his poetry, the music of his sphere.

Iorgas stared at the slender neck and upturned chestnut hair. He knew what he desired.

You can find the rest on Amazon, and if you need a kindle app for your iPad, iPhone, PC, or other device, you can find one for free here.

Ruff: A Short Story Suggested by You

So the other evening, I happened to mention on Twitter that I had the urge to write a short story. I didn’t know what it would be but I knew that I wanted to create something short. The next thing I know some of you, you know who you are, bombarded me with suggestions of a most peculiar nature. Then this happened… Really, I take no responsibility whatsoever.

Ruff
Erik Wecks

Gark Gets a Job

I put down my spoon with deliberate care, allowing it to sink slowly into the darkening milk of my breakfast cereal. I have a strong conviction that no breakfast cereal should ever be purple. Inevitably, the color bleeds, turning the lovely white milk an ugly gray. However, the aesthetics of milk never seemed to concern the makers of Purple Peacock’s Perfect Patience breakfast cereal. They have much higher aims for their confection.

It is no longer enough for a modern man to simply consume large quantities of reprocessed corn starches draped in ultra concentrated corn sugars and spray-painted with vitamins of specious effect. Now cereal has to be specially engineered to improve one’s character as well.

I eat Purple Peacock’s for the flavor, a cross between artificial grape and frosting, mixed with the aroma of the Dalai Lama. The way I figure it, the patience couldn’t hurt either. After all, us Neanderthals aren’t exactly experts at delayed gratification. Nope. Our cousins the Homo Sapiens have us beat on that one.

This particular morning it was the clip of hooves in the hallway which caught my attention. Carefully letting go of my spoon, I furrowed my considerable brow as I watched the silhouette of a unicorn approach the frosted glass on the door. The unicorn stopped, reading the arched letters on the other side: Gaarrk Mugmug, Private Investigator.

Still eying the door, I decided the pointy headed horse had stared long enough that it probably wasn’t looking for the typist down the hall. I took my flat, harry feet off the desk, hid them underneath, and adjusted my fedora. The hat always makes the PI—it’s another one of my strong convictions.

The knock on the door sounded like Mr. Ed trying to count.

Curious what would happen next, I said, “Come in.”

I thought the unicorn might bend down and turn the knob with its teeth, but then I realized the horn wouldn’t let that happen. Instead, it stood up on its hind hooves, gripped the door handle with its fore-hooves, and awkwardly twisted. Once the door was undone, it hastily straightened and nudged the door open with its muzzle.

Unicorns are supposed to be white.

This one wasn’t.

Instead of simple purity, the unicorn standing on my worn out, second hand Persian rug carried a slightly pinkish cast and a bubblegum colored mane and tail.

Her tail twitched.

She looked uptight about something.

“Can I help you?” I tried to make my voice sound as reassuring as possible. It’s not all that possible.

“I’m looking for Mr. Mugmug.” The sonorous bass of his voice stuck out at a bit of a right angle to the metallic silver highlights of the mane.

Startled, I pushed the hat up on my head a little and sat back in my chair. “Well, you found him.” Surreptitiously, I leaned to the side and did a spot check before I added, “Sir,” and then, “How can I help you?”

The unicorn caught my glance and turned his ears forward, letting out a little snort of disgust before continuing. “I’m looking to hire a private investigator.”

A Homo Sapein might have been embarrassed. Neanderthals don’t embarrass easily. “Then you’ve come to the right place. I’m Gaarrk. How can I help?” I asked, meeting his eye.

It was the Unicorn’s turn to be surprised. I had seen the look before. People expected a Neanderthal to be drooling on the floor, with a beard in desperate need of trimming. My clean-shaven face and quick eyes didn’t meet their expectations.

If they recognize my heritage, they often choose short simple words and speak loudly, at least until I speak.

The unicorn recovered quickly. “May I sit?”

“Of course.” I gestured to the one chair in my office not covered with old newspapers, cigar boxes, or sub sandwich wrappers. I didn’t offer to get it for him. I was too eager to see him in action.

The fastidious unicorn snorted again as he stood up on his hind legs. He ducked a little to avoid the revolving ceiling fan and gently nudged the chair forward toward my desk. He sacheted around it before putting himself upright in the chair.

“Before we begin, may I ask a question?”

“You may,” said the unicorn crossing his back legs and resting his forelegs on them.

“Why?”

“Why what?”

I thought my question had been obvious. “Why a unicorn?”

“Why not?”

“Well, I guess I would just think there are too many drawbacks.”

The Unicorn nodded and whinnied a little. I guess it substituted for a laugh. “I get that a lot. Really there aren’t as many as people might think. Mostly, just fine motor skills, which were never my strong suit when I had a human body anyway, and now I just hire them all out. While we’re asking awkward questions, natural or altered?”

“Natural, third generation.”

The unicorn sighed. “I can only dream.”

I didn’t bother pointing out that unicorns were a fictitious human invention, while Neanderthals had at one time actually roamed the planet.

“I wanted to be a Pegasus, but my scientists haven’t yet perfected the wings.”

I nodded.

The unicorn smiled wickedly. “But I’ve bought my way around that as well.”

I didn’t ask. I’d regret that later. “So how can I help you today Mr…?”

The unicorn looked surprised. “Oh. I’m so sorry. Mr. Twinklehearts. Frilly Twinklehearts.”

I sat up a little straighter. “The Frilly Twinklehearts?”

The pointy horse whinnied again. “There aren’t two of me. That’s for sure.”

Twinklehearts was the founder and CEO of ReMake Me Corp. Remake Me was synonymous with anything to do with genetic manipulation, mind control, brain enhancement, and engineered organisms. There must have been a million products which the average human interacted with on a daily basis that all came from ReMake Me. For one, Purple Peacocks was made by a subsidiary.

Most of the zombie chicks I dated every Wednesday evening got their enhancements from ReMake Me. Zombie enhancements were still all the rage. A whole lot of Sapiens have the itch to turn themselves pasty gray, get some permanent bruises, and overactive drool. Speed dating zombies works pretty well for me. I kinda have a thing for the look, and zombie chicks tend to like my over sized head. In the end, nothing ever comes of it. Things usually go along swimmingly until they find out that my head is mostly shell with not all that much yoke in the middle. Then they inevitably make excuses and move on. That’s OK by me, since they’re usually beginning to smell a little ripe by then.

Anyway, zombie chicks, Purple Peacocks breakfast cereal, genetically engineered sloths, and reconstituted mammoths—all of them came from ReMake Me. Twinklehearts sat at the head of that empire, and he was sitting in my office.

I was momentarily a little intimidated. I hadn’t ever met a trillionaire before. Then I remembered that no full grown Neanderthal should ever be intimidated by a unicorn. “How can I help?” I asked for the third time in as many minutes.

“Mr. Mugmug, I have lost something, something very precious and dear to me. I would like you to help me find it.”

“What did you lose?”

“My horn.”

I looked at the middle of his forehead where sat a perfectly fine, spiraled unicorn horn, I started to speak.

Twinklehearts interrupted. “No, not that unicorn horn.” He sounded irritated. “Really…” His nostrils flared. “I lost a mechanical stuffed rabbit with a unicorn horn attached to its forehead. It was a prototype, and I would like it back.”

“Ah, I see. And why not go to the police?”

“I did. They showed little interest. The items in question has little monetary value and wasn’t stolen. I want it back for sentimental reasons.”

“Where did you lose them?”

“In my back yard.”

I must have looked a little nonplussed because he continued.

“My back yard is a one hundred acre woolly mammoth preserve.”

“Oh.” I thought for a second. “So you came to me because you figured that a Neanderthal would be the perfect detective to look for a lost item in a woolly mammoth preserve, didn’t you?”

The horse showed its teeth. “It does have a certain poetic ring to it, doesn’t it?”

I crossed my arms. I’d dealt with this kind of voyeurism before. “I’m not interested.”

“Mr. Mugmug, I’m prepared to offer you three million bits for the safe return of my rabbit and its horn.

With an obscene sum like that on the table, there was only one answer. “How big would you like my loin cloth?”

Research

As soon as Twinklehearts’ clippity-clop disappeared down the hall, I put on my coat. Nothing said “for sentimental reasons” like three million bits. I had no doubt there was much more to Twinklehearts’ story about his rabbit horn than I had been told, and I wanted to put the pieces together before I showed up at the mammoth pen in the morning. The first thing I did was stop by the The Golden Goose Pawn Shop to see my buddy Lenny. Lenny had to be the most connected man I knew. If there were a marginal rascal, a committed low life, or a downright scoundrel in town, they all did business with Lenny.

The conversation began predictably enough.

“Bwahahaha!” Lenny had a squeaky kind of laugh, with a high pitched voice and a bad Jersey accent to match. “A rabbit with a horn? You mean like a jackalope? Someone’s messing with you, my friend.” He laughed again. “You gotta be kiddin’ me. Ain’t nobody gonna bring me a mechanical jackalope.”

Lenny’s face came to a distinct point at his nose, underneath which he grew a whisker like mustache. He always wore a green, hand tied bow tie with suspenders over a stripped button down shirt and brown wool pants. His eyes were sharp and twitchy with large black centers.

I didn’t laugh.

It took him a moment to catch up.

“Look,” I said. “I’m getting paid serious bits to track down a stuffed mechanical rabbit with a single white horn.”

“How serious?”

“Like retiring in Vegas and drinking all day in the bar serious.”

That sobered Lenny considerably, and he squinted a little, which worried me. I didn’t quite trust Lenny, especially when it came to bits. “Now, Lenny,” I said with my meanest growl, “don’t you get any ideas. The thing itself isn’t worth any money. My client wants it back for sentimental reasons, OK?” I made sure to emphasize each syllable of the word sentimental, as if by emphasizing it I could convince Lenny it were true. “You just put the word out. Let people know I’m looking for it, and that I’m willing to pay a significant amount for it’s safe return.”

I could see Lenny’s mind cranking. He looked at me out of the corner of his eye and said, “Yeah, I’ll do that, boss.”

I nodded at him and headed for the door.

I was just stepping outside when Lenny spoke up again from behind the counter. “Hey Gaarrk, if it’s not worth any money, why did you come see me in the first place?”

I shrugged. “Because I don’t believe it any more than you do, Lenny.” I stepped out on the street and let the door close behind me.

Next, I headed over to the Park Branch of the library. It didn’t take me long to find what I wanted, or rather, who I wanted. She stood about five foot four and had these wavy blond curls which tumbled down on her shoulders. She was wearing a gray pencil skirt which made her hips do things that brought out a longing in me for fire lit caves and red meat I’d clubbed to death myself. She may have worked at the local library, but Polly was no Marian. She wore her white blouse unbuttoned at the top and covered her mouth with blood red lipstick. Yowza!

We had dated once, just after I arrived in town. I’d had a good time, but you know how it is. My first real case came up, and one thing led to another. I never made a phone call to say thank you or ask for a second. When I finally got around to it six weeks later, it felt a bit late. Since then, our relationship had been a little like watching a house cat decide to take on a wild turkey—you didn’t know exactly what was going to happen, but it probably wasn’t going to end well for somebody.

I stepped up behind her, quiet like, while she was standing between tall stacks of real paper books, reading. I spoke, keeping my voice low and deep. “Hey kiddo. How about you marry me?”

She didn’t even lift her nose a millimeter. “Not today, Gaarrk. I’ve given you my conditions for a second date. Now you simply have to meet them.”

I pushed the hat up to the top of my head. “Awww, honeysuckle, you know us Neanderthals were never much for memorizing stuff.”

Apparently, I’d said the wrong thing—again.

Polly turned on me and snapped the book closed under my nose with a loud smack. “Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet ain’t stuff, Gaarrk, and it’s not like I’m asking you to memorize the whole thing—just a part of it.”

“All right, I’ll do it. It’s just that none of it makes sense. If you want to call a rose a daffodil, that’s OK by me. Why spend your time fretting about it?”

Polly’s cheeks started to turn blotchy and pink. “Philistine.” She turned and stalked away to the other end of the isle.

I called after her retreating back, “I think Romeo and Juliet were from Italy, not the Middle East…”

I have my doubts that I will ever understand real girls, especially this one. It’s one of the reasons I date the zombie chicks. They are at least linear in their thinking and perfectly predictable in their behavior.

I took off my hat and followed Polly. Polly was a genius researcher when she wanted to be, and I needed her help today, so I had to make things good, even if I didn’t understand what I’d done. “Polly, what did I say?”

Polly eventually came around—after I made some more promises, all of which I intended to keep when made them, she agreed to help me with my research project.

ReMake Me had its hand in all sorts of stuff. Before I went out to see Twinklehearts’ home, I wanted to have an idea of the kinds of things he might have lost out there. I had no doubt whatever it was had to be dangerous. In the end, I found a bunch of stuff which made me curious but nothing which resembled a reasonable trail of bread crumbs. Remake Me was into so much stuff it was hard to find the signal in all the noise. Was it significant that a few years back they had purchased three habañero farms? Or maybe I should be looking at their fashion line of short shorts and high heels? What about their investments in mobile DJ companies? I couldn’t make heads nor tails of any of it.

“What do you make of it all, Polly?”

“It’s hard to say. Maybe he just lost a rabbit like he said. Maybe he was telling the truth. He wants back for sentimental reasons.”

“He called it a prototype.”

“Well maybe it’s an old one. Perhaps its the first lab grown unicorn horn or something like that. After all, he does have a thing for mono-horned mammals.”

I shrugged as I stood up. “Maybe. Thanks, Polly.” I gave her a kiss on the cheek, sticking my lips out as far as possible. My big forehead and schnoz made it awkward.

Bunnycorn

I decided to spend the rest of the day relaxing. There really was no sense worrying about what I couldn’t yet understand. Tomorrow would come soon enough. I had just settled in at The Castro with my bowl full of Pleasantly Peaceful Popcorn with extra Serenity Butter when I got a text message.

Yes, I still use text messaging. I am a dinosaur when it comes to technology. Consider it a little rebellion against the town where I live.

The text message was from Twinklehearts. “The situation has escalated. Please step outside.”

I got up.

Outside the theater, I looked up and down the street. The limousine which greeted me couldn’t be missed—powder blue with huge fins on the trunk and a very long hood. It was already drawing attention from passersby. I would have felt like I was stepping back into the mid twentieth century if it hadn’t been for the fact the dang thing didn’t have any wheels. It just sat there, hovering off the ground. It was the oddest thing I had ever seen. I was considering getting down on my hands and knees to look underneath, but as I approached, the back door opened with a quiet swoosh. I climbed in instead. It wasn’t until the vehicle had already pulled away from the curb that I realized the car didn’t have a driver. That made me nervous. As one who had never taken the time to master the mysterious art of driving in the first place, I always felt proper driving had to be part voodoo. A car doing it by itself, that was pure witchcraft.

At the next stop light, I thought about getting out. I reached for the door handle just as another text arrived.

“Keep your arms and your head in the vehicle at all times.”

I sat back and tried to relax as the driverless car wound its way through town and across the iconic Golden Gate. We headed north into redwood country.

Twinklehearts’ home sat on a stunning property which backed to old growth redwoods. High on a hill, it looked out over the valley. The road approached the home from below with the woolly mammoth pastures spread out in front. As we pulled in the drive, I got my first look at a herd standing behind twenty foot high electrified wire. I have to confess, I got goosebumps. Whether it was something primal or simply my ancestry coming out, I desperately wanted to get out of the car and walk among them.

Not content in any way to blend in with its surroundings, the home itself did everything it could to stand out. It was painted a bright yellow and designed to resemble a pyramid which had only been partially finished, or had perhaps tumbled over. Then there were the mirrors which reflected sunlight in all directions and demanded that the home be noticed from several miles away.

As soon as it stopped, I got out of the car. Without any assistance, the door closed, and it drove away.

Twinklehearts ambled down the steps of his ostentatious home. “I trust you had a pleasant trip?”

“I would have preferred a driver.”

“Nonsense. Drivers make mistakes. My hover car does not.”

I decided not to argue the point. Instead, I changed the topic. “You said something about the situation escalating?”

“I’m afraid so. I have reason to believe that my stuffed rabbit is no longer on my property. This makes its recovery all the more urgent and, shall we say, a little more delicate.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. You see, I believe it has escaped into the woods behind. It is very precious to me, and I don’t want anyone else to find it.”

“Escaped? How does a stuffed bunny escape?”

Twinklehearts’ ears twitched, and he glared at me with his prodigious equine eyes. “It flew, of course.”

This case had a way of making me feel more and more like I didn’t belong in this era. “I see,” I said, trying to sound natural.

Twinklehearts pointed a hoof toward a tuxedoed butler standing nearby. “Barston here will show you the back gate.”

The butler acknowledged the comment with a slight frown and nod.

Twinklehearts continued. “Before you go, I want to make one thing clear: in order to earn your pay, you must bring the prototype horn back unscathed, and the stuffed rabbit must be alive.”

I wrinkled my forehead at Twinklehearts. “Alive?”

Twinklehearts snorted and stamped one of his feet. “Yes, alive. Honestly, why do you keep making me repeat myself? It is a perfectly clear instruction.” With that, the pink unicorn turned and marched back up the stairs of his yellow, shiny, broken pyramid.

I looked at Barston, still confused, and shrugged a little.

Refusing to acknowledge the gesture, he put his white gloved hands behind his back and said, “This way, sir.”

I followed as Barston led me behind the house and through the gate into the mammoth pasture. As we crossed through, I could hear the hum of the electricity passing through the wire of the fence.

Not far from the house, there was another gate which led into the woods. Without saying a word, Barston opened the gate into a forest of full sized, old growth redwoods. I stepped through the fence into the cathedral of trees.

Fully grown redwoods won’t let you take them for granted. Their incredible girth and height demand that you pay attention, and unlike Twinklehearts, they manage to do so and still retain their sense of class and dignity. I took off my hat. I couldn’t tell you why, but for some reason, I always took off my hat whenever I entered a grove of redwoods. I also whispered whenever possible.

I hadn’t gone more than a few feet when a distinctly crazed, squeaky voice screamed at me. “That’s far enough! Don’t come any closer or I’ll shoot!” The still air of the grove seemed to resist the tenseness of the voice and distorted its direction. I looked around. Behind a small maple tree growing in the shadow of a giant sequoia, a three foot tall orange and white stuffed bunny floated in the air. Strapped to its forehead was a single, white, ridged unicorn horn. I took a step. It pointed the horn in my direction and said, “I told you not to come any closer.”

I stopped, confused. “You’ll shoot me with what?”

“I’ll shoot you with this horn, and believe me, you don’t want me to do that!”

I held my hands up. “I don’t want you to do that, but what would it do?”

It was at this point that I realized I was talking to a giant stuffed bunny which was brandishing its horn at me as if it were a magic wand. It’s a strange world, but really, this was a bit much.

I shook my head. I had had enough weirdness for one day, and I decided I wasn’t going to put up with it any longer. Neanderthals don’t deal well with existential ambiguity. There was no way that stuffed bunny could be alive. I took several steps forward in quick succession.

The bunny leaned forward on its haunches, crazed and apparently frothing at the mouth. “I warned you!”

I ducked.

It fired.

Some kind of wispy hot red ray passed over my head. It smelled of tight denim and bad aftershave. I could have sworn there was a tinge of gold chain in it as well, but I didn’t really have time to consider these things more thoroughly. As the ray hit the enormous tree behind me, obnoxiously loud electronic music blasted the air. It seemed to be coming from the tree.

Crazed, the stuffed bunny’s plastic eyes twirled in their sockets. “See! See! You made me do this!” Then it looked up, dropped its mouth open—spittle and foam dripping to the ground—and fell strangely silent. Huddling behind the small tree, it started quivering. “Oh, my,” it said quietly.

“Ahai! Ahai!” said the song. “I am not trying to seduce you.”

I didn’t pay attention. I was so focused on getting to the rabbit before it struck again, that I didn’t bother to turn around. I sprinted forward, grabbed the bunny— which did surprisingly little to resist—and tore off the horn. Strangely, the furry orange hornless rabbit seemed to cower against me.

That was when I heard the sound of a strange wind start, and I recognized the infernal beat of the worst thing to happen to American pop culture in the late twentieth century.

“When I dance, they call me Macarena…”

“You made me do it!” whined the now cringing rabbit.

The sound of the wind grew to a mighty roar.

Afraid of what I might see, I turned around slowly. There behind me, a full grown, coastal California sequoia danced the Macarena.

I swear by all my Neanderthal forefathers and by the souls of the twenty-first century scientists who brought my kind back from the dead, it is true. By now, the infernal beat pulsed in my brain, and I could think of little else.

As I stared slack jawed in awe of the horror, some piece of the tiny, tiny part of my mind dedicated to bad nineties dance trends remembered what came next. Clutching the stuffed rabbit in my hands, I ran fast—but not fast enough. I looked back over my shoulder in time to see the sequoia jump, roots and all, out of the ground and rotate one quarter turn. The boom was deafening; the effect tectonic. I fell to the ground as it shook beneath my feet, landing sprawled out upon my face and dropping my quarry. Terrified, I forgot all about the talking rabbit and the three million bits. I got up, clutching the Macarena horn, and blindly fled deeper into the forest.

I got maybe thirty steps before the mechanical rabbit bounded by me in a blur, screaming like a teapot. We both came to a stop behind a huge fallen giant of a tree. “How long does that last?” I asked between desperate gasps for air that seemed to lack the sustenance it held previously.

Still quivering, the orange bunny answered, “I’m not sure! I think it only goes through once.” It paused to swallow and turned to look at me. “Please, don’t take me back to Twinklehearts. He’s held me captive for months.”

It wasn’t the bunny’s fault, but my eyebrow started to twitch, an unmistakable sign that a primal anger was building. To start, I was annoyed that I hadn’t been told the rabbit would talk. I still refused to believe it was alive. Then, I was angry that I hadn’t been told the unicorn horn was a weapon, and now I was angry the bunny wasn’t going to come quietly, and I might not get my three million bits.

I growled at the rabbit, “What are you?”

“I’m Twinklehearts’ dog. Or I was his dog until he did this to me.”

I took a deep breath like my mindfulness coach taught me. I felt every fiber and texture of the moss beneath my fingers as I squished it violently in my fist. “Dogs don’t talk,” I said in a low voice.

The now calming rabbit looked out over the top of the fallen tree, back toward the undulating sequoia, which for now seemed to be dancing in place. “Well, I wasn’t a dog to start, silly.” Then he added, “You know, it could have been worse. Twinklehearts likes The Locomotion as well. We could still be running.”

“There is that,” I said, while peaking over the log myself. I tried to keep us focused on the topic at hand. “Why did you become a dog? And how did you become a stuffed rabbit?”

The bunny turned its back on the Sequoia and slowly slid down the bark until its haunches rested on the ground. “Well, you see, Twinklehearts was my best friend. We did everything together. I mean everything. Those were some crazy times. ReMake Me had just gone public, and Twinklehearts had more money than God Almighty, and he spent like it, as well. Although he wasn’t Twinklehearts back then. Back then, he was still Archer Cranston.”

The rabbit wandered off into silent memory for a few seconds before he started again. “Anyway, right about that time, ReMake Me got hooked on doing all those body alterations and stuff. You know, like yours.”

I frowned and scowled. “I’m natural. Third generation born.”

The bunny didn’t seem to notice the scowl. “Oh? Sorry. Anyway, Twinklehearts got hooked. First, it was the musclebound look. You know, abs without the work, and then we started adding tails and things. Next thing I know, he’s going the full unicorn, and I am becoming his mastiff. He became Twinklehearts, and I became Ruff.”

The orange rabbit thing started to become agitated again. “Everything went along fine for the next few years. Really, it did. I enjoyed being a dog. Nothing to do all day except eat, sleep, and scratch. It was really quite a nice life. So eventually, ReMake Me went after the crown jewel of the body alteration industry—an uploadable consciousness. Once that happens, you have repeat business. Your customers could be a unicorn one day, a cave man the next, and a blue whale the day after that. They developed a computer system which they thought could handle the load and went through all the preliminary FDA testing and passed with flying colors. There wasn’t anything for it but to try it out on a test subject. Well, as you can imagine, Twinklehearts was eager to go first, but the board of directors wouldn’t stand for it. If something happened, the company would have been devastated. So Twinklehearts asked, and I obeyed like a good dog.”

Here the rabbit let out an audible sigh. “What can I say, it worked. The whole thing worked.”

“So if this is what you and Twinklehearts wanted, then what’s the problem?”

“The problem was they got a computer matrix which can contain a human consciousness, but they hadn’t really perfected any of the bodies. Everything they tried didn’t work, and I got bored really quickly without a body. I mean, there wasn’t anything for me to do! I couldn’t stand it, and the best minds in the industry couldn’t fix it. Well, once it looked like the problem wasn’t going to be fixed overnight, Twinklehearts moved on to something else. I was forgotten. The people trying to solve the problem got some research dollars from ReMake Me for a while, but even those didn’t last. Then last year, they just unceremoniously dumped me in a warehouse somewhere, and the whole project shut down. You wouldn’t believe it unless you saw it. ReMake Me has this huge warehouse full of failed projects. There I was, left to rot. I got depressed for a while, but I couldn’t even kill myself. Then one day I started to try to find my way out of my box. And that is when I spotted this bunnycorn on a shelf nearby, a failed experiment which responded to my consciousness in a way which nothing else had. Strapped to its head was this prototype unicorn horn, another failed experiment. I know it isn’t much, but when you’ve been stuck inside a server for over a year, it feels great. The next time they opened the doors, I fought my way out. Security trolls doing a spontaneous Macarena don’t aim well. I went on the run, and then three days ago, I confronted Twinklehearts. It didn’t go well. I managed to get away, but that is about all. I’ve been hiding here ever since.”

I think at this point I was most angry with myself. I mean, somebody flashes a few bits in front of me and the next thing I’m saying is “How big do you want my loin cloth?” without even worrying about whether or not the payment makes sense. Well, it made sense now, and I doubted that I was going to get paid. I had no idea what the fuzz would say about this. As usual, the law was woefully inadequate and behind the times. I wasn’t even sure if Ruff the stuffed bunnycorn would be considered a person in a court of law, but what had been done to Ruff sounded a lot like kidnapping to me, and I wanted no part in it.

I didn’t really have time to think about it much deeper than that, because the whine of something mechanical disturbed the once again solemn forest. It sounded like a small jet turbine of some sort.

The orange rabbit at my side freaked out. “He’s coming!”

I turned, putting my back against the tree and reached for the piece inside my jacket.

It wasn’t there.

I can explain that.

Just like getting involved with kidnapping, I’m not much for shooting people. It gets messy with the police, and they don’t really take too kindly to my type interfering in their business. So normally, when I’m doing something that’s not too dangerous, I don’t carry my piece. If I don’t have it, I can’t do something stupid. On the other hand, a hunt for a three million bit bunny on a one hundred acre woolly mammoth preserve—that sounds dangerous—and I have no doubt that I would have brought my piece with me if it were tomorrow. But it wasn’t tomorrow. It was today. I wasn’t planning to be hunting a talking orange stuffed rabbit today, and I didn’t have it. I turned toward the noise and pointed the only weapon I had in its direction.

A small, powder blue stubby jet wing with a slightly pink unicorn attached underneath it appeared. It banked gracefully through the trees and came in for a landing.

Wearing a scarf, a helmet which matched the wing, and aviator goggles, Twinklehearts gracefully cantered to a stop. “Thank you, Mr. Mugmug. I appreciate your help. I will take it from here.” The unicorn stomped on the ground and said, “Heel, Ruff.”

“No.” The bunny cowered against the log, scooting closer to me. “I won’t go back to the warehouse. I can’t go back.”

Twinklehearts rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Bad Ruff.”

“I’m not your pet anymore!”

Twinklehearts kept his voice calm. “No, you’re no longer my pet. You’re software, and according to the EULA you signed, I can do anything I want to you. Now heel!”

Ruff the Rabbit turned and fled away from Twinklehearts.

Twinklehearts’ engine started to whine, and two small missiles dropped down below the wing. I hope I will be forgiven for what happened next, but you have to understand, I was a Neanderthal stuck in the majestic redwoods, pointing what amounted to a Macarena magic wand at a unicorn who used a jet pack to fly like Pegasus. I was having trouble adjusting to it all, and I hesitated. Twinklehearts launched the first missile almost as soon as he got airborne. Ruff only survived by a fluke because he clotheslined himself on a low branch at the same moment. The missile exploded some distance in front of him. Seeing what happened, he turned and came back directly toward me, squealing in fright.

Even before the powder blue and pink Pegicorn started to bank to the right, I knew that I was as good as dead. I was now a liability for both Twinklehearts and ReMake Me. Depending on how the law saw it, I might have just witnessed an attempted murder.

I looked down at the Macarena wand in my hand and then glanced sideways at the surrounding trees.

I started firing.

Within seconds, I had surrounded Ruff and myself with a whole grove of swaying, undulating redwoods, all dancing to their own individual renditions of the Macarena. If I had been in any position to think about it, I might have been sickened by the whole scene, but my shield of protection worked. Twinklehearts tried to come straight at us several time, but each time, a wall of gyrating branches blocked his path. On the other hand, I wasn’t able to get off a clear shot, either.

It all seemed to be going pretty well until all the redwoods started to jump in succession, one after another. The ground shook so hard, I landed on my backside. When I looked up, I momentarily lost track of the pointy headed horse. However, the problem with pink unicorns using powder blue whiny jet wings for murder is that it’s hard to sneak up on someone. I quickly spotted him circling around to my left. He was trying to get behind me. I managed to get off a clean shot and nailed him just before the gigantic trees jumped again, and I landed on my back next to Ruff. Both of us stared blinking at the sky above us while Twinklehearts passed harmlessly overhead, forelegs gyrating.

Having never flown a jet controlled wing myself, I am not sure how you steer one, but apparently it’s difficult to do if you are dancing the Macarena. For a moment, Twinklehearts looked almost giddy as he pirouetted among the trees. That was until he got to the part where his hips swayed and he lost control of the wing and quarter turned his way into the path of a dancing giant redwood. The tree swatted him like a fly. For a few seconds, Twinklehearts got caught in the fray, batted like a ping-pong ball between the trees. Then the wing cut out, and he plummeted, landing with a crunch on the ground nearly a hundred feet below.

We waited until the horror of the dancing trees subsided, and then I took off running. Ruff followed like an obedient pup. It took us a while to find our way out of the woods and then even longer to find a driver willing to pick up a hitchhiking Neanderthal wearing a trench coat and a fedora while toting a three foot orange and white stuffed bunny, but hey, this is the Bay Area. We eventually made our way back to town.

It wasn’t until the next morning that we heard there had been a moderate earthquake located somewhere near the Muir Woods the previous day. Overall, it wasn’t anything too spectacular by Bay Area standards, but the quake did damage a building or two in nearby Sausalito. I felt a little guilty about that.

I never got paid, but Ruff found that he had a taste for office work. He quickly organized my hard drive into a place to sleep at night and inhabited the stuffed bunny during business hours. He took over my billing, filing, and case notes. To be honest, he paid for himself in spades. I was never very good with that end of the business.

So far, no one from ReMake Me has stopped by our office with a gun, either. I sent the board of directors a letter stating that I had the wand and Ruff. I told them that if anything happened to either of us my attorney had instructions to demonstrate the Macarena wand, and turn over to police information that might interest them about some illegal EULAs, a device that forces people to dance against their will, and the attempted murder of a person named Ruff and myself. So far, the board seems happy to let sleeping dogs lie.

So, alls well that ends well. Although, every once in a while, someone walking on Divisidero is known to spontaneously break out in the Macarena. I try not to abuse my power.

My Reading at Wizard World Comic Con, Portland

So I did two panels at this year’s Comic Con, Portland. Both were fantastic. A huge thank you to fellow writer and Vancouverite Jeremiah Miller who caught my reading on film and posted it to You Tube.

I am reading the prologue from On the Far Bank of the Rubicon the next Pax Imperium novel. Here’s your sneak peak at the return of Timothy Randall. Enjoy.

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NEW FICTION: He Dug the Grave Himself

I published a short story on Amazon last week.

Ephraim didn’t find out his dearly loved wife, Lola, had been hiding something from him until she was cold and dead, and he was in the middle of digging her grave… What he realized nearly undid him.

Ephriam and Lola cleaved to each other for over fifty years. Many of these years they shared in quiet affection, working their homestead farm on the distant world Athena. When Lola died, Ephraim set to the labor of grieving as he had always done. For every difficulty, he found work for his hands. Now while digging her grave, Ephraim learns that there had been one part of her which Lola had kept to herself, and learning this, he is forced to reexamine his own judgments and prejudices.

The initial reviews have been really good.

Author Jason Gurley called it, “haunting, touching and affecting.”

Here are the opening paragraphs:

Ephraim chose the spot with care—the low spot down near the pond. The spot where the tree came and sat every evening, soaking in the last westerning rays of Athena’s star. The ground was soft there, tilled regularly by the probing roots. Ephraim knew that if he put her body there, the tree would linger, covering her, absorbing her, soaking in her nutrients until she became part of it, and so, to Ephraim’s desperate grieving mind, Lola would live on with him. He would see her any time he wanted. He could think of no tribute more fitting to give the woman who had been the light in his darkness. Besides, Lola had enjoyed the spot, near the Earth cattails they had planted and the bench he had built her when they first arrived on their frontier homestead.

Ephraim turned the earth with the spade he had taken from the barn at the edge of their tree pasture. Tonight, he had penned up the trees before he came. He didn’t want them to disturb his work. He would let them out to pasture when he had finished. The rhythm of the work felt good. It focused his mind. It forced his body to take action.

Actions… deeds and few words. These were the gifts he had given to his wife over the course of their marriage. These things had caused her to cleave to him, to become bone of his bone and flesh of his flesh. For all her light and hope, Lola always had a hard time preventing her mercurial passions from overwhelming her. Ephraim had been her rock, her stability, her “Steady Eddy” as she called him.

She, on the other hand, had been his guiding light, his pixie, his joy. She had brought life and exuberance into his darkness and taught him to smile—to play. Now the light was gone, and as he dug, Ephraim knew he was burying his soul….

Get a copy for your Kindle at Amazon.com.

Mind Blowing Simpson’s Tribute to Miyazaki!

The Simpsons has proved again why it remains the smartest show on television. They are so very good at what they do.

This Sunday is dedicated to Hayao Miyazaki, the Japanese animation genius who has decided to retire from film making. I have written before why I believe Miyazaki is much healthier for my daughters than the Disney princess industrial complex. In my opinion,, Miyazaki is by far this generations greatest family storyteller in any medium, and I am still grieving his decision to retire. I will be first in line to watch his last film, The Wind Rises, when it arrives in the states next month. In the meantime, the preview for the Simpsons is so fantastic, I may have to find a way to see the whole episode on Sunday.

 

Thank you to Meredith Woerner at Io9 for pointing this my way.

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