Dave Skinner's Blog, page 10

Inspiration

I belong to a small writer's group. We review different writing techniques and tools and usually write something for and during our meetings. Our topic for the last meeting was; what inspires your favourite author or yourself. The following was my contribution to the topic.


Inspiration is something I don’t understand. I mean, I understand the definition—‘arousal of the mind to special unusual activity or creativity’—but I don’t normally feel it, and on those few occasions I have felt it, it was fleeting.
I know that the instruction for this topic was finding out what inspires your favourite author, not what you yourself feels about inspiration, but I ran into a digital wall when I tried to Google it, and considering that my favourite author is dead, I was left with the option of writing about this, or having a séance.  Being a writer, not a ghost writer, I chose to write this piece.
Now, don’t get me wrong, I did try to stay on topic. When I Googled, ‘inspiration’, I got some interesting, thought-worthy quotes, but they didn’t inspire me to do anything, or write anything, so there was no ‘special unusual activity or creativity’, and that is the problem I have always faced. There are all sorts of inspirational pictures, inspirational quotes, and inspirational gifts—yes, you can send someone an inspiring gift—and honest, there is even ‘inspiration breathing’, but nothing I saw or read inspired me to act. I suppose you could argue that the funny picture I emailed out was an action, but I didn’t feel inspired by it, or maybe I just don’t understand.
I didn’t just Google inspiration, and then give up. I searched farther afield also, and found a quote on CBC’s ‘Canada Writes’ site that I thought was good. Ken Dryden is credited with this bit of writing wisdom:
“Start out with what you know, then allow yourself to discover all those things you didn't know you knew. That's when real writing begins. That's where the excitement lies for you as a writer, and for your reader.
Remember, it's your job to get inside the skin of every person and every situation you're writing about. Every person makes sense to themselves. Things are as they are for a reason. It's your job to discover that sense and that reason.”
I liked that enough to record it here, and enough to pick it out from the others, but I didn’t get up and do anything special, after I read it. Maybe I’m damaged. Could it be that my inspiration genes have atrophied? Have the cells of inspiration died? Did I wait too long to start writing? Am I a has-been before I even get started? I hope not, and I don’t think so.
 I believe I have always been this way. If I think back over my life, looking for those times I used the word ‘inspiring’. You know those times when you put down a book after the last word, and say “That was inspiring.” When a motivational speaker finishes and you’re all fired up, or when a biographical movie ends and you say, “Wow, she was an inspiration.” I’ve done that a few times, but I didn’t jump up and start scratching out a story, or announce, in a deep manly voice, “I’m going to Africa to save gorillas.” Hell, I didn’t even announce I was going to the backyard to look for worms. My point is, there wasn’t any resulting action from those items, and it didn’t last longer that a few hours.
What good is inspiration that only lasts an hour or so? It takes a long time to write a book. It takes a long time to arrange passage to Africa, more than an hour anyway.  Inspiration, if you feel it at all, should last. Really, if it just withers, can you call it inspiration? Isn’t it just a momentary glow, a little excitement, or maybe even indigestion? For me, there has to be sustained action not just excitement.
The only thing I remember having ever inspire me to excitement--if not action—was knowledge, a new idea, an interesting lecture, or a new paradigm. Does that mean that my inspiration genes got stuck in the wrong part of my brain? Does it mean that if I feel inspired, instead of action, all I get is inaction? Can you be inspired to inaction? An interesting question, but unanswerable unless I want to have my brain dissected, and really, inspiration isn’t that important to me. I’ll just remain seated, when the arousal occurs. I know it will pass quickly, and then I can jot down some thoughts on being uninspired, if I’m motivated to.

Self-publishing an eBook

Self-Publishing an eBook
 
When I finished writing my first novel--about six months ago—I started looking for ways to have it published. I found that there were a number of companies who would let me pay them to publish my novel in eBook and/or print versions. I wasn’t interested in paying anyone anything, so I looked for other means.
While my novel was being professionally edited—a must do in my opinion—I put the book out on the authonomy.com site to get feedback from other writers, and kept researching the possibilities of getting published. From my research, from comments on authonomy.com, and from my editor I got the impression that self-publishing was definitely an option, but again there seemed to be some costs involved, so I went the ‘find-an-agent’ route. I’ve already written a blog entry on what I thought about that experience, so I won’t reiterate it here. It should be sufficient to say that I am now self-publishing.
Once I had accepted the fact that self-publishing was my choice, I started researching the process again, and was surprised by what I found. I checked three possibilities; Kobo, Amazon, and Google Books. All three had ways of easily getting eBooks published. Here are the steps I followed to become published.
1.       (Optional) Download and install the eBook manager ‘calibre’ from http://calibre-ebook.com/download. This is a free eBook manager that will allow you to create your book(s) in different formats. I am suggesting this application to enable you to see what your book looks like as an eBook. You don’t actually need it to upload to the Kobo, Amazon, or Google, because they will convert for you, but it is nice to see what your book will look like.
2.       Create your cover as a jpg, or have it created for you if you can’t make something that looks professional. This is probably the most complicated part of the whole process. I was lucky because my wife is an artist, and she has a copy of Photoshop. The other complication here is the image size. The Kobo Writing Life (this is the Kobo publishing site) instructions ask for a jpg or png file format, and in one place tell you that the image should be limited to 900 DPI and 1MB while on the actual upload screen it say the limit is 2MB. Amazon on the other hand accepts a larger image. They suggest that the optimal size for a cover image is 1563 pixels by 2500 pixels, and that the minimum is 625 by 1000. Amazon has very good and extensive documentation on the proper formatting of an eBook to be uploaded to them at https://kdp.amazon.com/self-publishing/help?topicId=A3R2IZDC42DJW6 Google has detailed instructions on file naming and formatting for their submissions, but they accept an epub format, so I created mine with calibre and sent that. The epub format has the cover image embedded in it.
3.       Obtain an ISBN for your book. The Canadian site is : http://www.collectionscanada.gc.ca/ciss-ssci/index-e.html
4.       Contact your bank and obtain the SWIFT code and routing number for your branch. If your eBook sells, the vendor is going to want to send you money. Cheques seem to be an option, but electronic banking appears to be the preference. Being a cautious person, I created a new savings account to keep all my profits (ha-ha) separate and also to keep my other accounts secure.
5.       Create an account or accounts on the sites you wish to sell through. It appears to take a few days to get everything setup and verified, and Amazon seems to be the fastest.
Here are the sites to join:
Kobo Writing Life at http://www.kobo.com/writinglife
Amazon’s Kindle Direct Publishing at https://kdp.amazon.com/self-publishing/signin?ie=UTF8&language=en_US
Google Books partner program at http://www.google.ca/googlebooks/partners/index.html
Happy publishing.
PS. For those who have been waiting patiently for my Hosting novel to be available! It is now listed on Kobo, Amazon, and Google Books. Direct links are listed on my web site www.daveskinner.ca

Thinking about a new series

I've been thinking about a new series called Demons. The following is a sample I wrote a couple of weeks ago as a writing group exercise.


Found
The cabin sat in a small clearing surrounded on all sides by forests of pine, containing flashes of an occasional birch and beech, visible through the green. From his vantage point in the trees on one side, the watcher could see that it wasn’t a large building, probably not more than a small combination kitchen/living room with two small bedrooms in the rear. A roofed over porch extended from the square logs of the front wall with large flat rocks forming single steps at the front and on the side he could see.
The porch was occupied by an old woman and the almost old man, sitting in wooden rocking chairs, watching the light seep out of the day, without taking the heat with it. They were unaware they were being observed. He was sure of that. He had not made a single sound since they had come outside, shortly after he had sent the ‘found’ message to the others.
The others will be here shortly, he told himself. Then he would be able to kill and eat. His stomach growled at the thought of food. It had been almost a full moon cycle since he had last eaten, on his first day in this dimension. He still wore the appearance of the soft, fat, human he had killed—soft, fat, and delicious. His stomach growled again as the hunger gnawed at his insides and at his reasoning.
I should kill them now. Why wait for the others? Why share the meat? He reasoned. They are old, helpless, and their meat is probably tough, nothing like the fatty softness of his last meal so long ago. His stomach growled again. They are to be killed anyway, it won’t change the outcome if I do it now, and they could hear my stomach growling if I wait any longer. That last thought helped him decide.
He released the human shape he was wearing, and the cloths that covered the soft, pudgy, disguise ripped and shredded as he regained his true shape. Muscles swelled, claws extended, fangs grew as he shape shifted, and the rags fell away from his form. This time when his stomach growled, saliva drooled from his snout. Puffs of acidic smoke occurred where it struck the ground.
Five leaps he reasoned, five leaps would take him to the porch and the old woman’s throat. Both victims would be too started to react--rip her throat out with a swipe of his clawed figures as he passed, and then take the man’s throat in his jaws. More saliva drooled from his snout as he bunched his muscles. With a roar he sprang forward. The man’s head had turned by his third leap, a startled, incredulous look on his face. The old woman was slower. He was leaving the ground for his final leap before she turned her head and smiled.
Something that felt like thick syrup enveloped his body. Forward movement stopped quickly, and he hung in mid-leap before the woman who rose easily from her chair, walked to his now immobile form, and placed her hand on his shoulder.
“How long?”
He tried not to answer, but the words were torn from him. He tried to make them sound like a snarl, but they escaped as a pitiful, fearful, whimper. “Ten.”
The old woman spoke to the man in a voice that left no room for argument or question. “Get the packs, now! Exit by the back door.”
As the man darted into the cabin the old woman smiled again. “Thank you, it has been too long.” She kept her hand on his shoulder as his body shrivelled to an empty husk. He was aware of what was happening to him until almost the very end. The old woman turned to the chair and placed the dead husk into it, stepping off the porch she headed to the back of the cabin. The man was coming out the back door as she arrived. Handing her a pack, he led them into the woods.
They had only walked for five minutes when she called a stop. “Remove your pack and place it here beside mine. Now squat behind them,” she instructed as she removed a silver belt from around her waist. She shook the belt, and it became a silver rope which seemed to lengthen as she handled it. She stood behind the man, reached over him, and allowed the rope to lie before him on the ground.
“Spread your arms and hold the rope on the ground about three feet apart.”
He did as instructed. The rope seemed alive under his palms as the woman pulled on it to achieve the length she wanted. She stepped over him, and holding the ends of the rope in each hand she shaping it outwards with her elbows to make a rough rectangle.
“Remove your hands from the rope. In a moment the area bound by my rope will change. When I say ‘go’, throw the packs through and spring through yourself, but be careful not to disturb the rope. I will be right behind you.”
He looked up at her hands as she pressed the ends of the rope together, but it wasn’t necessary. He felt the change in the air as the two ends met. The space encircled by the rope seemed to shimmer and then change. Suddenly there was snow on the ground beyond the rope, the trees were not the pines of this forest, and the air caressing his face had a different, sweater smell. When the command to go came, he did as she had instructed, turning quickly after his forward somersault to see how she followed. She ducked her head, stepped forward, and let the rope ends come apart. The portal shut with a bang.
“Grab your pack, Junior. We aren’t safe yet. They could track us here, so we have to keep moving.” She shouldered her own pack. “You first,” she indicated a direction through the trees. “I have to hide our trail.”
As he led the way he could hear her chanting words behind him. After an hour or so they came to a small stream where they drank and filled their canteens. He took the opportunity to ask a question. “Where are we, Mother?”
“We are home, boy. We are finally home.”

Current Events

Life gets in the way of art a lot in spring time.

Spring time is a busy time, in our neck of the woods.You want to get all the yard cleanup done before the end of May when the black flies erupt, so I haven't had a lot of time to write. When I do write, I've been concentrating on my second novel instead of blogging. It is progressing slowly--43,350 words so far.

I've also been waiting on a response from the agents I sent query letters to regarding my fist novel, but have received nothing yet (seven week have passed). I sent three query letters, and received one automatic reply from one agency saying they received the email and their average response time is eight weeks--thank you Cooke Agency. At least I had something to work with as far as time went. The tomorrow marks eight weeks, so I am hopeful I will receive something from someone sometime soon. I feel like a kid waiting for Christmas morning.

I'm new to the business of writing, so I haven't dealt with agents before, but I worked in business for over thirty years, and I'm afraid I don't understand how they can get away with this 'black hole' mentality--especially in this day and age when automatic responses to emails are so common place. Seriously, dream with me a little bit--you have just written the next award winning novel which you send to a number of agents, but only one responds initially. It is an automated response, but at least you have something to hold onto. Some months later, you receive replies from a number of agencies because your novel is that good. Which agency do you consider? Your damn right, the one that responded with the auto response.

I've been reading about how the publishing business is changing. Money has been tight in all areas for the last few years. Companies have been cutting back on the number of editors they have on staff, some are looking at new ways of finding their talent (such as sites like authonomy.com), and options for self publishing are growing exponentially. I imagine agent are having to tighten their belts as well, so why maintain the black hole  practice.

I worked for an Ontario Hospital during the years that the funding pockets shrunk. There was a great amount of scrambling around looking for solutions to the problems, but one of the most significant solutions was C.Q.I. (Continuous Quality Improvement). This was the concept adapted by Japan that moved them from the producers of junk (remember the J.A. Pan company) to the manufacturers of quality products, and the concept doesn't stop with manufacturing. When it is applied to service related businesses, it helps to streamline the business processes allowing for better customer service, quicker turn around, and lower costs. Of course, it requires a change in attitude to make it work. Maybe that isn't possible here.

Meanwhile I wait and consider self publishing.

Animals, insects, gardeners and travel.

A level of intelligence is required to be able to interact with the Core, therefore there aren't any animals or insects created by the Core when it creates an environment for a race of beings.
I've been struggling with this characteristic because it causes a number of problems which I had to work through.

If there aren't any insects and animals how do plants propagate? I decided that 'gardeners' would be the answer to this question. Gardeners are fairy like creatures that tend to all vegetation in the Core. They can be seen if you look closely, but usually they are only perceived as flashes of light out of the corner of your eye. They will be introduced in book 2, and they will serve another purpose as well in book 3.Travel on land is limited if there aren't any animals like horses, mules, etc. People in the Core will try to create horses because of this problem, and also because they love them. I will write a different post on the creating process and what is involved, but for now I'll just say that creating requires a thorough knowledge of what you are trying to create. It will require someone who loves and understands horses to create one. Someone like a veterinarian.It is also possible for some of the other races in the Core to create animals which can be a problem if they don't like you or intend you harm.Without animals and because combustion is not possible in the Core (no engines, automobiles, or even fires) travel could be limited.

Some of the other races act as couriers because of their physical characteristics-the ones with wings being a prime example, and some are travel friendly. The floating cloud like creatures introduced in book 2 being an example.

Land travel is either by foot of by animals that are created for the purpose. Travel on water is by boat-canoe and kayaks being popular on smaller bodies of water while sail boats are popular in the larger bodies.

All of the solutions I have listed here come from our past experiences, but it is necessary to remember that the Core is energy, and it can be manipulated. I wouldn't be surprised to see flying chairs, carpets, and other items make a debut in book 3.

Mora's Sword

Mora’s Sword
Mora Atem, the warrior princess, side stepped and slashed her trusty sword across the throat of the first ogre, spun on her heel, and drove it into the chest of the second ogre as it leapt towards her. As the dying beasts crumbled to the ground, Mora raised her sword over her head and screamed to the heavens, 'For the old Gods!', then blushing from embarrassment she glanced around to see if anyone was close enough to have noticed.
Luckily, she was far enough from the village, in fact there was enough noise coming from the direction of the village to hide her scream, and make Mora wonder what was happening. She stepped out from behind the large bolder where she was playing to look down the short path leading to the huts and houses. A chase was on. Some of the women were chasing a figure up the main street, screaming as they ran. The figure wasn't more than five meters ahead of the women as it left the street behind, and started up the path towards Mora and the safety of the mountain behind her, but it was starting to increase its lead. Mora shook her head to clear the imagination that was obscuring her vision, looked again at the figure, and knew immediately what had happened because she recognized the escaping figure as a baboon.
These evil creatures snuck into the village about once a month to steal food or anything else they could find. Mora could see the bundle clasped in the crook of baboon's arm, and she knew that this time the beast had found living food because she could hear the cries of the frightened infant in its wrapping. Fear gripped Mora also.
Some eleven year old girls might have run away, because baboons were dangerous creatures, but not Mora. The baboon had its head down as it ran, and hadn't seen her, so she ducked back behind the boulder, and took a two handed grasp on the handle of her wooden sword. It is a good sword, she told herself. Grandfather carved it for me.
She could hear the thumping of the baboon’s feet as it ran up the path. As the sounds came closer she pictured the beast, bent over, it’s free arm being used as a third support as it raced up the path. Its head would still be down. She would have to strike at an upwards angle to avoid hitting the beast skull. Their skulls are hard, she reasoned, while trying to stay calm. The beast’s running sounds were close now, almost beside her.
Mora stepped forward, and swung her sword with all her strength, catching the beast across its face. Her sword broke. The baboon screamed – an almost human sound – as the arm clutching the infant came up to protect its face, and the bundle of baby flew towards the ground, Mora grabbed it up and held it to her chest, as she turned, and started down the path towards the village. She didn’t get more than three steps before the enraged baboon landed on her back. Mora fell forward, with the babe beneath her. The baboon tore at the side of her face and neck with its terrible teeth. Mora passed out. She didn’t feel the blows the beast delivered to her body before it fled the screaming villagers that were bearing down on it.
The first woman to reach the scene stopped beside Mora, and looked around for her baby. Not seeing her child, she was about to continue after the fleeing baboon, when she heard her baby’s muffled cries coming from below the bleeding body of the girl. As frantic as she was, she was still careful as she rolled the girls still body off of the baby, and gathered the child to her chest. Exposed, the baby’s cries were voluminous; enough to raise the dead, but the body of the injured girl remained still.
#
When the women got Mora back to her home in the village, they tended to her wounds as best they could. The only doctor in the area was located at the clinic, a three day walk. No one thought the girl could make the trip, so they tended her as best they could. They washed and treated the bites before they sewed them closed. A careful examination revealed two broken bones in the left arm, and three damaged ribs. These injuries the women could handle with splints and wrappings, but the ear, mangled by the baboons bite, was something no one had treated before. They did their best.
Wani Atem, Mora’s grandfather, sat quietly by while the women worked. He was heartbroken, so much so that he could barely keep his tears from flowing, but at the same time he was also terrible proud. She had saved the babies life, of that there was no doubt. Saved it with that stupid wooden sword he had carved for her after she had pestered him for months. An eleven year old girl taking on a full grown baboon, it was no wonder she looked so bad. The women left and he let his tears flow. Get them out before she wakes up, he thought because he had to present a confident face when she opened her eyes. Eventually the tears stopped, and he sat and prayed to the old gods and their messenger, the Smith, to help his brave granddaughter.
Mora awoke briefly a few times over the next two days until the infection from the filthy teeth of the baboon brought on a fever. For over a week, her grandfather bathed her body with cool water, and spooned sips of drinking water into her mouth. By the time the fever broke she was emaciated, buteventually she did awake, and her grandfather hid his tears again.
 The story of Mora’s heroics soon spread outside of their small village. By the time Mora awoke, the story had been picked up by newspapers as far away as Kenya to the south and Egypt to the north. Mora was famous, but she didn’t know it, until two days after she awoke when a journalist and a photographer arrived for an interview. The pictures of the emaciated child with her body and face wrapped in bandages spread to even more news agencies. There was even a picture of Mora, with tears streaming from her eyes, as she lamented the loss of her wooden sword.
The news reported returned for a follow-up story two months after the first interview. This time he was accompanied by a doctor and a photographer. The doctor changed Mora`s bandages, and examined the wounds in the privacy of her grandfather’s house. He proclaimed that the bandages must stay on for another two months, and that he would return at that time to remove them, and do a final examination if the newspaper was willing to pay again. This possibility must have already been discussed by the news agency because the reported agreed immediately. Pictures were taken of Mora in her fresh dressings. The resulting news story reported that Mora`s arm would probably heal perfectly, and that she would be able to wield a sword again.
True to their word, all three men returned two months later for the unveiling. The porch bench was dragged out into the sunshine for the best lighting, and Mora sat quietly waiting for the bandages to be removed. With the camera recording, the newsman approached Mora carrying a long thin parcel wrapped in brown paper. He knelt beside Moraand announced to the camera and the villagers who had gathered for the spectacle.
“Mora, your story has touched the hearts of millions of people across Africa, but none more than Raft Berger, the president of the company Coldsteel of South Africa. Mr. Berger was extremely moved by your selfless actions, and he wants to present you with a gift appropriate to your bravery.”
Mora watched as he placed the package carefully on her lap. She couldn’t remember ever receiving a gift like this before.
“Open it child” the reported prompted.
Mora carefully removed the paper from the package – paper was something to value – revealing a white cardboard box. Removing the lid of the box, Mora lifted a blue-violet bag out. The reported quickly removed the cardboard box and lid from her lap to make room for the bag. Laying it on her lap, Mora loosed the draw string at the end of the bag and withdrew the most stunning black lacquered wooden scabbard with the handle of what could only be a sword protruding from it.
Mora had to wipe the tears from her eyes before she could continue. With shaking hands she eased the sword out of the scabbard. It was the most beautiful sword she could ever imagine. The blade shone as it reflected the sunlight. Mora couldn’t believe how wonderful it looked and how natural the wrapped handle felt in her hand. The reporter, speaking more to the camera than to Mora, interrupted her amazement.
“This is the Emperor_O_Tanto Japanese style sword made by Coldsteel. Mr. Berger felt that it’s thirteen and one quarter inch carbon steel blade would be the perfect size for Mora. Now, let’s get those bandages off so you can swing that blade.”
The doctor moved in and Mora sat quietly while he removed the bandage from her chest first and then from her arm. He had her lift the arm and move it around; actions that resulted in murmurs of approval from the gathered villagers. Mora watched the anticipation on the smiling faces as the doctor unwrapped the bandage from her head to reveal her face. When the bandage fell away, so did the smiles. Some of the children turned aside as looks of pity crept over the faces. The doctor pushed and prodded Mora’s cheek and her ear then turned to her grandfather and said something. Mora was too stunned by the crowd’s reaction to understand what was said; in fact she didn’t understand anything that was being said as she sat with eyes looking at the sword, waiting for this part to end.# 
Mora sat on her bed in her darkened bedroom trying to shut out the sounds of the wedding celebration that was occurring two houses up the street. This one she hadn’t even been invited to, but she could understand why, after all, she had punched the bride in the face three weeks ago after overhearing the comments about her scars and mangled ear.
She had been hearing comments like that for five years now, ever since the baboon incident. At first she had ignored them, while concentrating on exercising her injured arm by swinging her beautiful sword. It had taken almost eight months before her arm recovered, and her sword strokes were back to what she imagined a warrior princess’s should be. During that time the scars on her face had lost their redness and freshness, but they would always be there, she had realized. Her mangled ear she could hide with the bandana she wore all the time now, the scars on her neck could be hidden by a scarf, but the scar on her cheek could not be hidden.
For the first year after the accident she had tried to ignore the cruel comments. She had laughed along with the others, trying to fit in, and be one of the group, but it had hurt too much. Over the next three years she had worn her scars as a badge of courage (her grandfather’s idea), and kept to herself except for the time she spent with Ahmad, a friend of her fathers. Ahmed was a goat herder who had grown up with her father and mother. They had all gone to war together. Only Ahmed had returned.
Ahmed carried a sword of his own, a long broadsword, commonly carried by herders three or four decades ago, but not seen as much these days. It was used for protecting the herder and the herd from wild animals. Ahmed could use his well, and had shown Mora how to handle her own. They had practiced together whenever he was in the village and had time, until Ahmed had admitted that she was as good as him, if not better.
Mora didn’t mind stopping the practice sessions because her interests had changed to other things. She was turning sixteen, had become a woman, and she had developed an interest in a young man. Most of the girls who were slightly older than Mora, and some of those her own age were already married, so Mora put away her sword, grew her hair to try to cover her cheek, and set out to interest the young man.
She laughed bitterly as she thought about it. What a fool she had been to think any man would be interested in her. Oh, he had played her along nicely until she spread her legs for him, and then he was gone. All he left behind was his laughter as it mingled with the laughter of friends, and now here she was trying not to listen to the sounds of his marriage celebration as he wed that woman down the street.
Unable to listen anymore, Mora grabbed her sword, tied it to her back, and stormed out of the house while thanking the Smith that she didn’t have to pass the wedding to get to the mountain. Everyone else was attending the wedding feast, so no one saw her as she stormed down the street and up the path. Up she climbed into the boulders of the mountain, cursing to herself, and not paying any attention to where she was, or what was around until finally the excursion burned off her anger, her tears came, and she sunk down on a bolder, blind to everything except her misery.
She had stopped crying, and was sitting quietly when she heard the sounds of something moving below her. Mora arose quietly. A troop of eight baboons was making its way over and around the boulders about twenty feet below her. She was closer than advisable to the troop, but not too close to be in immediate danger. Mora stayed as still as possible hoping the animals couldn’t hear her heart pounding in her chest, as they cut diagonally in front of her. As the baboons moved further away, Mora started to think about escaping when she felt a soft breeze blow across her body and realized she was now upwind of the animals. The old male baboon leading the troop stopped, sniffed, and slowly turned his head towards Mora. Instead of continuing on, as Mora hoped he would, the beast turned fully towards her, and moved his head in a way that suggested he was trying to focus on her. The baboon growled, and another male leapt up onto the boulder beside him. As the rest of the troop settled where they had stopped, the two males advanced on her position.
Mora eased her sword from the scabbard on her back. The two males split apart as they drew closer. Mora chose to face the old male with the bad eye who stopped ten feet from her. Hoping her voice sounded strong, Mora spoke to the beast.
“So, you old child stealer, we meet again. You will die this time, Ogre.”
With a howl the beast launched itself at her.
Mora Atem, the warrior princess, side stepped and slashed her trusty sword across the throat of the charging baboon, spun on her heel, and drove it into the chest of the second beast as it leapt towardsher. As the dying beasts crumbled to the ground, Mora raised her sword over her head and screamed to the heavens, 'For the old Gods!' This time she didn’t blush.
The rest of the baboon troop watched as the girl’s sword flashed up and down again. When she lifted the severed head of the old baboon to show them, they decided to continue their journey without contesting her superiority.
End

The Builder

The Builder
By Dave Skinner
 
Mary Jane Reynolds felt like crying, she felt like that often, ever since her son Anthony had been diagnosed as Autistic, four years ago. Four years wasn’t a great deal of time in the scheme of things, but it felt like a long time to Mary Jane, especially when most of the time had been spent as a single parent.
Anthony’s father had stayed with them for one year after the diagnosis, a year after that he was gone from their lives completely when he moved to Toronto.  Mary Jane had dated a few times in the first year after he left, but almost as soon as her friends learned about Anthony’s condition, they stopped calling.
 Not because Anthony was a difficult child, he didn’t act out, he wasn’t violent, and he didn’t yell or scream. He just didn’t communicate, most of the time he was lost in his own mind. Mary Jane estimated that she could count on her fingers the number of times Anthony had taken notice of something in the external world.
Mary Jane admitted she only had herself to blame for the way she felt right now. It hadn’t happen as much in the last few years because she didn’t allow herself to hope for anything different, but when she read the article in the Vancouver newspaper a few months ago, hope had stirred in her heart again.  The headline had read ‘Child’s Love Cures Dolphin’, and if that wasn’t enticing enough, the mother’s studio was located in Victoria, just over an hour drive from home. Further research into the matter hadn’t turned up any red flags, and Mary Jane had allowed a little hope to root itself in her heart.
After her first interview with the mother, Debra of Debra’s Studios, Mary Jane had felt even more hopeful. Debra had been a Montessori teacher before she moved to Canada. She had dealt with many different types of children. She didn’t promise a miracle cure, and she was up front about her doubts, but she was willing to make an attempt to get Anthony interested in the meditation and the exercise routine she called Breezing.
They had agreed to try four sessions, but despite the efforts made by Debra, it hadn’t worked. This was the end of the fourth session, and Anthony had not shown any interest in the exercise routine or the one on one meditation sessions that Debra had tried. Mary Jane had enjoyed both activities, but Anthony had not responded at all.
Debra could see the sorrow in Mary Jane’s aura as they sat in her office discussing the situation. Mary Jane sat across the desk from her with Anthony beside her. Mary Jane listened attentively. Anthony was lost inside himself. Through the one way glass window Debra could see her daughter, Megan, getting started on a meditation class for her school friends.
“I am terribly sorry, Mary Jane, but I don’t see any reason to continue Anthony’s sessions. As far as I can tell, he hasn’t responded to anything I have tried, and with all conscience I can’t continue to offer you any hope of success.”
Debra didn’t mention that the sessions they had tried had not made the slightest difference in Anthony’s aura. Debra could see differences in a person’s aura when they were interested, and Anthony’s aura had been unresponsive, no matter what she tried.
“It isn’t a problem, if you want to continue to bring Anthony to the studio while you attend classes. He can sit in my office and watch you through the glass, but I cannot continue to accept your money for his sessions when they aren’t doing any good.”
“Thank you Debra. I will give it some thought. I appreciate everything you have done, and I appreciate your honesty,” Mary Jane responded. “Do you mind if Anthony stays here while I get changed?” She could feel the tears coming, and she wanted some time alone. The shower in the change room would do nicely.
“That’s fine with me.” I have some paperwork to do, and he isn’t any trouble.”
Mary Jane made her escape. Anthony didn’t seem to notice. Debra retrieved the day’s mail from the inbox on the credenza behind her and started processing it, but she couldn’t concentrate. She felt sad that she hadn’t been able to help Anthony, but nothing she had done had penetrated his shell. She looked at Anthony sitting across from her.
Debra was positive something was occurring in Anthony’s mind. His aura said as much, in fact, Anthony had one of the most interesting auras Debra had ever seen. It wasn’t the colour that was interesting. Anthony’s aura was grey, a flat grey, as if he had put a protective layer around himself to facilitate his desire for non-involvement, but there were also flashes of intense colour, lightning flashes of violet and yellow that rolled like a thunder storm through the usual grey. They were happening right now, as she watched him, but unfortunately, they didn’t happen when she tried to interact with him.
Anthony wasn’t aware of Debra watching him. The world outside wasn’t interesting. He preferred to build structures inside his head. Anthony’s head was full of the structures he had built. Fantastic structures made of lines and curves that wrapped around themselves and each other as he expanded them outward. These were the things that made him happy, the things that caused the lightning Debra found so interesting. Building structures in his mind was much more interesting than interacting with the outside world, but sometimes, many more times than he wanted, the outside world intruded on his joy, like now.
Mary Jane returned to Debra’s office. She had composed herself; the tears were gone, along with her hope.
“Thank you again Debra. I’ll think about continuing with lessons for myself, but right now I have to say it doesn’t look promising.”
“Even if you decide not to continue, I think it would be beneficial to keep up with the meditation. I find it helps to centre me in times of stress.”
Debra watched as Mary Jane spent two minutes holding Anthony’s chin, so that his face was towards her, as she talked to him about leaving. Debra wasn’t sure if she detected a glimmer of recognition or irritation in Anthony’s face when he finally seemed to pay attention. Holding tightly to Anthony’s hand, Mary Jane directed the two of them out the office door. As they started to walk across in front of the one way glass window, Anthony stopped walking. Mary Jane tugged him a little bit to get him moving again, but he refused to budge.
Debra, walking behind them as they exited the office, almost ran over Anthony when he stopped. It took both women a moment to realize that Anthony’s attention had been captured by something in the exercise area. Following the direction of Anthony’s gaze, they realized his attention was on Megan, as she led the meditation session.
Mary Jane was so surprised that she let go of Anthony’s hand when he gave it a little tug, and even more surprised when he started walking across the floor towards the session group. She was about to make a grab for him when she felt Debra’s hand on her arm. Both women watched in astonishment as Anthony joined the group of young people seated around Megan on the floor. There were tears in Mary Jane’s eyes again, so Debra led her back into the office.
“Are you in a hurry?” she asked.
“No.”
“Then why don’t we sit here and see what happens? I think Anthony may have found something that interests him.”
Anthony had definitely founds something of interest. As he had been led from the office, he had caught sight of what the young girl was doing in the centre of the room. She was talking softly and gesturing to a group of other people seated around her, but what interested Anthony was the fact that her words and movements were building a pattern or structure around the group. It was similar to what he did, but she was doing it in the external world. He had to be part of what was happening so he walked into the pattern and sat down.
Anthony watched the girl create the pattern with her words and gestures. Unlike his structures, hers did not build outwards, instead it grew inward, into a funnel shape that drew Anthony into it. Before long, Anthony was experiencing the same type of euphoria he felt, when he built his own structures in his mind. The funnel grew more substantial, Anthony grew more euphoric until down the rabbit hole he went.
If it wasn’t for the euphoria, Anthony might have reacted violently when he found himself surrounded and bombarded by bubbles. As it turned out, the sudden change startled him enough that he tried to jump away from the bubbles, which caused him to rise slightly above them. The feeling of floating above a sea of multicoloured bubbles was pleasant enough to recapture his euphoria.
For the first time that he could recall, Anthony was thinking about something other than building his structures. Bubbles extended below him for as far as he could see, while high above him the occasional streak, like a shooting star, could be seen.
Being surrounded by the bubbles had been startling but not overly unpleasant. There had been so many images bombarding him that he hadn’t known what to do. Now, as he contemplated the bubbles, one brushed against him and suddenly he was playing a musical instrument. The music seemed to pour into his being giving him another shot of euphoria. The bubble passed, the image faded, but the understanding of the music remained.
Anthony floated low enough to brush another bubble. He experienced a feeling of intense joy and fulfillment as he signed a name at the bottom of a large piece of paper. The paper contained something like the structures that he constructed in his mine, only drawn with pencil on paper. The bubble passed, the image faded, but understanding blossomed.
Anthony continued brushing against bubbles and experiencing their content until he felt another presence beside him. He knew it was the girl who made the funnel. He let her guide him back up the rabbit hole. When he opened his eyes, the girl was seated beside him with her hand on his arm. His mother was seated across from him.
“Thank you” he said to the girl.
He smiled at his mother, “Come back okay?”
His mother’s hugs, kisses, and tears seemed to go on forever, but she was smiling all the time so Anthony put up with it, without retreating to his structures.
#
How could his mother be so stupid? Didn't she realize how important Megan was to him? Those were the thoughts racing through his mind as he sped his bike through the streets of the Victoria suburb where they lived. Megan had been away for the last four month, but now she was home, according to what his mother had said - home for a week, leaving again today. How could she be so stupid? How could she not understand?
Anthony was getting closer now. One last hill, the bitch hill, the hill he hated because it seemed to tear his heart out every time he climbed it, climbed it so slowly, heart pounding, legs burning, as they we're now. He stood on the bike’s petals. This wasn’t a hill you climbed while seated, even the Lycra suited riders, on their thousand dollar bikes, stood to climb this hill. Each push of Anthony’s legs was getting harder, with the bike almost stopping between each one. His mother had named this hill the first time they had ridden their bikes up it. When they had stopped at the top, she had looked back and named it.
“That hill is a bitch,” she announced.
“The bitch hill,” Anthony had responded.
When she had caught her breath, she had instructed Anthony not to use the world ‘bitch’ because it wasn’t polite, and asked him to forget she had used it, but Anthony hadn’t forgotten. He liked the name, and his mother didn’t tell him not to use it anymore. After all, that had been four years ago when he was seven, and they had just moved to Victoria.
He snuck a quick look towards the top of the hill. He knew he shouldn’t because it was always farther away than he wanted it to be, and that was disheartening. Sometimes it was so disheartening that he gave up and walked the rest of the way, but not today. Megan’s house was just over the crest of the hill. His desperation to see her gave his heart strength, and he pushed that strength to his tired legs.
Megan always made this climb look easy. She wasn’t that much stronger than he was, even though she was a year older, but she could pull energy from the Core with ease. She was teaching him to do it also, but he needed to concentrate to reach the Core energy, and he usually didn’t think about doing it until he needed all his concentration to keep pedalling. Megan’s connection to the Core was stronger than everyone else’s, even stronger than her father’s, and he had been the one, who taught Megan and her mother, and none of them – not even Megan, could do what Anthony did. None of them could see the lines of energy like he did. At least he didn’t think they could.
Truth be told, he had never discussed it with them. The only person who knew was his mother, and she had insisted that he not mention it to anyone else. He had wanted to tell Megan, but his mother had made his silence a condition of their moving to Victoria. She knew how much he wanted to be close to Megan, even though he had said it was Debra’s studio he wanted to be close to. His mother had known it was really Megan, and that was what made him so angry now. She knew how much Megan meant to him, and still she had waited until the last day to tell him that Megan was home.
Supposedly, she hadn’t known herself until Debra had come to the studio yesterday, and then Debra had said that Megan needed rest and wasn’t to be disturbed, but Anthony knew that he wasn’t a disturbance. It would make Megan happy to see him; he told himself, after all, she called him her little brother didn’t she? Not that he liked the term. He didn’t consider her to be his big sister.
Anthony snuck another quick peek at the top of the hill, he was almost there, just a little more. Megan just had to be there. He had to see her, even if it was only for a minute. She would be happy to see him, also. She still thought of him as her little brother, he hadn’t confronted her about that yet, but one day he would. One day she would leave that stupid, jock, Brandon when Anthony told her how he felt about her.
Finally the bike crested the hill. Anthony could see Megan’s place five houses down on the right. There was a car in the driveway, and Megan was walking towards the vehicle’s open door. Anthony tried to call her, but he didn’t have enough breath to make a sound. He tried again, and again nothing came out. In desperation he reached for his doorway to the Core, and was amazed to feel the energy surge into him.
“Megan!” he screamed.
He saw Megan’s body jerk as the sound came out. A large, muscular, dark skinned man stepped from behind the car, and placed himself in front of Megan, effectively shielding her from Anthony. Megan’s mother, Debra, rose from the passenger’s seat of the car, while Megan peeked from behind the man. They all stared at Anthony. None of them were smiling.
The bike had picked up speed after he topped the hill, and now, finally, in front of Megan’s house, Anthony slammed on the brakes and jumped from the bike, letting it fall to the curb.
“It’s me, Megan, it’s Anthony. My mom told me you were home, so I came to say hi. Hello, Mrs. Waters.” Anthony’s voice trailed off because no one was responding to his words. He stopped walking across the lawn about fifteen feet from the car. This wasn’t at all what he had envisioned. He stood looking from face to face, waiting for a response.
“It is only Anthony, Mom,” Megan observed.
“It’s alright, Jamal,” said Mrs. Waters, as she placed her hand on the man’s arm.
“Hello, Anthony. I was wondering if your mother would keep this a secret. She looked at her daughter, “We have to leave in a few minutes Megan. The plane won’t wait.”
Megan walked up to Anthony with a big grin on her face, and gave him a hug. All of Anthony’s apprehension disappeared. The mad ride had been worth it.
“I’m glad to see you Ant, but we don’t have time to catch up. I should be home tomorrow or the next day. We can catch up then.”
“Are you still doing the tour?”
“Yes, this is the last engagement. Wish me luck.”
“You know I will, but isn’t it old hat by now. You’ve been doing it for four months now. Doesn’t it get easier?”
“It is easier now, but this is a big one, and my Dad won’t be in the Core feeding me energy. I’m a little scared Ant.”
“I can do it, Megan.”
“You can do what?
“I can feed you the energy. I pulled energy on my way up the hill today. I’m sure I could help.”
Megan’s mother called from the car. “Say goodbye, Megan, we have to leave.”
Megan hugged Anthony again. She whispered into his ear as she held him. “Watch for a silver bubble being formed. Once it’s stable, touch it, and watch the show. If I need energy, try to push it to me. The bubble should start to form around seven-thirty or a little later. Thank you, Ant, you’re the best.”
Anthony didn’t move as Megan returned to the car and they drove away. He didn’t trust his legs to hold him up, if he had tried to move. They were tired from climbing the hill, but that wasn’t the complete reason. He was sure Megan had kissed him on the cheek just before she let him go, and to top that off, she needed his help. Could life get any better?
In the car, on the way to the airport, Megan was considering her reaction to Anthony screaming her name. It had caused her heart to jump into her throat, and she wasn’t at all happy about that. She thought she was completely relaxed, after being at home, and away from the stresses of the tour for a week, but obviously, she was kidding herself. Or maybe it was just the anticipation of how tonight would go. So much depended on what she could accomplish tonight.
She had told her mother and Jamal that she was confident about tonight, but to herself she had to admit to the jitters. Why not? She asked herself. I have an alien, who could be in possession of anyone’s body, trying to kill me, and I am about to attempt to connect the most people I have ever done. I did 12,000 in Sydney and in Rio, but there are 20,000 people tonight. I hope Ant connects to the bubble, if he can locate it, and can feed me energy. He might make the difference between success and failure.
Success and death might be more accurate, she thought. If I fail tonight, it could be a month or more before another session can be arranged. That would be an additional month for the Searcher to find me, hurt me or kill me. I can’t think like this. Try to think positive thoughts, Megan, she told herself.
Megan fixed the ear buds from her MP3 player into place and turned it on, trying to drown out the doubt in her mind. She reached towards the Core and drew energy from it. It helped. I can do it she thought. I can do it. I can do it. She repeated those words like a mantra, trying to believe them with all her young heart.
#
Anthony was getting proficient at entering the Core. Being able to see the spiralling lines of energy, that led him down the rabbit hole, probably accounted for the ease. He saw the energy lines all the time, but they only created the spiral to the Core when he meditated. Megan had shown him an energy spiral the first time he enter the Core. It had taken him almost a year to master meditation on his own, but now it was almost second nature.
He sunk into meditation, and into the Core, hoping he would be on time. Megan had said around seven-thirty, but it was closer to eight now. Maybe he should have stayed home to do this, but when his mother had said she was teaching a class at Debra’s studio, he had decided to go with her, thinking that being in the studio might get him closer to the bubble that Megan said she was creating. If he had understood her correctly, he was sure that was what she said, but he admitted that her kiss to his cheek had distracted his attention when she said it.
Anthony pulled himself up out of the bubbles that surrounded him. You always end up in the bubbles when you enter the Core. He now realized that they were people’s experiences with Core contact. Without meditation, people usually connected with the Core in times of extreme emotion. If you touched the resulting bubble, you would experience the same emotions, and the situation that caused the emotion, but tonight Anthony didn’t want to be distracted by ‘bubble bursts’ as he called them.
He had to concentrate on finding a silver bubble that was forming. That was what Megan had said, but he didn’t know what to look for, and she hadn’t had time to explain it, so Anthony floated above the multi coloured bubbles waiting for something to happen. He didn’t have to wait for long.
The first thing he noticed was a ripple of energy lines spreading out from a central point. Like a ripple from stones being dropped into a pond, over and over, in the same spot. He floated closer to the spot and saw a grey bubble forming. It went through a number of changes in colour and opacity as he watched, eventually solidifying with a silver hue. Anthony tentatively reached out and touched it.
He was looking out at a huge arena filled with people. His vision swept across the crowd, and he realized he had no control of where he looked. He was seeing through someone else’s eyes, and he was feeling someone else’s emotions.
Anthony felt what the body he had entered was feeling, and understood what she was doing. He knew it was a girl. He was sure it was Megan. He was inside Megan. The thought made him blush.
This had to be what she was doing on her tour for the last four months. What had she said to him? Enjoy the show and feed me energy if I need it. Anthony decided he would do exactly that. He settled into Megan, felt her emotions, and watched the show.
Seeing through Megan’s eyes was different he realized. She was much more sensitive to the colours of people’s auras. He saw auras also, but not as intensely as Megan did. She saw them the way Anthony saw energy lines. He realized that Megan was using the colours she saw to direct where she needed to concentrate her efforts, and he also realized that she was getting frustrated.
She would concentrate her efforts in one area of the audience, get them where she wanted them to be colour wise, and then move on to another area. She was about a quarter of the way through the arena, but the areas where she must have started were beginning to lose their structure. Anthony could see what was happening because he could also see the lines of energy in the areas.
Megan created a spiral of energy in an area as she spoke, gestured, and literally forced her will onto the group. The spiral was strongest in the centre because it was more concentrated there. Out on the peripheral of the group, the energy lines of the spiral weren’t as strong. They lost cohesion with the centre as time elapsed. Eventually, the energy lines in the next group had more attraction than the centre of their own spiral. The peripheral energy lines would join with the other group, and pull energy from the centre of their own spiral.
Anthony was sure if Megan could see the energy lines the way he did, she would understand the problem, so he attempted to overlay his vision onto hers. It seemed to work.
Anthony watched as another spiral started to pull itself apart. He could feel Megan’s frustration as she watched it happen again. Anthony reached out with his mind, and changed the character of the spiral. He added internal cross connections between the energy lines, like the connections in the double helix of DNA. The spiral held. Megan’s emotions lifted.
Anthony reached out again, and manipulated the other spirals that Megan had created. They also became stable. Feeling his energy level wain, Anthony also reached back to the Core and pulled energy into him and Megan. Together they reached out, and formed stable spirals in all areas of the arena. With everyone ready, Megan sent a flood of tranquility out over the arena.
Suddenly, Anthony was back in the Core, floating slightly above the silver bubble. He looked at the grey above him as he sensed something happening. The grey dissolved into a sky of intense blue with clouds of silver white floating across it. Anthony stepped into the landscape below the sky and stared.
Around him, on a vast hill side, were thousands of people, all staring in disbelief, at the scene before them. Suddenly there was a face before him. A face on a flat screen, like a plasma TV, but not exactly like that. Before Anthony could make out what was different, the face spoke.
“Welcome to the Core young sir. Any questions you have should be answered momentarily. All relevant Core information is being shared with you right now.”
Anthony could understand what the face meant by those words. Information was streaming into him. All the answers to questions he thought to ask were there before he could ask the questions. He looked around and realized that all the people where receiving the same welcome from the same type of face in a window. Anthony noticed that the windows perched on energy lines that came out of the ground. He also saw Megan not far away, confronted by her own window. Anthony reached out and pulled the energy line attached to his window with him, as he stared walking towards her.
“Oh my goodness”, said the window face. “You are a Builder. We have not seen a Builder in over one hundred thousand years. You are most welcome young sir.”
“I’m not a sir, I’m a kid, and what is a Builder? I don’t understand that term.”
“Of course, that information isn’t part of the normal welcome package. A Builder is someone who can see the energy of the Core. Everyone can use the energy of the Core, but no one but a Builder can see the energy. Your race promises to be an interesting addition. I am speaking with your Prime about this right now.”
Information about what a Prime was had been part of the welcome, but Anthony didn’t know who the Prime was, so he asked.
“She is a young woman named Megan. She is coming to you now.”
Megan arrived, and immediately gave Anthony a hug.
“Thanks, Ant. I couldn’t have handled that large a crowd without your help. I take it those lines I saw are what makes you this special Builder person the Core has been telling me about?”
Before Anthony could say anything the Core face spoke.
“He has the ability required to be a Builder, but he also needs the knowledge. I will share the knowledge I have about structures with him when he is in the Core, but he also needs to be educated about design and building sciences in your physical reality. You will have to see to that.”
“I will talk to my parents about this as soon as possible. I’m sure we can work it out, as long as it is also what Anthony wants.”
At that moment, Megan’s mother hurried up to them.
“Megan, your father has been injured back in the arena. He needs you.”
They disappeared. Anthony looked around. Others must have stopped meditating and left also because there were far fewer people around now. Anthony took a last look at the scene before him, said goodbye to the face, and stopped meditating. His mother would be waiting for him.
The End
 

About the novel Hosting, Book 1 of the Core

Hosting by Dave Skinner
Synopsis
Hosting is a Science Fiction novel. At the beginning of the story, Jamie Waters, the narrator, is in a coma. Jamie agrees to help a voice in his head, to find and deactivate the second last ancient alien Artifact on Earth. During their quest, he learns about the Core; a universal energy field used by alien races, and about Artifacts, that can be used for good or evil.  Abandoned and jailed at the end of the quest, Jamie is embittered. He wants closure. He wants revenge. He knows there is one Artifact left and chance gives him the opportunity to get what he wants, even if he has to destroy a woman he loves, but he may be able to save her if he can understand the mystery of the Core. After his feelings are resolved, Jamie settles down for a normal life with his wife and daughter until he is informed that another alien is on the way to destroy their life by killing his daughter.  The only way to stop the killing is to understand the mystery of the Core, and his daughter is the only person who can accomplish this.  But can a thirteen-year-old child save herself and at what cost?
Time Period and Locations
The story starts on January 17th, 2012 and ends on September 29th, 2029. The epilogue occurs in April of 2030.
The story has three parts. Part 1 takes place mostly in and around the city of Toronto, Canada, with a brief visit to Calgary. Part 2 starts in Athens Greece, moves to East Africa with the majority of the time spent in Ethiopia. The home location of Part 3 is the city of Victoria on Vancouver Island. Although the majority of Part 3 is taken up with a trip around the world, the final scene is in Vancouver. There are also a few visits to the Core and a ride in an alien space ship.Main Characters

Jamie (Jay) Waters Orphaned at a young age. Grew up in foster care. Narrator and protagonist. Must take control of his life. Summer/Breeze Alien from an ancient race. Arrogant. Learns humility. Debra (Debby) Claymore Summer/Breeze’s last host. Makes a deal to host because she wants to conceive a baby. Megan Waters Jamie and Debra’s daughter. God Daughter of Summer/Breeze.
 Minor Characters
Joey Jamie’s best friend from school Charles Benet Holds an Artifact Sister Mary Catherine Holds an Artifact. In charge of refugee camp in Ethiopia. Jamal Kenyama Young refugee at camp. Later becomes Megan’s protector. Samuel de Silva Volunteer at refugee camp. Becomes a TV host and handles media coverage of Megan’s tour.

What are the story segments like The Builder

The Builder stories Part 1, 2, and 3 are character development exercises. The Builder character will appear in book 2. He is only a minor character as far as the story goes, but he performs a very important action aside from his architectural/builder functions. I wanted to get a feel for this character, and lay some ground work related to him before he got his five minutes of fame in book 2.

I plan to do this with other characters as well and other aspects of the books that may need it.

Connecting with the Core

In the Core novels:
The Core is a layer of energy that exists throughout the whole Universe. All intelligent life in the Universe has the ability to interact with the Core. All life, intelligent or not, is born with the physiological equipment necessary to interact with the Core.

Humans have a cluster of brain cells that facilitate interaction with the Core. Unfortunately, like most other races that exist in the Universe, these cells lose sensitivity to the Core a few years after birth, if the cells are not exercised.

This is not a far fetched concept. It actually happens with cells in the human brain that are used for binocular vision. Many years ago, while doing my BA, I learnt about these cells in a Perception or Sensory Psychology course I took. I tried to find the actual paper/text that discussed this feature of the cells, when I used the idea in my novel Hosting, Book 1 of The Core.

My memory told me the concept was reported in one of the books by R.L. Gregory, either 'the intelligent eye' (1970) or  'Eye and Brain' (1966). Fortunately, I still have copies of these book. Unfortunately, I couldn't find the reference I was searching for.

I turned to the Internet but I was frustrated again. There are lots of references to current work currently being done with binocular cells. I reviewed an article about identifying which cells are binocular and how they were identifying the cells in the brain. There was also lots of references to retraining the brain to undo the perceptual losses that occur when the cells stop functioning properly due to lack of stimulation from both eyes. Loss of depth perception is one of the problems. The retraining work wasn't a big surprise, considering that the 'plasticity of the brain' concept has made it from academia to popular science reporting.

I figured if the concept was so old that it was no longer referenced in modern research, I would try again by looking through a 'Readings from Scientific America, Perception: Mechanism and Models text that dated back to my University time. Again I couldn't find the reference, so I gave up.

If you find it difficult to believe what I have said about binocular cells losing their functionality, if they are not stimulated properly, and the research being done to correct the visual problems isn't enough to make you a believer then you either have to accept it as science fiction or forget about reading my novel Hosting, Book 1 of the Core.

If by chance you know where the reference I was searching for is located please drop a comment here and help me out.

To summarise, in the Core novels, we are born with a cluster of cells in our brains that allow us to interact with the Core. These cells facilitate things like seeing auras, and sensing emotions. The cells lose their sensitivity to the Core as we get older because they are not exercised as much. In modern societies, we don't need them as much as we did when our societies were primitive. But, the cells can be re sensitised through stimulation and meditation.

Meditation will be discussed in another post.