Louis Arata's Blog, page 19
July 31, 2014
JULY 31st IS THE LAST DAY OF THE SMASHWORDS JULY SUMMER/W...
JULY 31st IS THE LAST DAY OF THE SMASHWORDS JULY SUMMER/WINTER SALE!
Check out Smashwords.com for free or discounted books from indie authors.
Smashwords July Summer/Winter Sale
Release your Inner Ghoul! Dead Hungry is available for free at Smashwords through July 31st!
Dead Hungry
Flesh: It's What's For Dinner.
Ghouls are overrunning Chicago. We're not talking supernatural beasties but humans with an inexplicable appetite for the dead -- be it road-kill, bodies stolen from the morgue, or the recently buried.
For graduate student Tucker Smith, life is now scarier than the horror novels he studies.
His girlfriend is feeling peckish for raw meat.
His roommate dabbles in the Ghoul Culture.
And his grunge rocker brother gets involved in the black market supply of bodies.
In Dead Hungry, horror movies, reality TV shows, national food competitions, and cultural sensitivity collide with family secrets.
July 30, 2014
Smashwords July Summer/Winter Sale -- Final 2 Days!
It's the final 2 days of the Smashwords July Summer/Winter Sale where you can get free or discounted books from indie authors. Check it out!
Smashwords July Summer/Winter Sale
Release your Inner Ghoul! Dead Hungry is available for free at Smashwords through July 31st!
Dead Hungry
Flesh: It's What's For Dinner.
Ghouls are overrunning Chicago. We're not talking supernatural beasties but humans with an inexplicable appetite for the dead -- be it road-kill, bodies stolen from the morgue, or the recently buried.
For graduate student Tucker Smith, life is now scarier than the horror novels he studies.
His girlfriend is feeling peckish for raw meat.
His roommate dabbles in the Ghoul Culture.
And his grunge rocker brother gets involved in the black market supply of bodies.
In Dead Hungry, horror movies, reality TV shows, national food competitions, and cultural sensitivity collide with family secrets.
July 23, 2014
Book Review: Hairstyles of the Damned
Something grabbed me about this novel. It was so different stylistically from The Boy Detective Fails that I was instantly intrigued. I couldn't believe the same author, Joe Meno, wrote both works.
The story unfolds in a rambling fashion, saying a lot through teenage misdirection -- Brian Oswald can't always articulate what he's feeling, or why, but you know he's feeling it with a teenager's depth.
A junior in high school, Brian has fallen in love with his best friend, Gretchen. Over the course of the year, he watches as his parents' marriage dissolves, his friends go through relationship break-ups, and his high school wrestles with racial tension. He struggles to make sense of it all -- his emotional reactions and his growing awareness of the facades people fashion to hide their true identities. He goes through his own identity shift from heavy metal to punk, only to realize that it's a form of posturing without being a true expression of who he really is.
It was interesting reading this novel so shortly after The Perks of Being a Wallflower, by Stephen Chbosky. Both address issues of being a teenager, but Chbosky's Charlie spoke more directly to my own high school experience. And while Meno's Brian has a very different life experience than my own, I could relate to his burgeoning maturity -- the first awakening awareness that life has layers, and what once seemed simple is certainly not simplistic.
The story unfolds in a rambling fashion, saying a lot through teenage misdirection -- Brian Oswald can't always articulate what he's feeling, or why, but you know he's feeling it with a teenager's depth.
A junior in high school, Brian has fallen in love with his best friend, Gretchen. Over the course of the year, he watches as his parents' marriage dissolves, his friends go through relationship break-ups, and his high school wrestles with racial tension. He struggles to make sense of it all -- his emotional reactions and his growing awareness of the facades people fashion to hide their true identities. He goes through his own identity shift from heavy metal to punk, only to realize that it's a form of posturing without being a true expression of who he really is.
It was interesting reading this novel so shortly after The Perks of Being a Wallflower, by Stephen Chbosky. Both address issues of being a teenager, but Chbosky's Charlie spoke more directly to my own high school experience. And while Meno's Brian has a very different life experience than my own, I could relate to his burgeoning maturity -- the first awakening awareness that life has layers, and what once seemed simple is certainly not simplistic.
July 22, 2014
Packing and Unpacking
In an Advanced Composition course in college, the professor had us write a 500 word essay. On the day we were to turn it in, he said, “Hold on. Take out your pens and remove one hundred words from your paper.” The class collectively gasped. 100 words?! But they’re all golden! There’s no possible way to remove 100 words.
But we did. For the next paper – a thousand-word essay – we had to remove another hundred words. As the course progressed – as we learned about precision of language and the craft of revising – it became increasingly difficult to identify unnecessary words. Four our final 3,000 word paper, we weren’t able to remove even 50 superfluous words.
I took this lesson to heart. Soon my college professors were describing my writing as Hemingway-esque.
After college, when I got back to writing fiction, I ran into problems. I was so busy keeping the word count to a minimum, I didn’t allow myself the freedom to explore the emotional core of the story. Every sentence was pruned to within an inch of its life. The reader had no opportunity to empathize with the characters’ inner lives.
So, I went about unpacking my writing. I gave myself the freedom to write verbose sentences that threatened to collapse under their own weight. I wrote meaty paragraphs that iterated every possible emotion. I tried to slow down the action to the point that the reader would experience every movement.
Then, in the revision stage, I’d cut out the bumph. I’d go back and apply what I learned from my Advanced Composition course, and pare away.
But not always.
I’m revising Reston Peace now, and it’s amazing the number of times I still pile on the phrases:
She may have been leaning toward me; I felt my weight shift closer to her. Our heads ever-so-slightly down, her eyes on the inanimate sofa beneath us, because if she looked up, or if I were to, our expressions would say too much. In that cavity of silence – not cavity; it wasn’t empty; it was heavy with meaning – we brought our faces nearer, until it was the shortest distance to kissing. She lifted her chin toward me. The moment was tentative, which made the slight pressure of our lips enticing. I waited, tried to wait before kissing her more, tried to wait for a signal that this was okay. Finally Karen did; she shifted her hand onto my arm to steady herself, which made the kiss deepen.
Here’s the current, revised version (I’m still working on it):
She may have been leaning toward me, our heads ever-so-slightly down, our eyes down because if she looked up, or if I did, our expressions would admit too much. In that moment, we brought our faces nearer. The moment was tentative, which made the slight pressure of our lips sweet.
What I’ve learned is that, unless I allow myself to write way too much, I can’t get to this leaner version. It’s certainly not the most efficient way to write, but it gives me lots to work with.
But we did. For the next paper – a thousand-word essay – we had to remove another hundred words. As the course progressed – as we learned about precision of language and the craft of revising – it became increasingly difficult to identify unnecessary words. Four our final 3,000 word paper, we weren’t able to remove even 50 superfluous words.
I took this lesson to heart. Soon my college professors were describing my writing as Hemingway-esque.
After college, when I got back to writing fiction, I ran into problems. I was so busy keeping the word count to a minimum, I didn’t allow myself the freedom to explore the emotional core of the story. Every sentence was pruned to within an inch of its life. The reader had no opportunity to empathize with the characters’ inner lives.
So, I went about unpacking my writing. I gave myself the freedom to write verbose sentences that threatened to collapse under their own weight. I wrote meaty paragraphs that iterated every possible emotion. I tried to slow down the action to the point that the reader would experience every movement.
Then, in the revision stage, I’d cut out the bumph. I’d go back and apply what I learned from my Advanced Composition course, and pare away.
But not always.
I’m revising Reston Peace now, and it’s amazing the number of times I still pile on the phrases:
She may have been leaning toward me; I felt my weight shift closer to her. Our heads ever-so-slightly down, her eyes on the inanimate sofa beneath us, because if she looked up, or if I were to, our expressions would say too much. In that cavity of silence – not cavity; it wasn’t empty; it was heavy with meaning – we brought our faces nearer, until it was the shortest distance to kissing. She lifted her chin toward me. The moment was tentative, which made the slight pressure of our lips enticing. I waited, tried to wait before kissing her more, tried to wait for a signal that this was okay. Finally Karen did; she shifted her hand onto my arm to steady herself, which made the kiss deepen.
Here’s the current, revised version (I’m still working on it):
She may have been leaning toward me, our heads ever-so-slightly down, our eyes down because if she looked up, or if I did, our expressions would admit too much. In that moment, we brought our faces nearer. The moment was tentative, which made the slight pressure of our lips sweet.
What I’ve learned is that, unless I allow myself to write way too much, I can’t get to this leaner version. It’s certainly not the most efficient way to write, but it gives me lots to work with.
July 3, 2014
an excerpt from Reston Peace
Here's a sneak preview of my upcoming novel, Reston Peace.
I could easily start my story with a description of Eileen Hesperin, an attractive woman in her late thirties, with scoops of pale brown hair around her ears. She had an almond-shaped face and tiny pucker that hid her tiger’s smile. While her professional courtesy was meant to put me at ease, when we shook hands, it was like she was initiating a throw-down. I met her at a coffee shop early in the afternoon when few other customers were around.
She was doing a piece on the Dorcaster University football sex scandal, a recent debacle involving Coach Pendergast, the winningest coach in the college’s history. “Buster” Pendergast was a popular community leader for forming the Youth Football League, which served under-privileged boys. Three months ago, two boys came forward with allegations that he’d conducted repeated late-night bed checks during summer training camp. Since then, more boys and young men were stepping up to tell their stories. While Buster had secured a lawyer and was actively avoiding all contact with the media, he was getting universally tried in the court of common opinion. Plus, I knew for a fact that he was dead guilty.
“Pendergast is cut from the same mold as Jerry Sandusky,” said Eileen. “A popular coach who’s doing everything right, public-relations-wise. For years, no one suspects a thing. No one pays any attention. But now, in Sandusky’s wake, people are getting more savvy, and victims are getting braver. That’s definitely a good thing.”
She kept a legal pad in front of her, twiddling the pen, eager to write something down. “Pendergast was coach at Dorcaster when you were a student there,” she said.
“Yep.”
“You were on the Dorcaster Lions for only one season. Why was that?”
She was fishing for my own allegation against Buster. “I got cut. I wasn’t showing up for practice. My first year of college was a rough one.”
“The normal period of freshman acclimation?”
“That, and way too much partying.”Her smile slid into place, and without looking at the tablet, she made a few notes. Her left hand slyly shielded what she’d written.
“What sort of coach was he?”
“The right sort of tough,” I said. “He knew how to build a team. Knew how to motivate us to do our best. When he yelled, it wasn’t to humiliate us. Somehow it challenged us to give it our all.”
“What position did you play?”
“Wide receiver.”
“Good hands?”
“My girlfriends seemed to think so. I never got to play in a game. Second string. I spent the entire season on the bench. Probably just as well. I had other things on my mind.”
“The freshman acclimation,” she said, and I nodded.
“I was pretty self-absorbed. I was having a bad year. My parents died right before I started college. So,” I said, picking at the waxed cup of coffee in my hands, “I had my own shit to deal with.”
Eileen laid out the intention of her magazine piece. “The story is fairly broad in scope. It’s not only about the Dorcaster scandal but more of a snapshot of the prevalence of boys as victims, and how it’s actually not anything new.”
She spoke in broad strokes about the Changing Face of Sexual Abuse: boys as victims of the Catholic Church, sports coaches, and high school teachers; cell phones and teenage selfies, and internet prowlers. She made energetic pronouncements about the severity of the problem and how our society has been looking in the opposite direction for years.
“For thirty years at least, our society has been growing increasingly aware of the prevalence of sexual abuse against girls, and there have been terrific strides to provide support and recovery programs, and to incarcerate the S.O.B.’s who harm them.” Fitting her fingers together in a web, she said, “There’s a growing network, but that hasn’t been the case for boys. It’s only been in recent years that any sort of attention has been given to them. One writer, years ago, made the asinine comment that the number of boys who’ve been sexually abused is ‘insignificant.’ Insignificant! How does that make you feel?”
I couldn’t tell if this was a general observation about men or a question for me personally.
Then she added, “I’m sure you don’t feel insignificant.”
“How did you know?” I asked.
“You posted comments on a blog for survivors of incest. That’s how I got your name.”
“Oh.” I turned my cup around the other way. “I assumed you found me because I knew Buster.”
“That too.” She had a calculating stare, sizing me up, which made me continue to examine the surface of my coffee.
“What do you want to know? Whether Buster ever messed with me?” Before she had a chance to ask me just that, I nodded. “He did. A few times. In his office.”
Her expression softened; she wasn’t an absolute tiger. Of course there was sympathy; I had just admitted the one thing no person wants to admit.
“I’m sorry,” she said. In an undertone, she muttered, “Bastard,” which made me kind of smile. I could picture her smacking Buster’s face into a tabletop.
“Look,” I said, needing to dispel her compassion. “I have a therapist who helps me through all the shit, so you don’t need to worry about me. What else do you want to know about Buster?”
After considering me – the perpetual scrape of sympathetic eyes – she regained her professional detachment and proceeded to ask me questions about Pendergast and being on the team. Throughout, her attention buzzed like a live wire, barely kept in check as she raced through her notes. The fact that I spoke slowly almost seemed too much for her at times. After twenty minutes, she set down her pen, steepled her fingers, and examined me, expectant.
“I confess I know who you are,” she said, “and you’re not what I expected.”
Then it became clear why she’d approached me for the interview. This entire discussion could have been handled with a single phone call. She was fishing for another story.
“Is that why you’re here?” I said. “To write about the notorious history of Bradley, Virginia, and its Number one Living Curiosity – me?”
“You said your parents died. I remember the story.”
“Most people around here do.”
“Even in D.C., they remember. It was only fifteen years ago.”
“Twenty. But who’s counting?”
She couldn’t suppress her curiosity, and I couldn’t blame her. As a journalist, she was adept at prying loose the stone of a story. “Here’s a small-town boy whose parents’ death is still talked about. And yet you choose to stay. Why?”
“The leash only goes so far.”
“You don’t look bitter or angry.”
“Don’t check under the hood.”
I could see the idea forming on her face, even before she was willing to acknowledge it. So, I beat her to the punch. “You want to write about it.”
“About you. Yes.”
I laughed. It’s difficult to be the target of people’s morbid fascination. Even now, kids stop me in the street to ask if I really lived in the Death House, you know, the one near the towpath. The Reston Peace House. Better than any urban legend, I actually exist.
“What do you want to know?”
“Let’s start with a little background. Your family.”
“Couldn’t we start with something simpler, like my suicide attempt?”
Amused, she said, “You really don’t want to talk about it. Your parents. Your mother’s death.”
“It was in all the papers.”
With unexpected gentleness, she said, “I want to hear it from you.”
“You want the story? All right.” Leaning closer, I lowered my voice for effect. “It was a dark and stormy night, and a ghostly woman walked her last mile. She wore nothing but a dressing gown as blood dripped from her wrists from where she’d cut herself. Or,” I said, interrupting myself, “she was stark naked, and she’d torn the flesh from her arms with her own teeth. That’s another way the story goes. Or how about the one where she’s dragging my father’s corpse behind her? I kind of like that one.”
I waited for her reaction. Bemused, she returned to her notepad to write down her private observations, so I finished my coffee.
“Any other questions about Buster?” I suggested.
She read through her most recent notes. To herself, she said, “I like it.” To me, she said, “The various versions of events. The urban legend versus reality.”
“Which is which?” I said.
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve had years of therapy, which has taught me the past is pretty fluid, depending on what lens you’re wearing that day.” I wadded up a napkin and drowned it in the dregs of coffee.She took the hint that the interview was over. After she packed up her notes, she said, “Think about the piece. It could lay some ghosts to rest.”
“Confession is good for the soul. Something like that?”
“You’ve got my number if you change your mind.” She offered her hand; no hard feelings if I said no.
But the truth was she intrigued me. I liked how she sparred, so I tacked her business card to my fridge, thought it over for a few days, mentioned the interview to my therapist, and made the decision to call her back.
I could easily start my story with a description of Eileen Hesperin, an attractive woman in her late thirties, with scoops of pale brown hair around her ears. She had an almond-shaped face and tiny pucker that hid her tiger’s smile. While her professional courtesy was meant to put me at ease, when we shook hands, it was like she was initiating a throw-down. I met her at a coffee shop early in the afternoon when few other customers were around.
She was doing a piece on the Dorcaster University football sex scandal, a recent debacle involving Coach Pendergast, the winningest coach in the college’s history. “Buster” Pendergast was a popular community leader for forming the Youth Football League, which served under-privileged boys. Three months ago, two boys came forward with allegations that he’d conducted repeated late-night bed checks during summer training camp. Since then, more boys and young men were stepping up to tell their stories. While Buster had secured a lawyer and was actively avoiding all contact with the media, he was getting universally tried in the court of common opinion. Plus, I knew for a fact that he was dead guilty.
“Pendergast is cut from the same mold as Jerry Sandusky,” said Eileen. “A popular coach who’s doing everything right, public-relations-wise. For years, no one suspects a thing. No one pays any attention. But now, in Sandusky’s wake, people are getting more savvy, and victims are getting braver. That’s definitely a good thing.”
She kept a legal pad in front of her, twiddling the pen, eager to write something down. “Pendergast was coach at Dorcaster when you were a student there,” she said.
“Yep.”
“You were on the Dorcaster Lions for only one season. Why was that?”
She was fishing for my own allegation against Buster. “I got cut. I wasn’t showing up for practice. My first year of college was a rough one.”
“The normal period of freshman acclimation?”
“That, and way too much partying.”Her smile slid into place, and without looking at the tablet, she made a few notes. Her left hand slyly shielded what she’d written.
“What sort of coach was he?”
“The right sort of tough,” I said. “He knew how to build a team. Knew how to motivate us to do our best. When he yelled, it wasn’t to humiliate us. Somehow it challenged us to give it our all.”
“What position did you play?”
“Wide receiver.”
“Good hands?”
“My girlfriends seemed to think so. I never got to play in a game. Second string. I spent the entire season on the bench. Probably just as well. I had other things on my mind.”
“The freshman acclimation,” she said, and I nodded.
“I was pretty self-absorbed. I was having a bad year. My parents died right before I started college. So,” I said, picking at the waxed cup of coffee in my hands, “I had my own shit to deal with.”
Eileen laid out the intention of her magazine piece. “The story is fairly broad in scope. It’s not only about the Dorcaster scandal but more of a snapshot of the prevalence of boys as victims, and how it’s actually not anything new.”
She spoke in broad strokes about the Changing Face of Sexual Abuse: boys as victims of the Catholic Church, sports coaches, and high school teachers; cell phones and teenage selfies, and internet prowlers. She made energetic pronouncements about the severity of the problem and how our society has been looking in the opposite direction for years.
“For thirty years at least, our society has been growing increasingly aware of the prevalence of sexual abuse against girls, and there have been terrific strides to provide support and recovery programs, and to incarcerate the S.O.B.’s who harm them.” Fitting her fingers together in a web, she said, “There’s a growing network, but that hasn’t been the case for boys. It’s only been in recent years that any sort of attention has been given to them. One writer, years ago, made the asinine comment that the number of boys who’ve been sexually abused is ‘insignificant.’ Insignificant! How does that make you feel?”
I couldn’t tell if this was a general observation about men or a question for me personally.
Then she added, “I’m sure you don’t feel insignificant.”
“How did you know?” I asked.
“You posted comments on a blog for survivors of incest. That’s how I got your name.”
“Oh.” I turned my cup around the other way. “I assumed you found me because I knew Buster.”
“That too.” She had a calculating stare, sizing me up, which made me continue to examine the surface of my coffee.
“What do you want to know? Whether Buster ever messed with me?” Before she had a chance to ask me just that, I nodded. “He did. A few times. In his office.”
Her expression softened; she wasn’t an absolute tiger. Of course there was sympathy; I had just admitted the one thing no person wants to admit.
“I’m sorry,” she said. In an undertone, she muttered, “Bastard,” which made me kind of smile. I could picture her smacking Buster’s face into a tabletop.
“Look,” I said, needing to dispel her compassion. “I have a therapist who helps me through all the shit, so you don’t need to worry about me. What else do you want to know about Buster?”
After considering me – the perpetual scrape of sympathetic eyes – she regained her professional detachment and proceeded to ask me questions about Pendergast and being on the team. Throughout, her attention buzzed like a live wire, barely kept in check as she raced through her notes. The fact that I spoke slowly almost seemed too much for her at times. After twenty minutes, she set down her pen, steepled her fingers, and examined me, expectant.
“I confess I know who you are,” she said, “and you’re not what I expected.”
Then it became clear why she’d approached me for the interview. This entire discussion could have been handled with a single phone call. She was fishing for another story.
“Is that why you’re here?” I said. “To write about the notorious history of Bradley, Virginia, and its Number one Living Curiosity – me?”
“You said your parents died. I remember the story.”
“Most people around here do.”
“Even in D.C., they remember. It was only fifteen years ago.”
“Twenty. But who’s counting?”
She couldn’t suppress her curiosity, and I couldn’t blame her. As a journalist, she was adept at prying loose the stone of a story. “Here’s a small-town boy whose parents’ death is still talked about. And yet you choose to stay. Why?”
“The leash only goes so far.”
“You don’t look bitter or angry.”
“Don’t check under the hood.”
I could see the idea forming on her face, even before she was willing to acknowledge it. So, I beat her to the punch. “You want to write about it.”
“About you. Yes.”
I laughed. It’s difficult to be the target of people’s morbid fascination. Even now, kids stop me in the street to ask if I really lived in the Death House, you know, the one near the towpath. The Reston Peace House. Better than any urban legend, I actually exist.
“What do you want to know?”
“Let’s start with a little background. Your family.”
“Couldn’t we start with something simpler, like my suicide attempt?”
Amused, she said, “You really don’t want to talk about it. Your parents. Your mother’s death.”
“It was in all the papers.”
With unexpected gentleness, she said, “I want to hear it from you.”
“You want the story? All right.” Leaning closer, I lowered my voice for effect. “It was a dark and stormy night, and a ghostly woman walked her last mile. She wore nothing but a dressing gown as blood dripped from her wrists from where she’d cut herself. Or,” I said, interrupting myself, “she was stark naked, and she’d torn the flesh from her arms with her own teeth. That’s another way the story goes. Or how about the one where she’s dragging my father’s corpse behind her? I kind of like that one.”
I waited for her reaction. Bemused, she returned to her notepad to write down her private observations, so I finished my coffee.
“Any other questions about Buster?” I suggested.
She read through her most recent notes. To herself, she said, “I like it.” To me, she said, “The various versions of events. The urban legend versus reality.”
“Which is which?” I said.
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve had years of therapy, which has taught me the past is pretty fluid, depending on what lens you’re wearing that day.” I wadded up a napkin and drowned it in the dregs of coffee.She took the hint that the interview was over. After she packed up her notes, she said, “Think about the piece. It could lay some ghosts to rest.”
“Confession is good for the soul. Something like that?”
“You’ve got my number if you change your mind.” She offered her hand; no hard feelings if I said no.
But the truth was she intrigued me. I liked how she sparred, so I tacked her business card to my fridge, thought it over for a few days, mentioned the interview to my therapist, and made the decision to call her back.
The Day of the Triffids, by John Wyndham
Back in 1981, I stayed up late to watch The Day of the Triffids. It was a school night but I was willing to forgo sleep to watch this classic 1960s science fiction film. It was down to the last ten minutes when the TV station cut away for a commercial break. When it came back on, the station announcer said, “Now the exciting conclusion of The Day of the Triffids, where alien plants threaten to destroy the world, and the only way to stop them is sea water.”
Talk about your spoiler alert!
Recently, I came across the original novel by John Wyndham. No sea water this time, the novel focuses on the dissolution of society after most of the population is blinded by a curious meteor shower. The survivors – those that can see – are faced with how to rebuild the world in the face of such a calamity.
Wyndham thoughtfully examines the opposing viewpoints – what is the best way to proceed? Is it to take the moral high ground and take care of the blind, with no thought about tomorrow? Is it to set up petty fiefdoms or a military state? Is it to build self-contained compounds and drive off the outsider? Or is this the best opportunity to use education and intellect to correct the ills of society?
While there are exciting action sequences in the book, Wyndham doesn’t go for the thriller. He’s more interested in the philosophical questions. There are lengthy discussions about how society operates, which unfortunately turns some of the characters into talking heads. Only three characters – Bill Masen (the narrator), Josella, and Coker – are afforded any depth of personality.
In the novel, the triffids are not an alien life form but rather a genetically engineered plant capable of free movement. It’s equipped with a deadly stinger and uses appendages to communicate with one another through drumming on its trunk. Given the title, you would think the majority of the novel would focus on the triffids, but they are more of an opportunistic menace. Learning that the newly-blinded humans are helpless, the plants start stalking them for food. By keeping the triffids to the periphery of the main story, Wyndham makes them more sinister. It’s the concept that nature adapts and evolves to fill in a vacant niche, and now humans are lower down on the food chain.
I was reminded a lot of Jose Saramago’s novel Blindness, which also addresses the breakdown of society after a plague of blindness, and I wondered if he had read Wyndham. Also, the opening chapter of Bill Masen waking alone in a hospital apparently inspired Alex Garland’s screenplay, 28 Days Later.
Overall, a good read. Better than an alien menace. And no sea water.
Talk about your spoiler alert!
Recently, I came across the original novel by John Wyndham. No sea water this time, the novel focuses on the dissolution of society after most of the population is blinded by a curious meteor shower. The survivors – those that can see – are faced with how to rebuild the world in the face of such a calamity.
Wyndham thoughtfully examines the opposing viewpoints – what is the best way to proceed? Is it to take the moral high ground and take care of the blind, with no thought about tomorrow? Is it to set up petty fiefdoms or a military state? Is it to build self-contained compounds and drive off the outsider? Or is this the best opportunity to use education and intellect to correct the ills of society?
While there are exciting action sequences in the book, Wyndham doesn’t go for the thriller. He’s more interested in the philosophical questions. There are lengthy discussions about how society operates, which unfortunately turns some of the characters into talking heads. Only three characters – Bill Masen (the narrator), Josella, and Coker – are afforded any depth of personality.
In the novel, the triffids are not an alien life form but rather a genetically engineered plant capable of free movement. It’s equipped with a deadly stinger and uses appendages to communicate with one another through drumming on its trunk. Given the title, you would think the majority of the novel would focus on the triffids, but they are more of an opportunistic menace. Learning that the newly-blinded humans are helpless, the plants start stalking them for food. By keeping the triffids to the periphery of the main story, Wyndham makes them more sinister. It’s the concept that nature adapts and evolves to fill in a vacant niche, and now humans are lower down on the food chain.
I was reminded a lot of Jose Saramago’s novel Blindness, which also addresses the breakdown of society after a plague of blindness, and I wondered if he had read Wyndham. Also, the opening chapter of Bill Masen waking alone in a hospital apparently inspired Alex Garland’s screenplay, 28 Days Later.
Overall, a good read. Better than an alien menace. And no sea water.
July 1, 2014
Smashwords July Summer/Winter Sale
Smashwords.com is having a great Summer/Winter Sale for the month of July. Participating authors are offering their books for 25%-100% off. The sale runs from July 1 - July 30.
July Summer/Winter Sale at Smashwords!
Hey, I'm one of the participating authors! Stop on over and check out my work:
DEAD HUNGRY
Release your inner Ghoul. Mayhem in the streets of Chicago. Have lunch at Pavlov's Dogs. Dead Hungry is free for the month of July.
Dead Hungry at Smashwords!Use the Coupon Code: SW100
Also available at NoiseTrade.com: Dead Hungry at NoiseTrade!
MORPHWhat do you do if your cat takes up smoking? You stage an intervention
Short Story: MORPH
NEVER LANDAt what moment in your life are you at your personal best?
Short Story: NEVER LAND
July Summer/Winter Sale at Smashwords!
Hey, I'm one of the participating authors! Stop on over and check out my work:
DEAD HUNGRY
Release your inner Ghoul. Mayhem in the streets of Chicago. Have lunch at Pavlov's Dogs. Dead Hungry is free for the month of July.
Dead Hungry at Smashwords!Use the Coupon Code: SW100
Also available at NoiseTrade.com: Dead Hungry at NoiseTrade!
MORPHWhat do you do if your cat takes up smoking? You stage an intervention
Short Story: MORPH
NEVER LANDAt what moment in your life are you at your personal best?
Short Story: NEVER LAND
June 30, 2014
Explore the "Order of the Four Sons" -- An epic fantasy by authors Coyote Kishpaugh and Lauren Scharhag
Order of the Four Sons, an epic fantasy adventure series
Enter the world of the Order.
The Order of the Four Sons is a sprawling, fast-paced, epic adventure that encompasses multiple worlds and an ensemble cast of characters. Two ancient organizations, the Order of the Four Sons of Horus and Starry Wisdom, have been battling for centuries for possession of a powerful artifact known as the Staff of Solomon.
Book IThe series’ heroes are introduced: Colonel JD Garnett, novice mage Kate West, Detective Ryan Murphy, scholar Doug Grigori, and field techs Bill Welsh and Cecil Morgan. The team is dispatched to investigate the disappearance of one of their own in a small town. There, they uncover a lot more than they bargained for – a segment of the Staff of Solomon, and the evil forces that are converging to claim it.
Book I is permanently free through Smashwords and other e-book retailers.
Book IICarcosa follows the team – JD, Murphy, Doug and Kate – as they pursue Countess Elizabeth Bathory across the face of a sinister desert planet filled with untold dangers. O4S Director Clayton Grabowski and the Oracle find themselves mired in the political intrigues of the Order’s leadership, while back on Earth, Bill forges an uneasy alliance with a government agent. As they race to recover the Staff of Solomon, they uncover truths they had never expected about their enemies – and themselves.
Book IIIWhere Flap the Tatters of the King sees the surviving members of the Order – Kate, JD, Murphy, Bill, Clayton and Alyssa – reunited in a world known as Corbenic. With the Corbenese king held hostage by Starry Wisdom, the land has been plunged into endless winter. At all costs, the Order must liberate Corbenic and restore the king. As the team sets out, they find themselves once again braving the elements, on their way to Corbenic’s capital city. There, they will be plunged into a dark and seductive world, a world of alchemists and geomancers, nobles and courtesans. Unrest has spread throughout the empire, stirring talk of rebellion. And beneath all the gilt and glamor, evil sleeps.
Book IVGoing Forth By Day – the fourth and final book of the series is due tentatively in 2015. Be sure to check out the author’s blogs for news and sneak peeks.
Excerpt from Carcosa (O4S: Book II)
JD walked slightly ahead. Kate and Murphy flanked him closely. All three were tense and trying not to show it.
The town appeared to have just the one main, sun-drenched street. There were no women or children on it. The men watched them, some with hostility, some with caution. All with fear.
As the three of them walked further along the street, the small groups of men scuttled back a few steps. Then, as they passed, the men slowly came forward again, watching warily.
“Why are they looking at us like that?” Kate asked under her breath. The townsfolk looked like they expected the three of them at any moment to sprout fur and claws and start baying at the moon—Well, moons, her mind quickly amended.
“Dunno. Just roll with it,” JD muttered back out of the corner of his mouth.
Part of it seemed to be frank bewilderment at their appearance—specifically, Kate and Murphy’s appearance. JD could have passed through unnoticed on his own, but Kate and Murphy were both wearing sneakers, blue jeans, T-shirts. But more than that, all three of them were healthy. For all that their travel through the desert wastes had drained them, they were still obviously in much better shape than the people who lived here.
Several of the men that they saw had hunched backs or club feet. There were other deformities as well—misshapen faces and limbs, and they saw one man with a cleft palate. All of the men were thin and bedraggled-looking, and had the look of the chronically underfed: bad skin, bad teeth, and a certain sense of continual despair.
They were dressed similarly to JD himself—cowboy hats, boots, jeans, dusters, button-up shirts, bandanas. But the clothes were old, worn, homespun, mostly patched or stitched together. Some of them seemed to carry rifles as a matter of course. They moved with the telltale swagger of habitual riders.
There were even hitching posts to complete the image, but there were no horses. Instead, the large animals that were saddled and bridled there were short, stocky creatures, with neither mane nor tail. They had feet instead of hooves and thick legs. And, most curiously, they had snouts almost like a short trunk that they lifted inquisitively, sniffing at the team as they passed. Their coats varied, some were colored like horses -- solid, patched, or painted -- and others had spotted coats like deer. They looked like they made good pack animals.
Abruptly, a door slammed open and a small, greasy man was unceremoniously shoved out into the thoroughfare by several hands and a boot. He stumbled and nearly went sprawling into the dust. The door was immediately slammed shut and locked behind him.
The man was nearly knock-kneed with terror, his face sheet-white as he attempted to straighten up and position his hat more firmly on his head. On his vest was a six-pointed tin star.
“Um,” he managed, “Hey, you there.”
The three stopped, considered him. Like the Eerin, this man was not speaking English. Yet they understood him just fine. In a way, it was stranger than with the Eerin. The Eerin, at least, had seemed so alien that needing a translating device made a kind of sense. This man was so like them, in a town that could have existed in America circa 1880, speaking a language never heard on Earth. It was just . . . surreal.
And it was not at all like being dubbed, as Murphy had feared. The magic of the translator amulets, it appeared, was far more subtle than that. The man’s mouth was moving. Clearly he was speaking some other language. But they could understand him. It was difficult to tell just where the transformation occurred—in the vocal cords, in the airwaves, in their ears, in their heads?
They did not have time to ponder such questions. More practical concerns took precedence.
JD offered him an expectant, “Sir?”
The man seemed slightly emboldened, or at least his voice was steadier. “Name’s Ford McClellan. I’m sheriff around here.”
Murphy kept a straight face. “Yeah, we could tell.”
“Well, all’s I’m sayin’ is, I need to know . . . what your business here might be.”
“Well, sir,” JD answered, “We aim to get some supplies, get our bearings, and find a place to bed down for the night.”
The sheriff blinked. “We don’t want no trouble.”
JD gave a slight nod. “No, sir.”
“Well, all right then.” The man backed away, his thumbs hooked through his belt loops. “Good day.”
Oddly, their interaction with the sheriff was something of an ice-breaker-- for them, but mainly for the townspeople. Emboldened, the men drew closer and eyed them up and down.
Some of the buildings had signs hanging out or the storefronts had faded writing, all of it similar to what Murphy had seen in the books back in the old cantina-- slightly runic, slightly pictographic. None of it they could read.
“Excuse me,” JD inquired of a passerby. “Could you point us to the general store?”
The man looked slightly startled to be singled out. Then he pointed. “Yonder.”
“Gracias,” JD touched the brim of his hat. The man looked even more startled to be the recipient of such civility.
The three of them hastened over to where the man had pointed.
Author Bios
Coyote Kishpaugh has been writing prose and poetry most of his life, and alternately entertains and terrifies his children by telling them stories late at night. While he has written books before, this is his first foray into co-authorship. He lives in Kansas City, KS and is currently pursuing a degree in psychology.
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Coyote-Kishpaugh/152349441525774Blog: http://coyotekishpaugh.blogspot.com/
Lauren Scharhag is the author of Under Julia, The Ice Dragon, The Winter Prince and West Side Girl & Other Poems. Her work has appeared most in The SNReview, The Daily Novel, Infectus, and Glass: A Journal of Poetry. She is the recipient of the Gerard Manley Hopkins Award for poetry and a fellowship from Rockhurst University for fiction. She lives in Kansas City, MO with her husband and three cats.
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/laurenscharhag?ref_type=bookmarkTwitter: @laurenscharhagBlog: http://www.laurenscharhag.blogspot.com/
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/4031508.Lauren_Scharhag
Enter the world of the Order.
The Order of the Four Sons is a sprawling, fast-paced, epic adventure that encompasses multiple worlds and an ensemble cast of characters. Two ancient organizations, the Order of the Four Sons of Horus and Starry Wisdom, have been battling for centuries for possession of a powerful artifact known as the Staff of Solomon.
Book IThe series’ heroes are introduced: Colonel JD Garnett, novice mage Kate West, Detective Ryan Murphy, scholar Doug Grigori, and field techs Bill Welsh and Cecil Morgan. The team is dispatched to investigate the disappearance of one of their own in a small town. There, they uncover a lot more than they bargained for – a segment of the Staff of Solomon, and the evil forces that are converging to claim it.
Book I is permanently free through Smashwords and other e-book retailers.
Book IICarcosa follows the team – JD, Murphy, Doug and Kate – as they pursue Countess Elizabeth Bathory across the face of a sinister desert planet filled with untold dangers. O4S Director Clayton Grabowski and the Oracle find themselves mired in the political intrigues of the Order’s leadership, while back on Earth, Bill forges an uneasy alliance with a government agent. As they race to recover the Staff of Solomon, they uncover truths they had never expected about their enemies – and themselves.
Book IIIWhere Flap the Tatters of the King sees the surviving members of the Order – Kate, JD, Murphy, Bill, Clayton and Alyssa – reunited in a world known as Corbenic. With the Corbenese king held hostage by Starry Wisdom, the land has been plunged into endless winter. At all costs, the Order must liberate Corbenic and restore the king. As the team sets out, they find themselves once again braving the elements, on their way to Corbenic’s capital city. There, they will be plunged into a dark and seductive world, a world of alchemists and geomancers, nobles and courtesans. Unrest has spread throughout the empire, stirring talk of rebellion. And beneath all the gilt and glamor, evil sleeps.
Book IVGoing Forth By Day – the fourth and final book of the series is due tentatively in 2015. Be sure to check out the author’s blogs for news and sneak peeks.
Excerpt from Carcosa (O4S: Book II)
JD walked slightly ahead. Kate and Murphy flanked him closely. All three were tense and trying not to show it.
The town appeared to have just the one main, sun-drenched street. There were no women or children on it. The men watched them, some with hostility, some with caution. All with fear.
As the three of them walked further along the street, the small groups of men scuttled back a few steps. Then, as they passed, the men slowly came forward again, watching warily.
“Why are they looking at us like that?” Kate asked under her breath. The townsfolk looked like they expected the three of them at any moment to sprout fur and claws and start baying at the moon—Well, moons, her mind quickly amended.
“Dunno. Just roll with it,” JD muttered back out of the corner of his mouth.
Part of it seemed to be frank bewilderment at their appearance—specifically, Kate and Murphy’s appearance. JD could have passed through unnoticed on his own, but Kate and Murphy were both wearing sneakers, blue jeans, T-shirts. But more than that, all three of them were healthy. For all that their travel through the desert wastes had drained them, they were still obviously in much better shape than the people who lived here.
Several of the men that they saw had hunched backs or club feet. There were other deformities as well—misshapen faces and limbs, and they saw one man with a cleft palate. All of the men were thin and bedraggled-looking, and had the look of the chronically underfed: bad skin, bad teeth, and a certain sense of continual despair.
They were dressed similarly to JD himself—cowboy hats, boots, jeans, dusters, button-up shirts, bandanas. But the clothes were old, worn, homespun, mostly patched or stitched together. Some of them seemed to carry rifles as a matter of course. They moved with the telltale swagger of habitual riders.
There were even hitching posts to complete the image, but there were no horses. Instead, the large animals that were saddled and bridled there were short, stocky creatures, with neither mane nor tail. They had feet instead of hooves and thick legs. And, most curiously, they had snouts almost like a short trunk that they lifted inquisitively, sniffing at the team as they passed. Their coats varied, some were colored like horses -- solid, patched, or painted -- and others had spotted coats like deer. They looked like they made good pack animals.
Abruptly, a door slammed open and a small, greasy man was unceremoniously shoved out into the thoroughfare by several hands and a boot. He stumbled and nearly went sprawling into the dust. The door was immediately slammed shut and locked behind him.
The man was nearly knock-kneed with terror, his face sheet-white as he attempted to straighten up and position his hat more firmly on his head. On his vest was a six-pointed tin star.
“Um,” he managed, “Hey, you there.”
The three stopped, considered him. Like the Eerin, this man was not speaking English. Yet they understood him just fine. In a way, it was stranger than with the Eerin. The Eerin, at least, had seemed so alien that needing a translating device made a kind of sense. This man was so like them, in a town that could have existed in America circa 1880, speaking a language never heard on Earth. It was just . . . surreal.
And it was not at all like being dubbed, as Murphy had feared. The magic of the translator amulets, it appeared, was far more subtle than that. The man’s mouth was moving. Clearly he was speaking some other language. But they could understand him. It was difficult to tell just where the transformation occurred—in the vocal cords, in the airwaves, in their ears, in their heads?
They did not have time to ponder such questions. More practical concerns took precedence.
JD offered him an expectant, “Sir?”
The man seemed slightly emboldened, or at least his voice was steadier. “Name’s Ford McClellan. I’m sheriff around here.”
Murphy kept a straight face. “Yeah, we could tell.”
“Well, all’s I’m sayin’ is, I need to know . . . what your business here might be.”
“Well, sir,” JD answered, “We aim to get some supplies, get our bearings, and find a place to bed down for the night.”
The sheriff blinked. “We don’t want no trouble.”
JD gave a slight nod. “No, sir.”
“Well, all right then.” The man backed away, his thumbs hooked through his belt loops. “Good day.”
Oddly, their interaction with the sheriff was something of an ice-breaker-- for them, but mainly for the townspeople. Emboldened, the men drew closer and eyed them up and down.
Some of the buildings had signs hanging out or the storefronts had faded writing, all of it similar to what Murphy had seen in the books back in the old cantina-- slightly runic, slightly pictographic. None of it they could read.
“Excuse me,” JD inquired of a passerby. “Could you point us to the general store?”
The man looked slightly startled to be singled out. Then he pointed. “Yonder.”
“Gracias,” JD touched the brim of his hat. The man looked even more startled to be the recipient of such civility.
The three of them hastened over to where the man had pointed.
Author Bios
Coyote Kishpaugh has been writing prose and poetry most of his life, and alternately entertains and terrifies his children by telling them stories late at night. While he has written books before, this is his first foray into co-authorship. He lives in Kansas City, KS and is currently pursuing a degree in psychology.
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Coyote-Kishpaugh/152349441525774Blog: http://coyotekishpaugh.blogspot.com/
Lauren Scharhag is the author of Under Julia, The Ice Dragon, The Winter Prince and West Side Girl & Other Poems. Her work has appeared most in The SNReview, The Daily Novel, Infectus, and Glass: A Journal of Poetry. She is the recipient of the Gerard Manley Hopkins Award for poetry and a fellowship from Rockhurst University for fiction. She lives in Kansas City, MO with her husband and three cats.
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/laurenscharhag?ref_type=bookmarkTwitter: @laurenscharhagBlog: http://www.laurenscharhag.blogspot.com/
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/4031508.Lauren_Scharhag
June 27, 2014
The Best American Nonrequired Reading 2013
This anthology series, edited by Dave Eggers, is a highpoint of my year. A conglomeration of fiction, essays, blog posts, graphic novels, graduation speeches, internet lists and memes, journalism, and personal memoir. It’s an eclectic mix that always ignites my curiosity about the world.
What’s so amazing about the series is that the pieces are selected by a group of high school students. They read, compile, debate, and decide which pieces to include. Their evident enthusiasm gives me hope that literature is safe in the hands of every succeeding generation.
What I love about the series:
I never know what I’m going to get.The pieces cover a wide range of topics.I discover new writers to explore.
In the 2013 edition, some of my favorite pieces were
“Hannah and Andrew,” by Pamela Colloff – a harrowing bit of journalism about suspected child abuse and injustice in the courts.
“Black Box,” by Jennifer Egan – a curiously-written story about an undercover agent. It defies traditional conventions of storytelling for something much more thought-provoking about gender roles.
“Bewildered Decisions in Times of Mercantile Terror,” by Jim Gavin – a well-executed story about cousins facing career and non-career challenges.
“How to Slowly Kill Yourself and Others in America: A Remembrance,” by Kiese Laymon – A reflection on still-evident racism in our country.
“The Blind Faith of the One-Eyed Matador,” by Karen Russell – this piece taught me a bit about the bullfighting culture of Spain, and how perseverance is possible in the face of unbelievable odds.
“Human Snowball,” by Davy Rothbart – my favorite story. Not only do I wish I’d written it, I will hold onto its lesson for my own life.
The only downside to this edition is that there is less levity than in prior ones. Still, I highly recommend it for the curious reader.
What’s so amazing about the series is that the pieces are selected by a group of high school students. They read, compile, debate, and decide which pieces to include. Their evident enthusiasm gives me hope that literature is safe in the hands of every succeeding generation.
What I love about the series:
I never know what I’m going to get.The pieces cover a wide range of topics.I discover new writers to explore.
In the 2013 edition, some of my favorite pieces were
“Hannah and Andrew,” by Pamela Colloff – a harrowing bit of journalism about suspected child abuse and injustice in the courts.
“Black Box,” by Jennifer Egan – a curiously-written story about an undercover agent. It defies traditional conventions of storytelling for something much more thought-provoking about gender roles.
“Bewildered Decisions in Times of Mercantile Terror,” by Jim Gavin – a well-executed story about cousins facing career and non-career challenges.
“How to Slowly Kill Yourself and Others in America: A Remembrance,” by Kiese Laymon – A reflection on still-evident racism in our country.
“The Blind Faith of the One-Eyed Matador,” by Karen Russell – this piece taught me a bit about the bullfighting culture of Spain, and how perseverance is possible in the face of unbelievable odds.
“Human Snowball,” by Davy Rothbart – my favorite story. Not only do I wish I’d written it, I will hold onto its lesson for my own life.
The only downside to this edition is that there is less levity than in prior ones. Still, I highly recommend it for the curious reader.
June 12, 2014
Requiem for a Paper Bag
One of my favorite book series is The Best American Non-Required Reading, a compilation of short stories, essays, lists, emails, and other pieces from the year. I’m currently reading the 2013 edition and will post a review when I’m finished.
One of the stories in that edition was “Human Snowball,” by Davy Rothbart. It quickly became one of my favorite pieces, so of course I went looking to find more work by him. And that’s how I found Requiem for a Paper Bag: Celebrities and Civilians Tell Stories of the Best Lost, Tossed, and Found Items from Around the World.
The title describes what you are about to get, but it’s the unexpected variety of the pieces that is so engaging. There’s a mixture of nonfiction and fiction, a few poems, and a few illustrated pieces. Most are very short, only a few pages.
I guess I never thought much about the peculiar things that are lost and found: a frog, a lobster, a bloody jockstrap, a Bob Dylan letter, a bag of bottles to be recycled. Scraps of paper with lists or notes or cryptic sentences. A falling bullet.
Many of the writers talk about the universal qualities of lost and/or found items, their significance, their mystery. Others describe their personal connection to the items. It’s quirky, unexpected, and fascinating.
The book encourages a sense of wonder about the world. Maybe instead of stopping to smell the roses, I should pay attention to the stuff lying in the gutter.
I’m glad I found this book.
One of the stories in that edition was “Human Snowball,” by Davy Rothbart. It quickly became one of my favorite pieces, so of course I went looking to find more work by him. And that’s how I found Requiem for a Paper Bag: Celebrities and Civilians Tell Stories of the Best Lost, Tossed, and Found Items from Around the World.
The title describes what you are about to get, but it’s the unexpected variety of the pieces that is so engaging. There’s a mixture of nonfiction and fiction, a few poems, and a few illustrated pieces. Most are very short, only a few pages.
I guess I never thought much about the peculiar things that are lost and found: a frog, a lobster, a bloody jockstrap, a Bob Dylan letter, a bag of bottles to be recycled. Scraps of paper with lists or notes or cryptic sentences. A falling bullet.
Many of the writers talk about the universal qualities of lost and/or found items, their significance, their mystery. Others describe their personal connection to the items. It’s quirky, unexpected, and fascinating.
The book encourages a sense of wonder about the world. Maybe instead of stopping to smell the roses, I should pay attention to the stuff lying in the gutter.
I’m glad I found this book.
