Blog Tour: The Tragic Age by Stephen Metcalfe
Today I’m thrilled to have the blog tour for THE TRAGIC AGE by Stephen Metcalfe stopping here at Books and Whimsy. This book sounds fab! I haven’t gotten a chance to start my ARC yet but it’s definitely on my TBR. I have an exclusive excerpt for you guys today, and I’ll also be giving you the info on where else you can find the tour.
Follow the tour
Excerpt 1: Tuesday, February 3rd: KellyVision (Link)
Excerpt 2: Saturday, February 7th: Amaterasu Reads (Link)
Excerpt 3: Tuesday, February 10th: The Young Folks (Link)
Excerpt 4: Friday, February 13th: Unbound Books
Excerpt 5: Sunday, February 15th: Books and Whimsy (That’s me!)
Excerpt 6: Thursday, February 19th: Stories & Sweeties
Excerpt 7: Monday, February 23rd: As I Turn the Pages
Excerpt 8: Saturday, February 28th: Novel Novice
Excerpt
“Hammurabi!”
It’s a Thursday, sixth period World History, the horse latitudes, and the teacher, Mr. Monaghan, knows he’s going down with the ship.
“Hammurabi reigned over the Babylonian Empire until his death in 1750 b.c. And he did what, people? Anyone?” No one is remotely paying attention. Mr. Monaghan, small, slight, possibly gay, and one of the few male teach- ers at High School High who wears a tie every day, and raises his voice like a tourist who thinks shouting will
make him understood in a foreign language.
“He created laws, people! The code of Hammurabi. The fundamentals of which—”
As Mr. Monaghan turns and paces and lectures to the ceiling, I glance around. I see twenty-eight teenagers who look like they’re taking a collective dump of tedium. It’s as if their jeans, skirts, and underwear are down around their ankles and they’re sitting on toilets with painful, consti- pated looks on their faces. Of course, part of this might be that no one, except me, has read the assignment. And I’m not about to admit to it.
“. . . two hundred eighty-two laws, written on twelve clay tablets in—what? Anyone?”
If Mr. Monaghan is waiting for an answer he’s going to be waiting a very long time.
“Akkadian, people! The language of Babylon! The foundation of modern civilization!”
He might as well be speaking in Akkadian. If one moron brings an accusation against another moron, and that moron leaps into a river, if he sinks, the first moron shall take possession of his house. Some foundation of civilization. Maybe people have always been insane.
And now, just in time to prevent us all from killing ourselves, there’s a knock on the door. Mr. Monaghan sighs. He looks discouraged. It must drive teachers crazy to have to spend so much time teaching something that no one really cares about. Of course, the study of ancient Babylon doesn’t present a lot of job options to do anything else.
Mr. Monaghan crosses the front of the room, opens the door and steps out into the hallway. Everyone gives a collective sigh of relief. Maybe he won’t come back. But then Mr. Esposito, the school principal, sticks his head in, wrinkles his brow, tightens his lips, and squints at us. It’s like he’s a displeased police detective and he’s trying to decide whether or not we’re worth making his day. Apparently we’re not because after a second he ducks back out. You can hear him and Mr. Monaghan murmuring at one another. I can just see some papers change hands.
“Yes, all right, come in,” Mr. Monaghan says. He steps back into the room. With the guy.
You feel a stir of interest in the room.
The guy is tall. He wears black jeans and a rage against the machine T-shirt with the sleeves cut off. He wears heavy motorcycle boots. The jeans, shirt, and boots look like a uniform on him. His dark hair is sort of long and wavy, a lot of it different lengths. He has steel closure rings in his left ear and one in his right eye-brow.
Hammurabi probably did too.
He has a barbed-wire tattoo spiraling down his ropy muscled right forearm.
Barbed wire signifies confinement.
He has brightly colored flower tattoos covering his left. Flowers are symbols of youth, life, and victory over death.
He has woven strands of wire and leather worn loose around his neck. A metal scorpion dangles from it.
An amulet protects the wearer from harm.
“People,” says Mr. Monaghan, “we have a new student joining us. This is”—and he reads from the paper— “Willard Twomey.” Some of the morons in the class snicker at the name. The guy doesn’t seem to notice.
“Take a seat, Mr. Twomey,” says Mr. Monaghan. “We’ll get you up to speed later.”
Willard Twomey moves down the aisle and past me. He makes no eye contact with anyone. As if guided by ra- dar, he steps over an outstretched foot. Some of the morons in the class snicker again. Willard Twomey’s expression doesn’t change.
None of this is happening, and if it is, he couldn’t care less.
