A Fragment of the Great Nothing (pt 3)

Prologue: World with End
Part 1 • Part 2

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Galbron lowered his wine glass and continued.

Source: WikiMedia Commons

“Down—” the cough again. “Down here. Help me.” Jakrom looked, and saw a narrow crack. He peered down, and was surprised to see a man looking back up.

“What are you doing here?” Jakrom gasped.

Even in his distress, the man smiled. “I will ask you the same thing, but not just now. I am Perin. Do you have water?” he whispered.

“Of course, of course.” Jakrom found a place to wedge the handle of the broken pickaxe, tied his rope to it, and slid down. He found a man covered head to foot in furs, resting on a pack. He gave the man a waterskin, and the newcomer sipped at it.

“Ah. Better.” Perin still had more croak than voice, but he sipped again. “To answer your question, on the Edge of the World a foot placed wrong can kill. Two days ago, I slipped on loose stone up above and fell here. It is warm enough in this sheltered spot, and food I have, but lost what little water I carried in the fall. And my leg is broken. But what of you? What brings you to the Edge?”

“This is how I shall prove myself worthy of marrying the daughter of a merchant,” said Jakrom. “I have been sent to stand on the Great Nothing, and bring back a fragment as proof.”

“If the bride-price for all daughters is so great,” Perin chuckled, “I am surprised there are folk left in the world!”

“Larbam offered me his older daughter with no bride-price, but I know her not.”

“Then she is a prize indeed. But do not chip at the Great Nothing. I have a fragment that I can give you instead.” Perin reached into his furs, and withdrew a large chip of black stone.

Jakrom took it and stared into it wide-eyed. It was the deepest black he’d ever seen, darker than any windowless closet. In its flat side, he thought he could see sparks of distant lights. He felt as if he could fall into it. Finally, he looked away. “I thank you, sir. But if I need not chip away a piece on my own, I must still stand on the Great Nothing. I will not deceive the father of the woman I wish to marry.”

“And to have come this far?” He nodded. “Of course. You are nearly there. Go have your look. But take your rope, that you may find your way back. Those not accustomed to the Great Nothing find it confusing. And when you feel lost, look up.”

“It is said that you lose your way, and then your mind, in the Great Nothing,” said Jakrom. “Your counsel is wise. But first, let me splint your leg. When I return, I can help you further.”

Jakrom left his waterskin and the rest of his pack behind, taking with him only his rope and the pickaxe. So close to his goal, and free of his pack, he felt light as a feather. He quickly scrambled up the steep slope, nearly bounding. But remembering what Perin had said, he kept a close watch on his footing. As he climbed, the sky before him turned a deep shade of blue, then almost black.

At last, he reached the peak. He stood watching, one with the stone, for how long he could not say. Before him, sunlight scattered over the Edge and marked a way down into a blackness as black as the fragment that now rested in his own pocket. To either side, a yellow-white line stretched away as far as he could see: the mountains that formed the Edge of the World. Above him… pinpricks of light, the “stars” of epic poems, hidden by Thurun’s eternal day. Finally, he focused on the slope before him and found his way down.

By some magic—or perhaps only his eyes craving what little light there was—he found that he could see better as he went. As the slope began to level out, to a pool of utter black, he again found a place to wedge his pickaxe and tied his rope to it. And thus Jakrom stepped onto, and stood on, the Great Nothing.

No poem, no story, can prepare a creature of endless Day for endless Night. A frigid wind cut through Jakrom’s jacket and thick clothing, but he felt nothing. Each breath he took made a little puff of fog. The vast plain of black obsidian was filled with the stars that twinkled above, and he thought he might float away to dance forever with those tiny sparks.

“I must go back!” he cried, but his words were swallowed in the Great Nothing. Then he remembered Perin’s advice: look up. As he raised his eyes to the stars, wondering what good the injured man had thought this would do, he saw a line of yellow-white stretching away. There was the Edge of the World, and perspective snapped into place. In his numb hand, he remembered the rope that anchored him—and his sanity—to the world he knew.


“When I heard Ethtar tell his tale,” Chelinn mused, “I did not see how the ‘Great Nothing’ would be so terrible. It would be little more than a clear winter night in the Northern Reach, or perhaps the Icebound Islands. I did not consider the thought that those who grow up in eternal daylight would not know how to cope with night.”

“Indeed,” said Galbron. “And the change we heralded, that morning we winded the Seventh Trumpet, will leave many unable to cope as well.” He looked to their host. “Protector Ethtar, have you thought about how sorcerers will fare in a world that increasingly has less need of them?”

Ethtar gave him a sour look. “I have. But as yet, I have no answer.” He shrugged and forced a smile. “You should finish your story, though.”

“That I should.” Galbron drained his wineglass once again, and continued.

continued…

Weekend Fall Mason Blogging

Fall on Planet Georgia is a great time to be outside. After a long hot summer, it’s nice to be able to sit out on the patio with a fire to keep the bugs away. And Mason’s all for being outside…

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We went to the corn maze last weekend. He had a blast, running full-tilt boogie through a very complex maze. This wasn’t the kind where you could always get through it by turning right at every juncture.

That way!

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Seems like every time we go outside lately, he wants to go into the woods and pick blackberries. We have to keep telling him they came in June and were gone in July. While we have some in the freezer, the persimmon tree just above the mailbox is starting to drop little sweet-bombs:

Snack time!

These are, as far as I can tell, a variety called Fuyu. They’re not the ultra-pucker type, so we’ll find something to use them in.

Oh, and the in-laws have two pear trees. They’re Kieffer pears, which are very firm and have a tough peel, and are meant for cooking or canning. I picked up several bags of good pears off the ground, and the wife and I canned eight pint jars and five quart jars of preserves. She wants me to pick up another bag, to make pear relish. I cooked a few in my crock pot at work last week, just to smell up the office.

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We went to visit the wife’s older sister (the not-nutty one) yesterday. With her last kid in college, she’s downsizing and selling her house. We brought home some outdoor furniture, but Mason saw a huge spread of pumpkins at a nearby church and about went nuts. So we got a couple to carve, and Mason found a very strange looking gourd:

So ugly it's cute (the gourd)

He wasn’t too thrilled about the anthill over at the table where they collected the money, especially since one chomped his foot, but a little cream on the bite and he was fine. If only all the hurts he gets in life can be fixed with a little cream and sympathy…

Snippet dropped by on Friday, on the way to see her mom near Jacksonville, with her new boyfriend in tow. Her dad (who’s okay) also showed up. I got a good fire going on the patio and we all sat out there and yakked until we realized we’d forgotten supper. She’s coming back by on Monday, when it’s supposed to be raining heavily. Here’s hoping they get here and gone okay… they’re in his parents’ new car, and I’d hate for something to happen to it. :-P

#FridayFlash: Uprising

Source: openclipart.org

Joe leaned over, and threw a couple sticks into the fire ring. Sparks spiraled up, reaching to join their brothers in the sky. A wisp of smoke curled Joe's way in the dark, not strong enough to sting his eyes.

He gave a happy sigh, leaned back in is plastic chair, and drained his Bud. At his feet, his dog Bo echoed the sigh. Joe tossed the empty beer can onto the heap of cans, off to one side, then fished a fresh one out of the cooler next to him.

Popping the can, he paused. Standing across from him, at the edge of the firelight, was a strange woman. Her wrinkled face and dark garb made her hard to see, as if she were just part of the woods.

"Where the hell did you come from?" he demanded, glaring at the interloper. He stole a glance at Bo, who made no attempt to get up.

"I have always been here," the woman replied. Joe thought she had an accent. Something foreign.

"You squattin' on my property?" Joe was incensed. "Bad enough you Mexicans sneak up here and live off our welfare, you gotta squat on land that don't—"

"Where do you get your wood?" the woman cut in, gesturing at the stack, within easy reach of Joe's chair.

"I cut it myself. As if that's any of your business," he growled. "Too many trees, anyway. I'm clearin' out—"

"You have said enough!" The woman took a step closer. Her clothes looked like tree bark. Damn good camo, he thought. Bo raised his head, sniffed, and trotted off into the woods. "By your own words," she went on, "you are condemned, you and all your brethren."

"What's that supposed—" Joe sneered, then heard the snapping noises. He looked around, but never saw the bough that crushed his thick skull and collapsed the chair beneath him.

The dryad raised her arms; around her, the trees whispered in the language of the wind. "This night," she intoned, "we rise up! Join me, my sisters. Let all Nature arise and reclaim what is hers!"

Bo returned, and sniffed his fallen master. He whined and lay down next to him. Around them, the uprising began.

A Fragment of the Great Nothing (pt 2)

Prologue: World with End
Part 1

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Galbron looked into the distance, and continued his story.

Source: WikiMedia Commons

After a month of preparation (he continued), Jakrom departed his home in the Middle Latitudes, that pleasant band of eternal afternoon, and set his face north (that is, toward the Edge, as they reckon directions on Thurun). He carried food, a crossbow, a pickaxe, and what money he had. The first part of his journey north were on roads well-travelled, and was uneventful. But beyond the last town, well short of the halfway point, he would enter the Wild Lands. Few ventured there other than prospectors and hunters. Thus Jakrom spent a few days in the last town, and learned what he could of the lands to the north.

He spent much of his money buying drinks for prospectors in the tavern where he stayed. Most of them had the same thing to say: “The best way north is along the river. There is a trail. Sing or whistle as you go, so prospectors know you are not a sneak.”

“But when you pass the headwaters?” Jakrom asked. “What then?”

“Not many of us go that far,” they said, shaking their heads. “But there is a line of mountains that run north, then east. Some say there are gems to be had there, but it’s a long way and those who prospect there never go alone.”

“But nobody has gone past those mountains?” Jakrom would ask.

“What else is there? Only more mountains at the Edge of the World, cold and rocky, then the Great Nothing. What fool would go there?”

“A fool seeking the bride-price of a rich man’s daughter?”

And the prospector would laugh. “Ha! Luck to the bold, as they say. If I see you here again, I will buy your drinks next time!”


Jakrom followed the river northward. Remembering the advice of the prospectors, he sang of fair Rakah and her friendly smile as he went. All along the river, the prospectors welcomed him and invited him to share their sleep-fire. They smiled and shook their heads when he told them of his intent, but wished him luck and sent him on his way after breakfast. As he continued, the camps became infrequent and he often slept alone.

Once, he came upon an empty camp. He called out, and heard an answer from the river. He followed the call to find four dejected men standing in the river, looking at a low bluff that formed the riverbank at this point. “Discover and prosper!” he called, for this is how prospectors greet one another on the river.

“We have discovered,” said one, “but alas, we may not prosper. We have found a vein of gold, but our pickaxe has broken.”

“Then use mine,” said Jakrom, offering them his tool.

They cheered, and invited Jakrom to join them. They took turns digging gold out of the riverbank,  filling five sacks. Later, around the sleep-fire, they opened a jug of wine and made merry. When they awoke, Jakrom left them his pickaxe. “Your broken one will serve my purpose,” he told them, taking it up.

“You must take your share of gold with you,” they insisted. “We will dig some more before we return down-river, and we won’t be able to carry our share and yours. But we will leave you more in town, as thanks and fair trade for your pickaxe.” Thus, Jakrom departed with a heavy burden. But soon, he left the river behind. To his east rose the mountains. His shadow, a little longer each day, led him north. He found a place to bury his share of gold, and left it there with a curse upon anyone who might find and take it away. The curse was an old family heirloom, passed down to each generation, and had not failed them.

Every day, the sun hung a little lower in the sky. The air turned cool, then cooler still. Jakrom donned the jacket he’d bought for this part of his journey, and slept a little closer to his sleep-fire. At last, he spied another range of mountains to his north: the Edge of the World. Game was plentiful here, in a land where people rarely came, yet Jakrom chafed at the time needed to hunt and prepare his meals. He was a young man, within sight of his goal.

A cold wind fell from the mountains as Jakrom drew closer, and only the exertion of climbing kept him warm. He began to seek sheltered places to build his sleep-fire. Fuel for his fires grew scarce on the dim and shaded mountainside, as did the streams and rills which he depended on for his water. For the first time, Jakrom began to have doubts about his goal. But to have come this far? It was a lesser foolishness to press on, so press on he did.

As he scrambled up a rocky face, near the summit, he stopped for a moment. He’d heard something, like a faint cry. He cocked his head, and this time he heard another sound: a cough.

“Is someone here?” he called.


“Well?” Chelinn rumbled. “Was there someone?”

“Sadly, my wineglass has emptied itself,” Galbron sighed, looking at his friend through the glass. “If only it could fill itself anew.”

Sarna laughed and took up his glass and hers. Ethtar met her with the jug, and filled both glasses with a smile. Sarna returned with the freshened glasses, and sat closer than before to Galbron. She looked up at her adopted father and grinned.

Galbron took a long sip. “Ah, better. Perhaps I can continue now.”

continued…

Weekend Mason blogging

Or, “what I did on our vacation…”

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Y'all can call me Shady!

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Hey, these floaties keep me out of the water!
Time to go for a swim…

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Yes, wearing ice cream is half the fun!

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Man, it's been a long day… I guess
I'll rest a minute… ZZZzzzZZZzzz…

#FridayFlash: Poltergeists in Space

This is a continuation of an earlier #FridayFlash, Ghosts in a Can.

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The spirit guides paused in their chanting to confer. “Fifteen,” one said on the general band. In other words, fifteen ghosts on board. “Please proceed with repowering.”

Construction Engineer Paul Temberson checked both ends of his tether, then kicked off the hull of Deimos Salvage VI (aka “Sweet Six”). In a few seconds, he touched the space-weathered outer hull of the can once known as Paradigm Industries Number Four (“Para-4”). This was his third salvage run, and he found he liked the work. Tearing down is always more fun than building up, an old friend once said, but he was describing his ex’s approach to relationships.

Paul found the diagnostics hatch and pried it open. Looking at his wristpad, he punched into the maintenance band. “Looks like a standard D-7 diagnostics port,” he said. “Telemetry receive ready?”

“Let ‘er rip,” Narayan said. Narayan was a Diagnostics Tech, and a damn good one. He and Paul had hit it off right away on his first run. Narayan hadn’t kept Paul hanging in vac at all—third time was the charm. This guy was a keeper.

Paul checked the fuel cell one more time, then sorted through the pigtails on the ancient Atlanta Instrumentation box. His first run, he’d been surprised when they handed him this fossil, but it matched up well with the cans they were recycling. He found the D-7 plug and connected it to the panel. “Applying power,” he said. Several amber lights on the panel started blinking, then turned green, one by one.

“Self-tests passed,” said Narayan. “Ah. Looks like the last one out turned off the lights behind him. Good form.”

“No surprise there,” said Paul. “The solar panels are folded in. I’ll bet the pivots are vac-welded.”

“A bet you’d likely win.” Narayan laughed. “Batteries are depleted, as usual. Try applying evac-level power.”

“That’s all this fuel cell can do,” said Paul. He punched a button on the diag box, and more amber lights went green on the panel. Several others lit up, flashing amber. “Evac power applied. Fuel cell has thirty minutes.”

“Confirming emergency lighting. Thank you, Paul. Narayan.” That was Steven Crescent Moon, one of the few spirit guides who tried to acquaint himself with the rest of the crew. “Primary activity is in Sections Two, Five, and the bridge. The salvage crews can begin their work in the other sections at any time.”

“They’re isolated, then?” Paul asked. Ghosts rarely used a power connection to invade a salvage ship, but it had happened. Such events brought little danger, but much disruption. Spirit guides worked to prevent the possibility.

“They should be, by the time you’re ready to plug this can in.” Paul could hear the grin in Steven’s voice through the general band.

“Roger that. Whup, got a visitor here.” Paul felt the adrenaline surge that accompanied a visitation. Lights flashed at random on the diagnostics panel. Clattering noises came over the general band.

“Poltergeists, poltergeists,” one of the spirit guides said. “Paul, cut power.”

“Cutting power.” Paul flipped the main breaker on the diagnostics box, then disconnected the cable. The indicator lights flickered for a few seconds, but died out. He listened to the noise on the general band. “Everyone all right?”

“So far,” said Steven Crescent Moon. “Everything’s tied down, they’re just throwing dust around right now.” A chunking, snapping noise came over the radio. “What’s that?” one of the other spirit guides asked.

Motion above Paul caught his eye. “Holy… it’s the solar panels! They’re trying to get them open!”

Captain Li’s lilting voice joined the chatter. “Clear the can. Clear the can. Evac Protocol Three.” That was one level above a drill: orderly exit, leave nothing behind.

Paul buttoned up the diag box and kicked off the can, back to Sweet Six. The airlock door was closed. “Knock knock!” he called.

“Sorry, Paul,” Dikembe’s voice chuckled in his ears. We were in the airlock when the captain called the evac. It’s clear to cycle now.”

“Roger.” The light went green, and the door swung inward. He secured the diag box inside, then stood in the open door, waiting for the spirit guides. He watched the vac-welded arms on the solar panels twitch, as the poltergeists tried to pull them open.

“Whoa. Incoming,” a spirit guide said. “We’re leaving!” another barked, her professional serenity under severe stress. “Watch behind,” Steven said, “they might try throwing whatever that was again.”

“Are you in danger?” the captain asked.

“Not much,” said Steven. “As long as they don’t have power, they can’t activate anything.”

“Better hurry, then,” Paul told him. “There’s a little play in the arms.”

“Block ‘em at the diag panel, then!” the stressed spirit guide—Mary Alice something—suggested.

“Negative, negative,” several voices chorused with Paul’s. “Evac protocol. I need to be here to catch your tether.”

“We’re at the lock,” said Steven. “You ready?”

“Do it!” Paul soon saw a blinking light—the tether end—approaching. About halfway across, it suddenly deflected. “Damn!” Again, he checked his own tether, then dived after it.

“What happened?” the captain called.

“Poltergeist knocked the tether end off course,” said Paul. “Got it.” He snapped it onto his belt, then attached it to Sweet Six as he returned. “Secure. Come on home. Better move it, they’ve about got the juice back on!”

“Four fish on the hook,” Steven called. “Reel us in.”

“Roger.” Paul started pulling.

“Look out!” Steven yelled. The others shouted. “Keep pulling!”

“They knocked Steven off!” Mary Alice yelled.

“Hang on!” Paul snapped, and hauled hard. In seconds, three shaken spirit guides stood in the airlock. Paul took the loose end, and dived out. “Steven!”

“Here.” Lights on Steven’s suit raced back and forth, marking his location. Paul kicked twice to deflect himself, and reached Steven with a meter of loose tether to spare.

“Gotcha,” said Paul. “You okay?”

“Just shaken up.” Steven clipped himself on. “Let’s get home.”

Writing Wibbles: The "Look" Challenge

Just as I was about to start thinking about what I wanted to wibble about this week, Patricia Lynne tagged me with The Look Challenge. This one is fairly easy: find the word look in your WIP and post the paragraphs.

Seeing as I finished the first draft of Pickups and Pestilence last week, it’s definitely a work in progress. I was going to post a teaser anyway… so I searched for look and it appears twice in the Prologue. Perfect! Here it is, with both instances of look underlined…

The gypsy—so Cody assumed—laid three cards on the table between them, the first one sideways. Cody’s gaze was fixed on the table; all he saw were her hands and the cards she dealt. “The three pestilences,” she said. “One is past, yet all three are to come.” The sideways card was WAR. From its center scowled the grim visage of the late Rev. Carlton Worleigh, huge desecrated Bible in one hand, huge pistol in the other. A bullet hole in his forehead, and a pickup bearing down on him from behind, completed the picture. Cody remembered well.

The second card was LOCUSTS. They walked on two legs and carried tiny jars. The third was VERMIN. On it, rats, flies, and other creatures chewed garbage and gardens alike. Behind the vermin, another pickup lurked.

“How—what—” Cody began, but the gypsy’s left hand swept the cards from the table as her right hand laid a new card in the center of the table, face down.

“Behold the King,” she said, tapping the card with a lacquered fingernail. He turned the card over: the King of Clubs. The King’s hair was dark and straight, and hung long on the sides. It framed a thin, familiar face, one he saw in every mirror.

“I thought I’d be the joker,” he said. He tried to look up, but the table held his gaze.

“The Joker is among you.” The hands, old and bone-thin but not gnarled or spotted as he would have expected, laid three more cards to the king’s right: the Queen of Hearts, sideways; the Queen of Clubs, upright; the Ten of Hearts, beneath the first queen. “The queen who was. And the queen who will be.” Sondra’s homely face, the one he longed to see again, lie in repose. In her hands, she clutched a scepter… or was it a rifle? His vision blurred a moment, hiding the face of the other queen. The third card needed no explanation. She’ll get over it. Or not, said the fallen Queen, with a snicker.

Before Cody could respond—dreams have no pause or rewind—those hands were in motion again, arraying cards to the King’s left. “You will know her by the blood on her hands.” The Queen of Spades, whose hard young face had seen too much too soon—and indeed her hands were red. Instead of a crown, a diamond gleamed between her breasts. To her left, a haughty King, sideways, a sword piercing his chest. Peeking from underneath the Queen was a Jack. “Beware the one who will try to draw you to her, for her consort will stand aside. That way lies discord. Destruction.” The Jack seemed to slide even farther under the Queen, not wanting to be seen. “But stand firm, and her children will be of your realm.”

“What?” But now the hands laid four cards above the King that was himself. They were marked A, and Cody at first thought they were Aces. But instead of suits, the faces of Tina, Reverend Patterson, Ben, and Jason looked back from the center of each card. “The Advisors. Neglect their wisdom at your peril.”

“Wait a minute!” Heedless, the hands were a blur of motion, dealing cards beneath the central King.

“The Knights of the realm and their Ladies.” Again, these cards were not part of a normal deck; the men were marked Kn and the women L. Most of the faces were familiar: Tim and Sara, Johnny and Rita, Cleve and a grinning Elly. The fourth Knight carried a bow, and was younger even than himself. Although Cody had never seen his face, he immediately recognized this Knight as one of his own tribe. There was no Lady next to this card, but the Ten of Hearts lay exactly between the center King and this new Knight. As he realized this, the gypsy tore the Ten in half. “This one is torn, only thus to be made whole.” She laid the halves together, and it was at once torn and whole. “But these things are uncertain, and this one thus exists in both states until the day the question is resolved.”

“What question?”

No response but a flick of the wrist. A card floated among and above them all: the Joker. But this was no ordinary Joker. A grey hood, supported by the bill of a ball cap, shadowed all but an enigmatic smile. Orbs like juggling balls circled the hood, spinning and tumbling, even as ink on paper. The Joker is among you, he thought, and the dream dissolved into a chaotic jumble.

And now, the hard part: tag five more people. Fortunately, there’s a lot of writer friends working on a lot of different things, so I don’t have much trouble coming up with five:

John Wiswell, at The Bathroom Monologues
Fel Wetzig, at The Peasants Revolt
Helen Howell, at Helen Scribbles
John Xero, at Xeroverse
Craig W.F. Smith, at The Fantasy/Reality World of a Writer

Five people, four continents—not bad!

A Fragment of the Great Nothing (pt 1)

This is really a continuation of the #FridayFlash, World With End. Read it for context. Chelinn, Ethtar, and the rest will wait…

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Source: WikiMedia Commons

Chelinn was again watching the storm at an open window, when the chamber door opened. The wind found its way in, through the window, drenching the big warrior-wizard. He shouted something into the night, and flinched back. A peal of thunder answered him as he pushed the window shut and turned away.

“Paying homage to the Windlord, Chelinn?” Galbron asked, standing in the door. “I knew there was a reason your life is so charmed.” The priest grinned at his wet friend.

“And how did you receive your Windlord’s blessings without a thorough drenching?” Chelinn asked, then muttered something in a language only Ethtar understood.

The spindly wizard feigned alarm and made a warding gesture. Lightning flashed, and the Protector’s keep shuddered to the thunder, bellowing on the heels of the lightning. “Chelinn, you should not tempt the elements with your blasphemies,” he laughed.

Chelinn chuckled, not at all chastised. “I wasn’t sure that the elements could understand that language,” he said. “That you know it, Protector Ethtar, is somewhat of a surprise in itself! But I was asking Galbron how he stayed dry while opening his arms to the wind.”

“I didn’t.” Galbron smiled and crossed the room, pouring himself a glass of wine from the open jug. His hood fell back, revealing his drenched black hair. “I did wear one of those jackets the local sailors make, and that kept much of the rain off me. My boots, I left with the apprentice, and exchanged them for my sandals.” He lifted one foot and wiggled it. “Did I miss anything of import?”

Chelinn’s daughter Sarna moved over on her divan and gestured to Galbron to join her. “Nothing important,” she said. “But Protector Ethtar did tell the most fascinating story, about a world Made as a half.”

“Thurun’s world?” Galbron asked, surprising the others. “Oh, yes. Our Order knows that story well. As we tell it, Thurun begged the aid of the Windlord to establish that world’s weather patterns.” He sat down next to Sarna, getting a wary look from Chelinn that amused him. “He told you about the Makers? And the Great Nothing?”

“That I did,” Ethtar nodded. “But that is all I know. As I explained to the others, what the Protectors know, we have kept to ourselves. We are attempting to break Termag’s habit of hoarding knowledge, beginning tonight.”

“Ah.” Galbron sipped his wine several times, pondering. “Then I should tell one of our own tales. It concerns an ordinary man, on an extraordinary journey, across a most extraordinary world.” He sipped once again, then began.

Once, in the time of Camac That Was (Galbron began), on the world called Thurun, lived a man called Jakrom. The son of a common laborer, Jakrom was not thought to have great prospects, yet he was bold and clever. Many such young men have started with even less and yet prospered in the end.

Now Jakrom had in mind to woo Rakah, the younger daughter of a prosperous merchant named Larbam. As Larbam had no son to claim his inheritance, many poor young men sought the hand of either Rakah or her sister Arah. Larbam would listen politely to these suitors, then set them an onerous task; that was usually the last he saw of them. So when Jakrom came calling, it was the same.

“Very well,” said Larbam after Jakrom made his proposal. “I will give you Rakah, if you can prove your worth. Go to the Edge of the World, and stand on the Great Nothing. When you return, if she is willing, you may marry her.”

“If that is the price, I will pay it,” said Jakrom. “What shall I bring you as proof? I would not want to make such a long journey to have you say I only made up a story.”

Larbam cocked his head, for all other suitors only walked away when hearing of the bride-price. “A perceptive question,” he said at last. “You have the quickness of mind needed in my business. I make a counter-proposal: with no journey, I offer you the hand of Arah—again, if she is willing. It is only fitting that the older daughter marries first. Do this, and you will be my right-hand man and my heir when I pass on.”

“Arah I know not,” said Jakrom. “I have done business with Rakah, buying your spices, and she knows me by name and always smiles when she sees me. I am sure she will be willing to take me as her husband. For her I will go to the Edge of the World and bring you proof.”

Larbam was struck by an idea that made him smile. “Bring me a fragment of the Great Nothing,” he said. “Do this, and both of my daughters and my good name are yours.” Larbam knew that certain rich folk would pay a great price for a fragment of the Great Nothing, a price far beyond any gemstone or exotic spice.

“I will,” said Jakrom, then he departed, already thinking about what he would need.


“That suggests,” said Chelinn, “that the folk of Thurun seldom visited the Edge.”

“Of course,” Galbron agreed. “Thurun's weather is opposite our own, torrid at the pole and frigid at the equator. Its pole faced the sun; there was a vast steaming ocean surrounded by a tropical shore. Most folk dwelt in between. So Jakrom began his journey…”

continued…

Interview: Xan Marcelles of Crooked Fang

I bet you don’t too many interviews like this in the blogosphere. Today, I turn the blog over to none other than Cody Sifko, the hero of White Pickups. He’s interviewing Xan Marcelles, the vampire bassist of Carrie Clevenger’s Crooked Fang. In cases like this, it’s best to just get out of the way and let the interview proceed…

---

Cody Sifko: So yeah, my writer says, “Go interview this guy. He plays bass in a metal band and he's a vampire.” Whatever. What's your story?

Xan Marcelles: My story? Oh, you mean Crooked Fang. I never said I was a vampire, did I? Okay maybe. But that’s between you and me, kid. We’re not exactly a metal band either. We’re a house band that plays covers, that’s popular/previously recorded songs resung and performed by us. Basically, we’re an amplified version of karaoke.

But that’s not exactly the point to the book. I’m not sure what is. Me trying to stay secluded and mind my own business while trouble practically falls into my lap? Never really went looking for trouble. Shit just happens. A lot. It actually starts out with some punk that sends this weird vampire-zombie looking thing after me. He knows what I am and pretty much wants to sell me to Hell, as he puts it.

And then there’s this girl, getting pushed around by her boyfriend. She’s kind of sweet and I hate seeing women mistreated. You don’t hit a female, that’s just how it is.

CS: Figures. My writer has a bad habit of not paying attention. Anyway, my dad would have called that a “bar band.” I know what you mean about shit happening. I tried to learn guitar, but I suck at it. I'm lots better on a skateboard. When did you learn how to play?

XM: Eh, guitar isn’t too hard to play. I started while in school because Dad wanted me to have a constructive hobby instead of getting my ass in trouble. He bought me a bass. A right handed bass because it was big and I’m big but I’m also left-handed, so that was kind of like, figure it out or quit. I figured it out.

CS: What's the deal with Pinecliffe, Colorado? Is there anything to do out there besides drink your ass off? Any good skate parks?

XM: It’s out of the way and barely can be classified as a town, but there’s Pale Rider there, and yeah. You can do more than drink your ass off. There’s the lake, or fishing, or swimming. I think there’s a campground over in the national park nearby. Woodsy outdoorsy things. And what the hell is a skate park?

CS: What kind of songs do you play? (Let me guess. Death metal. Haha.)

XM: We play covers of songs that were popular mainly 70s-90s. Our target audience ranges from college-age to maybe around fifty. The older ones can’t stand the shit and go to Allen’s Landing, the bar across the lake.

CS: You have any videos of your band on YouTube? The Internet's down for good here, but my writer said he'd send me anything.

XM: No vids on YouTube of us since we’re a fictional band, but I do have a playlist of songs I post on Twitter as @crookedfang.

CS: How'd you turn into a vampire? Yeah, I know, you swapped blood with another vampire and all that shit. I mean, how did you hook up with a vampire and when did it happen?

XM: Brave little guy, aren’t you? Hey dude, when did you die? How was it? Fine. I’ll level with you.

In 1985, I went to a bar called Nightflier’s to have a beer. I ended up necking with one hell of a fine chick in red leather pants. She took me home. [actions redacted] I was dropped up at home. I died. I was buried. I was dug up by my new vampire sire. The rest is history.

CS: Who's after you? I guess your girlfriend's ex, yeah. Anyone else?

XM: Considering my previous reputation as a thug for my sire Zeta, I think I’m on just about every vampire’s shitlist. Feared or admired. But that’s not the point of this book either. In this one, it’s people. People that think they know about vampires. People that see me as a monster. I mean seriously…do I look like a monster to you?

CS: Huh. Hell no. So if you got one do-over, what would you use it on?

XM: Pointless to think about it. There is no reset in life.

Sure, I could say I wish I’d never stopped at Nightflier’s, but then I’d be what, fifty-three? Maybe on my second marriage, couple of kids, usual American mountain of debt. Or maybe I’d continued with my bad habits and ended up dead-dead. I guess everything happens for a reason. It is what it is.

---

And, that’s a wrap. Once again, that website is Crooked Fang, if you want to find out what happens to Xan.

You can find the author, Carrie Clevenger, on Twitter. And other places, of course!

Writing Wibbles

“A” is for Apology (and Awesome)

A couple weeks ago, author Sue Grafton (she who writes the alphabet mystery series, beginning with “A” is for Alibi) stepped on a landmine while doing an interview with her local newspaper. When asked what advice she had for aspiring authors, she said (in part) that self-publishing is “as good as admitting you’re too lazy to do the hard work.” When the interviewer mentioned the success of John Locke, who also lives in the Louisville area, she doubled down:

The self-published books I’ve read are often amateurish. … a ‘wannabe’ assumes it’s all so easy s/he can put out a ‘published novel’ without bothering to read, study, or do the research. … Self-publishing is a short cut and I don’t believe in short cuts when it comes to the arts.

As you can imagine, the indie/self-published world launched a thermonuclear strike. One author suggested the opposite is true: “Self-publishing means finding your own proofreader, finding your own editor, finding your own cover designer (or designing your own), doing all your own marketing and sales work, etc. Having a publisher is lazy as all you need to do is write a half-acceptable book and allow your publisher's editor to make it sales-worthy.” Along with the vitriol, several indies took the time to educate Ms. Grafton on the new paradigm.

And, instead of locking herself in an ivory tower, Ms. Grafton took the time to listen. She had a look at what’s really going on outside the traditional publishing world. Then, instead of issuing a “sorry that offended you” non-apology, she gave us a real one. I’m quoting at length below, but go read the whole thing.

[It] wasn’t my intention to tar anyone, if the truth be known. … I am uninitiated when it comes to this new format. I had no idea how wide-spread it was, nor did I see it as developing as a response to the current state of traditional publishing, which is sales driven and therefore limited in its scope. I understand that e-publishing has stepped into the gap, allowing a greater number of authors to enter the marketplace. This, I applaud. I don’t mean to sound defensive here…though of course I do.

I don’t understand the mechanics of e-publishing and I still don’t understand how you can earn money thereby but I realize now that many indie writers are doing well financially and netting themselves greater visibility than I had any reason to believe.

My remark about self-publishing was meant as a caution, which I think some of you finally understood when we exchanged notes on the subject. When I’m asked for advice I warn many writers about the charlatans lurking out there. … It’s clear to me now that indie writers have taken more than their fair share of hard knocks and that you are actually changing the face of publishing. Who knew?! This is a whole new thrust for publication that apparently everyone has been aware of except yours truly. I still don’t understand how it works, but I can see that a hole has been blasted in the wall, allowing writers to be heard in a new way and on a number of new fronts.

I will take responsibility for my gaffe and I hope you will understand the spirit in which it was meant. I have always championed both aspiring writers and working professionals. I have been insulated, I grant you, but I am not arrogant or indifferent to the challenges we all face. I am still learning and I hope to keep on learning for as long as I write.

Talk about grace under fire—this lady (and I don’t use the word lightly) has it! Personally, I wasn’t much offended by the original comments; I simply dismissed them as the griping of someone too lost in (or too tied to) the old paradigm to see how the landscape was changing right under her feet. I was pleasantly shocked to see her take a look around and adjust her footing. I can only hope I’m that nimble when the next change comes around.

So while “A” may be for Apology, it’s also for Awesome Author. Perhaps the traditional publishing industry has currently veered into the weeds, but there are still lessons that we can learn from it. One is to accept bad reviews, whether for our novels or newspaper interviews, fix what we did wrong to the best of our ability, and get back to writing.

Writing Wibbles

The current Twitter tempest, at least in the writing world, swirls around the issue of paid reviews. In a rare moment of unity, both the indie world (represented here by Chuck Wendig) and the traditional world (Shelf Awareness) agree that the practice is a little icky. To be specific, Wendig calls it “scummy” while SA says “depressing.” (Both posts link back to an article in the NY Times, about the proprietor of a review mill that was recently shut down.)

Review mill! Green energy!

Wendig raises the question, we can all be sure that [this will] reflect more prominently on self-published authors above all others, right? Well, the traditional publishing industry could cite it as another reason to shun indies, except for one problem: buying and selling reviews is long-established practice. A Twitter friend has a small-press book out, and her publisher paid Publishers Weekly to review it. The Times article mentions Kirkus, “a reviewing service founded in 1933.” That’s 79 years ago, if you don’t feel like doing the math yourself, a time when not even science fiction could conceive of something like the Kindle. If the review mills are scummy, it’s only in that they tend to accentuate the positive (which, to authors using such things, is simply providing value for the money).

Before I go any further, let me say I haven’t bought any reviews for White Pickups, nor do I intend to. The honest 5* review it got is better than anything I could have afforded, and it even points out a couple flaws (dammit! why didn’t I write that down when I thought of it?). But if you tilt your head to the right and squint, buying reviews (whether from PW/Kirkus or a review mill) becomes a marketing expense. I don’t have confirmation, but rumor has it that a certain number of reviews (50?) is supposed to draw the attention of Amazon’s algorithms and they start recommending the book. From that angle (remember to tilt your head and squint), review mills are targeting algorithms rather than people. Scummy, yes, but people are always going to try gaming the system when there’s money to be made.

But buying a “real” review can be pricey. Factor in the hours spent first reading the book, then writing the review, and even at minimum wage you could be looking at over a hundred bucks. The Times article mentioned Kirkus charging $425, for example, and that sounds about right for a professional. If I was out of work, I’d probably take $400 to write a review, but I wouldn’t inflate the rating.

Personally, if I had the money to buy reviews, I’d spend it on editing instead. Better yet, I’d spend the time writing something that rises above the crud, leaving indies in awe and publishers grumbling how they could have done better. Back to Scrivener now…

Vacation, pt 2: Badger Badger Badger

Lake Michigan was unusually calm while I was in Manitowoc, and that was one more reason to take the freshwater ocean route to Michigan via the S.S. Badger. The Badger is a “car ferry,” originally built  60 years ago for the C&O railroad, hauling rail cars across Lake Michigan to bypass the über-busy Chicago railyards. We’re talking some serious iron here:

Image source: official S.S. Badger site

With the decline in rail traffic, Chicago railyards aren’t as congested as they once were, and C&O eventually abandoned its maritime operations. But there was a demand for carrying the other kind of cars, the ones that we drive everywhere, and a group of people bought the ship and continue to operate it. Unofficially, it’s part of US10; the highway runs from Bay City to Ludington and then from Manitowoc to points west. The ship sports a US10 logo on the stern, which I thought was a fun touch. During the summer, the ship makes two round-trips across the lake per day.

Given the vintage of the ship, it’s a coal-fired steamer. In my opinion, these are the best museum pieces, the ones still doing something close to what they were built to do in the first place. The Badger has a small museum on board, depicting the history of both maritime shipping and the railroads’ maritime passenger systems. Many of the small staterooms are still available to rent along the way—which probably makes more sense on the nighttime crossing, but sometimes you need a mid-afternoon nap.

There’s a couple acres of coalyard adjacent to the Badger’s dock, and this truck hauled at least three loads of coal on board before we departed.

So I bought my ticket and turned my car over to the valets (or whatever the maritime equivalent is), then boarded the ship. In my estimation, the amenities are overkill for a four-hour trip, but I might have thought differently if it hadn’t been perfect outdoor weather. As it was, I spent most of the crossing on the foredeck, lounging on a deck chair and reading—with a little timeout for checking out the rest of the ship. They have two TV rooms, a movie room, a playroom for small kids, the mini-museum, two cafeterias, and plenty of indoor (and outdoor) seating. There weren’t a lot of people on the port side, though, since the wind was blowing the coal smoke right down that side of the ship. They also have wifi, but I didn’t bother.

Eventually, we reached Ludington. It took about half an hour to debark and get my car. I grabbed some food and got on the road, and was at Dad’s after about two and a half hours. It was only after getting here that I found out about another car ferry that goes between Milwaukee and Muskegon, and takes only two hours to make the crossing. I don’t know how much it cost, though, and this was easier with regard to where I was leaving from. Next time we all go to Michigan, we might take the weekend “cruise” across the lake to Manitowoc and stay with The Boy, then go back. We could leave the car and save some money that way.

At Dad’s, I… well, that’s the next post!

Vacation pt 1: Manitowoc

Awwww…

So it was just over two weeks ago when I loaded a tote bag, computer bag, camera bag, and cooler into Daughter Dearest’s car and pointed the nose north. Of course, I’d planned to leave around 10am, but it was closer to 1pm before departure. I had to pick up my BP/cholesterol meds early, and the wife was reluctant to let her slave labor the love of her life go away for so long. But go I did—I was on a mission, although I didn't realize it until I was already there.

I did manage to make the Columbus IN exit around bedtime, and settled on a Motel 6 for the night. The tall, tall sign, visible from the freeway, promised rooms starting at $44.99. I had to ask the desk clerk about that when she handed me the bill for $60. “Oh,” she said, “that’s the weekday rate for a single room.”

“Seems like you should change the sign for the weekend,” I suggested, not being overtly confrontational… yet.

“We can’t see it from here, and something’s screwed up.” Yeah, I think it was a fatal error in the morals circuitry. I haven’t emailed their corporate offices about it yet, but I will. I will. Misleading is the nice word.

The next morning was better—I met the couple that are affectionately called “the Fs” on their blog, for breakfast. All too soon, I was on the road again. But this time, instead of veering onto US31, I stayed on I-65. I got to geek out over the enormous wind farm south of Gary—hundreds of turbines on both sides of the freeway, for miles and miles—before getting stuck in Chicago traffic on a Sunday afternoon. I managed to make Wisconsin before needing gas, and tanked up for the final leg up I-43 to Manitowoc. North of Milwaukee, traffic was stopped up going south, but northbound was mostly clear sailing. I got to The Boy’s place in time for supper.

As always, The Boy has a crowd of colorful characters gathered around him. J (fourth from left), who also came from Planet Georgia and lived at FAR Manor for a little while, left Kentucky for Wisconsin at the beginning of the new year. He’s now The Boy’s official roomie. J’s new girlfriend Courtney lives at the apartment with him, and she says others have been coming around more often now that The Boy and Snippet are broke up. That has been six weeks and counting—probably the best thing for them both. Had I planned to go straight back to Planet Georgia from Manitowoc, I would have contacted Snippet and offered her a ride back. She wasn’t all that thrilled to move up north to begin with, you know. But, since I wasn’t going straight back, I didn’t contact her and we didn’t run into her.

Anyway, they live in a largish old house that’s been separated into three or four apartments. It’s not upscale by any means, but in reasonable shape for young working-class guys and surprisingly clean. He keeps night-shift hours, so I would get up in the morning and creep out to the porch to eat breakfast and write. That worked out well; the others would start moving around at 10:30 or so, about the time I was about wrote out for the morning.

THAT is a lake.

One question I was asked often, “are you taking the ferry across the lake?” The ferry leaves Manitowoc and crosses Lake Michigan (seen behind us) to Ludington. It’s a four-hour jaunt, and not cheap ($150, half for me and half for the car), but I’d get back $30 or $40 in gas and avoid all that traffic. I figured the travel time would be pretty close, but it was four hours I wouldn’t have to drive myself.

Of course, since we were right on Lake Michigan, we had to go to the beach. The weather was beautiful, and I wish I was still there.

On Tuesday night, I got a call from Other Brother. “Bad news,” he said. “Uncle John passed away yesterday. His viewing is Thursday night and the funeral is Friday. Are you going to be here for that?” Then the fun one: “Oh, and Dad totaled his car Thursday.” So at least I could be there not only for the funeral, but to make sure Dad got there.

Wednesday morning, I got The Boy some groceries (“I’m about over the thing with Snippet,” he said) and we had a quick lunch before I boarded the ferry. That’s tomorrow’s installment.

#FridayFlash: Twin Sisters of Different Mothers, pt 4

The conclusion! (I’ll add the Part 3 link when I get home from vacation.)

Part 1
Part 2
Part 3

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After a few minutes, Monica came downstairs to find her husband sitting on the couch, staring at an open bottle. He would lift it as if to drink, then put it down and stare at it again. She sat down next to him, put an arm around his shoulders, and kissed him. “You’re forgiven,” she said. “I can understand how you could have mistaken her for me. Poor girl. For all I know, we could be related.”

“I was just so relieved to see you—her—alive,” Rob moaned, capping the Scotch and dropping it on the coffee table. “I know it’s selfish, but I’m glad that’s not you upstairs. You didn’t get hurt.”

The phone rang, cutting off Monica’s response. “I’ll get that,” she said, jogging to the den. “Hello?” Rob heard. “Yes, this is she. Oh. You did? Well, good. Ah… yes, the address is correct, you can send it there. Thank you so much.”

“That was the airport investigators,” Monica said. “The plane I was supposed to be on crashed? My God, you must have been half out of your mind! Anyway, they found my purse on the plane and they’re going to overnight it here. Which means,” she said, punching three buttons on the phone, “your friend upstairs is the one who stole it in the first place.”

“Oh my God,” Rob said. “The State Department people who called to verify your identity said you looked just like a wanted criminal in the Netherlands. It has to be her!”


The sight of police entering the bedroom was the trigger that restored Monique’s memory. With her leg in a cast and her head still woozy from jet lag and the concussion, she was unable to run and settled for insulting the cops in Dutch. She gave up the “no speak English” gambit when Monica translated the insults, and stopped speaking entirely.

“You’ll want to contact Immigration,” Monica said, as the cops handcuffed Monique to the wheelchair in the foyer. “She’s a Dutch national, probably on a falsified visa, and is wanted by the police in the Netherlands.”

“Jesus, lady,” one of the cops said. “She looks like your twin sister. You think you’re related, maybe?”

“Twin sisters of different mothers?” Monica chuckled. “She never showed up at family gatherings—have you, Monique?”

Monique just glared as the cops wheeled her to the van.

“Next time you go overseas,” Rob said as they watched the cops drive away, “I’m going with you. I don’t think I could take a repeat.”

“That would be peachy,” Monica said, turning him toward the door. “Then when we get our stuff stolen, who do we call to verify that we’re us?”

Rob gave her a cock-eyed look. “For that matter, how do I know you’re really Monica? Maybe I just sent my own wife to the pokey?”

Monica smiled. “Oh, I think I know of a way to verify my identity. Let’s go upstairs and see.”

#FridayFlash: Twin Sisters of Different Mothers, pt 3

I’m so glad for scheduled blog posts, I won’t have to worry about this on vacation.

Part 1
Part 2

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“Yes, one of the passengers looks like her,” the nurse said, scanning Rob’s wallet photo. “If you’re quiet, I’ll let you see her—I think she’s sleeping at the moment—and you can tell me whether it’s your wife or not.”

“That’s her!” he whispered. One side of her head was bandaged, and her right leg was in a cast, but the hair not covered told Rob what he dreaded to know.

The nurse looked at the photo again, then at the unconscious woman. “I think you’re right,” she whispered back. “Let me buzz the doctor and he can explain the situation.”

“She’s not seriously injured,” Doctor Dikembe explained in the waiting room. “She has a broken leg and has suffered a mild concussion. She seems to be suffering from amnesia, though—is your wife German?”

“Dutch, originally,” Rob said. “But she’s been living here for 15 years.”

“Ah, that explains it. She’s mostly speaking Dutch, with a few words of English thrown in, when she’s awake. From what we’ve been able to gather, she knows she’s in New York, but isn’t sure where she lives or even what her name is. Sometimes she calls herself Monica, other times Monique.”

“She was born Monique, but she goes by Monica,” he said.

The nurse came in. “She’s awake,” she told them. “You can see her, just don’t get too excited.”

Monique looked at Rob. “Hello,” she said, “are you an investigator?”

“It’s your husband, honey,” the nurse said. “He’s here to take you home, if you think you’re up to it.”

“Am I? I can’t remember…”

“You will, in a day or so,” Doctor Dikembe reassured her. “Being in your own home should help you with that. Remember: don’t try to force it, and if you start doing something on your own, let it happen.

“And that goes for you, too,” she told Rob. “Give her time, don’t try to push it. If she doesn’t seem to be fully recovered in a week, you might need to contact mental health professionals in your network. Where are you from?”

“Massachusetts. Framingham.”

“Oh. I won’t be able to refer you to anyone, at least right now. Here’s my card, though; if you need it, call me and I’ll write a referral.”

The nurse rolled in a wheelchair. “You ready to go home, Monica?”


Around 1:30 a.m., Rob brought Monique home. He helped her up the stairs and into the bedroom.

“Rob,” she said. “I know we’re supposed to be married, but I just can’t remember right now. I won’t feel comfortable with you here…”

“It’s alright,” Rob sighed. “I’ll sleep on the couch. Right now, I’m so tired—and so relieved you’re okay—I could probably sleep in the driveway.”

Monique smiled. “You’re a kind man, Rob. I hope when I remember, that I’ll know I was worthy of you.”

Rob nodded, turned off the lights, and went downstairs. He swung into the kitchen to grab the Scotch before getting a blanket out of the linen closet.


Monica woke up just after nine on Sunday morning, much later than planned, which put her in a grumpy mood. She threw everything together, checked out, and got on the road. She was almost to Connecticut before she realized she’d forgotten to call Rob. She swore at herself and drove on.


Rob woke up on the couch around ten, just a little hung over but not enough to forget about the situation. He crept upstairs to find Monique still sleeping. Good: she might wake up in her bed, in her room, and have her memory back. He slipped back downstairs for a glass of milk and a cinnamon roll. A cup of coffee might be good too.

Glancing into the den on the way by, he finally noticed the answering machine light flashing. “Will you accept—” a mechanical voice began, then cut off.

Rob hit ERASE. “No, I will not accept your scammy refinancing offer,” he snarled and walked away.


Just before two, Monique awoke and asked for something to eat when Rob came up to check on her. He quickly rolled downstairs and brought back a tray with coffee, juice, toast, and the other cinnamon roll. She nibbled her food while Rob talked to her. To Rob’s disappointment, she hadn’t recovered any memory of their being married or of other parts of her life. He would probably have to call Framintek tomorrow morning and explain the situation; she wasn’t in any shape to get back to work just yet. “I’m going to change my shirt, if that’s okay,” he said. She nodded, and he pulled off the shirt he’d worn all day and all night.


Monica walked into the house, and saw the blanket spilling from the couch to the floor. Rob must have been watching a late movie, she thought. He was probably outside—good, it would give her time to drop her bags in the bedroom and brush out her hair before he saw her.

Climbing the stairs, she heard Rob talking with quite a bit of animation—but why would he be on the phone in the bedroom? She walked in: “Rob, what—”

Rob looked up, fresh shirt halfway on, and froze. For a long moment, nobody spoke or even moved. Rob stood bug-eyed in the middle of the bedroom, looking to the puzzled woman in his bed, then to she who stood glaring in the doorway, back and forth. Except for the clothes—one was wearing them, the other wasn't—the two were identical.

“Who are—” the clothed woman began, then stopped, seeing her double clearly for the first time. She blinked, rubbed her eyes, then took a hesitant step into the bedroom. It was like looking into a mirror. The woman in her bed stared back, with the same puzzled expression. At the same moment, both of them reached up and brushed the hair back from their foreheads.

Seizing the opportunity, Rob pulled down his shirt and dashed out of the bedroom. If there was any Scotch left in the living room, he intended to finish it.

continued…

#FridayFlash: Twin Sisters of Different Mothers, pt 2

In case you missed it: Part 1

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“Robert Germain?”

“Yes.” Robert had a bad feeling about this — the caller ID said “US STATE DEPT” and his imagination immediately furnished a long list of terrible things that could have happened to Monica.

“Your wife, Monica. Is she available?”

“Um, no. She’s in Amsterdam at the moment.”

“Very good. Could you briefly tell me where the two of you met, and when you were married?”

“Sure. We were students at Michigan Tech — I was in mechanical engineering, she was in electrical engineering. We got married in 1996.”

“Where does she work and what does she do there?”

“She’s a product manager at Framintek. Since she was born in the Netherlands, they send her to Europe to deal with technical issues from time to time.”

“All right. Now could you describe her?”

“Sure! She’s five foot-six, short brown hair, brown eyes, weighs about 150 pounds…”

“Excellent. Thank you for your time, Mr. Germain. Your wife ran into some trouble in Amsterdam — her purse was stolen, with all her ID — and amazingly enough, she’s a dead ringer for a wanted criminal in the Netherlands. We’re going to issue her a temporary passport and help her get home as soon as possible.”


Monique had never flown before, and the experience was rather unsettling: the deep hum of the engines, the way the aircraft vibrated even after leaving the ground, the noise of the landing gear retracting — but the politie and the Netherlands were now behind her. A new life, a new name, and nothing to do for the next eight hours. “I must be the luckiest woman in the world,” she whispered to herself, then willed herself to sleep.

The pilot’s voice awoke her. “Ladies and gentlemen, we will be landing at JFK airport shortly. For those of you on the right side of the craft, you can see the Statue of Liberty. Please put up your tray tables and return your seats to their full upright position; and as always, thank you for flying Northwest Airlines.” He continued to chatter about connecting flights and the local weather, but Monique tuned him out and looked out the window.


Rob sat and fretted. No word from Monica — no surprise there, if her purse was stolen then her cellphone was gone too — and the guy at the State Department hadn’t told him if she was going to make her flight. He missed her when she was gone, and he’d really wanted to surprise her at the airport with a bouquet. He decided to sit tight, wait for her to call when she arrived Stateside, and order take-out from her favorite Thai place. He turned on the news station and settled into his lounge chair with a book.


More disconcerting rumbles as the flaps deployed and the landing gear came down. Just a few more minutes, Monique thought, watching the runway rush by her window. A jolt as the plane touched down, then a sickening lurch and the plane dipped to the right. Monica barely heard the shrieks from other passengers as she saw a piece of the wing hurtle past, trailing sparks and debris. I think my luck just ran out, as a spindly tower leaped toward her.


“Breaking news about a plane crash at New York’s JFK airport,” the newscaster broke in. Rob jumped, his book tumbling to the floor. “The landing gear on Northwest flight 86 from Amsterdam apparently collapsed as it landed just minutes ago, sending the aircraft skidding across the runway and into a communications tower. There are reports of serious injuries, but no confirmed deaths at this time—”

That was all Rob heard. He rushed into the kitchen and snatched Monica’s itinerary from the refrigerator. “Oh God oh God oh God,” he said, reading Northwest 86 3:50 pm. He bolted out the door, and was on the way to New York in seconds.

It was past eight by the time Rob arrived at the airport. He bolted to the Northwest counter, where a hand-lettered sign promised FLIGHT 86 PASSENGER INFO. “My wife— I think she was on that flight— where would she be now?”

The sympathetic black woman patted his hand. “We’ll try to help you. What’s her name?”

“Monica. Monica Germain.”

“Sir… I don’t see her name on the passenger list. There’s a Monica Pappas listed here, would she have been traveling under another name?”

“No— I don’t know. Her passport was stolen this morning; the State Department called me to verify her ID and said they’d get her home as soon as possible. Could I maybe describe her? She’s about your height—”

The desk clerk shook her head. “Sir, I didn’t see any of the passengers. Jamaica Hospital is where they took everyone; it’s north on the Van Wyck Expressway to Exit 6. They may be able to help you there.”


About the same time, Monica stepped off the jetway and headed to Customs. That was not something she really looked forward to, with a temporary passport in hand, but perhaps the Consulate had sent word ahead. Right now, all she wanted to do was get her bags, find the nearest hotel, and get some sleep. Rob was probably worried about her, so she’d call him collect as soon as she could find an increasingly-rare payphone. Thank God it was Saturday, New York rush hours were horrendous.

After reaching the answering machine, the collect call wouldn’t go through. Rob might be treating himself to a little supper at McVann’s. Surely he knew she would have missed her first flight.

continued…

Writing (and Launching) Wibbles

Launch Cannon! Source: openclipart.org

Finally! I’ve been busy with the Launch Cannon the last few days. Amazon’s always an easy target: load and fire at bedtime, wake up in the morning, direct hit. Smashwords takes a fair amount of re-calibration, since you have to use DOC shot instead of MOBI. But once you get everything just so, you see results in minutes instead of hours. (That’s not including Premium, which takes a while longer.)

In between those two, I took aim at a new target: the Nook Store. I thought it would be another easy target, maybe a little longer to confirm than Amazon, but Scrivener generates clean ePUB files just as easily as MOBI. That one turned out to be a misfire. Some of my tax info didn’t get entered properly, and I got hung in "Pending Account Verification" limbo for a few days. Finally, yesterday, the Pubit site put up a banner saying "call us, we sent you an email." I didn’t get the email until after seeing the banner, but whatever. After figuring out what needed to be fixed, I fixed it.

The upshot is, I’m hoping White Pickups will be available at Nook and iBooks in the next few days. If you can’t wait to get your ePUB fix, Smashwords is happy to take care of you.

So here are the various virtues and failings of each eBook store, as I see them:

Amazon: very easy to deal with, biggest eBook market, multiple countries, CreateSpace for paperback. Not much control after uploading.

Smashwords: easiest avenue to iBooks, 70% commission on 99¢ eBooks, coupons provide lots of pricing flexibility. Insistence on DOC files is a huge PITA for non-Word users, you need a PayPal account (no direct deposit).

Nook: growing market, easy upload from Scrivener (ePUB). Takes longer than Amazon to get your Nook eBook into the store.

A little more administrivia to deal with. But now that White Pickups is rolling out, I can re-focus on Pickups and Pestilence. I sketched out what needs to happen in the final third of the book, which includes the final climactic confrontation, and started writing a little of it yesterday. If everything goes smoothly (haha), I should have it done by spring.

#FridayFlash: Twin Sisters of Different Mothers, pt 1

A strange little four-parter I found in my archives…

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Image source: openclipart.org

What a stroke of luck! Monique thought, looking at the American’s driver’s license. We could be twins! No need to delay a few hours to switch pictures—the local politie had raided her flat this morning, so time was not her friend right now.

Monique looked through the stolen purse again and considered. Using the woman’s airline ticket and passport would only be asking for trouble; she might leave safely but de Amerikaanse politie would be waiting for her. Better to trust her luck with the fake passport and ID she had in her own bag. “But I can perhaps buy myself a couple of hours,” she muttered, fishing around in the American woman’s giant purse and finding the cellphone. The train to Schiphol was a good place to be anonymous; people chatted among themselves or simply looked out the window. She called the hotel.

“Yes, my name is Monica Germain,” she told the clerk. Interesting, the American had not only her looks but her first name. “A strange woman entered my hotel room—room 504—this morning, and attempted to take my purse. I managed to keep it and run, but left my luggage behind. I’m afraid to return to my room.”

“I understand, madam. Can you describe the woman?”

“Certainly.” Act American. “She was my height, five—excuse me, ah, 175 centimeters. Brown hair, thin.”

“We will let the police know,” the receptionist said. “I would think it is unlikely that she would still be in your room, though. If you wish to return, one of our staff will be glad to accompany you.”

“Yes, perhaps that will be best. But I am on a train at the moment, so I will have to turn around. It may be some time. Could you be kind enough to send security upstairs to make sure my room is unoccupied?”

“Good idea, madam. I will do that.”

“Thank you,” Monique ended the call. It was unlikely that her twin would be arrested, but a little confusion would work in Monique’s favor.

At the airport, her first order of business was to cash in the airline ticket. Act American, chatter as if her plight mattered: “I’m traveling on business, and now they want me to go to Frankfurt and then to Paris. I’ll fly home from Paris. I know it will cost more, but they think it will be worth it. Euros will be fine, I’ll use them.”


At the hotel, Monica was turning the room upside-down, looking for her purse—she could have sworn she’d left it in the room before she went down for breakfast!—when the concierge and the security guard opened the door without knocking. “Did I call already?” she asked. “I’ve lost my purse.”

“Come with us, please,” the concierge said. He and the guard each took an arm and marched Monica out of the room before she had a chance to protest.

“For the last time,” Monica snarled in Dutch, “I’m not Monique Fleek. My name is Monica Germain. I was born in Eindhoven, yes, but I have lived in America since 1992. Call the Consulate, dammit!”

The security guards looked at each other. “But you are a perfect match for Fleek,” said the guard who had brought her down to this basement office, “and why would you ransack your own hotel room?”

“Again. I was in the restaurant, eating breakfast. I left my purse in the room and brought my key and my credit card with me. When I came back upstairs, my purse was gone.”

“Perhaps we should let the Americans deal with her,” the conceirge said. “Monica Germain is a guest here, and if that is who she is, then we apologize and all shall be well. If she is Fleek, the Americans will turn her over to the police, and all shall be well. Either way, turning her over to the Consulate seems to be the best course of action.”


With a stolen credit card that still worked, Monique bought another ticket on the same flight, using her false ID. It seemed likely that if the politie were closing in, they would assume that she would book another flight—or perhaps take the train out of the country.

“No luggage to check?”

“My bags were stolen this morning. I’m buying clothes in New York,” she said. She planned to practice Monica’s signature on the flight, and use some of her travelers cheques to buy those clothes.

The clerk looked again. “Good thing. The check-in time just closed. You’re cutting it close.”

Monique bought a magazine with some of her cash from the airline ticket, and took a seat at a gate across and one down from her departure gate where she could keep an eye out for trouble. It wouldn’t be long — she had already emailed an American contact, who said he could furnish what papers she would need in America. A new identity, a new land… perhaps she could even take Monica’s place.

continued…

Writing Wibbles

Big news: I received the final White Pickups edits on Sunday! I’m off to a slow start, but am cranking away. Wife is throwing every wrench she can find, but I’m still hoping to be ready to go by this weekend! People signed up to my mailing list (see the sidebar, just under the White Pickups cover), before I fire the Launch Cannon, will get a big discount from the $2.99 list price. Right now, I’m trying to decide whether it will be 66% or 100%… either way, you’ll get a book that’s fascinated a lot of people and has actually been edited!

An interesting Publisher’s Weekly article came across my Twitter feed late last week: Profits Fall 48% at Penguin on 4% Sales Decline. I tried running some figures, and it doesn’t quite add up:

• A 4% decline to £441 million implies last year’s sales were about £460 million.
• A 48% decline to £22 million implies last year’s profits were about £42 million.
• That means profits declined £20 million on a sales decline of £19 million!

The above numbers suggest that margins cratered, overhead soared, or a combination of the two. The CEO partly blamed the decline on a lack of blockbuster titles (“none of them were Fifty Shades of Grey”) and “softness in the more profitable backlist business.” To me, both of these points were interesting:

• Both Fifty Shades and The Hunger Games were called out as “[siphoning] sales from other titles.” Correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t these both start out as indie works?
• A lot of mid-list authors like Joe Konrath have reclaimed their backlists from publishers, and are doing quite well selling both old and new titles as eBooks, for reasonable prices.

If my assumptions are correct, then Amazon is the least of publishers’ problems, no matter how they want to spin it.

A final point: the article mentioned that eBooks now make up 19% of Penguin’s sales. Spin that.


Speaking of Amazon and indies, not all seems to be chocolate and roses there, either. According to iReaderReview, which is usually insightful when the lead blogger isn’t indulging his admitted anti-Apple prejudice, suggests that Amazon is gaming the best-seller lists to downplay $1 books.

In 2011 $1 books were beginning to really take over. … In 2012 this suddenly [ground] to a halt. Lots of indie authors have covered this and talked about a shift to ‘Top Grossing’ instead of ‘Best Selling’.

If this is indeed what’s happening, I must admit to mixed feelings. Sure, at $2.99, everyone makes more per-unit. One point that iReaderReview makes, over and over again, is that the combination of eBooks and easy self-publishing puts enormous downward pressure on prices. As an author, I’d much rather get $2.10 per sale than $0.30. On the other hand, I’ve often said that 99¢ is an impulse buy for most people. If I knew I’d get seven times the volume, I’d definitely go for it. But with 99¢ books largely disappearing from the best-seller (or top-grossing) list, it doesn’t sound like the 99¢ titles are selling in the numbers needed to overcome the higher-priced titles. I’ll definitely play with pricing once I recoup my (small) expenses associated with White Pickups (mostly the cover art), just to see what happens.

And, with any luck, I’ll be so busy working on Pickups and Pestilence that I won’t be obsessively checking the sales figures every time I turn around…