#TuesdaySerial: The Gods of Evergreen (part 5)

Part 1

Synopsis: After a storm kills his wife and daughter, Johnny Qullio leaves his village to ask the gods on Mount Evergreen why they took the good and innocent. At the base of the mountain, he meets Kata and her daughter Marie, and they share camp at Marie's insistence. On the mountain, he finds only an old man who tells him there is only one God, who is everywhere, and that it is up to Johnny to find meaning to life.

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The Gods of Evergreen
Part 5: Kata’s Story

Johnny reached the camp at dusk. Marie saw him first, and came running, whooping for joy and shrieking, “Johnny! Johnny! Johnny! Mommy! Johnny back!”

Kata stood from where she tended the fire. “So you live on?”

“It seems I do,” he sighed, Marie wrapped around one leg and babbling her excitement. “I…”

“Don’t talk now,” Kata said. “I have supper ready. You haven’t eaten all day, I think. Eat, then sleep. We can tell our stories tomorrow.”


Johnny’s legs again felt numb when he awoke, then realized it was because Marie was draped across them. She had wandered over to his bedroll in the middle of the night. Kata stood over them, looking at her daughter with amused exasperation.

“Is she snoring?” he asked.

“Yes. I’m not sure whether to rescue you or let her sleep.” She smiled, then leaned down and scooped up the sleeping girl. “Or both.”

They ate breakfast, Marie sitting between them and taking food from both. “So you did not provoke the wrath of the gods?” Kata said. “You came back, after all. Marie waited patiently all day — she only asked about you every ten minutes or so.”

“There were no gods on the mountain to provoke, it seemed,” Johnny said. “Just an old man who told me there was only one god, not many. And that what happened to my family simply happened, and that this god gave us life and gave me the power to determine how I live.” He smiled. “This one—” he nudged a beaming Marie— “reminds me of Little Sara, my own daughter.”

“She is all I have left.” Kata said. “Jamin — my husband — was taken by a sickness that swept our village over the winter. His brother claimed title to our stead. At least he had the good grace to wait until spring to drive me away.”

“And your people allowed this?” Johnny was incredulous.

Kata shrugged. “He already had a wife, or he could have claimed me. My family died as well, or I would have returned to them.”

“And Lit— Marie? Had he no regard for the blood of his own brother?”

“Had she been a boy, he would have been bound to raise him, but… is that not the way of your people?”

Johnny scowled. “Truly not. Forgive me, Kata, but I have heard of such practices only among barbarians. Our people believe — I said this yesterday — that the gods are open-handed to those whose hands are open. We would not willingly turn away a stranger in need, man or woman, let alone one who grew up with us. We are not always friends, but duty holds where friendship fails.”

Kata was silent; even the voluble Marie grew solemn and leaned against her mother after a hug for Johnny. Johnny finally spoke: “Kata, what is in your mind now? Will you go to the mountaintop? I will wait for you here as you waited for me.”

“We have been there, Marie and me. We had barely returned when you came. I went to the altar, that — that I might leave her to the care of the gods. But as I placed her on the stone, a woman entered the plaza…”

“Greetings, sister,” she said. Her garb was simple — a white wrap held by a small brooch at the shoulder, a woven belt around her waist — but Kata had never seen such a pure white. Her tawny hair was untouched by grey, but she was neither young nor old; the word ageless floated through Kata’s mind. The beauty in this woman seemed to come from a deep well within.

But Kata’s bitterness would not be quenched. “Sister? I have no sister, or any other family,” she spat. “And I have no place in this world. I leave my daughter here in the care of the gods, and then I shall live or die as they see fit.”

“If you would give her to the gods, you have come to the wrong place,” she said. “There are no gods here. There is only one God, and he is everywhere.”

Without thinking, Kata retrieved Marie from the pedestal. “Then what would this god have me to do? Watch my child starve and die? What kind of god would throw us into this world, with no succor or appeal?”

The woman frowned. “Your people are hard-hearted, but they are not the whole of the world. It is your decision how you and your daughter live, or die. Be strong and true, and you will find a welcome and a home.”

Johnny sat in silence for a minute after she finished. “If how we live is our decision,” he said at last, “then I will begin by advising you. When you leave this place, go not east, but west. With me. Upon my honor, in my village you will find both welcome and a home. And upon my honor, I will not lay a hand on you without your leave unless it is to save you from injury.”

“Mommy go Johnny!” Marie shouted, jumping up and dancing around the two of them.

continued…

Book Review: The Gift of Fury

Disclaimers: I got this book when it was offered for free back in November. An earlier copy of this review appears under my real name in the Kindle Store.

If you're looking for urban fantasy with lots of action, and don't mind typos, this book is well-worth your time.

Price/Length: 99¢ (US of course) / 68,000 words

Synopsis: Count Albritton (“Count” is his name, not his title — he’s sensitive about that), a self-styled paranormal investigator, is looking into an attempted burglary at the NYC apartment of one of his sorcerer friends. It doesn’t take long for this seemingly routine investigation to turn into a battle for the future of the world and trip into his own past.

Storytelling: five stars. I’m not a fan of clichés like “can't put it down,” but that was almost how it was for me. I kept picking up my Kindle at odd moments during the day to take in a couple chapters. When my battery got low, I pulled it onto an iPad and finished reading. Lots of action and no long stretches of boredom to counter it. Sexual tension is present, not only between Count and his “guardian angel” Kara, but between himself and the vampiric Nerva as well — but no explicit sex scenes for those who are offended by such. Character development was okay, we learn more about each of them as we go, but the villain was just a little too two-dimensional.

Writing: four stars. If you are put off by a story told in first-person present tense, that’s what this is. I didn’t notice until I was a few chapters in, though. About a third of the story is a flashback to events that happened before (the story begins with Albritton in a hospital, recovering from various injuries from those events) -- that was a little gimmicky, but the story itself was strong enough to overcome it.

Editing: three stars. No glaring continuity errors that I saw, the story itself holds together very well. There are far too many copyediting problems though: dropped words, typos, and so on. That cost the book a five-star rating overall. I hope a second edition, and any sequels, addresses this issue.

You can’t go too far wrong for 99¢ unless you just can’t turn off your internal editor. I hope the second book comes out soon, and Jackson splurges for a copyeditor.

Wednesday Birthday Wibbles

It’s not only Mrs. Fetched’s birthday, it’s also Towel Day! You know what that means: today, she’s 42 again! She was supposed to get dinner at her favorite Italian restaurant tonight, but Big V dumped Skylar on us so we ate leftovers and watched Dawn Treader.

Since I haven’t had any new followers since last week, I get to skip that part. I do love the followers I have though!

Sometimes, taking a stroll with the grandkid has side benefits. I found this sign lying in the grass not a quarter mile from the manor, complete with bullet holes. It must have been lying there for longer than I’ve lived here, over 25 years now, because it was never standing along this road. I took a steel wool pad to it to get it to the state you see here (it was pretty grimy). Mrs. Fetched thinks I should give it to either the county or the state, but I figure they just tossed the sign aside — they haven’t used that particular wording for a long time.

A “Pass With Care” sign came with the manor; I want to hang it in the bathroom.

Mason’s second cousin Skylar (yes, with an “a”) has been spending a lot of time at the manor. You can think of him as a half-time boarder if you like at this point. He and Mason play together like two near-toddlers do: when they’re not trying to kill each other, they have a lot of fun. Skylar is four months younger than Mason, but has the in-laws’ genetic heritage that has already made him a bigger kid.

Having Skylar around has reminded me about Mason’s rather well-developed sense of personal space. Mason has a definite bubble, and if another child gets into it uninvited he can get more violent than absolutely necessary. For example, I’ve had to pull Skylar away to stop Mason from methodically whacking him over the head with whatever toy he has in his hand. But bedtime isn’t twice as difficult, because they wear themselves out chasing each other around the dining table, and they’ll chatter with each other in the morning instead of demanding to be let out right away.

The upside is that Moptop hasn’t been around near so much. M.A.E. reached an agreement with the baby-daddy, where they each get her a week at a time. To make matters better (for us), Moptop was sick and someone else got to take care of her. But she won’t be our problem much longer: Mrs. Fetched tonight texted The Boy, Lobster, and M.A.E. to let them know they have until June 1 to find new lodgings. We’re basically done with letting them use our space without much of anything in return.

We’re going to see Mom in North Carolina week after next. Brand X is graduating from high school over Memorial Day weekend, so Mrs. Fetched is videotaping that, and I got tagged to preach this Sunday. That means the creative energy I’d be putting into a #FridayFlash will instead go toward a sermon. Such is life.

But with the deadwood out of here, it will at least be a quieter life!

#TuesdaySerial: The Gods of Evergreen (part 4)

Part 1

Synopsis: After a storm kills his wife and daughter, Johnny Qullio begins his journey to Mount Evergreen, home of the gods in the faraway east. There he will sing his lament to the gods and demand to know why the good and innocent were taken away. At the Wide Highway, he is taken in by hidden dwellers of an otherwise abandoned town. On the tenth day of his trek, he reaches the base of Mount Evergreen and meets a woman and her young daughter. The little girl instantly takes to Johnny, and he spends what may be his last evening in their company.

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Part 4
On the Mountain

Johnny left before dawn, carrying only his water skin. He set off at a jog, hoping to be gone before Marie awoke and demanded to walk with him. In this he succeeded, yet he continued his rapid pace. Without the weight of the pack, he felt as light as a feather. The morning wore on, yet the air remained cool — perhaps a favor of the gods, or just the vagaries of spring weather. Finally, the way grew steep and then turned to steps. Skeletal oaks, just now budding out, gave way to pines that closed in on the path.

This high up, the path alternated between long flights of steps and long stretches of near-level ground, until steps zig-zagged up and up, disappearing into the pines. Johnny climbed, his questions and his lament fixed in his mind.


At last, Johnny reached the top, his legs rubbery, and looked across a broad plaza, ringed with pines. The plaza gently mounded toward the center, surmounted by a small pedestal. The sight reminded him of Sara’s breasts, broad and low but proud… he wiped away a tear and marched to the pedestal. Climbing atop it, he drank the last of his water and spoke:

“I am Johnny Qullio, son of Arthur, of the village west of the Wide Highway!” he called. “I now summon the gods to hear my lament for my wife and daughter, Big Sara and Little Sara, and to answer my questions! And when my questions are asked and answered, you may do with me as you will!” He looked upward, closing his eyes against the noon sun, and sang his lament.

As he finished, his legs no longer held him up. He lowered himself as gracefully as he could, and sat. Looking up, he saw an old man in a worn grey tunic standing at the edge of the plaza. His long grey hair and beard matched his garb. The staff he carried made Johnny think of old stories of wizards…

Seeing that Johnny noticed him, the old man nodded and made his way to the pedestal. Johnny tried to stand, but could not; he bowed as best as he could while sitting and waited for the elder to speak.

“You sing your lament here?” the old man asked. “Why not in your village, where your friends and family could lament with you?”

“They will sing their own lament, and perhaps they will sing mine as well,” Johnny said. “But the gods took my family from me, thus I thought it fitting that they should hear what they have done — and then I can ask them why before they deal with me.”

“Gods?” the other asked, stressing the S. “What are they teaching you in the wide world these days? There is only one God, and he is here but he is everywhere. But tell me: what happened?”

“It was a lifetime ago. It was eleven days ago. A storm came upon our village, and we were in our house, playing a game to keep Little Sara from worrying. Sara rolled her ball across the table to me, and it rolled off and bounced under the table. As I crawled under the table to get the ball, I heard a great gust of wind, and the roof came down on us, as if the gods stomped our house flat. The table collapsed on top of me, but other than a few scratches and bruises I was unhurt. Big Sara and Little Sara, though — the gods, or the god if you are correct, took them. And I have come to ask why them and not me. Big Sara was kind and generous, and Little Sara was a child no older than one I met on the way.”

The old man shook his head. “God has set the earth in motion, and not all things that happen to you are because of his favor or wrath. What happened at your house, I think — the ancients had a word, downburst. It is a great wind that blows straight down from the clouds, or near enough. A tornado, the wind that spins, would have lifted your roof away and then knocked your walls in.”

“Then… then you’re saying there was no purpose to this? This god seems to care little for his creation, then.”

The old man shook his head. “No. God cares deeply about his creation, and his people. The ancients nearly destroyed His creation, long ago, and now the earth has mostly healed. But it is your duty to give your life meaning or purpose. If you do not curse Him or yourself, perhaps God will restore you — no, your wife and daughter are gone, but in time you may find yourself raising another family.”

“This god… does he have any power at all? What kind of god does nothing?”

“Of course he has power. He has used it to give you life. And he has given you the power to determine how you will live the rest of your life.

“And now… your legs? Are they feeling stronger? Here, drink this.” The old man handed Johnny a flask of a liquid that proved to have a strange taste. “This will restore your strength so you can return to your camp before dark. But walk, don’t run. You have time.”

continued…

#FridayFlash: Chimera, Inc.

Based on a writing prompt by Maria Kelly. What would come of a god bringing three mad scientists from the far future?

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Chimera, Inc.

A young slave girl knelt before Zeus. “O father of gods,” she whispered, “your servants from Faraway have sent me to your august presence. They wish to inform you that they are ready to show you wonders.” She remained silent in that position.

A pretty piece they sent, he thought. Next to him, Hera scowled, watching him watching her. “Inform my servants that I will visit them shortly. That is all. Depart now, with my blessing.” She clambered to her feet and sprang away, graceful as a gazelle. His blessing marked her; when his meddling wife was elsewhere, he’d perhaps summon her to him.

“These new servants trouble me,” said Hera, still scowling. “They depend far too much on their machines. What virtue is there in work not borne of honest labor?”

Zeus shrugged. “They do things no other men, Greek or barbarian, can do. Certainly, I could call forth wonders with a word —” but as you say, where is the virtue in that? These servants do labor with their hands, as well as their machines, and so there is at least some virtue in the fruits of their labor.”

“Mark my words, husband: no good will come of this, neither to gods nor men.” Hera walked a few steps, then turned, fixing her stony glare upon him anew. “And think not that I missed the import of your blessing… upon a slave, no less. Your indiscretions grow ever more flagrant.”

Zeus glowered as Hera departed. Had he one of Vulcan’s thunderbolts at hand…


As was their wont, the visitors from Faraway wore their usual garb: white cloaks with sleeves and pockets. All three gave their usual perfunctory bow when he walked into their presence —” paying him no more respect than would a godling, but did not their work make them near godlings? Besides, all the bowing and scraping had its place, but it could get boring. “So,” he said, “you have something to show me?”

“Indeed we do, sir!” said one of them. They had told him their names when he brought them through Time, but he promptly forgot them. And “Faraway” was easier than “Twenty-fourth Century Pacifica,” whatever that might mean. “Right this way, uh, if you please.” They went through an open door and down a hallway. Anywhere else, this would be dimly lit by torches, but the servants brought their own wonders with them. They had a use for old Heron’s steam device, making the kind of power needed for their lighting and other machines —” at least slaves cut the wood, brought water, and fed the fire. Thus was an interior corridor near as bright as day.

They came to a door on the right, and one of the servants opened it. “This is the result of a lot of hard work,” he said. “We had issues with tissue rejection and blood types, of course, but getting the neural pathways right was the real bugger.” He chattered on, but Zeus quickly grew bored.

“Is it alive?” he asked, looking at the creature lying its side.

“It’s sedated,” another servant said. “Surgery, bone grafts, muscle connections, all that… it would be in a lot of pain right now. It’ll be up and around in a week or so.”

“Check this out!” the third one said, pushing an extensible pole through the bars. He slipped it around the back side of the creature and slid the tail out.

“It’s mostly a lion…”

“Yessir. But you see the goat head on its spine. Growing the support for that was a bugger.”

“And the tail’s a snake!” said the one with the pole. “Is this not the coolest thing ever?”

“Amazing, simply amazing,” the god assured them. “Have you named it?”

“Oh, no sir. We wanted to let you name it.”

“Very well: its name is… Chimera.”

The servants grinned and slapped each others’ hands over their heads, a gesture Zeus understood as celebrating an accomplishment. “Very well,” he said. “Your slave said wonders. There are more?”

They quickly subdued themselves. “Yessir,” said one, “but this one’s farthest along.” He turned to his comrades, and they whispered among themselves for a moment. “There’s two others. This way?”

The next wonder had Zeus nodding, both in agreement with its “coolness factor” and in need of a nap for their endless meaningless exposition. “Same issues as, uh, Chimera, with weight as an added wrinkle,” he said before Zeus stopped listening. “We had to do a ton of genemod on the horse to get the weight down. The wings are a real bugger, sir. They have to hold him up, plus anything he’s got on his back —“

“It will carry a man?”

They whispered again. “Probably not,” one admitted at last. “A woman, maybe, or a kid.”

“A goat?”

“Sorry. A child.”

Zeus thought a moment. “It will do. I name it Pegasus.” Again, the celebratory hand-slapping. “Anything else?”

“One more, sir. Not as complete, but I think you’ll get the idea.”

They stood looking at the misshapen thing. “We wanted to use human hips and legs for this one, but… well, they wouldn’t carry the weight. The gorilla in your menagerie —“

“The what?”

“The big hairy man-like creature you brought from Egypt.”

“Ah.”

“Right. Well, we needed the whole body. You can see how we’re grafting the bull’s head onto it. But we’re giving it a human brain.”

“That’s really tricky,” another one cut in. “We had to modify the head to make the brain fit. That wasn’t a big deal, but the neural connections — even to a gorilla’s body — are a real bear.”

“Bear? This is part bear too?”

“Oh, no sir. That’s just an expression.”

“Well, when you finish it, I name it Minotaur. Return to your labors. I am pleased.” Zeus departed, leaving the three celebrating in his wake. And he was pleased. These monsters would strike terror into the hearts of men, and they would sing of Zeus forever.

I’m Versatile!

I haven’t received one of these award things in a while, but Angela Kulig broke the drought. Thanks much, Angela! Angela’s one of the bumper crop of indie writers that have sprung up in the last few years. Her YA urban fantasy romance, Pigments of My Imagination, should be out soon. She was kind enough to post the first chapter.

You know the drill: admit to seven random facts about yourself, pick five more people to receive the award, let them know they won. So… here’s my magnificent seven, so to speak:

1. Despite the hassles, I’m enjoying raising my grandkid. Don’t tell Mrs. Fetched!
2. On my bucket list: produce two documentary films, one about chicken ranching, the other about fortune tellers and their customers. Both as unbiased as I can make them.
3. I enjoy most forms of electronic music, including hard/Goa trance, drum&bass, ambient, and others. I also like Christian hip-hop and metal. Yes, I’m in my 50s. Why do you ask?
4. The reason I have a motorcycle is to save gas. Little Zook gets around 60 miles/gallon. It, like TFM, is versatile: it has off-road suspension, so I can take it pretty much anywhere on the in-laws’ farm if I’m careful and the ground isn’t muddy (street tires).
5. I fully intend to have an anthology of short stories, and White Pickups, available on various eBook outlets by the end of the year. At that point, I’ll have to put the pen name “FARfetched” aside.
6. It’s more than a little spooky how events in FAR Future (see the Pages listing) are already happening. No rolling blackouts or $8/gal gas (in the US) yet, but the Pat-Riots are teabaggers by another name. Keep in mind, I was writing that part of the story in 2007.
7. Despite all evidence to the contrary, I firmly believe that people are essentially good and want to do the right thing.

Now comes the fun part: who are the lucky five? I pass this award to:

• Patrick Hester, for being highly versatile as well. He writes, produces podcasts, blogs, and holds down a dayjob.
• Marijan, who raises an autistic kid and still has time to write and express her particularly sarcastic sense of humor.
• Beth, who has the ability to pack up and go anywhere her desires lead. Funny how I envy her footloose life, and she envies my ability to put down roots.
• Helen, who writes and reads… the Tarot.
• John Wiswell, because he can write about just about anything.

Whew! That was more work than I thought…

Wednesday Wibbles

Pull up a chair, pass the bottle around, it’s chit-chat time!

A minor milestone, but a milestone all the same: 50 followers! What a nice sixth blogiversary present! Let’s all welcome the newest visitors to the free-range insane asylum:

• Jason Coggins, aka @JaseCoggins on Twitter. More below.
• Rexcrisanto Delson, aka @igorotdo on Twitter. He has a book coming out next month!
• Michael Tate, aka @Michael_A_Tate on Twitter. He’s a physicist and novelist (now how cool is that? Really!)
• Helen, aka @helenscribbles on Twitter. Writer, Tarot reader (another slice of coolness), and follower #50! And a writer of cool stuff. And a lady.

Alright… I’ve been devoting these wibble-posts to people following me. What about me? What am I following, besides a near-novel’s worth of #FridayFlash stories every week? Let’s have a look… first, the serials:

• Bloggin' Brimstone by Jason Coggins. I found it at the end of the “first season,” and it freeking blew me away. Now the second season is underway. Think “cyberpunk Hell” with a really sarcastic main character, and you’ll get the idea. Just read it.
• Meanwhile in Space… by Xanto Jones. It’s space opera, of course it's a fun read!

If you’re looking for more, check out the Tuesday Serial site. I might have started FAR Future and White Pickups before there was such a thing as #TuesdaySerial, but there’s plenty of material to choose from these days! (Speaking of which, have you been following The Gods of Evergreen?)

That’s some of what I’m reading at home. In the car, I listen to podcasts. With an hour to and from work, I have plenty of opportunity to listen to stories, interviews, and whatever-ness:

• Star Trek: Defiant — I started listening to this a long time ago, and during my 3-year podcast hiatus they kept producing a new episode each month. So now that I’m listening again, it’ll take a while to catch up.
• Escape Pod — a science-fiction magazine, in podcast form. There’s a new short story every week, some original material and some “reprints” of stories that originally appeared in print magazines.
• Podcastle — the fantasy sister to Escape Pod.
• ShadowCast Audio Anthology — a horror podcast. I submitted something to them last night, so keep your fingers crossed. One of the nice things about the smaller markets is that if they do reject your story, they take the time to tell you why.
• Functional Nerds — media, technology, and gadgets. Hosted by my blog-buddy Patrick Hester and musician (and Twitter pal) John Anelio (who posts sci-fi songs on his blog every week or so).
• SFsignal — author interviews, hosted by the Functional Nerds gang. I was wondering earlier how Patrick does it: he has a day job, does two podcasts every week (huge time sink in my experience), writes, and blogs. Then I realized: he isn’t married!

There’s more, but that can get its own post tomorrow. It’s another blogiversary present.

#TuesdaySerial: The Gods of Evergreen (part 3)

Part 1
Synopsis: After a storm kills his wife and daughter, Johnny Qullio vows to journey to Mount Evergreen, home of the gods in the faraway east. There he will sing his lament to the gods and demand to know why the good and innocent were taken away. His village gives him everything he needs for the trek and more, and he sets off on the eastbound road. At the Wide Highway, he is taken in by hidden dwellers of an otherwise abandoned town. They tell him what to expect on the first few days, and next morning he sets off again.

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The Gods of Evergreen
Part 3: A Chance Meeting

Past the Wide Highway, it was as the woman had said. The road east had fallen trees in the way and sometimes disappeared under the debris; few people went into the abode of the gods, it seemed. But none of the obstacles gave trouble to one on foot, and Johnny was used to walking wherever he needed to go. His pack grew lighter with each meal, and he began hunting and foraging in earnest. Each night, he fell asleep rehearsing the questions he would ask of the gods when he entered their court. Each day, he watched the mountain grow ever closer. Finally, on the tenth day of his walk — farther east than any in his village had gone in living memory — the road curved away to the north to skirt the mountain. A narrow way, one that was spoken of in legend, led up the mountain. It was late in the afternoon, and Johnny knew that he would sing his lament and ask his questions on the morrow.

Rounding one of many curves, the way widened and Johnny stumbled upon a camp. He saw two people: a woman and her child, a little girl. The girl saw him first, and broke into a grin. “Hiiiiiiiiiiii!” she trilled, and ran to Johnny, wrapping herself around his leg. He watched the woman watching him, bow dangling from his hand, and shrugged.

“Marie!” the woman called. “Come to Mama. Now.” Her words were clear, but she spoke with an odd accent that Johnny could not place. The little girl looked at her mother, then up at Johnny. She seized his hand and pulled him to her mother’s camp.

“Your pardon, good lady,” Johnny said. “But perhaps you should have brought your daughter’s toys with her on this journey.” He grinned.

The woman smiled: nervous still, but beginning to warm. “She’s usually not so friendly to strangers. Perhaps we are safe with you?”

“I am no man to harm you or your charming daughter. Even if I were, I would think that it would go badly for a man to meet the gods with blood on his hands.”

“You go to see the gods, you say? There — well, you should see for yourself.”

“I understand: each person will meet the gods in a different way, as they see fit. No? But I should move on while there is still some light and find a place to camp.”

“No! No! No!” the little girl shouted, still clasping Johnny’s hand. “Stay!”

“Marie, the man —”

“I am Johnny Qullio, of the village west of the Wide Highway. Please call me Johnny.”

“Johnny! You stay!”

The woman shook her head. “Johnny has to find his own place tonight, dear.”

Marie shook her head, and tugged Johnny to a spot across the path from her mother’s camp. “Your place. Here.”

“Madam —”

“My name is Kata. I have no family to name. It seems that we are as well met as two strangers may be, in the domain of the gods. Johnny Qullio, it is in my mind — and heart — to trust you tonight. May the gods smile on those who do not break that trust.”

“And Kata: may the gods pour out their wrath on those who do not deserve the trust of the defenseless. Will you and Marie share my supper tonight?”

They would, and did. Marie never left Johnny’s side that evening, often hugging him, until she finally climbed into his lap in front of the fire and fell asleep. Kata retrieved her daughter, who grumbled in her sleep but did not waken, and laid her in their tent before returning to the fire.

“Will you go up the mountain tomorrow?” she asked.

“Yes. Kata — I go to ask the gods questions, questions that may provoke their anger. I do not know whether I will leave the mountain tomorrow walking or soaring to whatever afterlife they have prepared for me… so I ask you to keep my pack tomorrow. If I do not return, it and all that is in it is yours.”

“But your pack frame — it’s of the ancients, no? That is a treasure! How can you ask me to just keep it?”

“The village gave it to me, knowing I may not come back. I did not want to take it, but they insisted. As it was, they attempted to load the entire wealth of the people on my back.” He grinned.

“You said you live west of the Wide Highway? If — if you do not return, I will return your pack to your village and tell them of your kindness to a stranger on the road. And then, they may send me away.”

“My people would do no such thing. They would sooner take you and Marie as their own. We learned long ago that the gods are open-handed to those whose hands are open.”

“Then your people… thank you, Johnny. I will wait for you tomorrow and pray for your safe return.”

continued…

Six Years Later

Wow, six years!

Some days it doesn’t seem that long, other times it seems almost an eternity. A lot has happened since then: The Boy hasn’t grown up much, but gave us (literally) a grandkid; Daughter Dearest starts her senior year of college in a few months; I’ve finished two novels(!) and plan to indie-publish them and an anthology of short stories.

In the previous year, I’ve kind of let the fiction take over the blog. Many weeks, that’s all that appeared here. I hope to have more of a balance this coming year — yes, there will be plenty of strange fiction, but I hope to bring you more of my strange reality as well. It will be up to you, dear reader, to figure out which is which.

Thanks for reading — and I do appreciate all comments. Except spammers, of course!

Goings-On

Friday the 13^th was pretty long, what with Blogger “routine maintenance” turning into an brownout lasting over 36 hours. All the posts were there for the reading, we just couldn’t add new ones and you couldn’t comment on the ones that were there. That made it a little difficult to post my Friday Flash, but it was more than a little weird anyway. They finally got it fixed late Friday afternoon, but tending a drunk brother-in-law meant I wasn’t able to get to the computer anyway.

Thursday evening I spent out at the Backyard Retreat, straightening up the sides of the excavated area, then stacking the rocks to make a little retaining wall (shown here). Amazingly enough, I ran out of rocks before I ran out of excavation. Oh well, lots of things grow well on Planet Georgia, but rocks grow best of all. I’ll find more. I also smoothed out the surrounding dirt and built up the corner that needed it.

With the work done, I took my Kindle and a flashlight, gathered up some of the scrap wood around, and got a little fire going. It was a warm enough night that the fire wasn’t strictly necessary, but it was nice all the same. I smeared myself up with lemon balm and had very little trouble with bugs. Turns out the floodlights out back give enough light to read a Kindle by, so I didn’t even need the flashlight. We all went out there last night; even though it rained in the morning the chairs were already dry. Mrs. Fetched had a long list of things she would have done different (i.e. that I did wrong) but still liked it. It will be shaded all afternoon through the summer, which will make it pretty nice for evening chill-sessions. It was cool enough that a fire was welcome this time, and we sat out there until sprinkles sent us inside — naturally, after we went in, it cleared up and the moon was bright enough to make the surrounding sky blue.


I’m getting ever closer to the day when I just tell everyone who isn’t Mason, Mrs. Fetched, or Daughter Dearest to find different lodgings — immediately. It appears that The Boy is possibly getting back together with Snippet — AAAAARRRRGHHHH. The Boy had a bunch of friends over, and then blew us off when I relayed commandments from Mrs. Fetched about everyone leaving by 11:30, then… oh, this is good.

I have a view of the driveway from where I sit at the computer, and this one car would pull in, then back out again — then did it again about half an hour later, then again. Around 11p.m., I saw another car pull in — with cop lights. Forgive me, but my first thought was Drug bust time! and I went out to see who was going to win a free trip to the Cinder Block Hilton. Turned out she was here because Snippet parked her car in the middle of the road. Someone called, the cops checked things out and found check stubs with this address on it, and Snippet hustled away to move her car… to Big V’s. She parked it there then walked back to the house. I told The Boy again to get everyone out, and he left with Lobster and Snippet — leaving at least one friend in the garage to sleep there all night. Idiot.

Meanwhile, Lobster is smoking pot (I smelled it one evening) and is still having sleepovers with the not-exactly-divorced woman, both of which could bring trouble to FAR Manor, and he never seems to have money to pay the room and board he agreed to. M.A.E. is just becoming useless, spending all her time on Facebook or on her smellphone and not doing anything to help out around the manor. Enough with the leeching, already.

Mason had a stomach virus that made life for all concerned rather miserable (I had to change clothes twice last week after he barfed all over me), but seems to be getting over it. He’s learning new words all the time, and getting more aggressive with his insistence on doing things himself. He can feed himself pretty well now, gets mad if we don’t let him buckle the strap on his booster (and he has to re-buckle it several times after we unbuckle him when he’s done eating). As always, he loves going outside. He’ll ask to blow bubbles (“Bubboosh?” which is just too cute) but once outside he gets distracted by rocks and plants.

Speaking of plants, a weed called prickly lettuce has gone berserk around the manor this year. Seeing as it’s edible, and has some medicinal qualities (although there’s some dispute about its soporific attributes), I’m inclined to let it go where we don’t want something else. I’m going to have to make a salad of some of it and the wild garlic that grows along the roadsides. Too bad the wild carrots (aka Queen Anne’s Lace) come around later in the summer, or I’d add some of it too. The blackberries are looking pretty plentiful this year; I might be able to get a gallon or two within 100 yards of the manor this year.

Tomorrow… TFM turns 6. That’s a ripe old age for a blog.

#FridayFlash: Turn Back

Thanks to a major Blogger outage — first one in years — I wasn’t able to post this here yesterday. Hope it’s worth the wait!

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Turn Back

They lay together in the brush and tall grass, oblivious to the bright moon above. Wrapped around each other, they gasped their joy and moaned their frustrated fully-clothed passion, minute after eye-rolling minute.

At last, they came up for air — or one of them did, the other needed no air — and cuddled together, her head on his collarbone. “I wish we could be together like this forever,” she whispered.  “You could make it happen — right now.” She twisted her head around, offering him her neck.

“Yeah,” the boy under her said. He seemed to glimmer — or perhaps sparkle — in the moonlight. “And we’d be like this forever, too. I’ve been in tenth grade for the last ninety years. It sucks. You don’t want to live like this forever — trust me. I don’t.”

“It wouldn’t be so bad, if you were with me,” she insisted. “The way it is, I’ll get real old — like thirty! — and you won’t be any different. I can’t make you mortal… but you can make me immortal!” She squirmed up his body, bringing her neck closer to his mouth.

“Actually… you can make me mortal,” he said, making her gasp and sit up. “I’ve been researching, when Father wasn’t looking. I couldn’t bite you because it needs someone who’s never been bitten.”

“Ewwwww,” she said after he told her what she needed to do. “That’s gross!”

“I know,” he said, “but will you do it for me? Please?”

• • •

A trip to Taco Bell got her an extra-large Diet Coke, and she drank it and most of a refill. They hurried back to their make-out spot, her moaning her discomfort, still clutching the big plastic cup. “You ready?” he asked her.

“I’m about to pop like a balloon,” she grumbled. “A water balloon.”

He laughed. “Okay. Just go behind that bush.” She complied, and he undressed as she did what she had to.

She gasped at his naked figure and nearly dropped the cup, sloshing a little of it out. “Ewwww! I almost filled it up! And it’s warm!” She shook her hand. “Are you sure you want me to do this?” He nodded, but she just stood there for a minute, taking him in.

“Remember to do it slow. It has to get all over me. You want me to turn around? It might be easier for you.” He was responding to her scrutiny.

“Yeah.”

He turned, and she approached, looking at his tight butt and imagining her clutching it as he lay on top of her… “This is so gross,” she whispered, and slowly poured the contents of her cup over her boyfriend, muttering “Eww, eww, eww,” under her breath.

He gasped and gritted his teeth against the wrenching feeling as the warm urine ran down his body. He slammed his chest with a wet smack, and took huge whooping breaths. He twisted around, trying to make sure the stream wetted every part of him, until he stood barefoot in a puddle of wet glitter.

“Did it work?” she asked.

“Yeah. I’m breathing! My heart is beating! I’m not a vampire anymore! Let’s get me a hamburger, or spaghetti, or something — I can’t wait to eat real food again!”

“Ewwww, wait! You’re all wet — and you smell like — you know!”

He stopped. “Oh. We should have gotten some water too.”

She growled and flounced back to the Taco Bell, alone.

• • •

“Marin! Do you know what Weldon has done?”

Marin nodded. “He is but a boy again.”

His wife swelled with indignation. “And this does not concern you? What is he going to do?”

“Grow up, I hope!” Marin snapped. “Great Lestat, Sanda, I am so sick of his eternal teenage hormones! Had I heard his incessant whining much longer, I’d have driven a stake in him myself! Why do you think I left out the books he needed to learn how to turn back?”

Sanda gasped, and Marin went on a little quieter. “Look. He’s a boy. He’s been a boy all these many years. Let him become a man. He can get over this… this obsession with the girl. Or he can marry her for all I care. When he’s become a man, we can turn him again.”

#TuesdaySerial: The Gods of Evergreen (part 2)

Part 1

The sharp-eyed among you will notice the title has changed. I wasn’t pleased with the original title, and the new and improved title came to me Monday afternoon. Thanks for your comments so far!

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The Gods of Evergreen
Part 2: Journey East

Had Johnny taken everything the village offered him, he would have needed a cart and two oxen to pull it. Just the food — enough for several trips to Mount Evergreen and back — would have crippled a strong pack mule. As it was, Johnny reluctantly accepted a treasure, given knowing he may not return: a pack frame built from metal of the ancients, magically light. On this went what food and water he would carry, a few clothes, a warm cloak that doubled as a bedroll, his short bow and quiver, and the east-going mail, all covered by a thin oilcloth. Everything he needed for his journey was given well before the morning after the storm.

The road east was well-traveled — at least to the Wide Highway, two days’ walk from Johnny’s home. The pavement was potholed and cracked, and even disappeared entirely for short stretches, but the road was clear and easy to follow. Johnny pushed on into the evening, a little farther than absolutely necessary, to avoid having to spend the night in the deserted town halfway. Some of his folk believed that ghosts haunted the places where ancients had once dwelt; Johnny was more concerned about bandits lurking in the husks of retails and other buildings. He kept his bow at hand, but used it only to try for a rabbit, without success. With just a little light left, he turned off the road and went over a hill, to a place he knew — a little dimple that would shelter him from the wind and provide some cover if needed. The spring nights were still chilly, but Johnny wrapped himself in the bedroll and oilcloth and slept comfortably enough.

He woke at daybreak and built a small fire to cook breakfast and boil some tea. The lament for Big Sara and Little Sara welled up in his throat, but he willed it down. He would sing of his grief to the gods themselves. After breakfast, he buried the fire and moved on, setting a pace as fast as his burden would allow.

Eating lunch on the march, he reached the outskirts of another abandoned town in the early afternoon. Where his road crossed the Wide Highway, he entered a cinderblock building with a patched roof and withdrew the mail from his pack. All of it would go north or south, along the Wide Highway, and he sorted them into the proper slots. It was bad luck to mistreat the mail, and even the hardest bandit would either leave his victim alive to carry the mail or carry it himself. Johnny noted a pair of letters in the WEST slot; if the gods did not send him to the afterlife to rejoin his wife and daughter, he would bring them with him on the way back.

The name of this town was long forgotten, and thought by many to be a haven only for ghosts and bandits; yet a few hardy souls dwelt here, whether disaffected or simply seeking adventure. They sheltered in crumbling buildings, often in better repair on the inside than outside, and tended crops hidden from the roads by weeds or broken walls. And yet the people were not inhospitable. So it was, that Johnny turned and walked to a certain street corner, away from the main roads. “I am Johnny Qullio, son of Arthur, of the village west of the Wide Highway,” he called. “I seek shelter for the night as I travel east to Mount Evergreen!”

A man, neither young or old, stepped out from between two decrepit retails. “Well come and well met, Johnny Qullio,” he said. “Come, eat and rest, then tell us why you go to visit the gods.” He led Johnny between the buildings to a house that a trained eye could see was in better shape than it first appeared. They traded food for good luck, then invited him to tell his story.

“We will grieve for your wife and daughter as well,” an older women said, after Johnny finished. “The way east is overgrown, for at least a half-day’s walk, but it is not difficult to follow. If you return, come to us again and tell us what you saw.”

The next morning, he woke early and put as much distance between himself and the Wide Highway as he could, often looking behind him for signs of bandits. But the gods seemed to have it in mind to not impede his trek, and Mount Evergreen loomed just a little larger before him each day.

continued…

Backyard Retreat: Part 2, the Big Dig

I was amazingly allowed all day yesterday to deal with what I wanted to deal with, and I decided this would be a good time to tackle the patio project.

There is no level spot in the back yard, so I had to make one. I selected a place near the woods, partly for shade and mainly because it was the least steep. I placed corner markers then borrowed a tractor with a front-end loader bucket from the in-laws. I should point out I’ve never done any grading before, so I kind of made it up as I went along. There are no pictures of me in action here, because no one was there to wield the camera. I started by scooping out the high end and dumping the dirt in the low end — I didn’t have to dig more than a foot. The scooped-out end was tilted, because the tractor itself wasn’t level, so I dragged some of the dirt backwards and that helped.

In the end, I decided I’d gone as far as I could with the power tools and got out the shovel. This is when I started hitting some large rocks, some nearly two feet long. I had to use a crowbar to loosen up two of them that were together. You can see some of the rocks along the right side of the photo below; I’ll use them to face the banks.

With the area smoothed out, I jumped on the tractor once more and carried the rubber tiles over. The bucket wasn’t quite big enough to hold them all, but a little overstacking and some care in driving back kept them all on the tractor until I actually got back. Then three slipped off, no problem.

I thought the surface looked pretty smooth, but when I started laying the tiles I realized it wasn’t exactly optically flat. It might have been less obvious had I used rock, but there would have been a lot more heavy lifting and I probably would have worn out before I finished. As it was, I smoothed out the dirt, put clips on tiles, laid them out, and made myself keep going until I had as many down as I could get. In retrospect, I should have dug out a little farther to the right, but I was already hitting roots from a tree just outside the frame in the above shot. Fortunately, the tree to the left was getting its roots covered more rather than dug out. You can see at bottom left where I have to fill in a little more dirt; I had planned for one more row of tiles but the length ran short. I can always fill it in later.

With a nice rubbery surface on the ground, I opened the first big box of furniture and got the chairs out. To prevent scratching, they were wrapped pretty well around just about every surface; I cut and pulled and pulled and cut and finally had four iron frames. I strapped the cushions in (they use Velcro™ or some substitute), and The Boy and Lobster hiked them down to the patio. And immediately started smoking there, not five minutes after I told them “no smoking.” Grrrr. At this point, I’d run out of daylight and decided the table could wait.

This afternoon, I attacked the table. Somewhere along the line, someone cut into the blister pack holding the hardware and took two nuts/bolts out of it. Fortunately, I had some hardware with the proper thread and (in the case of the bolts) length, so I got the job done.

Then I sat down in one of the chairs, put one foot on the table, and called Mom for Mother’s Day.

There’s plenty more to do: lay the rocks along the dug-out sides, get up all the big wood chips from when I had the tree-cutting party out there and toss them in the firepit (built into the table), then run the lawn mower over the weeds. Oh, and fill in that corner. Sheesh.

Wednesday Wibbles (on Thursday) w/Poll

I was MIA as far as the computer was concerned last night, so I’ll change tackle my briefs this evening. As always, let’s welcome the newest followers to the free-range insane asylum…

• MJ — writer
• Kate Robinson — editor and writer

Something cool: the full-length (1300+ word) version of The Philosopher’s Stone is going to be published on Hogglepot next week! I’ll put up a permanent link when I get it. Oh, and it’s under my real name, so I’ll be somewhat “out” as of next week. I’m still going to keep the FARfetched moniker for a while though.

M.A.E. passed her driver’s license exam yesterday — bravo! Now if you can find a place to live…

Daughter Dearest is done with her junior year, except for a “May-mester” class she’s taking so she can finish in four years (typical music education major finished in 4-½ years). Funny, they have a flash fiction writing course available during May-mester as well.

Mason was pretty cranky this evening, and noisy through the afternoon — makes me wonder if he’s coming down with something. It’s going to be a rough weekend if he is. He zorched out in my lap this evening watching Word Girl.

Between dealing with Mason and picking up M.A.E., I haven’t had much free time in the evenings lately. There’s things I want to do, and nobody seems to give a flying flip. It’s not like I’m supposed to do anything but support all these people, huh?

Oh, the poll. My latest Friday Flash, Immortal Curse, set a personal record for hits and comments. It was very well-received, which makes me wonder whether I should consider submitting it to the Best of Friday Flash anthology instead of Assignation. So once again, the polls are open. Give each of them a read if you don’t remember them, and let me know in the comments which one I should go with.

#TuesdaySerial: The Gods of Evergreen (part 1)

I started this story several years ago, left it incomplete then came back and finished it last year. It has sat for lack of a venue — White Pickups took the serial slot for a long while. This is a six-part story, and is dedicated to the victims and families of last week’s tornadoes in the southeastern US.

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The Gods of Evergreen
Part 1: After the Storm

Unconnected sensations: Pain. Sweat and something unpleasant. A triumphant shout. The sound of hands clawing at debris, then their touch, grasping and pulling. Dim light, yet blinding. Standing on wobbling legs, like a newborn calf or an old man. The acrid taste of sour wine from a skin, shocking disconnected senses into wholeness.

Sal and Jane loosened their grip but kept hands on his arms, ready to support him anew if needed. “You with us now, Johnny?” Jane asked. He looked to her and her husband Sal, wondering where they came from.

“Thank the gods,” Philip called from across the heap that had been Johnny’s house. “At least you’re whole.” Sal and Jane glared at Philip, who clapped his hand over his mouth.

Johnny shook his head, trying to clear his mind. “What — where are — ?” Philip tried, but could not block Johnny’s view of two bundles behind him; one large, one small. He looked to Sal and Jane; Sal looked away and Jane shook her head. He tried taking a step forward, but felt his legs give. His friends slowed his descent and sat him cross-legged in the dirt and debris.

“I saw it happen,” Sal sighed. “Your house was there one moment, the next moment the storm knocked it flat. I called Jane and we ran to you. Philip met us here and found Big Sara and Little Sara…” his eyes filled with tears and again he turned away.

“I thought we wouldn’t find anyone alive, but I heard you groan,” Jane continued. “I moved some boards and saw your hand under the tabletop.”

“What were the gods thinking?” Philip wept. “You and Sara were the best of us all. You gave what you had to whoever needed it… why would they have singled you out so?”

Johnny shook his head again. Sara would know what to do, but where was she? She can’t be dead, he thought. She needs to help me build a new house. But for the stinging of nicks and throbbing of bruises here and there, he felt numb. That pain was the only thing that told him he lived. He looked up, past Philip’s broad shoulders, as the afternoon sun found a break in the cloudy sky and shone on Mount Evergreen, the home of the gods in the distant east. Only a few weeks ago, the morning sun had risen over that mountain to signal the beginning of spring.

Suddenly, his mind was clear. He struggled to his feet, still watching the sunlit mountain. He ran his fingers through his thick black hair, then brushed himself off. As his friends followed his gaze, he spoke. “I will go to Mount Evergreen. I will meet the gods in their home. There will I sing my lament for my wife and daughter. I will learn the answer to your question, Philip. And then — then the gods may do with me as they will.”

continued…

#FridayFlash: Immortal Curse

Angela Perry has a little writing contest going: write a flash piece using the prompt “Immortal.” Here’s my shot at it.

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Immortal Curse

“Look, you’re the fifth person I’ve ever told,” said Gil. “Sixth. Maybe. It all runs together.”

Jeremy laughed. “You haven’t told me yet. So the count’s still four or five.” He was grinning, but Gil’s reaction put him more on edge than he expected.

Gil grinned. “Yeah. So how do I understand all these things?” He put the grin away. “It’s a curse.” Jeremy frowned, thinking it over. Gil waited. He had all the time in the world.

“Understanding’s a curse?” Jeremy drained his beer bottle, waved at Rhonda, held up two fingers. “I don’t get it. Seems like it’s the key to… everything.”

“The curse isn’t understanding. It’s how I got the understanding. Did you ever think I’m older than I look?” Gil saw Rhonda round the bar and finished his beer.

“Huh. Never thought of it that way. I just thought you were crazy-smart or something. You don’t look any older than me. How old are you, then?”

Rhonda brought their refills over. “You need anything else? Plate of nachos?” Gil and Jeremy were her two favorite customers: even drunk they never tried anything funny, and they always left a decent tip or made it up next time. They didn’t get huffy if she was busy, which meant she tried to make sure they never ran dry.

“Sounds good,” said Gil. “Put it on my tab.”

She smiled. “I’ll have it right out,” and walked away. She knew how they liked their nachos: cheese, tomatoes, and sliced jalapeños.

Gil watched Rhonda walk back to the bar, admiring her wide hips and sturdy backside before turning to Jeremy. “Eighty-four hundred and thirty-six.”

“Eighty-what-a-what?”

“That’s how old I am. My curse is immortality.”

Jeremy snorted. “Good thing I wasn’t taking a drink. You’d’a gotten a shower.”

“It’s true. Have I ever lied to you? About anything?” Jeremy shook his head. “So go with it for now. No harm, right?”

“Yeah.” Jeremy gulped half his beer. “Okay. So how did it happen?”

“I loved a goddess’s daughter. Now the goddess in question claimed I kidnapped and raped her, but that’s a damn lie. I might have seduced her, but it didn’t take much. And I married her before we made love.”

“This just gets better and better. Which one?”

“Their names are forgotten, except by me, and I’m not going to speak them. Forgotten gods are —” he waved his hands a moment, then downed most of his own beer — “comatose. Something like that. I might wake ‘em up if I speak their names. But the ancient Greeks knew my story. They turned it into Hades and Persephone. Assholes.”

Jeremy laughed. “So you’re Death Himself?”

“Oh, hell no. I’m just a guy who fell in love with the wrong girl. We married in her grandfather’s temple, boarded a barge down the Tigris to start our life somewhere safe, and her mom caught up to us anyway.”

“And?”

“She gave me a choice: she would either kill me on the spot, or give me the gift of immortality in exchange for renouncing the marriage.”

“Evil bitch of a goddess.”

“Oh, you don’t know the half of it. P— my bride said I would be better off dead than to take that bargain, but I was young and dazzled by the prospect of living forever.” Gil drained the rest of his beer. “She was right.”

“What do you mean?”

Rhonda brought the nachos with two more bottles; Gil tapped his chest. She smiled, nodded, and left. Those guys liked to solve the world’s problems while tying one on.

“Just because I can’t be killed doesn’t mean I don’t feel pain,” said Gil. “I’ve been shot with arrows and bullets, stabbed with just about every weapon you can name, hung, and beheaded.” He took a long drink. “That fucking hurt, and it kept hurting because I can’t die.”

“What? How did you —”

“Science is awesome. It at least let me understand what’s going on. Cell repair: for you and everyone else, that’s how you heal. But sooner or later, it stops working and you get old. Then you die. But for me, it’s in overdrive. Do you have any idea how much it hurts, trying to squirm your severed head back to the rest of you so the whole can heal?” He gulped down his beer and waved at Rhonda.

“Two more?” the waitress asked.

“I need something a little stronger tonight,” said Gil. “You got any half-decent whisky or rum?”

Rhonda nodded. “Sure. And a taxi for each of you, right?”

“Yeah,” said Jeremy. “This is — this is a night for stronger measures.” Rhonda grimaced, but nodded and left. “Jeez. That’s harsh.”

“You have no idea.”

“Yeah. But why don’t you bring her back?”

“Who, Rhonda? She’ll be back.”

“No, the girl. The one you married. Can’t you wake her up without the bitchy mother-in-law?”

Gil cocked his head at his latest friend, feeling the room spin around them. “Wouldn’t work. She musta moved on by now.”

“Why? If she’s been asleep all this time, why couldn’t you two patch things up? Shit. Listen to me. I don’t even have a girlfriend, and I’m advising some immortal about his love life?”

Rhonda brought the bottle and two glasses, filling each before leaving. “You want me to hold your car keys?” she asked. “The taxis will be here when you’re ready.” The boys fished their keys out of their pockets. “Good. Just let me know.”

• • •

Later that night, Gil lit a candle on his kitchen floor, kneeling before it. “Come to me, my love, my wife,” he said, in a language long forgotten by the rest of mankind, “my… my Pyanya. Awaken, Pyanya, my quiet one, from your long slumber, and join your husband in this strange time.”

A sudden draft blew out the candle. Gil lifted his head.

The Case for Low-Priced eBooks

You might think that being in my 50s, I’d be one of those “I love the look/feel/smell of paper” people (really? smell? really???), but I’ve embraced eBooks — maybe a little harder than I should — for various reasons. For one, my shelves are overflowing and I have a lot of books in boxes. I was going to turn The Boy’s bedroom into a library while he was gone, but Mrs. Fetched managed (as usual) to throw wrenches until he came back. For another, FAR Manor is in a rural area. The nearest indie bookstore is 30 miles away. The nearest Barnes & Noble is another five miles down the road from there. The nearest Borders is 10 miles beyond that, and closing anyway. Thanks to eBooks, I can buy a book as easily as a Manhattanite.

Recently, there’s been a fair amount of discussion in the circle of writers that I belong to about eBook pricing. Icy Sedgwick kicked it off last week with her blog entry E-book Pricing — Icy priced her own books at 99¢ each and thinks maybe she short-changed herself for various reasons:

I think the problem is that people don't attach much value to something if it's too cheap, and they become unwilling to pay if it's too expensive. To me, the $2.99-$4.99 bracket is just right - the e-books are still cheaper than paperbacks, and they're also cheaper than everyday luxury consumables.

This week, John Wiswell weighs in with High Book Prices Are Good for You. He starts with the example of Patrick Rothfuss (or rather, his publisher) releasing Wise Man’s Fear and pricing the Kindle edition at $14.99 (or $11.99 for a pre-order). John says:

Cheap shouldn’t be the standard for our industry. … What [Rothfuss] charges makes up the price ceiling for the industry. … This is the most that my work is allowed to cost.

The point that John is making, of course, is that extreme prices in the bestseller list allow independent authors a huge price advantage while avoiding the “bargain bin” stigma of the 99¢ bracket. I can get behind that. While Amanda Hocking and John Locke have done extremely well at that price point — these are two of the “Kindle Millionaires” you may have heard about — John W, Icy, or I may or may not find that kind of success. Of course, Amanda Hocking has accepted a major publisher deal: four books, $2 million. Kind of hard to argue with those numbers.

As someone who both reads and writes, eBook pricing (or heck, any kind of book pricing) is a difficult subject to resolve. I’d love to be able to quit my day job and make a living writing stories that people enjoy. But I’ll be honest here: I’d need sales well north of 50,000 books a year to make that happen. Between the senior technical writer’s salary and — ever more important as I skid into middle age — health benefits that I get from my day job, a more realistic expectation is a solid supplementary income that I can use to pay off bills and contribute toward that ever-elusive retirement. But given all the people my current income supports, I don’t have tons of spare change floating around to buy a bunch of books at full retail. And so:

Cheap eBooks are good for readers, and good for authors.

There, I said it.

The economy sucks right now. Mrs. Fetched hasn’t had much video work in the last year or so (one short but solid job and a couple small things). It’s only a little pinch for us though, especially compared to millions of people who lost good-paying jobs since 2000 with only a couple of feeble twitches of recovery in between. You think any of those folks are paying $12.99 for a book, period? If they’re reading new material at all, they’re either going to the library, borrowing from friends, or hitting the used bookstores.

Readers are already revolting against high eBook prices: I took a skim through Amazon’s Top 100 Monday night, and 42 of the titles are priced at $5 or less (free eBooks have a separate list). Amazon’s royalty structure encourages a price range between $3 and (I think) $7, by offering a 70% cut of sales in that range. This makes sense — I think eBooks should cost less than paperbacks, for several reasons:

1. It’s difficult to pass an eBook around. At my workplace, and where my mom lives, there are shelves of used books (paperback and hardcover). Anyone can grab whatever book they want, or leave one for anyone else. I've read several books that way recently. What lending features do exist are too restrictive.
2. Then there’s the issue of resales — while I might get only a buck for a used paperback, I’m forbidden by license to do even that much with an eBook.
3. Publishers almost always use DRM options. One wonderful exception is O’Reilly. A DRM’ed eBook can’t be (easily) converted to another format — which means if you trade in your Kindle for a Nook, or an iPad for your Kindle, you either lose your purchase or have to crack the DRM (which is technically illegal in the US). When I had to switch Kindles recently, my backup copies of Kindle purchases wouldn’t work on the new Kindle. Amazon let me re-download them, but I should have been able to transfer my library en masse from my computer.
4. Yes, I know that printing is cheap, but over thousands/millions of paperbacks, the costs add up. Then there’s shipping to bookstores and disposing of remainders to consider. You don’t have any of that with eBooks.

Okay, readers have spoken. They know that restrictions on eBooks they’ve purchased make them a lesser value. Therefore, they want lower eBook prices, and are willing to buy indie books to get them. What about authors?

Late last week, iReaderReview.com told the tale of one John Rector, who:

did really well with his indie novel. The Grove used to be around #300. Perhaps it even hit the Top 100 (not 100% sure as didn’t track it). People really, really loved it.

He got a book deal. Everyone was happy for him.

Now he has -

1. The Cold Kiss. Price: $7.99. Sales Rank: #12,726. Reviews: 4.5 stars on 25 reviews.
2. The Grove. Price: $7.99. Sales Rank: #26,038. Reviews: 4 stars on 80 reviews.

There’s no other way to put it – Signing a book deal was a huge mistake.

I don’t know what the difference in sales numbers from #300 to #12,700 is, but I’m sure it was a big hit. I think he was selling his indie edition of The Grove at 99¢. I wonder how much he earns from his “published” edition, but I’m guessing he’s actually making less money with his books selling at $8 than they did at 99¢. That might be offset by any print sales, and he could actually doing very well at it, but without hard numbers it’s hard to say either way.

In the current regime, it’s the mid-list authors who are getting whacked. I think $8 is a pretty typical eBook price for a mid-list author’s work. But without a big marketing push from the publisher, that mid-list’er is pretty much mired there — a relative unknown, decent sales but either keeps her day job or supplements his spouse’s income. Joe Newkindle comes along, sees the A-list author selling for $10 or even $12, decides to look for something cheaper. If they’re both getting good reviews, which unknown is he going to take a chance on: Mary Mid-list at $8, or Irv Indie at $3?

The Kindle Millionaires have a formula: offer a quality product, and lots of it, for dirt-cheap — for once, “make it up on volume” isn’t the punchline to a joke. In her this is why I took the book deal blog post, Amanda Hocking said she has 18 titles on Amazon, plus 18 more coming — even more telling, the $2 million book deal is for a four book series. To me, it’s clear that being prolific (and good) is the way to go if you’re working the impulse buyers. Suck in readers with the low price, make it worth their while, then make sure they have plenty of opportunity to give you repeat business. After all, even the nearly broke often have 99¢ laying around — and more of a need to escape than the rest of us. But if we’re not that prolific, we need a different formula and a different metric of success.

Expectations are a difficult beast to tame, especially when they’re someone else’s, but I can talk about mine. Wearing my author hat: as I said above, I don’t expect to be able to quit my day job and write stories for a living (I’d be delirious if it happened though!). I don’t have 18 novels in my head waiting for me to pour them out into my MacBook and roll them out at once, so I can’t make it up on volume. The 99¢ option probably wouldn’t bring in enough for me to report at tax time, let alone make me a Kindle Millionaire. I’d be happy to clear a few grand a year, after paying for editing and cover art.

Wearing my reader hat: I’m going to expect more from a $3 eBook than from a $1 eBook. For $1, I’m okay if it’s a novella or short anthology — but not a preview. I’ll put up with some editing issues — but if you use “there” in place of “their,” or don’t spellcheck, I’ll show no mercy. For $3, I’ll expect a full-length work with at least a little polish. I won’t fuss over a couple of typos, you’ll find them in traditionally-published work (especially nowadays), and at least you’ll be able to fix and re-release. That’s the standard I’m going to hold myself to.

I have a couple irons in the fire, and (unless I’m offered a non-exploitive book deal) I’ll probably roll them out at $3 — but offer an introductory price of $1. There are people who will go “BARGAINZ!” and buy at the “special price” even if they wouldn’t have bit if it “retailed” for $1. Not pricing at the bottom lets me play around some: nobody will complain if I drop the price, or return to “retail” after the introductory period expires, but they would if I raised the price. I could probably get away with going to $4 on the next book, assuming people are comfortable knowing they’re going to get a worthwhile read for the price.

This whole eBook market is still in the stage where people are feeling around, trying to get some idea of the “right” price to pay. Personally, as both an author and a reader, I think that price is a lot closer to $3 than $13.

White Pickups: ALTERNATE SCENE

One of the cool parts of serializing a novel on one's blog is being able to post deleted and alternate scenes. I had several of those for FAR Future, but the cast of White Pickups demanded that I start posting when I did. I might include them in the eBook or printed version when the time comes.

I wrote this part early on, before I understood what the trucks really were and when I thought they would be migrating to the coast (Charleston, SC was their destination). This scene takes place partway through the migration. If this were actually how things went, it would have replaced what became Episode 33. Of course, this was when I thought this story was going to run maybe 40 episodes total.

In the early going, Cody's girlfriend was named Karen and was actually a goth. I have no idea how or when she became Sondra. I don't quite remember who Ken and Stephen were; one of them may have become Max along the way.

Just goes to show, a story can take a turn when you don't listen to the people who are actually part of the story…

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Another morning, another white pickup waiting in the motel parking lot. Charles and Karen started breakfast in the parking lot while Cody circled the pickup, glaring and muttering before jumping on a bicycle and riding away.

"Hey! Where are you going with that?" Karen yelled.

"Couple blocks!" I'll be back before you're done!" Cody yelled back, then disappeared.

"You have any idea what he's up to?" Charles asked. Karen shook her head.


Cody was right: he returned just as the others started milling around, raiding the motel restaurant for plates and silverware. Karen gave him a grin. "You almost didn't make it."

"Ha!" Cody said. "I know how long it takes to get everyone moving out here." He pulled a blowtorch out of the basket. "Does anyone object to hanging out here for a little while after breakfast?" he called to the others. "I want to wreak a little mayhem on our unwanted visitor here."

If anyone wanted to object, the general enthusiasm kept them quiet. Cody was surrounded by a large group, mostly the men (but Karen claimed her accustomed seat next to him), speculating about what they might find. They ate quickly, some even more eager than Cody to get started.

There were plenty of onlookers when Cody fired the torch. Standing to one side, he drew the flame down one side, window to grille, about where the hood would normally meet the fender on any other vehicle. With the first side finished, Ken held up the sagging corner with a pair of pliers as Cody cut down the other side.

"Don't reach underneath," he warned Stephen, glancing at Karen's white arm. "Use the pliers. Okay guys, pull it off!"

The hood peeled off, and everyone crowded around — even the objectors — to see what lay beneath.

"What —"

"Looks like an electric motor."

"But where are the batteries?"

"Maybe under the seat. See those big cables?"

"Don't reach in!" Karen snapped at one who had a hand stretched out. "You don't know if it… you know." She rubbed her white arm, flexing her fingers.

"Then how do we get it out?" Stephen asked.

"We'll cut the front end off," Cody said. "It should be okay after that. But we'll need to put blocks or jacks under it."

"We went by an auto parts store on the way here," said Ken. "I'll get a couple jackstands from there." He jumped on a bicycle and rode off.

"Might as well cut off what we can while we're waiting," said Cody. He fired the torch again and cut away the fenders, stopping once to replace the spent fuel canister with a spare he had brought.

"Hey Cody," Charles asked, "where'd you find the torch anyway?"

"We went by a body shop," said Cody. "I figured they'd have what we needed."

---

This was where it ended, about 2/3 of the way down the fourth (handwritten 5x7 inch) page, but as I recall the cables ran all the way back to the bed. Under the rear bodywork there were antennas that became fractal in their complexity. Apparently, the trucks were picking up some kind of broadcast power and didn't require batteries. Cody was to surgically remove an entire drive system later on, harnessing the motors to run generators or other things.

Backyard Retreat: Part 1, the Gathering

Our tax refund was pretty large… and so begins a new project at FAR Manor. Like many projects, this is one I had in mind for a good long while, but only now is it beginning to take root. With Mason loving to get outside and play, this is another good incentive.

I’ve been wanting a patio for a while. Actually, what I want is a complete outdoor kitchen, so we can cook through the summer without heating up the house, but it can start with the patio. Mrs. Fetched is somewhat leery of being outside much, because the bugs eat her — which is odd, because she grew up on a farm. You’d think she would be used to the great outdoors, huh? To make life easier on her, I have a screened-in gazebo thing (actually a permanent screen tent) as part of the project.

But first comes the patio. I had planned at first to go with the traditional paving stone, but then I saw these Envirotile things. They’re made of recycled tires, but compared to stone they’re relatively soft. If Mason (or anyone else) were to faceplant on this, it would hurt a lot less than a faceplant on stone. They clip together, which makes installation fairly simple, and then they dropped in price by a couple bucks between the time I found them and when I was ready to buy them. WIN!

We also need a place to sit, and this is what we settled on. Both of us wanted a firepit table, and this one has a cover so we can use the entire surface when we don’t have a fire. It should extend the “hanging out on the patio” season well into the fall.

OK, we have the rubber “stones,” we have something to park our butts in, now we just have to level out a spot for the patio. I think we’re going to put it behind the shrub at left center, next to the bird bath. That end of the house has a small flight of steps coming out of Sprite’s porch down to the ground. Very few plants are fond of that area, so we won’t have to worry about weeds too much.

Stay tuned for Part 2, which will likely get us near completion!

#FridayFlash: We Danced

I know this kind of story has been done… dare I say, done to death? But I liked it anyway. It’s pretty short — less than 300 words — but a story is the length it is.

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We Danced

We embraced in the moonlight that night, dancing to the sappy love songs playing on her car radio. I desired her then and now as no man ever could, but it would have been wrong to take her then. I swore I would return for her when the time was right, and I always keep my promises.

Agony — what to wear? I chose to go modern: vest, shirt, jeans, all stylishly black, fleeing further indecision.

And now I stand before her, the smile I remember coming to her face. “You came.”

“I always keep my promises.”

She laughs. “This is one promise you could never break!”

“True.” I grin. So many have tried to flee from my smile, but she returns it. “Has it gone well with you?”

“Very. There was a time I wished you might never come, and yet I was always thankful that you rescued me that night.”

“I missed you. And yet, I always knew we would be together.” I feel shy of a sudden. “Then… shall we dance again?”

She laughed, arose, and took my hand. At once, we were there — the place where I fell in love so long ago. A lonely clearing stood at the end of a winding dirt road, much like it had been then. The music began anew, and we embraced. In my memory, I saw her as she was that night, clinging to me in the moonlight, throwing aside her father’s pistol — embracing life even as she embraced Death.