Monday, December 30, 2013

One More Day - Anthology Release

I am very pleased to be a part of the blog tour for One More Day, a new anthology featuring seven tales, including "Stage Fright," by Erika Beebe, a fellow Rockhurst alumna and a very good friend of mine.  


As part of the blog tour, I received an advance copy.  This was a highly enjoyable collection of stories which represent the full spectrum of speculative fiction: paranormal, paranormal romance, high fantasy, science-fiction, fairy tale and horror.  The stories share two common threads: one is that each story is told from the point of view of a teenage protagonist.  The other is that each of the main characters experiences a moment in which they look around to find that the world around them has stopped-- that time has stopped.  The how and the why, of course, vary widely from author to author.  The apocalypse, time machines, computer programmers-in-training, an absent-minded scribe, and a memorable retelling of Sleeping Beauty are but a few of the takes offered up by this talented group of authors. 

Erika’s story, “Stage Fright,” (excerpted below), is the story of a small-town girl, Hannah, who has moved with her mother to the big city after the death of her father in Iraq.  Hannah is trying desperately to fit in.  She’s been cast in the lead of the musical her school is putting on, which you’d think would be a leg up with the popular girls.  But no.  If anything, it has drawn the ire of the head Mean Girl.  So one day, during a particularly stressful rehearsal, Hannah suddenly finds everyone frozen in place—everyone except her, and a mysterious boy straight out of the spreads in her teenage heartthrob magazines.  Has Hannah suffered a serious break from reality?  Or is there something fantastical at work here? 

I really appreciated Erika’s story in that, unlike a lot of paranormal fantasy/romances, it actually uses the genre as a vehicle to confront greater teenage issues, like dealing with the death of a parent, the struggles of the high school social order, and the pressure to succeed.    

“Stage Fright,” like all of the stories included in this volume, is refreshingly well-written.  Usually, when I come across a collection of stories, I invariably skip one or two that don’t hold my attention.  That was not the case with One More Day.  I found each story thoroughly engaging and entertaining.  While the plots themselves aren’t exactly original, I think they will serve as a fine entrĂ©e for the YA audience into the greater possibilities offered by the genre—possibilities beyond vampires, werewolves and tedious love triangles.  To that audience, I’m sure, these stories will seem very new (assuming that many tweens today haven’t seen old sci-fi shows that thoroughly mined the stop-time conceit like The Twilight Zone).  My only real complaint, in fact, is that I feel like these tales sort of burst at the seams—the authors have stories that shouldn’t be limited to a short story word count, but need room to sprawl and breathe.  I was left wanting more.  And that’s hardly a complaint. 
    
Aside from “Stage Fright,” my favorite stories of the bunch were L.S. Murphy’s “The 13th Month,” an exciting take on end-times and battles between angelic beings, Kimberly Kay’s “Sleepless Beauty,” a hilarious version of the old tale about the chick who pricks her finger, and Danielle E. Shipley’s “A Morrow More,” which definitely needs to be a book.  I look forward to checking out full-length works by these authors. 




ONE MORE DAY
By L.S. Murphy, Erika Beebe, Marissa Halvorson, Kimberly Kay,
J. Keller Ford, Danielle E. Shipley, and Anna Simpson


What if today never ends?  What if everything about life—everything anyone hoped to be, to do, to experience—never happens?  Whether sitting in a chair, driving down the road, in surgery, jumping off a cliff or flying ... that's where you’d be ... forever.

Unless ...

In One More Day, Erika Beebe, Marissa Halvorson, Kimberly Kay, J. Keller Ford, Danielle E. Shipley and Anna Simpson join L.S. Murphy to give us their twists, surprising us with answers to two big questions, all from the perspective of characters under the age of eighteen.

How do we restart time?  How do we make everything go back to normal?  The answers, in whatever the world—human, alien, medieval, fantasy or fairytale—could, maybe, happen today.  Right now.

What would you do if this happened ... to you?



Excerpt from “Stage Fright” by Erika Beebe in ONE MORE DAY!


They warned me about the stage. It stretched out long, black and ice-hard with a curve around the edge, and Mean Girl, one of the cast members, stood at the perfect angle, a little behind me off to the left, but where I couldn’t escape her sneer. 


"Do you remember the last time you danced on the lake, right before the blizzard in the spring?” my best friend Jess had asked the night before, in a long overdue FaceTime chat—the closest we’d come to seeing each other in months. “Feel the ice, and dance.”

I sucked in a huge breath of air and pictured that day in my hometown, instead of the stage; the sky overhead had darkened, the rolling clouds pushed by a wind so strong, it whipped my long dark hair around my face. I remembered braiding my hair quickly and pulling my green stocking hat down over my ears and forehead. After grabbing my skates, I’d slung them over my shoulder and walked to the edge of the frozen lake.

I can do this.


About Erika Beebe:

Inspired by her first grade teacher's belief in her imagination from the first story she ever wrote, Erika has been a storyteller ever since. A dreamer and an experiencer, she envisions the possibilities in life and writes to bring hope when sometimes the moment doesn’t always feel that way. 

Working in the field of public relations and communications for more than ten years, she has always been involved with writing, editing, and engaging others in public speaking.  

Her two young children help keep her creativity alive and the feeling of play in the forefront of her mind.


Connect with Erika:


Contact Links for Other Authors in One More Day:


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Don’t forget to sign-up to take part in blog tour giveaways here.   

Wednesday, November 13, 2013

New cover art!

Is there anything more exciting than new book cover designs?  I think not! 

Check out the new covers for The Ice Dragon and The Winter Prince:






Just in time for the holidays!  Much thanks to Tatiana at Vila Design for the covers.




Thursday, October 31, 2013

Zombies Anonymous

Happy Halloween!  In honor of the day, I thought I'd share with you an excerpt from my latest short story, "Zombies Anonymous":


When I get off work, I stop at the farm before I go home.  The chicken farmer knows me, is expecting me.  He has a beautiful bird set aside, ready to go in a cardboard container.  I pay him, a worn ten dollar bill.  Tell him to keep the change.

The chicken, a red hen, rides in the seat beside me.  The box has ventilation holes in the top, but otherwise, the bird can’t see out, so she is pretty docile for the twenty or so minutes it takes to get her home. 

I take the box out back and leave it on the patio table while I go inside.  I reemerge wearing one of those disposable plastic rain ponchos.  

The box thumps softly as I shift it towards me, open the top flaps.  The bird’s head pops up, gold eyes regarding me beadily.  When I reach in, she squawks and fights.  I hold her carefully, one hand around her neck, the other holding both feet together.  She continues to screech, beating at me with her auburn wings.

It hasn’t been daylight for a half hour yet.  I hold her like that, stretched between my hands for a moment in the watery morning sun.  Then I raise her to my face and bite, tearing into the breast with my blunt canines.  The bird shrieks, her claws digging into my palms.  Feathers fly everywhere.  They cling to my hands, sticky with blood.  In another second, she is still. 

When I’m finished, I hose the blood and feathers off the patio, sluicing them into the grass.  Then I strip off the poncho.  I pack it and the bones into a trash bag and set them out on the curb, next to the recycle bin. 

 * * * * *

The meetings are mandatory.  It’s just like from before, with gatherings in church basements and school gyms, a circle of fold-out chairs.  In the back of our meeting area, refreshments are laid out on a pair of folding tables: an assortment of raw meats and a carafe of blood.  Pig’s blood, usually.  I prefer cow. 

We even start with a prayer:

I am grateful that I am here and I am still me. 
I will not let my impulses define me, only my choices.
I ask for strength to weather adversity and change.
May grace and mercy reign over all my interactions
So that I may be an example to others,
Leading to peace and understanding between all mankind.

 
We all know each other here—most of us went through quarantine together, so there’s no need for anyone to stand up and go, “Hi, I’m Joe, and I’m a cannibal.” 
 
 
To read the rest, grab a copy of A World of Terror, an anthology of indie horror authors.  It's a FREE ebook on Smashwords.  Get it here
 
 
 

Tuesday, October 15, 2013

A World of Terror



My short story, "Zombies Anonymous," is included in A World of Terror, an e-book anthology of horror stories released just in time for Halloween.

Some Goodreads reader reviews:

"This is a thrilling showcase of writing talent that has something good and scary for every fan of horror."

"Sure to have something for every appetite."

All the ghouls, ghosts, vamps death and psychos you could want-- for FREE.  Get it here.


Wednesday, September 18, 2013

D20 Girls Review

The Order of the Four Sons Book I and Book II got a review today on The D20 Girls Magazine, a quarterly publication that focuses on community and promoting females in nerdy industries-- which, I'm pretty sure I qualify.  Coyote would too except for, y'know, the whole XX thing he's got going on.  But we don't hold that against him.

Anyway, check out the review here

Thanks so much to the lovely Tara Watson, a.k.a. Sairin, for the write-up, and thanks especially for capturing the essence of these books! 

Sunday, September 1, 2013

Under Julia - now on Amazon & Smashwords

Under Julia is now available as an ebook on Amazon and Smashwords.





Description:

Miami law prohibits sex offenders from living within 2,500 feet of a school or daycare.  Halfway houses, hotels and homeless shelters will not accept them. 

Which leaves them with only one place to go: under Julia.

In this devastating new novel, Lauren Scharhag explores questions of guilt and redemption, of dignity and exile.  Whether they were convicted of relatively minor crimes such as having sex with an underage girlfriend, or true predators nursing unspeakable desires, society considers them the worst of the worst, less than human. 

In their struggle to survive, they form a community, working together with surprising wit and tenacity.  With the help of caseworkers, doctors, clergy and family, they can overcome the worst of themselves.    

Together, they discover that hope is still possible, and while they can’t undo the damage they’ve done in the past, they can move forward—into absolution. 



Be sure to check out the excerpts here and here.

Monday, August 12, 2013

New Excerpt & Cover Art for Under Julia




Coming September 1 to Amazon and Smashwords.

Excerpt of Under Julia by Lauren Scharhag:

There is no time here, hence, I am unable to tell you without any hope or degree of accuracy how long it has been that I have sojourned in this strange country—Under Julia (sub Julia), cement-ribbed country, Jonas in the belly of a girded whale, the cathedral of our despair.  My good friend – my only friend – Win, has mentioned that we remind him of the Lost Boys, and to an extent, I do not disagree.  But Win, I fear, while nimble-minded, does not know the myths, does not know Dante.

But it is childhood itself that is the myth, childhood itself that is the fairy tale.  Childhood is a myth.  Conceived of by repressed hysterical Victorian mothers seeking a purpose in life beyond temperance meetings and Tuesday night sewing circles.  Perhaps if they had hit the old brandy a little harder they would have had a clue.  Conceived, yes, and perpetuated by the growing middle class now seized and intent on the religion of nostalgia, this doting, starry-eyed, worshipful fondness for something they felt they’d lost—something they never had. 
CHILDHOOD IS A MYTH.  It bears repeating.  I could scream it from every schoolyard. As an educator, let me assure you, innocence is like true love, a golden calf cast by capitalism.  It sells Winnie-the-Pooh apparel, expensive bassinets, and, later, grossly overpriced sports cars for grossly over-indulged sixteen-years-olds, all hormones and entitlement.  And we’ve gone so far now as to attenuate it to 18, 19, 25, 28.  Where does it end, the doting? 
I fear my pedagogy is showing.  Please excuse me.  Pedagogue.  Pederast.  As it’s been said by more interesting and notorious kid-handlers than I, I have only words to play with—words and myself.  Yes, self-abuse is the last bastion of those of us marooned in this parody of Hades, parody of Valhalla, with no hairy barbarians to dismember us, no vulture to pick at our livers.  But I am only half-serious.  I am half-everything these days: half-brained, half-hearted, half-assed, half-dead, half-wit.
I used to fancy myself something of a scholar—an instructor of western civ as well as humanities, if that means anything.  So it is with professional authority (I was but a few publications short of my PhD and might have gone on from humble secondary education to some venerable institution of higher learning like Miami-Dade College) that I pose the following question—when exactly did the western world become so abominably sentimental?  Or if not when – scholars can more or less point to when – I bemoan again those stuffy Victorians with their skirted furniture and hysterical Freudian interludes and white and dark meat; breastless, thighless meat, and claustrophobic yellow wallpaper – a better question is why?  Why did those ridiculous mores cling so tenaciously like burrs to the fabric of otherwise-sensible American society?  American society, who once thought nothing of sending children into the blackened mine shaft or employing small digits in factories, tempting the fearsome dentata of whirling machinery, the fires, the textile lung?  Children once regarded as mini-adults, dressed accordingly, treated accordingly, featured accordingly in art, eight-year-old princesses engaged to middle-aged princes.  Left to their own, they became pickpockets and trick babies.  They are mammals.  They are not a different species, no matter how many laws we erect between them and amorous adults.  They will survive. 
Hysteria.  How right the word is.  I suppose there have always been puritanical pockets in the corpus callosum of the American psyche—hung witches and red scares and yellow perils and now Internet chat sting arrests.  The ultra-conservatives are always harping on marriage as being an institution for the purpose of procreation.  If such is the case, then we can thank recombinant growth hormones for making girls little breed sows younger and younger—is the average age of menstruation onset eight now?  I forget.
But the thing that maddens me most – as much as I am capable these days of being stirred to madness – is that the hand that venerates youth with one hand slaps away its most ardent acolytes with the other.  Witness the various starlets and pop tartlets and pocket divas, gyrating on stages before they’re seventeen, posing nude for photo shoots, wearing the manifestations of a middle-aged man’s moistest dreams of schoolgirl attire.  Who exactly is the target audience for that?  Witness the slim, hipless, hairless covergirls on newstands and runways, baring their collarbones for our delectation, androgynous as castrati, considered over-the-hill at twenty. 
You walk into any department store – any department store – and it’s virtually guaranteed: the little girls’ clothing is going to be somewhere right up front, if not right by the front doors themselves.  Little pairs of panties.  Bathing suits.  Mini-skirts for mini skirts (and I the merry mini skirt-chaser).  And I mean for little little girls—not young women.  Eight- and nine-year-olds.  They even make little junior G-strings in naughty fabrics, with frills and tassels like stripper gear.  And I am the sick one?
If we were really interested in protecting sacred youth, we would edify images of mature men and women, and abandon all interest in prepubescent figures, to say nothing of the eating disorders and diet crazes it inspires, and that whole miserable subset of issues.  But I am not the only one obsessed with youth.
That I am in Florida, the land of Ponce de Leon, is an irony that chokes me, as I sit on the edge of these sullied waters, trying to imagine along with him the taste of that unattainable fountain and some distant future phantasm of the city of Augustine.  And how even more delicious -- as delicious as stolen fruit -- that Leon’s city was named for that famed abstainer, famous for stuffing the poor unsuspecting world with the notion of original sin and hot, sticky guilt?

But it is nothing, nothing.  I am nothing.  Here are heat waves and exhaust and cannabis smoke, no redeeming feature to these pipe dreams.  But thank God, no mirrors.  The horror of age.  I cannot help but think that my punishment is right out of a Greek tragedy—stuck in this nether world, unable to recognize myself as if stricken with a highly selective amnesia, or wrapped in a sly magical Olympian cloak that has forever curtained off past and future, so that I am always and ever—here.

The hazy orchards of dawn germinate far from this place.  Far, and yet that pale peach wakes me each morning, and I feel afresh the possibility of young, bare-armed goddesses with their hair in plaits, and my hands automatically grope for the dime-bag, and my shaking fingers weave from stale buds the approximation of relief.  Wake and bake, as my former students used to call it. 
As if the reefer weren’t enough, it seems that all of my old carnal appetites have been re-channeled into prandial ones, and my waistline will attest.  Every blessed morning I wander away.  I begin my ascent into the world above, searching for the heartiest, most sinful breakfast I can procure.  I found a Haitian vendor that sells the most delicious beignets.  I get three with rich dipping creams and eat them on the bus on my way to work, brushing the powdered sugar from my ridiculous polo.

Add to my list of humiliations (perhaps that old buzzard is pecking at my vitals after all) is the donning of uniforms and nametags, my girth swathed in black polyester, my name, R A Y.  A Ray of what, king of what? 

The copier store is like fish tank, jutting out on the edge of a strip mall, its slightly blue-tinted glass making passerby look ghostly and distorted, Elysian shades, but with no lightning bolts or reeds.  At least the door is perfectly transparent.  An automatic bell chimes as I enter.  My footfalls leave no sound on the black rubber floor.  Gone are the days of regular bells hung in doorways, noise to frighten evil spirits.
The door is always unlocked as it is a twenty-four operation.  Of course, the night shift and Diana are verboten to me, so I arrive at 7:30 and take up my post.

The days are interminable, but the nights are more so.  I stand at the counter, praying for stampedes of people demanding copies by the ream, hundreds and hundreds of color bound copies, faxes, photos, the full spectrum of services.  And yet, as I stand, my head still full of good THC and pharmaceuticals bubbling in my veins like champagne, like nitrogen in the body of a rapidly-emerging deep-sea diver, there is an odd, blue-lit serenity.  For most people, the nights are a mind-race between sleep and the list of things left undone.  For me, the days are just the unfurling of things that will never be.  I have developed exquisite tunnel vision, trying to maneuver the gauntlet of days.  Industrial printers sing the hours, heating ink onto paper.  If I weren’t already high, the scent of the chemicals here would surely do it.
I swim through the Glaucus noise, zen-like in the midst of humming machines, the voices speaking into receivers, the electrical wires strung overhead, fiber optics thrumming in the ground.  I wonder if these motions are the only dance that there is?  What if these steps are supposed to spell something for me, but I am missing the beat?  The printers and copiers with their buttons and lights, unholy choir that hums and buzzes, but somehow reassuring, a modern sound, safe and sanitary, not unlike a hospital.  Or a prison.  Or a school. 
I had always known I was an institutional man.  This is just not the type of institution I had in mind.

The only thing that occasionally distracts from my workday reveries are the lovely parents that come bearing SD cards and snakelike USB cables for me to print off pictures of their very photogenic darlings.  I may not be able to get it up anymore, thanks to my post-incarceration cocktail, but that does not prevent me from eyeing with an aesthete’s appraisal their sunny-eyed daughters, dewy from the Disneyworld sun, fresh from cheerleader camp, glistening poolside skin, golden-brown from tanning salon sessions—which their teenagers are not too young to partake in, I might add.  This is Miami, after all, where people stroll with perfect ease bearing their plastic surgery bandages like badges of honor.  And it is—the domain of the privileged.

Their children—perfect teeth from years of meticulous orthodontics, miraculously clear complexions, again, by means of the best dermatology money can buy, (I was not nearly so fortunate as a teenager), eyes that have never known the indignity of horn-rims, only contacts.  Bodies honed to athletic perfection from years of gymnastics and scholastic sports.  Yes, how perfect are the dollies.
But I am not one to begrudge anyone’s tastes.  I check out the boys, too—the market for snapshots of equally coddled lads is just as robust.  And as I run copies for the unsuspecting progenitor, a mere click-and-drag of the mouse moves the precious photos to my hard drive.  (Would that it could only live up to its name!)
Oh, I am quite the entrepreneur!  Service with a smile.  Come back and see us.

The only thing that perks me up more than photographs, of course, are the rare appearances of such youthful beauties themselves, clad in short-shorts and halters, impatiently shifting their weight from one foot to the other, tossing their hair, talking into cell phones, while their mothers discuss paper options for party invitations, enlarged photos of their trip to Morocco, or the like.

Seeing them fills me with wistfulness—but not the sort of wistfulness you might expect, as this brings me, at last, to the object of my undoing.  If you can tolerate my romantic waxings for a moment longer—you’ve indulged me thusfar, you might as well indulge me a little longer – whenever I happen to glimpse a fair young girl, particularly a raven-haired, ivory-skinned little moon, my blood whispers Amelia.



Monday, July 29, 2013

Book III is here!

The day has arrived!  Where Flap the Tatters of the King is now available on Amazon and Smashwords.




Let me remind you, you can check out excerpts here and here.

What're you waiting for?  Go buy a copy.  Be sure to leave a review.  And if you haven't experienced the world of the Order yet, Book I is free on Smashwords.

So, after eight years in the making and weeks of editing, I'm going to go collapse now.  'Kay?  But before I do, I will leave you with the book jacket description:

Book III sees the surviving members of the Order – Kate, JD, Murphy, Bill, Clayton and Alyssa – reunited in a world known as Corbenic.  It’s definitely not a warm reunion.  With the Corbenese king held hostage by Starry Wisdom, the land has been plunged into endless winter, and certain members of the team are less than thrilled that they have been joined by former MJ-12 Agent Emily Hayes.

As the team sets out, the find themselves once again braving the elements, on their way to Corbenic's capital city, where they will be plunged into a world that has almost as many enemies within as without.  It is a dark and seductive world, a world of alchemists and geomancers, nobles and courtesans.  Unrest has spread throughout the empire, stirring talk of rebellion.  And beneath all the gilt and glamor, evil sleeps.  

It is here that the team begins to find answers about themselves and about Starry Wisdom’s secrets.  Both sides find themselves embroiled in a game of old alliances and older enemies.

At all costs, the Order of the Four Sons must liberate Corbenic and restore their king.

And the final war has yet to be fought.


Tuesday, July 23, 2013

New Book III Excerpt: The Sentinel


Excerpt of Where Flap the Tatters of the King, The Order of the Four Sons, Book III, by Coyote Kishpaugh & Lauren Scharhag

Alyssa had discovered the wooded area wasn’t all that deep, perhaps sixty yards. Up ahead, she glimpsed a clearing, and started to move toward it when a dark figure seemed to rise up out of the twilight, obscuring her vision. With a small gasp, she halted.

She stared at the creature ahead of her, trying to make out what it was. Definitely not human, judging by the enormous size of its frame. The head wasn’t visible above the branches of the trees. All she could see was the outline of a broad torso, the pair of muscular arms at its sides. Motionless, she waited. There was no sound but the skeletal rustlings of the sleeping forest, the whisper of snow swirling into drifts. The creature didn’t move. It simply stood in the wind and snow, a shadow in the glade. She took a cautious step forward. Then another.

Sensing no danger, she moved with a little more confidence, but when she reached the edge of the woods, she paused again. Darkness had fallen. Without the cover of trees, the wind whipped at her skirt. Wet droplets stung her face. Squinting, she held her hair back away from her eyes.

Now she could see that the figure was a statue, sixteen feet tall, buried almost up to its knees in snow. Tilting her head back to better examine it, she saw the great horned head, the smooth, broad shoulders. A minotaur, carved out of some sort of highly polished, black stone. She walked around it, taking in the detailed carvings: the texture of the horns, the sculpted nostrils, the nude, virile body. It stood at attention, its fierce eyes fixed on some point in the distance. There was no danger from a statue, of course. But there was something about it all the same, something deeply disquieting. Why did she think it seemed to be waiting—for her?

Backing away from it, she sensed a great expanse opening up behind her and turned. For the second time, she sucked in her breath, immediately understanding why the minotaur was there, in the middle of a clearing. It wasn’t a clearing at all, but the edge of a bluff. 

There, spread out in the valley below, was the Capital. He was its sentinel. 


If you haven't discovered the O4S-verse yet, it's never too late. Check out Book I here

Monday, July 15, 2013

Cover Art & Giveaways!

The cover art for, Where Flap the Tatters of the King, The Order of the Four Sons, Book III:



Many thanks to my husband, Patrick, for designing this for us.  Be sure to check out the Book III excerpt here.  

Book I is available for free download on Smashwords and Goodreads.  

Swing by my Twitter page over the next few weeks for daily giveaways on Book II, as well as Book III previews.

Book III will be available to download on July 29.  If you haven't checked out this series, lemme tell you, it's pretty awesome, and Book III is our best yet!


  

Sunday, June 9, 2013

The Order of the Four Sons: Book III - Coming July 2013!





Coyote and I have a little tradition-- whenever we finish a new installment of the Order of the Four Sons series, we toast with pomegranate juice.  It is, after all, the beverage of choice for Elder Beings from realms beyond.

So this morning, we raised our glasses of L&A and said CHEERS!  the first draft of The Order of the Four Sons, Book III is DONE!

Eight years in the making, we finished up at 5:54 a.m.  She weighed in at over 1,326 pages, 332,973 words!

Back around Christmas, I posted the first chapter for your delectation, but in case you missed it-- here it is again.  Enjoy!

Be on the look-out for more O4S-related goodness here over the coming weeks, and be sure to check out my author page on Facebook for more book previews.  

Book III should be available as an e-book and in paperback next month.  We hope you're as excited as we are!


---


Where Flap the Tatters of the King: The Order of the Four Sons, Book III


Chapter One
It was daybreak, and the countryside was barren and still.  The dry grass glittered crystalline and white, the bare black trees silvered with frost.  In some places, dead leaves or frozen clumps of bright red berries still clung to their branches.  A light dusting of snow fell, the wind eddying flurries into low drifts in the hollows and dells.  A snowshoe rabbit paused in a clearing and sat up on its hind legs, ears erect, nose quivering. 
Figures faded in from the snow and wind, bringing their sounds with them, shattering the silence with their voices and footsteps.
The rabbit leapt into the air, spun, and fled back into the dense tangle of frozen briars, its white body melting into the undergrowth.
Christophe looked reproachfully up at the sky, turned his collar up against the cold, and pulled on a pair of leather gloves lined with fur.  Behind him, Alyssa was clinging to Clayton, eyes squeezed tightly shut.  When she became sure of her footing, she raised her head, blinking as snowflakes caught in her eyelashes.
Clayton was wearing a blazer over a linen shirt and an undershirt, and he immediately shivered in the winter air.  Alyssa did not fare nearly so well, dressed in a T-shirt and pants.  She opened her bag and took out a jacket she had picked up at the airport in Edinburgh.  It helped some.
“Please, mademoiselle, allow me,” Christophe removed his cloak and draped it over her shoulders in one fluid motion.
“Thanks.”  The cloak was heavy wool and very, very warm.  She pulled it tightly around herself and pulled the hood up.  Immediately, the snow ceased falling upon her.  Surprised, she looked up. 
It was still falling.  Just not on her.
She looked down at the cloak, then over at Christophe, one eyebrow raised.
He did not appear to notice and in fact had already turned away.  “Now come,” he said briskly.  “This way to my villa where await you a hot fire and food, and I shall tell you of the tragedy that has befallen our fair Corbenic.”  He gestured to the hills, perhaps a mile away, beyond a small forest where they could make out the soaring gables of a great manor house, its lights a glimmer on the pale horizon. 
He set off through the trees.  “Make haste!” he called over his shoulder.  “I cannot be missed!” 
There did not appear to be a trail, but it was evident from the pace he set through the dead undergrowth that he could maneuver through these woods blindfolded.  He seemed to be leading them on a route that ran parallel to the hills.  Dry branches snapped underfoot.  In the trees, tiny dappled wrens fluffed their feathers against the cold, chirping sadly.  They passed a frozen pond fringed with a low profusion of snow-capped evergreens, its coating of dove-gray ice smooth and absolutely pristine.  Some sort of hawk glided by overhead, white-throated, russet and black, with a black-tipped beak, its red eye flashing before it disappeared into a copse of trees on the other side of the pond. 
Alyssa turned her face up to the snow drifting out of the nearly translucent sky.  A silver circle marked where the sun was almost hidden behind a pearl-colored veil. 
“It’s pretty here,” she said in a hushed tone, as if she were afraid of breaking some enchantment.
Clayton smiled.  “When I was here last, it was spring.”
“You have been to Corbenic before?” Christophe asked, surprised. 
“I have had the privilege of seeing Four Mothers in springtime, monsieur,” Clayton replied.
“Ah, splendid, my friend, splendid,” Christophe said reverently.  “With luck, you shall again.”
At last they reached an opening in the trees, where the forest was bisected by a road—a road of smooth black flagstones, blown over with snow.  They followed it until they reached the bottom of the hill leading up to the villa.
The house was of some light-colored stone, with a shingled roof of vivid red shale.  In addition to the gables, there were steeply pointed turrets, their outlines ghostly and stark, backlit against the quickening dawn.  Dozens of windows with elaborate wrought-iron panes held gilded fleur-de-lis, egg-and-darts, ivy, heart shapes, doves.  The windows themselves were arched, rimmed with dazzling stained glass patterns of flowers in red, blue, green and gold.  The road curved in front of the house, leading off to the right where stables and a carriage house stood.
They began the long trek up the hill, heads down, the wind blowing in from the open fields to either side of them. 
All three were shivering violently by the time they reached the wide, heavy front door mounted on gold and silver clasps.  Even the knocker was ornamental—thick, gold, carved with a flower design.  The doorknob was gold, bearing some sort of stylized symbol that was either a slender crescent moon or a bull’s horns. 
Christophe produced a large, ornate key, also gold.
The door opened and a rush of warm air greeted them.  They all breathed appreciative sighs as they stepped over the threshold, into the foyer.
The walls were papered in a soft ivory with gilded moldings.  The floor was marble, its pale coloring matching the exterior stone almost exactly, veined in gold, the slabs fitted together with interlocking diamonds of deep red carnelian like cloisonnĂ©, drawing the eye forward to a grand marble staircase with delicate gold railings, which held the same designs as the window panes.  The risers and treads were inlaid with more carnelian, edged in gold.  There were gold wall sconces which held not candles but crystals, their illumination reflecting the gold and cream-colored floors, filling the interior with a warm, almost buttery glow.  Every element had obviously been created in symphony with everything else.  Clayton and Alyssa regarded their surroundings, impressed with the coordinated beauty, the painstaking design of the place. 
There was a wooden door to the right of the stairway.  It opened and an elderly man appeared, thin, slightly stooped, dressed in simple clothing—a homespun shirt, with wool slacks tucked into well-worn boots.  “Master Christophe—is that you?”
He began to cross the narrow hallway to the foyer, and then froze.  His eyes grew wide as he took in his master’s appearance.
“Of course it is me!” Christophe replied impatiently.  “Who else would you be expecting at this time of day, in this godforsaken weather?  With a house key, no less!”  Christophe took off his gloves and threw them at the old man, who caught them against his chest.  “Now come!  Take the lady’s cloak!  We have journeyed far, and we must eat.”
The servant started towards Alyssa, then paused in obvious dismay.  “But Master—” he held out his hands, still clutching the gloves, in a gesture that was almost beseeching.  “What’s happened to you?  What’s happened to your--”
“What has happened?” Christophe interrupted.  “Happened?  Nothing, save that your lord has arrived with guests, tired, hungry, cold, and as yet, still unattended!”
Another servant appeared from the same door to the right of the stairs, an old woman in a faded gray dress and apron, her white hair tucked up in a kerchief.  Her lined face had been alight with joy but promptly fell at the sight of her master, the hearty greeting she had been set to utter vanishing from her lips.  She gasped and reeled backwards, her hand at her heart. 
Quickly, Christophe stepped forward.  “All is well,” he said kindly, patting her arm.  “Just fetch me my dyes.  Run along, now, Idelle.”
Obviously still in shock, she managed a curtsey.  “Yes, Master Christophe!”  She turned and scurried back through the door.  Clayton and Alyssa caught a glimpse of the kitchen beyond.
The old man, having recovered slightly, came over and took the bag and cloak from Alyssa’s shoulders.  Seeing her attire, he paused.
She was wearing what appeared to be a boy’s trousers and boots, and some sort of jacket, pale green, fitted almost like a sailor’s coat but shorter, with large buttons and four wide, deep pockets on the front.  He removed that as well, and was even more taken aback when he realized that underneath, she was wearing what looked to him like some sort of thin undergarment, short-sleeved, black—nothing else could be so tightly fitted.  Indeed, it clung to her like a second skin.  He hastily averted his eyes.  What in the world had happened to these poor people that the young lady had had to resort to whatever ill-fitting garments were on hand to protect her modesty?  Her hair was not even braided, only pulled back from her face and left loose down her back.
He also took Clayton’s jacket.  Here, at least, was something recognizable; it was a suit, a very strange suit -- there was no accounting for foreign fashion -- but it was nonetheless clean and well-cut, as befitted a gentleman. 
After the servant had stowed everything away in a nearby wardrobe, he opened a door immediately to their right, which led into the dining room, lit with candles as well as sconces.  There was a table large enough to seat two dozen people easily, with a white tablecloth, set with gold cutlery and crystal.  There were gold platters and chafing dishes heaped with food.
Christophe pulled out a chair for Alyssa.  She, missing the cue completely, walked around to the other side of the table, pulled out her own chair and sat down.  Christophe peered at her for a moment, shrugged, then pushed the chair back in. 
Seeing Clayton’s look, she asked, “What?”
Christophe did not sit.  He turned as Idelle appeared with a tray bearing a little silver pillbox and a glass of water.  She also had a lap robe over her arm.
Christophe took the box and the glass.  “Thank you.”  He removed a white tablet and downed it quickly, his head back.  Still holding the glass, he gestured to Clayton and Alyssa.  “Serve them,” he ordered.  “Wrap something up for me.  I shan’t stay.”
“But you only just got here!” Idelle exclaimed, and for the first time, Clayton and Alyssa noticed her accent differed slightly from Christophe’s, her manner of speaking less refined.  Idelle set the tray on a sideboard.  “You got to rest!  And you got to get something on your stomach or else--”
“Idelle,” Christophe said quietly.  His voice was firm, but surprisingly gentle.  “Stop fretting and see to our guests.  My meal will set just as well if I eat here or on the road.”
She clearly disagreed, but went dutifully around the table to begin serving the food.  First, however, she unfolded the lap robe and wrapped it gently around Alyssa’s shoulders, letting it fall to cover her front.  “There you are, mon petite,” she said maternally, patting Alyssa’s arm.  On the back of her hand, she bore some sort of tattoo—Alyssa caught only the briefest glimpse of it before the old woman had moved away again. 
Alyssa looked down at the robe, then at the two men, utterly mystified.  Christophe shot her an amused glance before leaning across the table and helping himself to a slice of buttered toast from a plate. 
Idelle uncovered the gold dishes, revealing a whole slab of ham, a variety of sausages, pies, kippers, and steaks; egg dishes, porridge, tomatoes, biscuits, jellied pastries, currants, syrups, tea, milk.  There was enough food here for a major league sports team, including coaches, referees and commentators.
Christophe, chewing his piece of toast, raised an eyebrow.  “Idelle?  Not that I am at all angry, but . . . did you not get my message?  I thought I had requested a simple meal, did I not?”
“Well, only it has been so long since you been here last, Master Christophe.  When Cook found out you was coming, we couldn’t stop her,” Idelle said apologetically.
Christophe shook his head.  “Very well.  I surrender myself to the inevitable.”  Dispatching the last of his toast, he sat down before the plate she had prepared for him.  “Now leave us, please.  We have much to discuss.”  He unfolded his napkin with a snap. 
Idelle finished filling their plates and cups and then left in a rustle of skirts. 
The door closed and there was a pause as Christophe listened to the sound of her footsteps growing fainter and fainter. 
When at last they disappeared altogether, he shifted forward in his seat.  “As you might have surmised,” he began, his voice low, “our original plan revolved around raising an army.  By which I mean more than two.  Since that is obviously not going to happen, an agonizing re-appraisal is in order.  Thus, you must wait here, for the arrival of your fellows.  I must go at once to make sure all is arranged for their arrival-- undetected by our enemies and yours.  You may stay the night here, but no more than a night, or we risk discovery.  In the meantime, my staff has been instructed to outfit you with whatever you may require.  Then you must make your way to Four Mothers.  You will want to stay off the main roads to avoid Starry Wisdom patrols—at least, until you approach the Capital.”  He hesitated as a new thought occurred to him.  “Pardon my asking, monsieur, but you both can ride, can you not?”
“We can,” Clayton assured him.
He nodded.  “Good.  Once you near the Capital, you and all your retinue will need appropriate papers.  I will make the necessary arrangements.  But you will need a Corbenese identity, monsieur.  I suggest you become a lord.”
“I am familiar with Corbenic as Clayton Hornbeam,” Clayton replied.  “So I can be Lord Clayton Hornbeam of . . . shall we say Gachelen?” 
Christophe nodded.  “I think that will suffice. . . Yes, that will suit our needs perfectly, in fact.  Are the rest of your compatriots so well acquainted with Corbenic as you?”
Clayton shook his head.  “Unfortunately not.”
“Pity.  Then might I further suggest you pass them off as your servants?”
Clayton nodded again.  “I think that would be for the best.”
“In the meantime, try to draw as little attention to yourselves as possible.  On the way, your people should have time to become at least somewhat acquainted with our customs here, as well as recent events.  By the time you arrive, we should, with any luck, have composed a new, equally brilliant plan with the meager resources at our disposal.  Present yourself to the Prince as any visiting lord should, and I will seek you later, wherever you end up staying.”  Christophe sat back.  “So.  That I may send a message with any hope of reaching my friends in time, tell me: when do you expect your people to reach us, and where?”
“Dusk.”  The response came from Alyssa, who did not even look up from the portion of ham she was cutting.
“Dusk?” Christophe echoed.  “Can you be more specific, mademoiselle?”
“Got a watch?”
He took a small, silver watch from the watch pocket of his vest, unhooked it from its button hole and, with a slightly bemused air, passed it across the table to her. 
She examined it curiously for a moment.  It was square instead of round, set with rubies.  When she pressed the catch, it sprung open to reveal a face with not twelve numbers but sixteen—four to a side.  At least, she assumed they were numbers. 
“Which one is one?” she asked.
“Ah, forgive me.”  He pointed to the numeral in the upper right corner.  “This is one.”  He ran his finger clockwise around the rim.  “It runs this way.  An hour is sixty-four minutes.”
She studied it for a moment.  “They’ll be here at 8:28 in the evening.”  Closing the watch, she passed it back to him.  As he re-pocketed it, he eyed her with new interest.
Clayton set his glass down.  “So we know what time.  Where?”
“Not far from here.”  Alyssa looked back at Christophe distractedly.  “Your hair’s darker.”
“Then the dyes are taking their effect.”  Christophe glanced at Clayton.  “I’m sorry, do you prefer older men?”
Clayton turned red.  “We’re getting off the subject.”
There was a pause as Alyssa held Christophe’s gaze.  At last, she said, “About four miles west of here.”
“There is a clearing there,” Christophe said.  “And good conditions for a temporary gate.”
She nodded and absently dug out her pack of cigarettes, shook one out.  No sooner had she touched the filter to her lips then a flame appeared to light it.
She looked at the ornate lighter in Christophe’s hand, then to his face, and back again.  Guardedly, she leaned forward to let him light it then settled back again, exhaling a plume of smoke.  She gave him a small nod of thanks.
He smiled and stood.  “As much as it pains me, I must depart.  Eric and Idelle will see to your needs.  You will certainly need some proper clothes.  And,” he drew a large purse from his pocket and set it in front of Clayton.  “Permit me, monsieur, but I am sure you do not have local currency.”
Clayton accepted the bag.  “Thank you.”
Christophe turned and started towards the door, then turned back to them.  “Oh, and one more thing,” he added, pointing his finger at them for emphasis.  “Do not know me.  When we meet at court, it will be as for the first time.  Please understand, I am regarded as somewhat . . . infamous.  A libertine, in fact.  It is a reputation I have worked very hard to cultivate, and I trust you will do nothing to dispel it.”  They nodded and Christophe smiled again.  “Until then,” he bowed, “Adieu.”




Saturday, June 1, 2013

The Order of the Four Sons, Book I - Now FREE!

The Order of the Four Sons, Book I is now available as a FREE e-book on Smashwords-- which means that it's available for download in all major formats (Kindle, EPUB, PDF, RTF, Text, PDB and Sony Reader).

Download it here.



If you like it, check out Carcosa: The Order of the Four Sons Book II.  It's also available on Smashwords. 

Buy it here.



Book III, Where Flap the Tatters of the King is coming soon!  Check out my Facebook page for weekly previews.






Wednesday, May 29, 2013

The Timeless Appeal of the Anti-Hero


Don Draper: Raised by Hookers.  Serial Womanizer and Philanderer.  Weird, right?

TV geek that I am, I frequent forums to discuss my favorite shows like Mad Men and Game of Thrones.  I keep seeing people post comments like, “This is the show’s protagonist?  THIS guy?  But he’s so unlikeable!  I don’t know if I can keep watching.”

I’m sorry . . . I thought that was the point?

Don Draper.  Pretty much every character in the GoT universe.  Walter White.  Dexter Morgan.  Nancy Botwin.  Al Swearengen.  Tony Soprano.  All these characters do horrible things-- shocking things.  We hate them for it.  And yet, we don’t stop watching—we can’t stop watching. 

Characters shouldn’t have to be likable—they should be compelling.

What purpose does that serve?  Well, mainly they’re just mesmerizing to watch.  How often are the villains more interesting than the heroes?  Anti-heroes give us the best of both worlds-- they may have good intentions, but they're flawed, crippled by desires or ambition.  Like us, they make horrible mistakes.  Often, they keep making them.  Or they keep making the same mistake. 
 
We read and watch films and television shows to step out of ourselves.  Fiction gives us the opportunity to think the unthinkable, to speak the unspeakable, to do the nasty.  If you want a boy scout, go watch Captain America.  If you want someone sweet as pie, check out Pollyanna.  But don’t complain when you tune into a show about people who lie for a living, or a medieval-style fantasy featuring broadswords.  Somebody’s going to get mercilessly whacked.
 
 
Or somebody's going to get thrown off a tower.  Especially if that someone was an eight-year-old boy who just happened to witness Jaime Lannister having sex with his twin sister.  But the man still has a code!  Also, it doesn't hurt that he looks like Nikolaj Coster-Waldau.

 
No one said Don Draper was the hero—just the focus of the story.  And just because Don’s the focus of the story, doesn’t necessarily mean you should like him, either.  And, good Lord, I hope you don’t fucking identify with him.  If you do, what’s wrong with you?  (Unless you grew up in a whorehouse, in which case, I'd say your foibles are understandable.) 

We’ve always been fascinated by reprehensible characters—Macbeth was not a nice guy.  He was weak and easily manipulated, and ultimately responsible for a lot of deaths.  Sherlock Holmes, one of my personal favorites, is actually the consummate Victorian gentleman in Doyle’s stories.  But he has been altered in recent adaptations to come across as a high-functioning autistic or even a sociopath because we are fascinated by the image of Holmes as a crime-solving machine with no social skills.

The Greek gods were petty squabblers and back-stabbers.  Lancelot and Guinevere were adulterers—and so were Madame Bovary and Anna Karenina.  Indiana Jones, Han Solo and Rhett Butler are all scoundrels.  Humbert Humbert is a perv.  
 
Alex DeLarge and Hannibal Lecter are hypnotic.  Becky Sharp and Scarlett O’Hara didn’t play by the rules, and neither did Jane Eyre.  Tom and Huck and Bart Simpson are all rascals.  Homer Simpson is a gross, selfish asshole who paved the way for Peter Griffin.  Patrick Bateman is a psycho.  Tyler Durden is schizo.  Even the Cat in the Hat lured children into misbehaving.  James Bond is a stone-cold killer.  And that’s why we love him.  We love our characters with skeletons in the closet, with monsters under the bed, with toys in the attic. 
 
 
Nancy Botwin: producer and purveyor of illegal substances.  Responsible for multiple deaths and imprisonments.  Burned down a whole suburb.  Also-- mom. 
 

There are happy stories and happy characters.  I like Disney and Anne of Green Gables.  I was amazed at how much I loved Captain America—I had expected to find him a boring boy scout like Superman, but he turned out to be pretty cool. 

In my own stories, I have found that the difference between an anti-hero and a straight-up hero is their backstory.  Usually, something broke them and made them go dark.  People have said, ad nauseum, that the fact that these fictional characters had awful childhoods does not excuse the fact that they’re awful adults. 

Well, no.  But it does explain why they are the way they are.  Most characters need an origin story.  History is not an excuse.  It’s a reason.  We are inescapably shaped by our experiences. 

People complain that after six seasons, Don Draper is still the same fucked-up guy pulling the same, fucked-up shit.  Why doesn't he move forward?   

Well, change is hard ya’ll.  I don’t understand why people look for redemption in these characters.  Sometimes there isn’t any to be found because often, people don’t change.  Some of them even get worse. 

Like in life.  Which is the point. 

If you’re looking for sheer escapism, choose your material carefully.  Not all of it’s entertainment—some of it is art.  And sometimes, it’s the job of art to make us uncomfortable.  That’s why it’s sometimes called provocative—it provokes.  If you want light and foamy, stick to your fucking-close-to-water beer.  Sometimes, the rest of us need something dark and full-bodied.