A New Post in Adventures in Writing
In which I point out a not so obvious trend in book selling.
Paranormalcy by Kiersten White
I bleeping love Kiersten White’s Paranormalcy.
Loving a book isn’t enough to appear here on Rehabilitated Hack Writer Reviews™, the book needs to also have value to the novelist. Consequently, I target this review towards fiction writers.
With that said, I bleeping love Kiersten White’s Paranormalcy.
The writer needs to take away three things from Paranormalcy, the first being “wow what bleeping awesome plotting” and, more obvious, the outstanding voicing White employs to suck the reader into the book with an iron, literary grip. Don’t let White’s happy-bouncy-mommy online presence fool you. She is a vicious literary storyteller, using deep, persuasive skills to capture your attention, mesmerize you and then leave you wanting more as your turn the last page.
We’ll come back to the plotting in a moment, for the voicing of the book steals the show. The voicing of the main character is lifeblood to the writer.
Evie, oh, you pink loving girly-girl, a bastion of teen goodness that doles out snark and sarcasm that actually had me giggling manly chuckling in places. How I very much love this Taser-loving character.
Evie is not some empty shell for a teen girl to project herself into and ride the waves of faux conflict into a sequel. White’s mastery with making her unique from the first chapter speaks to a very creative talent and is worthy of a writer’s study. Indeed, I would assert Evie has a universal appeal simply because she is so alive and unique.
White’s use of dialog coupled with plot gives Evie her voice, but you can see this razor-sharp characterization at work with all the characters present, especially the dark bad-boy Reth, and the mysterious and noble Lend. This characterization is water boiling under the surface; when I speak of voicing, I’m mainly talking about literary voicing in a classical sense.
Voicing, the way I think of it, is the writer’s grasp and mastery of the literary elements of diction, tone, syntax, unity, coherence and audience to create a clear and distinct “personality of the writer.” This personality emerges as readers interact with the text.
And this, my writer friends, is what makes this book more than simply a good read. Voicing can be hard to explain, but it’s it’s not hard to spot. Simply pick up Paranormalcy for a great example. I love Kiersten’s writer voice, I always have, and it’s on grand display here in this novel.
Least you get sucked into the characterization, leave no doubt White is also a master plotter. One wonders if her stable of author friends calls her “The Plot Mistress” behind closed doors.
But I digress.
The plot for Paranormalcy is a forward-facing, e-ticket ride into the paranormal:
Evie’s always thought of herself as a normal teenager, even though she works for the International Paranormal Containment Agency, her ex-boyfriend is a faerie, she’s falling for a shape-shifter, and she’s the only person who can see through paranormals’ glamours.
But Evie’s about to realize that she may very well be at the center of a dark faerie prophecy promising destruction to all paranormal creatures.
So much for normal.
Holy Bleeping Crap, the plot, wow would be a great way to describe it. Just, wow. White dishes out word building in such a sneaky fashion, each couple of page flips reveals some of her backstory and if you’re happily plowing through the book, you’ll miss it. For the writer, her use of foreshadowing is worthy of your study. Like a good mystery author, White doesn’t agonize over if you figure it all out before the main character. White stays true to Evie to the very last page of the story, and it was simply fabulous. I can’t wait to read the next two books simply because I am in love with her plot-forward style of world building.
Awesome. Coated in awesomesauce. Wrapped in bacon. Bacon awesomesauce.
But forget about voice and plot. No, the highlight of Paranormalcy is the lack of themes.
What, you say? Lack of themes? Are you crazy, Mr. Rehabilitated Hack Writer?
Yes, I am crazy. Crazy like a fox!
But I digress.
Almost every book targeted to young adult audience has a theme, sometimes more than one. White, however, does not dive into thematics. What separates a good young adult novel from a great young adult novel is when the author sticks true to her values and writes to what she believes. It’s the brave thing, rather than the safe path. It’s writing to how things are, rather than an opinion on how things should be. This is what makes Evie so lovable. White didn’t pattern Evie after herself of course, but she embraces what she wants to share with the reader.
If you don’t see this raw honesty, I encourage you to re-read the novel again, paying attention not just to Evie’s empathetic nature, but also Lend’s.
And that, my friends, moves Paranormalcy from the realm of bubble-gum literary girly snack to simply brilliant. My secret wish is for White to explore more of this raw honesty, and, at the end of the day, isn’t that what moves a novel into a loved story?
You can buy Paranormalcy at Amazon here.
The Barnes and Nobel link is here.
Son of Ereubus by J.S. Chancellor
Every epic fantasy series worthy of a recommendation from me and my friends pays homage to what I call fantasy je ne sais quoi.
I will attempt to describe the indescribable anyway.
As readers, we enjoy books but wallow in the really good ones. My buddies and I chew through fantasy novels like a Rottweiler puppy going through a bone. Here at Rehabilitated Hack Writerville, however, we review books for fellow writers. I target this book review to novelists, not simply readers.
Real fantasy has an intangible quality that makes it distinctive and attractive and this has little to do with world building and more to do with raw, creative talent that one could say is the voice of the book.
Son of Ereubus by J.S. Chancellor is like a warm piece of olive bread slathered generously with fantasy je ne sais quoi. So very delicious. Oh, did I eat the whole loaf? Whoops.
On the surface, leave no doubt that Son of Ereubus is creepy as hell. I would not call it a horror book but there are many horror elements on display. Indeed, the level of creep is so persuasive that, like the inhabitants of the human world and their protectors, a reader gets used to it. There is a certain, brutal aesthetic to the plot.
Underneath the surface, however, is a complex tale of which I’m not going to attempt to describe, so let’s just go with the back of the book:
Since time immemorial, Man has lived in fear of losing his soul to the darkness of Saint Ereubus. For generations, the Ereubinians have wielded that power and ruled like gods. Three thousand years ago, Man irresolutely placed his faith in a mythical world. That world, Adoria, now holds Man’s final hope. As the last stronghold of Man is threatened, the fates of three strangers become forever intertwined and everything they once believed will be irrevocably changed as they discover…
Their time has run out.
Chancellor packed Son of Ereubus so full of Epic Plot Goodness, it makes that plot summary akin to saying your favorite vacation spot in the entire world is “nice.”
That, my writing friends, makes the book worthy of study. Seriously. The plotting for this fantasy novel is incredible.
And that’s just getting started, for Son of Ereubus is a rare novel indeed: it’s character driven epic fantasy.
The characters Ariana and Garren are the yin and yang of the novel, and they both compliment and repel each other in a perverted harmony. Ariana is a powerful yet feminine character who seems continually frustrated that she is able to outthink everyone around her, yet they treat her as a “normal” woman, which she is so very not. I love Ariana. So spunky. So sassy. So in need of getting laid.
But I digress.
As much as Ariana is a special treat to read in a fantasy story, Garren, my friends, completely runs away with the novel. I was a quarter of the way into the book when I closed it and looked at the cover and went “Yesssss, this is going to be so awesome!”
Garren is the anti-hero and even before he grasps the ugly horns of self-determination, he strangely becomes a sympathetic figure. How Chancellor made me feel pangs of sympathy for such an evil fuck, I have no idea. Chancellor’s voicing with Garren is as complex at the mythos and plotting of the novel. She tricks the reader into thinking Ariana is a creature of chaos—wherever she goes, she sows the seeds of change. Compared to Garren, however, Ariana is a piker.
This is what pulls Son of Ereubus into brilliant epic fantasy. The creepy Armageddon undercurrents with the intertwining, complex plot and mythos combined with outstanding character voices come together in a wondrous opening novel of a trilogy.
Like I said, earlier, however, Son of Ereubus is fantasy je ne sais quoi and I believe that comes from the intense themes hiding behind the action-infused plot along with all the other hallmarks of an epic fantasy novel. It’s war, in Son of Ereubus. It’s not just a war for man and the souls of the human race, but also a war between good and evil, fate and self-determination and even a war between hot-blooded lovers.
I can’t wait to read the next book in the Guardians of Legend series, for Son of Ereubus was pure epic fantasy awesomesauce.
Am I Just Weird That Way?
Sometimes I want to write the end of the book, then the beginning, then the middle and then fill in the rest.
Does anyone else have a desire to do that or is that my music training coming out?
New Post in Adventures in Writing
I talk about THE ZONE.
Paranormalcy in the Wild
Me and my cell phone camera took a walk today and happened by the Redmond Town Center Borders in Redmond, Washington.
Borders First Floor
Borders' massive YA Section on the 2nd floor
Cinders by Michelle Davidson Argyle
Disclaimer 1: This is a book review for novelists. There are many other reviews about Cinders, this one is for those who like to write books.
Disclaimer 2: I placed 3rd in one of Michelle’s short story contests in a blind judging. Please don’t think I’m doing a bit of quid pro quo, because I can assure you I am a vicious reader.
I always thought Cinderella was a bit of a whore.
You can’t blame Disney’s Cinderella for being a whore. The girl’s stepmother and sisters abused her, making her life a living misery. Going back to the classic tale, we can all put ourselves in her shoes (get it—put ourselves in her shoes? Oh, I am so clever!), and who can resist the charm of the Prince searching for the girl who enticed him and then taking her away to live happily ever after?
The classical definition of a whore is somebody who does things for selfish reasons. Add a bit of the magically seduced prince, and there you have it.
Thus, it was with trepidation that I started reading Cinders, attracted to the book because I love novellas and I thought the cover was smashing. It was supposed to be a coming-of-age-story with a bunch of girly girl mixed with whimsy. I was even expecting talking animals.
Goodness was I mistaken.
Cinders by Michelle Davidson Argyle is a literary wonder with perfect, sparse prose obscuring a multi-layered depth that is haunting as it is breathless. When I finished the book, I just sat there in my chair outside staring at the trees in the sun. Cinders captivated, disturbed, infatuated, crushed, bewildered and beguiled me.
It’s difficult to know where to begin on an in-depth review with something so overwhelming complex born of simplicity, but there is the obvious. The prose.
Argyle’s delicious, sensual, twilight and shadow prose.
Here is one example:
“Not yet. Let me sing you a song.” He sat with her near a bush with white flowers, the same ones in her hair, and as he sang, the smell of clover grew stronger. He helped her lie down. Petals fell from his hair when his lips brushed hers. She closed her eyes and saw Isaac bruising Rose’s horse, his arm moving up and down, the cat licking her paws.
See, I’m a red-blooded American Male. I like my steak waved in a warm room, apple pie and watch movies where stuff blows up in space. A productive evening for me is when I’ve managed to clean all the guns without running out of CLP.
Yet, that excerpt right there made my heart go pitter-pat. I read that and I was breathless, the feeling you get when you look at a girl for the first time and realize you’re crushing hard.
For the writer, Cinders is a decent into the visceral, as that example shows. It’s not a la la la literary going to describe a flower in twelve metaphors visceral, but a dark, sensual, haunting flowing river of words that sits at the bottom of your gut like a fiery Cognac. Argyle’s prose is sparse, her mastery with such few words speaks to a deep, creative talent, and she uses her creativity to breathe life into the lifeless.
In Disney’s adaptation, Cinderella is a story about a girl becoming a woman in order to escape her awful life while snagging the man of her dreams in the process through magic and rodent Tom Foolery.
“Cute talking animals” is code for “this is a child’s story for entertainment” and as such that’s what Cinderella, the character, was.
Argyle’s characterization is so fascinating and her Cinderella is a compelling, complex figure different from the original literary tale before it. It is impressive how Argyle turns a vapid fairytale shell into a young woman, but Cinderella here is a wonderful, flawed person yearning to make her own choices.
And make them she does. I was rooting for Cinderella through the entire book because her yearning selfishness, even though justified, was tragic to behold. Even at her worst mistakes, at least she made them. Choice. Has there ever been such a literary theme worthy of published words?
But I digress.
How I loved that seductive, lethal yet empathetic Cinderella. What, you say? Cinderella? Lethal? Seductive?
Oh, yes. That and more. Cinderella makes mistakes, and people die. Cinders, my friends, is a book with an impressive body count, like any good fairytale. Despite the darkness that Argyle serves up as pebbles falling into a still lake, the book isn’t about death, but about life: living, learning, and loving.
She also loves, oh how Cinderella loves. Her love is consuming and fearful; she loves with her mind and her body, and her passions and desires elevate her from her magical prison of her own making while driving her to the cliff of despair. Argyle pulls this off with mastery for the complex wrapped around the simple.
Cinders is a love story, but it’s also a coming-of-age-story, and the truly amazing part of this novella is the themes and plot intertwine
s to the point where it’s difficult to tell the difference between the two. It’s also a raw story with under-the-radar world building, a world that comes alive in the fewest words possible. The setting is so vivid, it mesmerizes the reader who turns page after page and all too soon, the end of the book comes like a punch in the gut.
The ending is a study in perfection, a true “didn’t see it coming, but should have,” moment of pure bittersweet. That’s the summation for the writer: Cinders is a study in perfection. The perfect cover. The perfect tagline. Even the bookmark is perfect. The perfect story. Perfect prose. The perfect novella. It’s magical. You could stick this novella in a time capsule, move it forward two hundred years, and for the lucky reader who dug it up, she would say “oh!” and yearn for more.
Argyle banished Disney’s whore from my mind. It was as if she never existed, and in her place is a woman of empathy and beauty, a mixture of danger tempered with love.
Perfect.
Read a Bunch of Chapters of Paranormalcy!
Read a bunch of chapters of Paranormalcy!
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Also, I would like to point out, I had a Kiersten tag on my blog way before other people thought it was cool. Ha!
Momma Was Wrong
Momma always told him to watch out for certain girls, and after a while, he learned “certain girls” was Momma’s code for “girls who want in your pants to break your heart or make off with your wallet.”
The girl in front of him was Momma’s worst nightmare.
It was Valentine’s Day in Southwest Washington. That meant the cold, ever-present rain. The fireplace was going at it with the snap and crackle to remind everyone that it was there, the sleeping dog next to it, trying to will herself closer in warm doggie dreams.
The Merlot bottle stood half-empty, sitting on the table next to the photo album. They had been giggling over the photos for quite some time.
She had disappeared while he was fetching cheese and pouring the rest of the wine, but now she was back, wearing her dancing heels and the red dress she loved to wear salsa dancing, the one with the slit that went to the ceiling. She put on slow jazz, the singer with her sensual tale of love and longing in French, all sexy and warm.
He stood and put a hand around her waist, and one across her back. One of her hands came up behind him and she ran fingers through his hair. She swayed into the music, swayed into him, and her lips came up to his ear. She smelled of grapes and flowers, but also that dangerous woman scent that she loved to use like a weapon.
“Dance right into me,” she whispered. “Dance into me.”
Momma was wrong. The girls that knew how to say the perfect things at the perfect time were the ones that needed watching.
It was their eighteenth wedding anniversary.
“Dance right into me,” she said again, and sighed when he kissed her.
Larry Correia Kicks Ass
I was having a very interesting conversation with my 10-year-old.
First off, that kid is wicked smart. Takes after his mom.
We were talking about (get this) urban fantasy or to mix genres, paranormal urban fantasy.
He asked me “are there any urban fantasy books for guys, besides the guy who wrote Monster Hunter International?”
MHI is one of his favorite books.
My brain struggled. Was there? Non-dystopian?
I told him that urban fantasy was very popular with women, so much so that if there was something out there that had universal appeal, I didn’t know about it. It got lost in the noise.
“That sucks,” he said.
Yes, Thing One. It does suck. But hey, look at this from Larry Correia:
Yeah, Thing One and me we’ll be all over that one. Have you ever seen such a pulp-goodness hint of steam punk noir cover? I sure haven’t.
It’s official, author Larry Correia is kicking ass.
New Post in Adventures in Writing
New post in Adventures in Writing: Where Books and Caffeine Collide!
BOOM!
Predator of Predators
From my world-building notebook for Stuff Blowing Up in Space.
We read in science fiction stories all the time about the “adaptability of humans” or some other superior concept such as individualism, the triumph of the individual over the collective might of the pesky aliens (or even groups of humans).
What makes the Predator movies so fascinating is humans consider themselves predators, and the movies flip that on its end. Especially the first movie.
Humans are not predators of predators from a pure evolutionary standpoint. Humans need other humans to survive. They are socially adaptive.
The sish, the dominate species in the galaxy for Stuff Blowing Up in Space, form complex social groups to assert dominance to avoid food competition, not because they need to get together and fertilize eggs. They are loners and individuals much more so than humans are. They come with a slew of natural weaponry. What they cannot overpower they seduce with biological seduction weapons. What they cannot biologically seduce they can out think. Evolution can take many paths, the path for fight leads to brains that process information quickly. It’s not just a basic response, either. To a sish, exploration and advancement ties directly to food, and food is sex. Stepping foot on a new planet isn’t just fun, it’s foreplay.
Thus the adaptive, individual race is not humans. It’s sish. On the same evolutionary scale, they achieved FTL faster than others, they found more habitual planets and they are very effective diplomats, seeing war and conflict as the elimination of the food supply.
The human advantage over sish is a cultural one, one that leads to greater technological progress.
That’s a different entry, however.
Below are two sish, talking amongst themselves. They are also vying for dominance and possible sex-play. Not to toot my horn too obnoxiously, but while this banter moves the plot forward, setting the stage for some juicy conflict, it’s also jam-packed with world-building without obnoxiously beating the reader over the head with it, as I have done with the text above.
If anybody who knew anything about military space vessels were paying attention, they would have immediately known something was odd about Task Group Inaeo’s two cruisers and their orbital positions.
Nobody was paying attention, because the last of Task Group Aoe’s space assets had crossed the FTL safety line and disappeared. If someone had been looking, they would have noticed the two cruisers covered a wide swath of the planet, rather than a wide swath of the space before the planet.
The two captains were in their respective private cabins, they had just finished watching what video there was of the human in train car.
Such video was ironic. They only had it because one of the sish in the car had an expensive recorder from the Terran sector, and it was EMP shielded. Who would have thought of such a thing?
“Quite an extraordinary play of events, don’t you think?” said the first captain.
“Indeed. A violent fellow, and the glimpse of the huntress was remarkable,” said the second. “A powerful, powerful telekinetic.”
“The Princess gets kidnapped, now this. Fleet has stepped in it for sure.”
“I am not so sure, Sister. He did say he was a contractor. Witnesses said he was an ‘Ambassador.’ Such people could be contractors, hired by Fleet at whim. Fleet is the only governance for the United Planets of Terra; they tend to hire civilians to deal with other civilians.”
The other sish captain nodded. “In any event, how convenient, do you think, that all of Aoe’s space assets are currently absent from the system.”
“A shame, really.”
“Scandalous, even.”
“Too bad we are forbidden from initiating any contact of the more, ah, free-enterprise elements that grace the pretty planet below us.”
Both cruiser captains were knee-deep in the last system conversion to the human’s hyper-capitalism, becoming quite wealthy in the process.
Both hated, to their core, the matriarchal system of governance, an anachronism they could appreciate but recognized as one of the biggest disadvantages of dealing with the over-productive humans.
They had seen the endless human fleets. The Navy knew what was going on, even if the system governments did not.
“Yes, our orders were quite clear. Here we sit, unable to open communications.”
“Yes, orders are orders; one could even say they or superiors designed them for the maximum amount of ass-coverage. In case something goes wrong.”
“Funny how we two are the types to always think of what the right thing is to do despite the consequences.”
“Indeed. Very Fleet-like of us, don’t you think?”
“Indeed. What is that Terran saying? Keep your friends close, your enemies closer?”
“I always liked, speak softly and carry a big gun.”
Each suppressed a giggle and sighed.
“La la la, la la la,” said the first captain.
“Dee dee dee, dee dee dee,” said the second captain.
The first captain took out a hairbrush and started in on her ever-hated helmet hair.
The second captain started painting her nails a nice shade of green.
Bleep bleep, went the comm chime in one cabin.
Bleep bleep, went the comm in the second.
Both sish smiled, fangs already extended.
Mono-Gender Politics Gone Bad
From my world building notebook for Stuff Blowing up in Space.
A female-only species similar in appearance to humans, the sish reproduce by drinking the blood of a male carnivore when they ovulate. They are sexual predators in the biological sense, that is, they entice their prey with pheromones and simple seduction. They are biologically advanced, physically and mentally, and are even more genetically diverse than humans because of the DNA sequencing used to fertilize their eggs.
While sish are omnivores, their sexual response is tied not only to each other, but also to feeding, making other intelligent species their prime source of live blood and amusement. For the loss of some blood, other species in return receive mind-blowing sex. Sometimes, however, a sish will feed until her source of food dies, either on purpose or by accident, making travel in sish space both pleasurable and dangerous.
Sex dominance is always an issue with sish. Lovers always have a dominant/submissive pairing, and the social structures they form are more advanced than humans, but not necessarily more productive.
Sish seduction biology can create symbiants out of females from other species, exchanging blood for sexual pleasure on a regular basis instead of the infamous sish one-night-stand. Such bonding is rare, but as humans and sish mingle, the number of symbiants has increased steadily over time.
To sish, live food is sex, the more intelligent the live food the sexier it is. Sex is also power, and while the sish consider themselves biologically superior to other species, culturally it could be argued some of their core planets are stagnant, as this excerpt shows.
Princess Oneesha, heir to the throne of Jephinae, could not believe what she was hearing from the Queen.
Oneesha had been crying. Crying for her sister. Crying because she was hungry. Crying because she needed sex. Crying in frustration. Now she was crying in anger as the Queen assailed her ears, angry because Oneesha would not answer her summons and that the Queen had to come to the Princess’s bedchamber.
What the Queen had to say shocked her, all the worse because she almost said yes. Now, Oneesha was angry with herself more than the Queen. “Mother, I cannot partake in the ceremony now! It is out of the question! Crazy humans have kidnapped my little sister! How could you think of such a thing?”
Her mother backhanded her. Hard. She fell to the ground, spots in her vision. The Queen was a very strong sish, and her face throbbed as if it was on fire.
“Do not prattle on with your insolence! You don’t understand the tenuous hold we have, we need to bond the power-players to you or there may not be another ascension ceremony! Ever!”
From the ground, Oneesha stared at her mother. That’s when she knew.
“You’re pregnant,” she blurted out.
The Queen flinched back as if she received a punched in the gut.
“That is no concern of yours, daughter,” she said dismissively.
Oneesha stood up. “It’s true! You were starving her! My sister snapped because she has chaste sickness. It doesn’t matter that I’m older; she was always stronger than I was, more developed. Yet you went ahead and arranged my ascension knowing she was dying! You decided since you were pregnant, you didn’t need her around anymore. That having her die of chaste would make people fear you!”
“People do fear me, as you should.” The Queen advanced.
Oneesha drew her ceremonial dirk and pressed the button on the hilt. Dark fire ran up and down the blade, the deadly hum of its vibro-blade filled her bedchamber.
The Queen stopped, eyes narrowing. “I can take that blade from you, child. Do not be stupid.”
“Lay hands on me again and I will cut that daughter out of you and feed her to the servants.”
The Queen stared.
“So it’s come to this? Treason?”
Oneesha burst out laughing and turned the blade off, sheathing it. “It’s only treason if you admit your weakness to Palace Security. Then what? You’d have no daughters except the one in your belly. Your hold on the nobles would come crashing down sooner rather than later.”
She turned and walked from the room.
“Where are you going? Come back here!” the Queen shrieked out.
Oneesha turned and looked over her shoulder.
“I’m going to find my little sister,” she lied, the first lie she had ever told the Queen.
“Good bye, Mother,” she said, walking away.
How Many Pages Before They Do It?
From Stuff Blowing Up in Space:
She was, essentially, an adolescent aristocratic spoiled brat in a position she didn’t deserve, talking to him simply because she was part of a privileged elite social class based on birth order and some bizarre pseudo-eugenics game of rock-paper-scissors.
Curse of the Writer
Out of the blue, a plot and title came to me. Follow the link for the story snippet.
My Name is Lisa Melton. You Killed my Boyfriend. Prepare to Die.
That’s totally in the writing queue.
New Post in Adventures in Writing
So we all know, I am not a philandering womanizer.
But I can write one.
Cinders
I adore Michelle Davidson Argyle’s writing, and her novella Cinders will soon be for sale. Check out her giveaway!
To Slay a Girl
“Why do you look so sad?” she asked one day.
This confused him. They had just made love, for the eight time that week. And it was only Thursday. He didn’t feel sad. He didn’t feel much at all right now except contentment with his lover. She was wrapped around him like soft sleepwear, smelling of sweat and playfulness and sassy.
“I’m not sad!” Was this a test, some sort of whimsical girl thing? Although, she wasn’t a girl really, any longer. At least on the outside. Inside, he knew she thought of herself as a girl. She could be 89 and a great-great-grandma, and he could envision her looking at the mirror and going “hey girly girl, look’n good!”
She turned over and looked at him, her amazing green eyes flecked with blue as curious and warm as ever. “Not now. But sometimes. Sometimes your eyes go somewhere. You’re not here but there. Where ever there is. Where do you go?”
Her empathy ran deep. Maybe it was the way she made love. She was always shy about it, at first, as if she would blink and find the kisses weren’t real. Then, as the kisses continued she would simply let go.
It was his favorite part, when she let go. Her mind would blank, all her worries, all her stress, everything neat and ordered in her life gone. Gone as long as he kept loving her. And she would say such naughty things.
Afterwords, it was as if her heart beat in time with the world. Moments where she understood things, felt things. That she was pulling on a thread should not surprise him. It was, essentially, his own fault. He brought her here. What did he expect?
But then, what should he tell her? It was too much. The wrong type of intensity. It was foul. It only intruded upon his thoughts because it was one of those things never forgotten. He didn’t want to tell her. She was too good. Too pure. Too in-tune. Gaia. It would be like poisoning the Earth. Her eyes would not be green any longer. They would die. He would murder her eyes.
“See, there, just now, you went away.”
“I don’t like to go there, it’s not a good place,” he finally admitted.
“Tell me. Why?”
“You’re not there,” he said simply. “You’re here. You’re here.“
She looked at him and then he saw it. She knew. Knew he didn’t want to say. Knew he didn’t want to leave. Knew it wasn’t important. Only talking about it would make it so.
So she never asked. She kissed him, and wasn’t shy. She took command of him, and chased the thoughts away, purged them as if they were never there.
She was never shy again, at the start of their lovemaking. She still let go. She still liked to whisper her naughty talk into his ears.
Yet, he missed it. That part of the woman that was the shy girl.
Empathy, he thought, sometimes had a terrible, terrible price.
201 Words of Space Opera Goodness
“She’s doing what?”
“The Fleet frigate has changed course. She’s on an elliptical acceleration intercept!” her captain practically yelled at her.
Admiral Neiva d’Oaneia couldn’t believe it. She looked at the plot and the intercept arc appeared.
Right for the Deadly Azure.
Right for her.
And the frigate was moving fast. Insanely fast. That type of speed was impossible!
That’s when she noticed the acceleration curve was such that the Azure could not escape. They were in the frigate’s intercept envelope. They were nowhere near the FTL line—they could not FTL for over an hour at their present speed.
Trapped.
“Weapons free! All ships intercept! Emergency deceleration, engage at maximum range!”
The orders were, of course, useless. Such was the acceleration of the frigate that they would soon be measuring it in percentages of light speed. It would be like shooting at the wind on a stormy winter day on the Islands.
She felt warm liquid on her leg. She looked down. She had peed herself. She hadn’t put on ship suit because it didn’t occur to her that they would be engaged in combat in their home system.
The Princess was right after all.
The human captain was insane!
We Are All Liars and Sinners
A man of God once told me that we’re all liars and sinners. At first, I thought he meant we constantly lie to other people. How could that be so? My parents taught me lying was bad (usually with a generous application of a wooden spoon to my backside), so I avoided it even when it would have been convenient to do so.
But over the years I’ve come to a different interpretation. I believe he was speaking to all the little lies we tell ourselves.
That’s when I knew those were the worst lies of them all.
Thus, the secret to fulfillment through the art of seeking the truth, is to embrace all the little lies within, and simply let them go.
Fleet Staff Meeting Gone Wrong
From STUFF BLOWING UP IN SPACE.
I’m on a roll.
Terrans, as the table assembled before him proved, were a decidedly mixed lot.
XO Lieutenant (Sr. Grd.) Ola (no last name) was a waif of a woman. Small, black haired, pixie-ish. Despite her girlish figure, Tilbrook knew she was an older woman, having joined fleet a decade out of college. She was worldly and cosmopolitan.
The doc was her opposite. Tall, pale-skinned, with flaming, unruly red hair, green eyes and a body she seemed uncomfortable with, as if she woke up one day and saw that she had a wonderful feminine figure.
Actually, considering Winnie’s youth, that may be exactly what happened.
Gunnery Sargent Charles Kim was something else entirely. It was as if someone took the biggest Korean, searched for the biggest Samoan, and bred them to produce a 127.3kg monstrosity of pure muscle. Which proved the old Fleet maxim—space is the great biological equalizer. His job was to blow things up, not bust heads.
Staff Sargent Sergei Koltsov, commanding his six person marine squad, at least looked decidedly normal—average in every way, except for his unarmed combat scores and his deadly effectiveness with just about anything remotely like a weapon. His family came from a long line of County Safety officers, and here he was in Fleet. Everyone called him Sarge, although Tilbrook thought of him as “Mr. Security.”
They had just watched the exchange of between him and the shish brat and now everyone looked contemplative, especially after Ola briefed them on the upcoming coming-of-age party for the shish’s older sister.
He didn’t want contemplative. He wanted options.
“Winnie, could you give me some insight on what possibly could be going on to cause Princess here to act completely irrational? I get that her position is political and she is young. That aside, even a mediocre politician should know better than to assume we’re a bunch of dorks. What’s her problem?”
Winnie actually chuckled. “Permission to speak candidly, sir?”
“Winnie, this is a brainstorm session. I need your brain, not your built-in military courtesies. In this room, I expect candor 24×7. That also means call me James.”
Tilbrook knew Winnie might need a more delicate touch when she blushed scarlet, but Hernández’s clock kept ticking down the minutes. The ship was fast. Time was short.
“Aye, um, yes, um, James. Anyway, it’s pretty obvious what the problem is.”
She paused, looking apprehensive. Tilbrook decided to not cut her off at the knees and give her some time to compose herself and spit it out.
“Anyway, the problem is you,” she said in a rush.
What?
“Me?”
“Yes.”
He sighed. He contacted the shish station by the book. Only when the Princess, for the most part, called him a liar did he depart from protocol. In fact, given the circumstances, Tilbrook was sure a less experienced…
“You’re a hottie, James,” Ola broken in.
“Excuse me?”
“A total hottie, to be exact,” said Winnie, blushing even redder.
“Indeed,” said Guns, “while I myself am a heterosexual, I have heard from the female crewmembers that your backside is very esthetically pleasing.”
“My backside.” Out of all the tracks he thought this conversation might go, this one was completely unexpected.
“That means you have a nice ass,” said Sergei.
“Thank you Sarge, I get that. While now I am inwardly cursing that I demanded informality, I would like to state the obvious that my butt was in no way pointed towards the Princess during the entire conversation. Thus, whatever powers said butt might have, they were not in play here.”
“James? Really? You had no idea you were a hottie?” Winnie was looking at him as if he was nuts.
Suddenly Ola nodded. “Ah, makes sense. Skipper here is from Lupa-12, they do things a bit more formally there. I bet you went to an all-boys school during puberty?”
“Look, while I’m sure you Earthers love making fun of the country boys with your 6.8 billion population, you all know I have an apartment in Paris right? And for a reason.”
“You have browner-than-brown hair that looks like if you grew it out it would curl, your eyes are a vivid, and I mean a vivid sky-blue, and you have the eyelashes any teen girl would envy, and I ought to know,” said Winnie. Now instead of looking completely embarrassed, she looked whimsical.
“Let’s not forget, Winnie, that when he works out in the gym shirtless, you seem to find yourself there,” Ola quipped.
“And I would like to point out, Ola, that you are there too.” Winnie quipped back, only looking slightly annoyed.
Tilbrook sighed, loudly, and looked at Sarge and Gunny for sympathy, or at the very least, to bail him out.
“I give the elected MOILTF no sympathy,” said Guns.
Sarge looked blank.
MOILTF? Male Officer I Would… He sighed again. “Fine. I see how you all are. I like to work out. So what? And my looks, I can assure you, are quite vanilla compared to most of the other men on Lupa-12.”
Ola immediately sat up straight. “Really?”
Winnie gave herself a little shake, as if her brain was in the gym. “Anyway, there a total and very disturbing attraction parity between human females and shish. Everything human females find attractive, shish find attractive. Only, the attraction is much more visceral for the shish because, as we all know, their sex-response is biologically tied to feeding.”
She seemed to enter her lecture mode and turned to him. “So, without knowing what political and family monkey business is going on—put yourself in her place. She’s sexually frustrated, that’s a given. Her sister is going to get laid for an entire week, basically have the best sex a shish could have—short of the symbiotic bonding process or the feeding/mating protocol—while she has to work. Indeed, tradition does not allow her to participate in the family orgy because of her position. Now a human male, aka The Hottie, shows up in the spiffy Fleet uniform with a fantastic tale of pirates in a system no pirates should be in, with a more impossible tale of a new jump point. She loses it. Her body is telling her to get you alone, seduce you, then bite you, and suck your blood if she likes you. Dismember and toss you into the pot if she doesn’t.”
“Oh, come on. She is a thinking person. She’s not some eating machine ruled by instinct,” Tilbrook protested.
Guns shook his head. “Rationality means something completely different to a shish. She’s young. She’s low-boob on the totem pole, and she could be hungry. And you’re a walk’n snack that conveniently can get her off before she fills her tummy with a warm happy meal.”
Tilbrook sighed yet again. “Fine. The age-old human-shish socialization problem. What are our options?”
“There’s another social dynamic in play here, that may give you the answer,” Winnie said, nodding to Guns. “Everyone likes to focus on how shish are hyper-sexual beings. That is a mistake. Shish are, for the most part, biologically superior to all other species in the galaxy. They consider themselves at the top of the food chain, and biologically speaking, they are. The only advantage humans have over them is our culture is superior, and I don’t mean that in a racist way. We are more productive, we produce superior art and technology, and our system of governance, such as it is, provides humans with a cultural flexibility nobody can match.”
Suddenly James got it.
“Ah. Being differential and polite wasn’t enough. I was sending her a very specific signal by assuming I was in charge of the situation.”
“Exactly,” said Winnie. “So now your options are, and keep in mind I’m not a shish expert, merely a well-read layman, is to assume a submissive position, or metaphorically pop her in the jaw and assume control. She’s totally going to bite you for sure on the former, the latter is difficult because she is stronger, not to mention most likely telekinetic, and all that aside, she is way smarter than you.”
Crap.
Introspective
Self-sacrifice is a positive, not negative, endeavor. There is a fine line between self-examination and self-loathing. One leads to simplicity and change. The other leads to blockage and withdraw.
My Shower Loves Me: From Shampoo to Space Opera!
Seriously, what is it about the shower that sometimes brings out creativity in writers?
Here at Chez Pacheco, it certainly isn’t the nudity. We’re not nudists, but you won’t find a lot of modesty around. Usually clothing is a defense against the cats with claws.
But there I was, in the shower going, “why can’t I think of a plot to SPACE OPERA” and, just like that, it came to me.
I’ve been trying to think of a plot for this novel a year and there it was, between the lather rinse repeat.
Yeah!
I also have a new working title. STUFF BLOWING UP IN SPACE. Because, you know, that’s space opera. It opens thus:
Commodore Philip Connery eyed the sish in front of him, looking for a hint of weakness. Sish and humans did not play poker often. Since they looked alike, but were separate species, it was common for both to misread the others expressions. The classic poker game became less a game of skill and more a game of chance.
How this one was cleaning house, Connery had no idea. It was as if she dabbled in surface thought reading.
Which, of course, was impossible—telepathy was the purview of humans only.
“I fold.” He tossed his cards on the table. She may not be telepathic, but he was running out of bar money.
She smiled, showing a hint of fangs, and merrily collected their credit chits. She swayed back and forth in a kind of bouncing motion, like the excited bounce human little girls made in their chair when they were getting close to the pony ride.
It was terribly cute, which was yet another highlight of their differences that could get either species into trouble. The sish unconsciously thought her body language was saying “I’m a sexy predator,” and to humans it was “buy the girl an ice cream.”
art by the wonderful Alexander Preuss (www.abalakin.de)
