One Hundred Years of Solitude: A review

It’s a rare sort of book that burrows boll weevil-like into your heart, laying its eggs in the soft cotton folds of your aortic and ventricular tissues to hatch into dizzying swarms of wonder and nostalgia. The feelings elicited by said book can consume you, even make you a little unhinged. I feel I can say with only the slightest tinge of discomfiture that this is what happened when I read “One Hundred Years of Solitude.”

This book had been on my “To-Read” list for quite some time. It was sitting on my roommate’s bookshelf, an outdated paperback relic squished between a phalanx of hardcover popular novels, staring out at me with the mad, zealous eyes of Colonial Aureliano Buendia. I decided I’d take it with me to Costa Rica and hopefully find the time to read it. Four days into the trip, I read the last words of the book to the soft crackling of the candles melting their wax upon the stone patio. I was awed. I had never experienced anything before like what Marquez put to paper (and what Gregory Rabassa so eloquently translated). The closest thing I could possibly compare it to in my literary experience was John Crowley’s “Little, Big,” another one of my favorites.

The most striking impression that I was left with after reading “One Hundred Years…” was how each character affected his or her world by what they wanted to see in it. In a way, Macondo was a blank canvas which the Buendia family could paint in whatever color or style they wanted. Magic coexisted with science, the grotesquely absurd stood shoulder to shoulder with the strictest degree of rationalism. All things were highly mutable, a fact which was particularly evident to me as a reader but which the characters of the book were unaware of. This was due to how Marquez told the story, aging characters at a near breakneck pace. Every page seemed tinged with melancholy because of how quickly the children and whatever happiness they experienced grew old, withered and inevitably died.

I look forward to delving into the rest of Marquez’s catalogue. Hopefully doing so will give me an extra impetus to learn more Spanish.

3 Things They ALWAYS Get Wrong in Zombie Apocalypse Books and Films

Don’t get me wrong. I’m a huge fan of the zombie genre. Even more so than the actual zombies, I’m interested by situations that take average people out of their comfort zones and force them to think how best they’re going to survive. The subject is of such interest to me that my next novel, (working title: “Sword of Jai Lin”) is a story about a zombie apocalypse that occurs 150 years after global civilization has collapsed and people are living in loose tribes and fiefdoms.

However, while the genre always piques my interest, I can’t believe how often these next three things are portrayed wrongly!

#1. Gasoline and fuel in general. Okay, so I wouldn’t expect most laypeople to know this. Heck, I didn’t know it myself until I saw it in a documentary a year or so ago, (I believe it’s in this Nat Geo doc). Get this: Gasoline denatures into an unusable state after about a year or two. The additives they add to gasoline to make it perfectly volatile for combustible engines also makes it less stable and thus more prone to evaporation. I love how in the Walking Dead or the City of the Dead, they show people driving cars and trucks as if all it took was to siphon out some gas from some abandoned cars. It doesn’t work that easily. Even diesel, a more stable form of gasoline, denatures after a few years. Therefore, without gasoline refineries, which I highly doubt would be operational in a post-apocalyptic world, ready transportation in the form of cars and trucks would be a thing of the past. Hello, horses!

#2. Nuclear Power Plants. Many attribute Rome’s fall to it being spread to thin and having its hand in too many corners of the world. One little hiccup somewhere could set off a chain reaction all throughout the empire, as it ended up doing. What if nuclear power plants were suddenly left unattended? Well, according to yet another Nat Geo doc, devastation would quickly follow. In a zombie apocalypse and the subsequent meltdown of civilization, there would be no one left to man the nuclear power plants in a sufficient capacity, if at all. Without regulating the reactor, a meltdown would surely occur, poisoning vast amounts of flora and fauna for thousands of acres around it. In most zombie stories, the heroes never have to deal with things of this nature, though it would be a very real threat to anyone who was a survivor.

#3. Treehouses, or lack thereof. This one is more tongue and cheek than anything, but c’mon, why is everyone always running from the zombies? Wouldn’t a zombie apocalypse be the perfect excuse to build an awesome town of tree forts? Zombies don’t climb trees. You could eat squirrels and pigeon, collect rainwater, and basically reenact Fern Gully to your hearts content. Makes a zombie apocalypse seem like a blessing in disguise, no?

How to BEAT the Winter Doldrums…

Ah, there’s nothing like an NYC winter. The days are short. The nights are long. You wear sweaters and socks to bed and still you feel like you just had your feet in the freezer for the past few hours. No wonder so many people get the seasonal blues. For me, it usually hits right around February. So what to do?

Travel, my friends. This year, I’m heading down to Costa Rica for a week-and-a-half of surfing and jungle exploration. More specifically, I’m going to the Envision Festival, taking place on the Pacific Coast sands of Playa Uvita.

In just four years, Envision has grown into a global phenomenon. People from all around the world converge on the pristine Costa Rican beaches from February 26th until March 1st to vibe on music, art and an elevated sense of consciousness. Additionally, there will be classes in yoga, permaculture and speakers from a variety of different backgrounds.

Plane tickets to Costa Rica are reasonable. I’m flying from New York, and round-trip, it’s only $450, with tax. Getting around Costa Rica is fairly cheap, as are hostels, food and drink. In addition to the festival, I’m also going to try and drive up to the more northern end of the country and climb up high into the jungle canopy, where about 90% of all rainforest organisms can be found! 

To find out more about Envision, go to their website here, or read this article that my friends over at Reality Sandwich wrote about their experience at 2014’s event. Tickets are expected to sell out fast for the event, so get on it while you can. Hope to see you all there. Pura Vida!!

3 Sci-Fi Innovations That are Just ‘Round the Corner

As an author of weird science fiction, part of the fun of my job comes from researching advances being made in science and then writing about it. We live in a very interesting time, with advances being made in all sectors of science and engineering. Lines are being crossed in bioengineering and computing which technology thirty years ago only hinted at.

I thought I’d share three innovations in technology that look poised to rock our ways of life. All these inventions were first conceived in the realm of science fiction, which proves that the human imagination is a powerful thing.

Bionic Leaf

Photosynthesis is a pretty cool thing. Plants take an infinitely abundant resource, light, and convert it to energy. Researchers at the Berkeley National Lab have capitalized on nature’s already impeccable design and created something that will be of major benefit to modern society. Instead of using a photovoltaic cell to create electricity directly from sunlight, the bionic leaf made by the researchers creates a chemical reaction that converts solar energy to hydrogen power, which you can then use in a hydrogen fuel cell to generate electricity. These leaves can be huge game-changers in a shifting energy economy and make the transition to alternative fuels more viable. This article was rather interesting.

Exoskeletons

A common trope in military sci-fi, exoskeletons are quickly moving out of the realm of fiction and into fact. The U.S. military is developing several different models of exoskeleton, including the Iron Man-like TALOS suit and a light armor that only hardens upon impact. I heard about the latter armor on a very interesting Joe Rogan Experience podcast with transhumanist Zoltan Istvan. Link is here.

Gene Splicing

Who wouldn’t want to be able to breath underwater, or have tetrachromacy which they can use to see brilliant ultraviolet colors? Bioengineering has always been the stuff of science fiction, arguably since the grandma of the entire genre, Mary Shelley, created Frankenstein’s monster from a hodge-podge of corpse parts. Gene splicing goes to the molecular level and focuses on what DNA proteins are actually made. The DNA of creatures in the kingdom animalia is very similar, which has always been a beacon of hope in the realm of genetic engineering. The major problem with genetics is that genes have many functions. Change one gene, and many aspects of the animal can change. Also, most traits (and certainly organs) are managed by many genes. In short, this is a problem that isn’t as easy as one might think. Kevin Costner’s character in Waterworld would have needed dozens of other mutations in addition to the formation of gills for him to go underwater.

What do you think? Are there any books or stories that you’ve read with sci-fi elements in them that you think may come true? Also, are there any books you’ve read which have interesting premonitions of what introduction of these specific technologies will have for our world?

A preview of “Pyronic Green,” the next novel in the Bridge Burner Trilogy

I’ve been in a pretty generous mood these past few days. Bridge Burner Hyperion is currently free and will be until tomorrow evening, exclusively on Amazon. 

Anyways, I figured that in keeping with my spirit of generosity, I’d share with you all a little bit of my next novel, Pyronic Technique. This book picks up where Bridge Burner Hyperion left off, but you do not need to have read it to understand what is going on here. There is a slight spoiler ahead, so read at your own peril.

The chapter is being told through the perspective of Danda Ros, a mercenary and “penny soldier” who was kept a puppet by a dark force in a dead city. It’s about his escape and his redemption. And hey, it’s Veteran’s Day, so why not tell a story about a soldier in honor of all the men and women overseas?

Here it is, a snippet of Chapter Two: “Jes a Olden Penny Soldier.” Enjoy.

Blooded dark. Ez got me sicker than the shit en piss wafting bout. All mine speaking truth. No going far with me hands shacked ta the wall, the waste no travel far no eether. Old Danda Ros here, he no give it a care, no, but ez an olden freggy in here with me en he jes may. Ez pinching it off sin he been threwin, mus be as hez no going wunz sin he got here maybe hours or days ago only the dead gods blooded knoze. No wayz ta knoze time jes ta counit til the numbers become the shadows at day’s end en then poofsy all gone. No windows, no light. Ez dark cell all.

Olden freggy no ez sharer of words. He sits on hez side, me on mine. He ez all mumbles and got the mad look en hez one good eye. Wears a old patch like me pappy. Howzit I seez hez face en the dark? Ez little light unner the door, nuff ta see hez skin come the leather on a gun butt. Hez old suit of chainmail might be wurt a full purse. Ez good fer a blooded royalist’s foyer or howzit called where they serve peel-fruit tea and bread sandys? Where they did wunz en the long-ago. Ez no thing en this city now but dark en the olden dead gods.

Me wonders where the Empress dug freggy up from. Hez olden maybe more than hez armor. Olden en me, sin my eyes seeing freggy true. Well, no, ez something ev a lie. Me ez a few hundred years alive by now. Ez the blooded vulture kept me young. Did no ever let time give me wun more wrinkle or liver spot. The vulture made ez nest en me body en en trade used me fer all manner ev things. Bad things most, things fer the forgetting.

The vulture no ez from this world. Ez tatters of dead places stitched apiece and made something no thing should ever be, so me old brain makes evit anywayz. Day comes when it leaves me without so much a salute, jes like that, gone. Vulture sniffed out nuther body it better wanted. Then ez alone with me bonez come the olden. Kept me wits bout me though jes as always.

Got a head tuff as stone, been that wayz sin ez wee. Them nomads out the city, sons and daughters ev outcastz all, they be hard like that too. We ez suckled on the same teat, as me pappy would say. They used to murmur around their fires bout the dark things beneath Yama Dempuur, things that would make a man mad just by the look. Them nomads, they no understand bout the vulture and hez blooded dark, no really.

“Rip him to pieces, Moltep,” old freggy says in a hush-hush breath. “No, no, not like that. Finer bits. Yes, yes, that’s a good beast…”

Ez been the same mumbles sin the blooded Empress shacked hez hands to stone. Mumbles to some unseen monsters with names off the lip of a grassman. “Cut out his throat. Yes, yes, dig in and peel it back. Oh yes, that’s good, Nameless One. That’s good…”

“Hey brother, who ez you speaking like that to? Ez no one bout jes us.” Freggy turn hez head to face me. Ez like all the blood unner hez skin go to sour and stopped pumping.

“What? Who are you? Where are we?”

“Me name is Danda Ros, how de do. We ez somewhere unner the domed city, Yama Dempuur. Or what ez left of it.”

“Yama Dempuur…” Freggy tastes the words on hez cracky lips.

“That ez right. You knowzet?”

“Know it? Of course I know it. This is where I’m from. It’s my home.”

“Ez that truth.” I eye him for a span, not sure what to make. “You a royalist? You look dressed the part.”

“A royalist?”

“You knozet, one for the emperor and the parliament and all that.”

He caffs, specks ev blood leaving hez mouth. “I’m from a time long ago, when there was an emperor and the walking city actually moved. A time when shadows didn’t live under its dome.”

“Well, that makes fer the two ev us. No ever met a time traveler fore, though heard me many tales of such. Some say ez possible deep in the Grid, at the center ev the spiral… brother, you sick? Ez a pallor en your face.”

“Aalok… aak aalook…” the blooded freggy ez gone off again, hez eye with that drunk look and wandering round the room. First talking me has had in many a lifetime and ez with a loon old freggy. “Cutlery, Pringo, Warka, Moltep, Leechpin_”

“What ez you going on bout?”

Old freggy snaps back and ez anger en hez voice. “Damn it all, what am I doing… chained to this wall, like… like some criminal? Who are you?” Hez face ez covered en a gleen ev sweat.

“You ez forgetting quite quick, brother. Me name is Danda Ros. Ez a merchant and penny soldier. Better question ez who you be? You a wanderer? You travel with Yuvamai En’chik? Bastard had the best chap weed me had in a long while. Murder me a gaggle of marms for a lip of that, speaking truth.”

“I’m not what you mean or who you speak of. My name is Dr. Rolando Pacheco. I am a Hyperion hunter. I was lured in here by some… power. I’m trying to get to the center of the spiral. I need to get back to the beasts.”

Ez jes the sort of surprising thing old freggy would say a makes me jes bout bite me tongue and swallow it whole. “No offense, you mind, jes an old freggy like you being the Rolando Pacheco? You speak truth or fragging around with me?”

“I’m not fragging around with you. I am indeed Rolando Pacheco. I see you’ve heard of me.”

“Heard ev you? Course ez heard ev you. Who has no heard ev Pacheco, the mad hunter. You ez with Amesh and Salvo Dirk as wun ev the most famous yama to have ever lived. Of course, that’s only if you ez who you say you ez. You jes may be sum bloody loon.”

“Bloody… loon…” Old freggy calling hezself Pacheco closes hez eye and nods a bit, jes as if hez head were too heavy for hez neck. The light frum unner the door reveals deep blue bruises en the side of hez face.

“Ez they a little heavy-handed with you?”

“What?” He snaps awake at me voice.

“Empress and the olden man en the machine. Ez bruises all round your jaw. They hit you? Knock your brain loose?”

“I don’t know. I don’t remember, but most likely. It’s hard to move it. My jaw, I mean. Damn it all, they took my cloak too. The last thing I remember is Oblong opening a door and beckoning me to follow him. The rest is dark.” Hez words ez whispers.

“No offense, but what ez it you doing round here? Wee wunz all learn en the schooling that you was lost in the Fade and never heard from again. That was jes over a thousand years ago.”

“The Fade doesn’t know time,” Pacheco sez. “I’ve been searching for Helios and Hyperion for most of my days, a mission which has taken me across all manner of worlds and all phases of time. I need to get out of here and… get on my way.” He makes to get en hez feet jes the chains are too short, and hez too weak to bend with them. He falls back en hez ass, the links en his chainmail echoing en the wet air.

“Ez no leaving this place, brother. Ez the end of the line, far as me knozet. Even you and me get out ev here, where would we run to?  Ez no thing but blooded darkness out there. The city ez long dead but ez no empty. Dark things live where wunz children played and old marms talksied. More still, you and me ez stuck en a bridge en betwixt two dead worlds. Who blooded knows how far til there be another place with food and shelter for us wanderers? Ez dead, no matter the tumble ev the dice.”

Pacheco ez amoaning. “The beasts… do you hear them? They’re right outside the city. And they’re angry. Oh, are they angry…”

“Beasts? No hear no thing ev the sort.”

“Moltep, I’ll be with you soon enough. Aak Aalok, Aalook. Cutlery Set, Armand Von Leechpin, my friends, my little friends…” Blacky goo tricklets out ev hez nose en drips en big gobs ta the floor. Freggy wipes it with the back of hez glove.

“I need to get back to the beasts. They need me.”

“What beasts?”

Freggy gessup come a cat with hez tail acharry en ez pulling hard at hez chains trying ta come at me. Hez eye ez wide en mad en hez lips snarly back frem hez gummys. “The primordial beasts, damn you!” Pacheco fights with the chains fer a flicker more jes til hez strength goes en then gives up. He sets down en then would you blooded knozet starts a laughing.

“Oh god, this is all too much,” he sez. “I’ve finally lost it. I’ve gone mad.”

“Ez what this place do ta a man.”

“It’s not this place. It’s the beasts that I dug up. I bound them to me, and now they’re slowly eating away at my sanity. I’m becoming chaos. Damn it all, what have I done?”

Ez a pounning frem past the door then the soun ev a key en a lock. The door go creaky open en a gust ev cole stale air come en with a twosum ev orange will-o-wisp eyes. Ez the Empress statue. Without so much a howdy do her stone hands ez round me wrists en me shacks ez clicky open. She motions wards the open door.

“What ez this?”

“You’re free.”

“What? Now, now, Empress. Olden Danda here ez too olden ta be sticking hands en the snake nest. No speaking truth, me knozet.”

“I am speaking truth, Danda. Quickly now. You must leave this place.”

“Lookit, if ez going ta murter me then no need fer the gaming. Jes do it en be quick. Ez been a long life olden Danda hez lived. Iffen ez got sum chap weed en your pockets fer me ta chew when ez breaking me brains ta goo, twood be nice ev you.” Empress jes stans there with her eyes staring holes inta me. The only sound ez the rasp ev Pacheco breathing and hez mumbles ev them beast names unner it.

“Fine you speak truth. Ez free. Whatever you say. Empress.” Me gessup en brush the dust offa me slacks. “Pacheco, Ez been a pleasure…” Freggy ez trembling en hez armor with hez eye lolling bout the room even more worsen fore. No even knoze ez here, speaking truth. Here ez a last hero, dying alone en darkness hez brain all gone ta loony mush while olden Danda Ros ez away ta freedom en coin. Ez times come this one me thinks the olden gods be tricksters all, with no heart fer heroes.

Ez a long hallway jes out ev the cell sum thirty arm spans tall en going far as me eyes can see both wayz which no far en the blooded dark. Ez floor ta rooft windows most covered en tatters ev drapes en the others with clapboards or empty space where glass panes were in the long ago. Broken wood en trash unnerfoot, dust over all en ez all blooded dark save fer wee circle ev light frem Empress eyes.

“Which way ez the out way?” Empress step inna the hallway en closes the door on Pacheco. She grabs me hand again ruff as a drunk docky man en puts ento it a thik steel rod with wun trumpeted end: an atomic torch.

“We’re to part ways, Danda Ros.”

“What ez that? Part ways? Ez royal tricksy speak fer letting me get et up by the darkness ez lurking en the shadows out there. No vulture with me so no ez safe from them.”

“You have the torch. That will protect you.”

“This!?” Shakey the rod at her en it click on jes en the doing. “Think this ez keeping me safe from_” Blooded big light! What was wunz dark ez now shiney all frem the wee rod en me hand. When me eyes get righted ta the brighd ez unner standing fer the name atomic torch. Floating over the trumpeted end ez wee black gobs en a tight orange ball ev light.

“It’ll keep the shadows back, but you still must be swift. You’re safe while they’re not all together, but once enough of them get your scent…”

“Why ez it you letting me go jes as simple as this?”

“It’s something I was programmed to do, long ago, by my builder. Apparently, you have a purpose beyond all of this.”

“You hez a builder frem the olden who tellz you jes watch fer Danda Ros en let hem free? Jes cause? Well I blooded jes hear the strangest ev all tales en hez heard aplenty. Tell me truth what your programming say bout me taking Pacheco?”

“No. He’s needed.”

“The man ez not well. You knocked hem too hard en ez no way ta be treating olden heroes. Let me get him help.”

“No, Danda. Already I am risking everything just by letting you free. My programming only gave me orders to release you. Pacheco must stay.”

“The vulture wants him ez that so?” Empress no answer. Hez a face made scarred en the olden by Drinkwater en hez men so she wears sum white cloth rounit. Ez so long sin me hez seen nother statue that ez forgetting if they smile er laugh er jes look angry at you with wee glowing eyes.

“You had better go, Danda Ros. There is not much time. Once he knows you’re gone, then you’re as good as dead.”

“Ez good ez dead no matter how ez blooded-well baked. Where ez there to go from here? Ez a bridge to nowhere we ez stuck up on between two dead worlds. If the shadows do no get me, then me innards will eat themselves ev hunger.”

“Surely you remember the White Bridge Danda, or had the vulture already warped your brain by then?”

“The White Bridge…” All them things me done best ta forget sneaky back up again, memories ev what came ta be while ez full with the vulture fer those hundrees ev years. Drinkwater and hez men running frem me frem what ez become, over the bridge. Me walking bout the tire city ta weed out every las yama. Bleeding them while theyz still screaming en feeding their guts ta the shadows en building a throne out ev their bones wit all the beak marks en them. Wez a blooded business en blooded well ez jes remembering snippets ev it.

“So you remember now, do you?”

“Yes’m, remembers me well enough.”

“Good. Then go. It already may be too late for you.” Me follows Empress’s finger en where it is pointing, give her a nod then start down the hall. Legs are olden now en rickety en can jes go so fast. Ez a bum knee me got from the Border Wars goes clicky clack en make me slowen. Ez all I got en this wurld so ez got to make do. The hallway ends en a collapsed wall en a stairwell beyond. Me takes a pair ev stairs at a time pas markings en the walls that go tween politicking en preaching. Wunz en the olden me would stopp en try me hand at reading jes no time this day.

Ez only three flights fore ez out a doorway en in the streets. Looking ta the building me wez stukt en ez comes ta me that fore the city fell ta pieces wez jes a blooded royalist’s house or something ev the like. Me cell had wunz been a food pantry fer jellies en preserves mos likely.

Ta get ta the bridge old Danda here hez ta go unner the streets and into the burial chambers jes unner Valence Aeterna. Ez the most middle part ev the city. Jes which way ez me no so sure. Ez jes wakes up it feels like and me needs ta orient meself. The light from the torch fills the cobblestoned street going far as the olden rusty barrels en the side ev the street here. Speaking truth, looks to be blooded shadows creepsing bout every which where me looks jes they ez no coming fer me ez enstead going towards the royalist house ez jes came out.

“Get moving Danda me bucko.” Ez jes words fer meself and done en a whisper so jes me feet can hearit en quicken. Jes find where the dome meets the street. Ez how a man getz oriented en Yama Dempuur when hez lost. The dome comes down jes hind the royalist house so Valence Aeterna ez ahead. Ez straight as the bullet flies as me pappy used ta say, straight down Valbair Lane. Ez craters where homes useta be, nicely places ev olden families. Now ez jes towers ev garbage and junk, the las statues bilt by the yama ta their blooded spiral gods. Blooded bastards. All this trouble ez en them and their blooded spiral.

Ez a rummling unner the city like a sound ev a sky boat stoking ez boozters en fer wun moment me thinks ez olden dead city bout ready ta move again til me remembers them blooded beasts Pacheco wez en bout. The primordial beasts hez names fer them. Ez a strange thing but whatever it is unner the city ez loud and ez an anger from it me can feel en me bones speaking truth. Ez a powerful wanting, some olden talk saying ez wanting what ez by rights theirs. They want their Pacheco. Mayhaps ez a war coming ta the door ev the vulture en ez getting out jes en time jes as always.

Over far awayz ez the old Parleement building. Ez where me built the blooded vulture hez throne ev bones and many long days spendt waiting en the darkness with me mouth stitched up with wooly thread. Ez hez order ta kill every las yama. Blooded memories. Ez no time fer thinking jes moving so go Danda, go go go. Ez jes hez eyes. Can feel them on me, watching me as ez going. The vulture ez letting you go. But why?

“No care no blooded which way,” Ez saying ta meself. “Jes want out ev this blooded city.” The cobbles clackity clack unner me feet and a knot tightening en me side from all the running. Ez looking back at the Palace ev Parleement, ez spires playing peeksy boo over the rooftops tween us. Ez pulling on me and everything. Ez like a drain hez opened and all the darkness en the city and along the bridge to nowhere ez being sucked innit.

Valbair Lane runs right inna Valence Aeterna. Ez rearing up suddenly, a field ev dusty cracked earth. Ez a big monolith towards the center ev the field. Ez the stone spiral round which they useta dance en the grass and sing the olden songz. Ez keeping the torch high so ez brightness touches most ev the entire square en a sof pink glow. Ez so open here and me feels eyes on me from every which where. Needing a weapon speaking truth. Ez olden bonez no fight off a shadow fer long at all. Even there be no shadows what ez over the bridge? What world ez on the other side? At the end ev days as me knozit, what worlds are even left?

Spiral ez looming oer me. Olden papers and junk cling ta it. Ez looking down at me with something like a scowly face so me jes give it a nod and a howdydoo fore averting me eyes en looking up ta the dome. Ez winking at me with ez crackity glass like the eye ev a crow jes playing dead til the danger has passed. Feels that every wun ez en on some joke and ez the butt ev it. Well, ez better give them a show then, eh me bucko?

Ez looking all round the base ev the spiral fer the door ta unner the city. Ez coming round the far side and there ez, wide open, the hinges having rusted and broke unner the weight of the metal. Ez no turning back, no going anywhere but down. Jes got ta take that first step. Coming uppa the door ez a cold stale wind en it tickle me whiskers with the smell of oil en must. Sets me hairs on end speaking truth as ez the smell ev fear en death. No matter, ez me path. Ez a dark shaft with jes a rickety ladder going down. Puts my foot on the first rung then the other on another. The rungs clack unner me as me go deeper inna bowels ev Yama Dempuur.

Me feet knoz the way. When the vulture ez in me wez all walking streets en homes over and over again. Vulture wez trying ta unnerstand the bridge en howzit werkt but ta no use. Me found out all the ins en outsa the city cause ev it. Now ez make a left here then straightawayz. Another left, a right. The smooth walls give way ta reliefs ev the olden rulers ev Yama Dempuur. Ez carved fore the city even sprout legs back when it wez a part ev olden Vega Mardur. Carvings end at a open doorway, the atomic torch light sucked en by the black jes pastit. Ez the antechamber en the White Bridge ez innit. Ez the room where the vulture en the shadows firs came ta the city en planted their vile seeds. Knozit truth cause ez told so by the blooded vulture hezself. Tirety ev the city wez rotted out from the inside like a bad fruit. Ez olden enginz here, olden tech from the long ago. Even now they hum a soft song, jes barely alive, jes nuff ta keep the White Bridge going ta have nuff juice ta get old Danda crossit.

Ez no ever changing no matter how many years pass. The White Bridge glows like the snow back en the hills ev me boyhood en the bannisters ez all curvdy shapes. Ez a beauty speaking truth wun ev the finest bridges ez ever looked on en ez seen many firs as a penny soldier when ez young en then a merchant en then whatever ez me became late en life. Me takes wun step en the bridge jes ta test it. No traps jes yet so me takes nother step then nother. The darkness ez fading en being replaced with a soft blue light en thick clouds. The smell ev death ez buried by the smell ev mois earth. Ez jes twenty steps en ez already en the other side with high grass rounit en trees flanking me like a welcome party. Jes over that bridge en ez en some blooded paradise. No dark wandering days like me thunk thered be. Ez this what the vulture wez searching for? Wez it no possible fer him ta cross the bridge?

Ez questions fer a smarter man than me. Clicky off the atomic torch cause no need ev light no more but soon will as ez looking to be late affernoon. A cloak would be dee lightful bout now with the chill en the air en all ez wearing are the tatters ev a uniform that wore out hundees ev years ago.

Jes pass the bridge ez a fog hugging the ground. The sky ez cloudless a brighd blue. Ground starts sloping now ez walking away from the bridge the rocks slippity unner my olden boots. Jes en time me stops slipping. Ez at the lip ev a blooded cliff the valley floor below wit a carpet ev clouds run through it. Sun ez stretching hez orange fingers cross the cloud bumpings en rufflings. Floating en the sky like a fruit waiting ta be plucked from a invisdible branch ez a most unusual moon. Can see peaks and valleys on hez surface, even rivers en greenery. Ez like a little planet jes hanging so close ta this one. Strange but ez seen stranger speaking truth.

Me turns from the cliff en start back the way me came. Needs ta find shelter soon fore ez full dark. Walk me fer what feels close ta an hour maybe two fore coming upon the smoldering ruin. The trees ez all been razed en now jes blackened stumps all roun. Forest fire or maybe a intended burning. Whatever ez the cause, with the tree line burned low a stone building ez visible a ways off. Ez a fortress by the looks ev it. Looks ta be a good place fer a bath en some grub so ez where me ez headed. Me blooded bum knee hez had it though en needs rest. Go unner some shrubs en fine a cozy nest tween some roots en make me self warm as possible which no keep me teeth frem chattring. That blooded goddess ev sleep still fines me right quick.

Tales from the Mountaintop: stories of my childhood

At the top of a winding mountain road in upstate New York is a series of small hamlets grouped together into an area affectionately referred to as the Mountaintop.

This is where I grew up. My parents owned 20 acres of mostly wooded land where we kept chickens and horses, made maple syrup and grew vegetables. Such a secluded environment attracts plenty of eccentric types, characters who influenced many of those in my collection of short stories, “Tales from the Mountaintop.”

I wrote these short stories over the course of a year while I was taking creative writing workshops with Susan Daitch at Hunter College. Originally, they were not connected at all, and took place in different locales across the United States. However, I realized that these three short stories were all linked to my experiences growing up and people I knew in my hometown, so I might as well make it true to life. After some extensive editing, I put together what is now available on Amazon as a free e-book.

Yes, free. Starting tomorrow that is, and lasting the entirety of Halloween weekend, “Tales from the Mountaintop” will be free. Come meet Father David Balanzano, Snakes O’Malley and the Carpenter Boys. Come see what happens when a platonic dating service for Catholic priests goes awry, or a drunk redneck’s plan to get the one-up on the lumber company doesn’t go according to plan. Most importantly, come see the world I saw as I child, the place that made me the man I am today. Come visit the Mountaintop. You might even stay awhile.

Share yo Experience Foo’

Today I had the great honor of speaking about my experience self-publishing in novelist and teacher Susan Daitch’s creative writing workshop at Hunter College. Before getting to the school, I certainly had some reservations. I mean, what could I possibly speak about for twenty minutes, let alone an hour? I’d never spoke at length about self-publishing, especially not in such a formal setting.

Turns out I had nothing at all to worry about. The class was very receptive, and Susan made the entire process effortless. Before I knew it, I had been speaking and fielding questions for an hour, and felt like I could go another few rounds. The class was very receptive and asked great questions.

At class’s end, as everyone milled out the door to go on their merry way, I was repeatedly thanked by the students for sharing my time and knowledge with them. I was pleasantly taken aback by their appreciation, as I thought I was the one who should feel grateful at having been given the opportunity to talk to them.

That’s when I was hit with a real “a-ha” moment. I got how sharing knowledge is a phenomenon that mutually benefits both the sharer and the one being shared with. While the students come away with new-found knowledge (hopefully), the sharer comes away with validation for their thoughts. That’s huge. How often do we go through life with bits of information going in one ear and out the other? When we are able to share the things we know with people, some of that information is forced to stay where it is.

Sharing helps build systems of knowledge, and it’s those systems of knowledge which define who we are.

Anyways, I’m listening to Ludovico Einaudi and it’s making my brain feel really good. Where has this guy been all my life??

How do you write about what you know?

It’s a common enough saying. “Write what you know.” In fact, I think I’ve heard it ad nauseum, in that I never necessarily agreed with it. I mean, I like to tell fantastical weird stories. I can’t say I’ve ever met a man like the Digger of the Wastes, who appears in Bridge Burner Hyperion as a man with narcissus flowers for hair and the job of killing the old stories beneath the ground before they wake up. Nor would I want to meet a man like that, quite frankly.

However, I think there is a kernel of truth to writing about what you know. For instance, I love music. It’s in my blood. I’ve played in more bands than I can remember, and only feel the most sane when I have a guitar I can pick up at a moment’s notice. My love of music has found its way into my writing through characters who are either musicians themselves or have to use music as a means of understanding the worlds they inhabit.

Thurmond, from Bridge Burner Hyperion, uses a bass-saber as both a weapon and an instrument. This was an idea I came up with after I had started learning how to play bass when I was sixteen years old, part bass, part axe. I don’t think I would have ever been able to think this up if I hadn’t been learning the intricacies of the bass guitar. The idea came from something I knew, but wasn’t just a literal interpretation of my knowledge. I reshaped it, dissolved my knowledge in my creative juices and made it something wholly original. And as artists, isn’t that what we’re supposed to do?

What music inspires you?

Ah, music. Have you ever met a person who has not been moved by a particular song or arrangement? Even my current roommate, who says he is the most musically challenged person in all of New York, is moved by Chopin and Tchaikowsky.

I always find my writing process is hugely inspired by music. Being a musician, it is hard for me to listen to many things for fear of me being distracted by trying to take apart how the song is put together. “Oh, the bass player is doing something interesting here,” or “sounds like he’s using a combination of wah and delay pedal here.”

In no particular order then, these are the artists I’ve been listening to for the past couple of months while working on “Pyronic Technique.”

Sigur Ros. The Rolling Stones. Krishna Das (and all sorts of other Kirtan music). Thievery Corporation. Phish. Deadmau5. Kronos Quartet (especially the album they did for the Fountain soundtrack).

Not really much of a trend there. Some of the stuff you could categorize together, but really it’s just a random assortment of different styles, different genres. The only way you could really group these artists together that would make sense, at least in my head, is that they all drive me forward. They push my creative process forward, bringing it along for a ride. They turn something on inside of me which makes me aspire to create, which makes me want to write.

As I said before, not all bands or musicians do this to me. I listen to The Clash or Hendrix and I’m usually too distracted to focus too much on my writing. I want to be immersed in their respective lyrics or guitar virtuosity. Are there artists who drive you forward? Maybe it’s not music which does it for you, but paintings, or spoken word, or the smell of a loved one’s cooking.

Whatever it is, identify it, and make it work for you.

Almost four months since initial publication and…

Thus far, the entire self-publishing process has been pretty interesting.

I’m not going to lie. I had stars in my eyes when I first got on the self-pub train. I thought my novel was going to KILL IT.

That did not quite happen.

Bridge Burner Hyperion has done pretty well, considering. But is it in the top 20 of dark fantasy and sci-fi? Not quite, though it was in the top 20 free dark fantasy when I did a free run.

Anyways, this has been awesome so far, and hopefully in another two months, my next novel will be out.