Joseph L. Selby

Ten Tenets of the Minority Party

Thu, 25 Jun 2009 02:18:31 GMT

1. Ethical Governance: We are the people’s servants and act in the best interests of our constituents, our states, the nation, and our neighbors around the world. Our participation in government is one of duty and not personal opportunity.

2. Equality of Citizenship: All citizens are afforded the rights and dignities of the law regardless of age, gender, ethnicity, language, religion, sexual preference, or economic class. Those that are not citizens are still afforded the basic rights of human beings.

3. Stewardship: It is in the nation’s best interests socially, economically, and environmentally to promote sustainable living. Healthy soil, water, and air are necessary to continue America’s prosperity.

4. National Sovereignty: Self-determination is the right of every nation. We shall take no aggressive steps to interfere in the self-determination of others unless such determination should threaten the freedom and liberties of our own nation.

5. Local Identity: We recognize the value of a union of states and believe federal laws should be enacted to address interstate issues or when uniform legislation brings efficiency or necessary consistency, benefiting the individuals and the whole. We accept that the needs of the individual state do not supersede the needs of the union, but vow to respect the boundaries of both whenever possible.

6. Ethical Economics: Economic prosperity does not justify the oppression, exploitation, or poisoning of our citizens or our neighbors around the world to maintain that prosperity. Cost is not measured only be the immediate expense necessary to maintain business but the residual expense of pollution, ecological deterioration, social instability, poverty, and a declination in health and its burden on the state. When measured against total cost, ethical economics is both financially and socially the appropriate choice.

7. Conscientious Governance: Frivolous legislation is a burden on the nation’s financial wellbeing, its government efficacy, and its citizenry. We will not enact legislation with the intent of manipulating the judicial process to promote our agendas or with the intent of acting outside the powers of our office as determined by the constitution, thereby reducing judicial obligation and allowing for a greater focus on more pressing issues.

8. Responsible Progressivity: The necessary evolution of American technology and industry should not come at the expense of our stewardship, but work in unison with it. Advancement should take into account this imperative and those responsible for previous pollution are tasked with restoring equilibrium.

9. Honest Interpretation of the Law: We will not bend the law to conform to our agenda or intentionally craft legislation in such vague terms as to mercurially suit our needs. We accept the dictums of the constitution and its amendment s as well as the laws and treaties of the nation. If these laws do not meet the needs of our constituents, states, or nation, we will enact new laws to address those needs rather than falsely interpreting existing laws for our benefit.

10. Social Obligation: We as citizens, as states, as a nation share a moral obligation to support one another through, charity, public service, and volunteerism. The well-being of our neighbors reflect the well-being of our nation.

Back in the saddle, if briefly

Wed, 24 Jun 2009 12:23:13 GMT

I don't carry both my work laptop and my writing Eee PC to and from work. That's just too much. I only carry the former. So with the exception of a half hour this past weekend, I haven't been doing any writing. Work has just been too busy. I've been able to focus on work without the distraction of writing, so I've gotten a lot done (a lot being two words, Ken), but no writing.

Work gave my laptop to someone else who has a "family emergency" (and those quote marks are well earned) which means I get to bring my Eee PC along again. So this morning I scrapped a planned chapter and replaced it with something infinitely better. I'm glad to see that reading Charles Stross hasn't negatively impacted my writing.

I've been cranky for a couple of weeks now and I figured it was stress from work, which it absolutely is. The longer my work hours, the shorter my fuse. But I didn't realize how much an impact not writing was having on me, and I should have given that I've experienced this in the past. I wrote a chapter (a short one) and revised the succeeding one to account for these revisions and I feel GREAT!

I need to finish a flashback chapter (chapter 51, but I need to research when Buckingham Palace and the Tower of London were built. It was originally set in these locations but I think I've now moved it early enough that neither existed yet) but all other chapters 55 and earlier are finished and I've got the first paragraph of 56. I think I might have mentioned this before, but for as much crap as I give Luke about making French jokes, I make a LOT of French jokes. It's okay to make fun of the French. They've earned it. Just do it for the right reasons. Freedom Fries was embarrassing and stupid.

Anyway, yay for today! I had delicious coffee. I'm about to have delicious oatmeal. I'll have delicious Digorno pizza for lunch (spicy chicken and I added chipotle peppers and garlic) and hopefully will kick ass at work today. I hope I can be as productive on the trip home as I was on the way into work. Should wrap things up around chapter 70 I think I estimated in an earlier post? Didn't I? Or was it 80. Either way, I'm on 56. That should tell you how close I am to the end!

Comparisons

Sat, 20 Jun 2009 20:32:43 GMT

I mentioned this before, but Black Magic and Barbecue Sauce was summarized as a retelling of Hancock. There is no Jason Bateman or annoying French kid, but there is a person that is outside the normal human experience and feels isolated, alone, and apathetic. There is a former wife that he can't be with (but for totally different reasons).

It's a theme not unique to Hancock but damn if I can't stop thinking about that. I started this story before Hancock was even released goddamnit!

Sun, 14 Jun 2009 15:25:22 GMT

You know, one of the things I find most satisfying is finishing I couldn't finish before. You know those chapters that are just so crappy that you have to stop writing them or they'll kill the entire process? But then yoi go back and delete stuff and go forward again and then it stops sucking and you finish it.

Yeah, that's satisfying. :) Did that this morning. Three more chapters like it and I'll head into the climax.

Wwwoooooooooooooo, the end is near!

Computers

Wed, 10 Jun 2009 15:02:02 GMT

Work has given me a loaner laptop. Morning writing will most likely cease for the time being. I'm conflicted about this. I'm at 86k, but I'm SO busy at work. This will mean I can get home earlier than 8:30. I just don't want to stop writing.

Oi.

Audio

Tue, 09 Jun 2009 16:20:24 GMT

So, now that I'm adept at using my audio equipment and getting to a point where my manuscript is almost complete (first draft that is), I've replaced the sample chapter on my website. I didn't realize it was still the prologue from Cause and Conviction. I thought it was the first chapter from Black Magic and Barbecue Sauce. So, I revised chapter 1 (this doesn't break the "no revision" rule because it was for a specific, finite project and didn't lead to any successive revision of later chapters) and then recorded an audio file. Sure an mp3 is as easy to copy and repost as printed text, but it's my voice and it's a lot harder to take credit for my words when I'm speaking them instead of you taking credit for writing them yourself. (That's a general you, and not directed at any of my wholly ethical readers.)

Once I'm done revising BM&BBQ, I'm going to revise Galileo Rocks the Baby (which has been in need of revision ever since I finished it, as I totally got off-point with all my Bush bashing--I now realize) and post the audio as well. I also need to write another short story so that my second short offering isn't the same as my novel offering.

So, on the website, I'll be offering audio samples instead of written samples of most of my work (exceptions are older stuff I don't want to record like Jigsaw, RPGA adventures, and Dyvers intercalary chapters).

So, if you want to hear Chapter 1 of Black Magic and Barbecue Sauce, there it is. I hope you enjoy.

Coming to the end?

Fri, 05 Jun 2009 02:44:43 GMT

Work is talking about giving me a laptop so that I can do work on the train. Now you might think to yourself that this is a dick move, but it's actually quite helpful. If I get a laptop, I don't have to stay at work until 6 or later and I might actually get home at a reasonable time.

What that means is that I won't be working on my manuscript, though. I've been trying to bust out as much as I can this week. I have 80,720 words, 6000 of which are from my previous short story (I checked). That means I've written 74,000 words since I started writing. I'm over the 2/3 mark. I'm looking at wrapping up around chapter 70 (if I end on chapter 69, it is in no way intentional).

I have finished chapters 1-48 inclusive, including finishing a weak chapter with Mickey and Christian and revising a chapter with Seth and Ahmed. I still have a few corrections/additions to make (that I don't count as revision because I'm not rereading those chapters, I just think to myself, "If Dawn is getting all this money, wouldn't she quit her job?" [The answer being no, because she's going to make a shitload in tips during the world series.])

So, will I meet my goal and finish my manuscript before next year (thus averting my abandonment of my chosen profession)? More than likely. Will it be in the next few weeks? That's looking more and more doubtful.

...now if I could just get Jen out of the bathroom so I could pee and go to bed!

self-doubt

Sat, 30 May 2009 16:45:14 GMT

So every once in awhile I'm struck by self-doubt. I've mentioned that before. Today, sitting in my car after finishing a chapter, was one of those times, though not as strong as it normally is. As I get closer and closer to the end of my story and the individual threads become more and more interwoven, I grow more excited about what I'm doing. I went so far as to say "I'm off to write a best seller" much like Billy Crystal said "Have fun storming the castle." Now, what I'm doing is better than some work that is published, but I question how hard a feat that really is. But after that, I question how justified I am in thinking my work is better than anything published. What if it just seems better but is really the usual drivel new authors think is great but really sucks?! So many times I thought I was being original only to find out I had fallen into a common trap of new authors and that a thousand authors before me had done the same things a thousand times before. What if what I'm writing is boring, cliche crap?! What if I am mediocre?!

Here are the things that freak me out the most. The white man helps the woman and the black man realize their potential (PC liberal guilt or a justified concern?). The man saves the woman (this one isn't entirely true because the woman was never really in danger, but he doesn't know that). The hero is a white guy; the villain a black guy (more liberal guilt). And the apathetic anti-hero comes around to save the day at the end (damnit, all my other stories end with everyone dying, but sure my first genuine offering has the guy saving the day. I wanted to do something different for me, but something different for me is the same as everyone else!).

Argh!

Okay, that is all.

Prologue/Epilogue

Fri, 29 May 2009 13:26:06 GMT

You know, since I've written my preface, I've referenced it in a few chapters later in the book. I'm thinking--and I'll have to wait until the draft is finished--that I can just scrap the prologue all together and keep the references as they do a better job of implying what happened without actually retelling that entire scene. I like starting with chapter one. I like starting with William Henderson and his suits.

As I type this, I realize I had already decided on a more poignant end with Cy and Dawn and an Epilogue would just ruin that so it's scrapped. Scrap the prologue too, I think. I'm 90% sure that chapter's going away.

I wrote today for the first time in a week. It wasn't a "I need to take time off and recharge my batteries by reading," week. It was a "Oh my god Washington, DC, was exhausting and work is kicking my ass" week. Technically, it should be kicking my ass now, but I wanted to write this down.

So for those of you that read the prologue, enjoy it, you probably won't see it in print.

Sun, 24 May 2009 16:30:39 GMT

I'm at the Smithsonian Museum of African Art. 15th century Portuguese missionaries distributed crucifixes in an attempt to convert the local Congolese. The crucifix became a sign of power for tribal leaders, as the cross was the symbol in local cosmology for where the real world and the spirit world meet. The statue I saw had no wooden cross or representation of Jesus, but was an African in a crucifix-like pose to demonstrate his power.

Struggling with the mythology of Aman'Brin, I had always thought to say Sign of theSpear, a moment when God-as-Man thrust his spear into the ground and ascended. It seemed to narrowly avoid saying cross for a religion that is steeped in Christian and Jewish samples. Reading this, I believe I'll use sign of the cross for the Amani south and sign of the spear for the Brinish north.

Libraries

Thu, 21 May 2009 17:55:49 GMT

The largest library I've ever been in was my first university's library. Four floors, east, central, and west, and two half-floors (1A and 2A) that I would get lost in often. My second university's library was much simpler: two floors. My home town? Two floors. St. Louis? Two floors and a basement. Nashua? One floor and a basement. With the exception of St. Louis (where it was just one branch in a larger system), every space was full of books. It wasn't anything like the movies where they have rows of desks and all the books are on large shelfs along the walls.

Today I went to the Boston Public Library. Holy hell! It's like nothing I've ever seen. At first I couldn't figure out where to find the books! Everything was statues and sculptures and murals and marble. There were two lion statues in honor of the 2nd Massachusetts infantry that fought in the civil war. There was a French mural discussing the Muse.

I wanted to take lots and lots of pictures. I was less impressed at how few books they really had. I couldn't help but look at the shelves and think, Nashua has more books than this! Then I turned a corner. What? The library continues on for a city block? Oh, okay, so there are more books. I get what you're saying.

Wow. Just, wow. You know those rooms in the movies where there are rows of desks and a vaulted ceiling that's at least two stories tall? Yeah, I walked through that today.

Grrr, stop swelling!

Thu, 21 May 2009 11:05:58 GMT

So the two flash back chapters I was writing (one of which is crap--maybe they both are but are good enough to last until revision) have grown to four. Some of the things I wanted to have happen in those chapters require their own. The problem with that is I don't know where to fit these new chapters. The flashbacks are placed to have optimal emotional impact and relevance to the current storyline. I just don't know where these new ones should go. And I worry about having too many flash back chapters as I don't want them to clog up the regular storyline.

I'll figure it out eventually. This is the drawback of writing in Open Office rather than Word. It has no Outline view. And since I'm writing on an Eee PC, the screen is only large eough for me to see half of any giiven page at a time. It makes organization a bitch. (This is actually a good thing most of the time because I just ignore structure and write. But in those moments where I actually want to make significant structural cchanges, I have to look at it on a different computer. One time I had to port it over to Word just so I could use the Outline feature.)

Anyway, here is the chapter I mentioned the other day. It falls into just constant dialogue, but I like it and look forward to the final version of it come revision.

Chapter 33

October 17, 2006

Cardinals 4, Mets 2

The shades are pulled. The door is closed. The lights are off. The bedroom is utterly dark, just how Cy likes it. Dawn likes to tease him that he's a “lights-off” type of guy. Cy takes the ribbing good-naturedly, but if she knew the ceiling was watching her have sex, she'd want the lights off too.

Who likes the idea of an idea just laying there above you, watching you. Watching your hips flex. Watching your butt muscles clench. It's just creepy. Ceiling the Stalker, that's what he should name it. It needs to learn to shut it's eyes, mind it's own business.

Not that Cy has ever spoken to the ceiling in Dawn's bedroom. He tries not to talk to ceilings. Once you get them started, you can never get them to shut up.

Cy shudders, envisioning the ceiling watching him.

“You know what I just realized?” Dawn says. Her head is in the crook of his arm. Her skin is stuck to his, their sweat binding them together.

“What's that?” He strokes her head from brow to point, trying to flatten the hair that has frizzed in their manufactured heat. It doesn't make a difference. It stands up, pushes its way into his mouth and nose. Man suffocates on girlfriend's hair; film at eleven.

“You and the cat have the same name.” She moans satisfied with his touch.

“What? No we don't.” His hand stops.

“Hey! Petting!” He starts stroking his hand again. “Sure we did. Cy. Cyrus. Should we call the cat Russ?”

Her head bounces up and down as his stomach rumbles with a laugh.

“He doesn't look like the kind of cat that would answer to Russ. I think we should stick with Cyrus.”

“Should we call you Russ?”

“Why would you call me Russ? Why does anyone have to be called Russ?”

“Because we have two Cys. Someone needs a different name or there's going to be mass confusion. The street lights will come on and I'll go to the back porch and shout for Cy, but you won't know which one I'm talking about and one of you will miss dinner.”

Dawn pauses, letting all this sink in. Cy pats her head.

“You're a special kind of woman.”

“Damn right I am. Don't you forget it, Russ.” She pokes him in his side.

“Hey, stop that! You're going to break a rib.” She pokes him again. “Help, help, abuse! I'm going to have pictures taken of all my bruises so I can show the judge. He's going to give me full custody of the cat.” Cy reaches into her armpit and tickles her. Dawn lurches and shrieks, accidentally head-butting him in the chin.

“No judge would give you custody when he sees how emaciated the cat is. He misses dinner every night because you wouldn't change your name. He'll have you locked up for cruelty.”

“Cruelty? What? I'm the one with the bruises.”

“Self-inflicted.”

“They weren't self-inflicted. I'll have fingerprints to prove that it was you.”

“What fingerprints?”

“The ones you leave on my deep tissue. You strike me so hard that your fingerprints get left on my muscles and stuff.”

“What? Wherever did you get that idea?”

“From that television show you made me watch that one night.” Omar isn't missing anything from not having a TV in his house, Cy is certain.

“Well, until they start CSI: St. Louis, I don't think they can find that kind of thing here.”

“Crap.”

Dawn throws her arms up in the air.

“I know!” she squeals. “Suck on that, Russ!”

“My name is not Russ!” Cy shouts, his voice cracking. “Cy is not short for Cyrus.”

“Then what is it short for?”

“Why does it have to be short for anything? I'm Greek. We have a letter named Psi.”

“Can I call you pee-si?” Dawn gives his crotch a soft tap.

“No, you can't call me pee-si. Can I call you dee-awn?” He taps her on her forehead.

“Hey, I'm German and Irish. My people don't name our children after our alphabet.”

“I was not named after a letter in the alphabet!”

“Ha! So Cy is short for something!”

“Isn't there a CIS on that we could watch?”

“CSI”

“That too. I want to learn about fibers and forehead prints and stuff.”

“Cy-rus. Cy-fuss. Cy-lack. Sarlack. Are you a big, tentacled, desert monster?”

“What?”

“Never mind.” She rolls her eyes at him. “Tell me! Tell me, tell me, tell me!” She starts poking him in the belly over and over and over. “Tell me, tell me, tell me!”

“All right, all right! Just stop that before you rupture my spleen!”

“Do you even know where your spleen is?”

“Down there somewhere, but not if you keep poking me.”

“So tell me.”

“You have to promise not to laugh.”

Dawn sits up on her elbow. “What? I would never laugh.”

“Yes you would. So promise.”

She waits. He waits.

“Fine, I promise.”

He waits some more, eying her. Her eyes are twinkling and her nostrils keep flaring.

“No, you're going to laugh.”

“I am not!” Her voice almost sounds hurt, but there's a smile in it still.

Cy closes his eyes, debating. He takes a deep breath.

“Poseidon,” he mutters.

“What?” She turns all the way around so she can see his face. “No really, I didn't understand you.”

“I said,” Cy says, over-enunciating each word, “my full name is Poseidon.”

Dawn's face, fair complected in the depth of summer, goes from its pale white to a bright red. She holds it in as long as she can, which isn't very long. Their skin pulls apart as she lets loose a huge belly laugh. Cy glares at her and gives her a firm shove.

Dawn hits the floor with a thud. She only laughs louder.

What's Left

Tue, 19 May 2009 15:52:52 GMT

So yesterday when I said I should be up to 50 except maybe some odd chapters in the 40s, what I really meant was I was up to 39 with intermittent chapters in the 40s and 50s and mapping up over 60. Yes, I totally meant that the entire time. There was no error. Carry on. Nothing to see here.

The last couple of days I've been hitting these massive dialogue surges where the humor is too good to give up. I don't want the pacing to slow down, but the second half of the chapter is nothing but dialogue (and I do mean nothing but). I'm going to leave it for revision, but since it's happened two days in a row now, I'm a bit nervous that this might be a perpetual thing, maybe a sub-conscious attempt to accelerate the writing process so I can get to the end. I don't know.

Speaking of the end. I hit 70,000 words today and I still have a lot left to write. At 2k per chapter, that should mean I only need 15 more chapters, but I already have 20 more mapped and that's not even to the end. I'll probably end with 25-30 more chapters (so end around chapter 70 or so). This means my 100,000 word count I had been aiming for is going to get overshot. I'll end with 125,000 or thereabouts. I had really wanted to keep this at the 100k mark. That felt like a sweet spot. I thought it would increase saleability as well. Hopefully that extra 25k won't be too detrimental. This is the story as it has to be told and while I'll clean up bloat from extraneous word use, I'm not inclined to cut any chapters. I've been mostly frugal to this point and what chapters exist out of the main plot arc are necessary character development.

I wrote one yesterday, a post-coital short chapter, that I quite enjoy. I may post it if I have the time. I think it really humanizes Cy and establishes his relationship with Dawn as genuine.

Harness the Energy

Mon, 18 May 2009 13:29:10 GMT

I took a few days off last week to read (Gabaldon's third Lord John book) and recharge the batteries. That got things going at the end of the week. It was slow starting, but picked up on Sunday and today. I have one more chapter to add down in the early 20s and then everything is finished up into the 50s (there maybe one or two stray chapters needing completion in the lower 40s, but I can't remember). At the beginning of last week, I thought I was hitting a mental block. A fear of finishing the novel. I'm not actually afraid of finishing it, don't be silly. It's just that roadblock everyone gets. Why isn't everyone a writer? Because everyone can't finish their stories. Anyone can start one (not necessarily well) but not everyone can finish one. How many people tell you how they want to be a writer (or worse that they are a writer) and that they have a drawer full of half-finished stories.

Listen buddy, if you can't finish the story, then you haven't told a story. A beginning isn't a story, it's a beginning. You need a middle and an end.

With that breakthrough I had in response to Ken's response, things are all of a sudden becoming connected in ways I never imagined. I've worked in the economy and the housing decline. Dennis gets his comeuppance. And I've even tied the English lieutenant from the first flashback chapter to characters later introduced. Hot damn, this is turning into a great story! If I were looking for a book to buy, I would buy this one. And I'd tell all my friends to buy it too.

...keep that in mind next year.

Outlines and Other Structuring Methods

Sun, 10 May 2009 15:40:36 GMT

If you read enough writers' blogs or journals, you learn that there are generally two types of writing processes. You can create an outline at the very beginning (or otherwise determine the entire story up front) and then write to that. Or you can write and come up with the story as you go, letting it grow organically. I most definitely fall into the latter category. I tried to outline before and it didn't work. In fact, I was so stifled by the outline and how poor it was, that I never even started writing much less finished. I think I've mentioned that in the past.

Well, something I do do is chapter mapping. It's kind of like outlining, but not as formal. I write, I see where it leads me, and as I go, I'll be able to see what chapters are coming next. I'll write the main characters for that chapter and, if I need to, I'll write a brief synopsis of what should happen (or some catchy dialogue that I don't want to forget). This normally provides for the next 3-7 chapters worth of work. Sometimes I won't remember what was supposed to go in a particular chapter and delete it. Or the idea was crap and I delete it. Or the story has moved in a different direction and I delete it. But it still helps to have a general sense of where I'm moving to. More often than not, I'll actually realize I need more chapters and I'll add in extra stuff between what I've written and what I've mapped. I know chapter 20 of my current manuscript started out as chapter 8, so that should be an example of what I mean.

Well, I reached the tipping point this weekend. I saw the story to its near completion. I didn't map 3-7 chapters. I mapped 30 chapters. I may add a few here or there, maybe delete one or two I'm unsure of, but I now see the entire book from its current place to the lull before the climax.

This has pros and cons. Pros, my mindset has changed. I'm no longer starting a novel. I'm working to finish a novel. That is a whole different feeling. There is investment now. I can't back out or make some excuse not to finish. All I can do now is finish. And it's exciting, to see the story in its near complete form. The idea I had made form, similar but different.

The cons? I'm not actually on chapter 60. I'm on chapter 31. I don't want to be on chapter 31. That means I still have a book to write! I thought I was almost done with this thing and now you're telling me I'm only half way? Ack! I want to be done now! Where are my accolades? Where's my praise? Where's my name on the best seller list. What is the writing you say I have to do. Goddamnit!

Thieving

Sat, 09 May 2009 22:47:00 GMT

If the Lumaghi's necklace was worth so much, why was security so lax? Did the acqaintance overpay? Pay double? Did they not know what they had? Did they think no one would know?

Becoming a God

Fri, 08 May 2009 17:20:52 GMT

I had lunch yesterday with Collin, a proofreader at my work. I mentioned during conversation one day that I was writing a novel and she said she would like to see it. I gave her the first two chapters. She edited them and yesterday we had lunch to discuss her feedback. One of the most striking comments she offered was she felt I was not properly presenting the humor in the story's inherent religious irony. Not only did Cy live through religious history, he was a part of it at one time. I was exploring that, but perhaps not as directly as I might have. Pondering her statements, I devised a prologue and epilogue. I wrote the prologue last night while I waited for Jen to arrive for dinner before the play (incidentally, Miracle in Naples is a fantastic show).

I'm not sure if I'm going to use it. If I do, I'm not sure if I'll keep it at the beginning. Maybe later in the middle. I don't know. What do you think?

Version:1.0

Prologue

Late Summer, 2577 BCE

Sei. While alive, his brother called him Sei. His brother is dead long since. He grew old and died. He had a litter of children. They grew old and died. His brother's children had children of their own. They grew old and died. And so on through the generations of his family. Everyone Sei knew is dead. Everyone who knew Sei is dead.

He sits atop a mountain, forgetting the world that forgot him. There is a thrush that came the week before last. It started building a nest in a split in the rock. Sei has watched its slow evolution, from a small pile of twigs to a tightly woven home.

The thrush, in the process of positioning and repositioning a new twig, flies away. Rocks fall behind him, and Sei hears someone climbing the mountain. He puts his face in his hands. They never forget. They never stop coming.

“It is you!” A young man scrabbles over the rocks. He lay on the ground panting for breath. It's a hard climb to this summit. Sei chose it for that reason. “You're here, just like the stories say.”

Sei stares at the nest. He doesn't turn. He knows the type. Tousled hair, cut hands, abraded shins, wanting something.

“My journey was long and fraught with danger. I braved the monsters of the wild and the dangers of the mountain. I have come, oh King Lost on the Mountain.”

That name. Sei drops his head between his knees. He turns now to look at his best. The young man, a boy really, kneels more out of a need for air than reverence. Tousled hair, cut hands, and probably abraded shins if Sei could see them.

“I am not lost, boy. And I am not a king,” he says as flatly as possible.

“I know,” the boy says. Sei raises an eyebrow. Could this one be different? “You are a god.”

What?

Sei stands and steps smartly at the boy.

“You are the lord of the sea. Disguised in human flesh to guide Pylos to prosperity.” The boy stands in turn. His shins are abraded. “You cast down your crown, but were not allowed back to Olympus because of Zeus's jealousy.”

Who the hell is Zeus? What the hell is Olympus?

“You are Poseidon, god of the seas and patron of my village.”

Shit.

“I am not a king. I am not a god. I am not Poseidon. I am a foolish fisherman who forgot his place. I have no name. My name is hermit.” Sei turns from the boy and returns to his rock, resuming his watch of the thrush's nest. “I am sorry you climbed the mountain for nothing and braved monsters and dangers and whatever. All you found is an old man.”

He hears the boy step forward. The dirt scrapes the rock as he walks.

“My mother told me the story as her mother told it to her and down the line of my family.” He steps in front of Sei, undeterred. “You are the immortal king. Men bowed at your feet. The tide came at your summons, and the creatures in its bosom sang your praises.”

Sei closes his eyes.

“I am a hermit.”

“My village, we have slaughtered our largest bull in praise of your name.”

“I have no name.”

“We have gathered what gold we have and offer it to you in most humble devotion.” the boy pulls a pouch free from his belt, loosing the drawstrings in the same motion. He tips it over and spills out an assortment of gold trinkets. Sei hears the metal strike the stone.

“I need nothing.”

“I beseech your aid, lord Poseidon, god of the seas, immortal king of Pylos. Please have mercy on us your lowly subjects.”

“I am not—”

“Without your intercession, our village will be destroyed. Our best warriors have died opposing this terror. Without you, we are doomed.”

“I am—”

“My mother, your most devout priestess died invoking your name to ward off the beast. You were lost on the mountain, they say, away from the seas your home. I came to find you, to show you the way back.”

“I—”

“Poseidon, the god most high, save my people.”

Sei sighs and opens his eyes.

“Show me the way.”

Excerpts

Fri, 08 May 2009 16:49:48 GMT

I haven't posted an excerpt for awhile. At leasts, it feels like I haven't posted an excerpt for awhile. I don't actually know when last I did and now that I'm typing, I'm disinclined to go back and check. There are a few reasons why I haven't posted any. The first, I didn't want this journal only to be a reposting of my rough drafts. I have thoughts, questions, ponderings, and experiences about writing I'd like to share, along with the occasional private comments as well. So I thought I'd chill on the excerpts.

Another reason is that I don't want to post the entire manuscript online. Sure I value reader comments, but this is being written for market. As it's a free journal, I don't want people reading the story here. And worse, I don't want people reading it and thinking the first draft is fully representative of the final product. Now given, once a story is complete, I lock the posts to friends only, so newcomers can't see the old stuff. But until then, I like to keep things spicy.

Third, I've been pumping out content wicked fast so it's actually hard to post content consistently. And since I recently revised chapter order to better fit with the 2006 baseball playoffs (which I wanted to do from the beginning but didn't know MLB had revised their website to make the information so available), a lot of the order wouldn't have made sense anyway. I'm going to pass 50k words next week. I'm almost there now, actually, but I have a busy weekend so I don't think I'll get any writing time. Next week for certain.

And fourth, I'm just damn tired when I get home. Work is too busy and I don't have my writing laptop out any way. When I get home, I only have a few hours before I go to bed and do it all over again.

Anyway, that's all to tell you that I'll be posting two excerpts today, one in this post and another in a second post. Though there are a lot of newly available chapters, this one is going to be a flashback I wrote to show Cy when he not only accepted but believed he was a god. Otherwise, there's a chapter when he's an immense asshole. I really enjoy it and it will have huge repercussions later. So, here you go:

Chapter 26

September 11, 147 BCE

No Game Today

The sword hisses against from its scabbard, a short but broad blade of wootz steel. The man points it at Poseidon's throat.

“You believe me a fool?” Spittle drips from his lips.

“I had given you no thought at all,” Poseidon says imperiously, “but to answer your prayers. To see how you comport yourself before me, I do not think but know you a fool.” Poseidon does not look at the man but for a disdainful glance, he needs no more to see his madness. He instead looks at the blade. Its craftsmanship is fine and the steel itself is a commodity of great value.

“You are fool no more than your father. It is only a fool that names his son after Syphax, a disgraced king.”

“My father was a great man and his sword is well known. It was a mighty gift he bestowed on me.” The man makes a short thrust to demonstrate his point.

“I knew King Syphax. A man of his name may wield a sword crafted by Hephaestus himself, and I would not fear it.” The new Syphax's eyes widen, and Poseidon can see just how bloodshot they are. Liquor? His conduct is erratic but not inebriated, as best Poseidon can tell. Drugged? Perhaps. Or perhaps it's mere exhaustion. Perhaps his madness prevents him a peaceful night's sleep.

“Lower your weapon and beseech my name.” Poseidon orders.

“Lower..?” Syphax is incredulous. “I mean to kill you, man. You would beg me lower my weapon and speak?”

“I do not beg. Men beg me, as did you.”

Cy is not that tall. Taller than a Jew or a Phoenician, but not particularly robust for a Greek. He looks up at the Carthaginian but somehow looks down at him at the same time. His presence gives him stature that his height does not.

“Me? Beg? I would not befoul my lips to call the dead gods of the Greeks by name. Nor would I offer prayer or tribute to a man who blasphemes heaven by pretending to be a god among us.”

Syphax's whole body tenses and Cy knows he means to strike. When he first came to Carthage, Elissa announced to the people that Poseidon stood among them. The crowds cheered and people bowed to him as he walked the streets. Many still do, but more and more he finds people who simply think him madman rather than the god he is.

“Turn.” Poseidon's voice rumbles like stone. He points at Syphax and walks forward menacingly.

“Cronus called me son. Theseus called me father. Alexandros called me Poseidon. Demaratus called me Nethuns. Lucius Brutus called me Neptune. You may call me any of these, but you will do so on your knees.”

The stone beneath Syphax's feet turns over and the man falls to the ground with a yell. His knees strike the street sharply. He braces himself with his knuckles, refusing to drop his sword. Blood smears the stone beneath him.

They stood along the quay of the lower harbor, the merchant ships waiting aloft for the tide to come in. Poseidon first sailed with Queen Elissa on her flight from Phoenicia, granting her good seas and a strong win. He brought up a storm when King Pigmalion attempted to pursue them. Those that pass simply nod their heads and continue on their way, heads downturned.

“I did not pray to you,” Syphax says through clenched teeth.” He does not make a move to stand, but straightens. Tears well in his eyes. Are his kneecaps broken?

“Amphitrite tells me of a man whose acquaintance she has met,” Poseidon says, ignoring the man's pain. “She tells me of his prayers and that I may answer those prayers. I answer the prayers of the pious, of those that pay tribute and do good works.”

“I prayed to Tiamat, the goddess of my mother's people.” Syphax bites the inside of his cheek and the pain scares away the tears. He lifts his sword, laying it across his chest.

“If you pray to Tiamat, you pray to Amphitrite. And when you pray to Amphitrite, she tells Poseidon, me, her husband.”

“Come to me,” Cy hisses like sword from scabbard. Syphax's blade—his father's sword—flies from his clenched fist and into Poseidon's waiting hand.

“I am benevolent,” he says, standing above Syphax. “I am generous. But I am not forgiving.” He lifts the sword.

Tears return to Syphax's eyes and he falls prostrate, crying out as his legs straighten.

“I beg you o lord, Poseidon, god of the seas. I beg you, he who makes the earth quake. Spare my life. I did not know.” Syphax reaches out his hands but does not dare to touch Poseidon's ankles.

A group of people passing nearby see the imminent execution and turn the other way. Their children linger, watching. They ask whether that is a notorious murderer who's said to prowl the harbor at night. The oldest of them says it is Poseidon and that they should leave before they are overwrought by his wrath.

Cy smiles. Bless the children.

He looks down to make sure that Syphax does not see him smiling, but the man still grovels. Cy lowers the sword.

“Tell me why I should not strike your head from your shoulders,” he says.

“If you do, you kill more than just me.” He looks up, his face contorted with a mix of agony and rage. “My family has been taken. My sons, my daughters, my wife. My mother and her mother live with us. They are all taken.”

“By whom?” Poseidon tempers his tone. Be magnanimous before passing sentence on the wretch.

“Herders, they said, come to town to trade their cheeses and meats. We drank together and we toasted each other by name.” He struggles back to his knees, grunting as he does. “I was toasted last. When they learned my name, they became angry. They say their grandfathers fought with the Masaesyli king, my namesake, and lost everything. They say they were once wealthy but now have but a few meager goats.”

Poseidon sighs heavily.

“They took your family.”

“They say they will sell them as slaves. To Numidians or Egyptians I do not know. I must pay them or lose my family. I prayed to Tiamat, my grandmother's patron goddess, and I am delivered you.” Syphax screams at the top of his lungs. “How the gods mock me, to send me the thief of Carthage when I ask for mercy.” He tries to climb to his feet, but the pain overwhelms him and he falls forward, panting.

“The thief of Carthage? You ask my aid and call me thief?” Perhaps he has been too measured with this man. To hell with magnanimity if it comes without respect.

“You are well known. The god among us, the patron of the foolish and naïve. You accept gifts yet offer none in return. You take from those that do not give. You live off the city and its people yet stand apart from it, the Greek among the Carthaginians.” Syphax tries again and this time makes it to his feet, standing with his knees bent together like a newborn deer. “I ask nothing of you,” he says. “You are a fraud.”

Poseidon looks at the sword he still holds, admiring it exaggeratedly.

“But what of this wondrous sword. Worth more than some earn in a year. Perhaps I will trade it to these herders in exchange for your family.” He flicks the steel with his finger as if it were a tuning fork.

“Do you think I did not try? They said I might buy my mother and grandmother. I told them its value, that it had earned a name in war. People told stories of it and it had great value. They would not yield.”

“They did not,” Poseidon nods. “But then, you are not a god. What they do not give to Syphax they will give to Poseidon. As you said, I need give little to take plenty.”

“You would do that for me?” Syphax cannot hide his confusion.

“For you? No dear man, not for you. For me.” Poseidon chuckles. “They took your family in memory of the man you are not. I will take your family for the man you are. I will buy your family with your sword and sell them into slavery.

“I will sell your sons to the Romans, your daughters to the Spaniards. I will send your mother to Lybia and your wife to Egypt. Your grandmother, I will send her to the Vandals far to the north. You have not heard of them, most like. They are hairy men with pale white skin. They take their women like dogs, humping one another. The elderly are used by the men of the village when their wives are pregnant, I hear tell. She will be reminded what it is like to be a young bride, your grandmother.”

“Monster!” Syphax bellows. He lunges forward, but Poseidon easily steps aside. He kicks the man's knee, and Syphax collapses to the ground. He pushes himself back up, growling like a dog, but Poseidon kicks the knee again and he drops back down. A third time, but felled just the same. He tries to lift himself up. His arms shake wildly then he collapses.

“I am off to buy your family now. It's the least I can do. For an acquaintance.” Poseidon walks away, whistling a jaunty tune. It is a nuisance when mortals do not understand their place. It is satisfying when humility can be wrought upon them so quickly.

Editing

Wed, 06 May 2009 16:56:29 GMT

So there are a couple people I want to send a finished manuscript to for proofing and criticism. I hate to send out a first draft, but at the same time, revision immediately followed by revision kills enthusiasm. Maybe I can do a spot check on the worst parts. I don't know. That's a ways off still, but that date is approaching and I need to be prepared.

Research

Mon, 04 May 2009 17:02:44 GMT

I mentioned my Punic chapter on Saturday. I spent most of the day researching. Not Diana Gaboldon levels of research, but clicking numerous links on Wikipedia research (9 tabs open simultaneously).

Now, you just rolled your eyes. Stop that. There are two reasons why you shouldn't shrug your eyes. It's an easy thing to pick on Wikipedia but the ease of access and the level of accuracy in relation to the total content included makes it an amazing resource. Yes, it should not be used as a primary source. That's why it requires references. But it's still amazing, so stop picking on it. Second, I am intentionally modifying history anyway, creating a "what we think was versus what really was" type of situation because there are people still alive that actually lived it. And how much has our perception of the 80s changed just in the decades since, much less 5000 years ago. So, any inaccuracies in Wikipedia are irrelevant because accuracy isn't my goal. An appearance of accuracy is.

So, knock it off. :)

Anyway, I'm really pumped about this part of the book. It's funny, because this was the only flashback chapter that I listed without knowing what I was going to flash back to. I knew I wanted him to meet an acquaintance from the past, but had no idea who or where that would be. When I had Matty throw in "remember Carthage" I figured I should probably do something with that. And bam, here we are. We get to see Cy when he's still parading around as a god (and acting like one too). (Acting like one = douchebag)

I also made my cover page, dedication, and acknowledgments this weekend. I was intentionally not doing this, but broke down as I realized I needed an acknowledgment about the history as some historical pedant would have whined and I would have had to kick him in the junk. The reason I don't do this is because I love seeing my title/name together. I immediately materialize it into a book cover and then I spend time staring at a near-empty page rather than writing. But it's there (and I am excited about it).

Oh, and out of all that research, more character development came out! A whole different relationship with Matty and Cy. Something I'll have to actually work on to make fit given his current relationship with Dawn (once Christie but whose name changed because I had a Christian and a Christie and that's just too much Christ). And after this morning's song war where Jen was trying to get the theme to Inspector Gadget stuck in my head and I was trying to get Bumblebee Tuna stuck in hers, I came up with an entire scene about Bumblebee Tuna that I think will be a welcome diversion from the drive of the main plot (and flesh out a character that isn't getting as much attention as I would like).

Edit: I also like Mr. Whiskers so much that I keep having ideas for LoLcatz pictures at the beginning/end of the book. "I'm in ur novelz, stealin ur scenes."

Short Chapters

Sat, 02 May 2009 16:05:35 GMT

So the introduction of short chapters has proven a double-edged decision. Yes, I'm flushing out the progression of events without bloviating certain instances that need only minimal attention. However, the frequency in which I use short chapters has increased considerably and I believe it's affecting those chapters that should be longer. I'm, in effect, creating more work for me during revision as some of these chapters need to be longer. I'm falling into dialogue with slight detail. I have trouble adding more substantive detail as the exchange of ideas is what pushes the story forward. I don't need as much description as Gabaldon or Martin, but I need more than Selby.

In positive news, I'm at 43k words and am finally pushing into Act 2. Act 1 worked so well that it was hard to move on. I'm really good at writing first acts. I almost stalled. I had to resist the siren song of revision. Must continue forward. This manuscript isn't going to finish itself, after all.

Right now I'm working on a flashback in Carthage, the first of two. The second Carthaginian (Punic?) flashback--which never even existed in my brain until a week or so ago--is a huge plot point in terms of character development. I'm really excited to get to that chapter, but that doesn't come until Act 3.

Okay, I need to get back to work.

(Incidentally, Richard, my local library doesn't have the Anything Box. I'm not sure if I'll be able to give it a read. I couldn't even find a chapter sample online. EDIT: Wait a second, I work right next to the Boston Public Library. Maybe I should look to see if they have it...THEY DO! In library use only, but that's a start. I'll stop by on my lunch break and give it a gander.)

Get this down

Wed, 29 Apr 2009 21:13:56 GMT

For the BBQ sequel: a boy traumatized by the supernatural. Doesn't speak. Cups his hands like he's keeping a bird or a small bird. What do you suppose he has in there? "It's a secret."

There's nothing in there.

Covers

Wed, 29 Apr 2009 14:28:11 GMT

So I had a notion, today. I have to work hard not to skip ahead in the writing process. It's an easy trap to fall into, and I have. Currently, the hardest thing to resist is the cover. I want to design a cover. Or at least, I want a cover designed the way I like it. Publishers have design templates that sell depending on the publishing location but I always prefer the UK covers to the US covers. I'd like to have Aaron Acevedo design something, but I am skeptical that a first-time author could convince a major publishing house to use a freelancer of his suggestion.

I was reading Nathan Bransford's blog this morning and he's talking about the challenges of the pitch session and that's when it struck me. Design a cover post card. Book cover on one side; pitch blurb, contact information, and other relevant info on the other. I will do this once I have a finished manuscript. I am excited about this prospect.

It's Coming

Sat, 25 Apr 2009 15:47:13 GMT

Half Chapters

Tue, 21 Apr 2009 02:37:22 GMT

Most of my chapters are 1800-2500 words. I shoot for 2000 for an easy calculation to 100,000 words (50 chapters total). But I've found there are times when a little extra is necessary but it doesn't fit into one of the existing chapters nor does it have enough content (or warrant so much attention) to get its own full chapter). So I've started doing mini or half chapters. Kind of like how I finished that last entry with a 50 word chapter. I don't want to overuse them, but that last one really amused me and I've been popping them in here and there to wrap up some loose threads. Amusingly, writing smaller chapters today, I actually topped 3000 words.

You may have also noticed some notes at the end of one of those chapters I posted. When I think of where I want a chapter to go (or at least, who I want in the chapter which reminds me of what I wanted to happen), I'll list the chapter number and then "Cy and Christie". If there's something specific I want to happen, I'll write it below (whether it's action or dialogue, what have you). So that's why I had notes about what Mickey does. I actually forgot the notes were there and went a different direction. I've actually merged the two now for what I think is better than either idea on its own.

So here are three half-chapters:

Chapter 9

“Is it done?” The tub in Mojisola's bathroom has multiple jets. She could not hear him lest he yell, but Seth keeps his voice low regardless. Someone is always watching. Or something.

“Yes, milord,” Ahmed says. His voice is tinny and far away. Satellite reception is always so hit or miss in the west Sahara. “Monsieur Bugeau is on Air France xxx bound for JFK New York. From there to Chicago and on to St. Louis. He should arrive tomorrow evening.”

Seth pulls out a day planner. There is no writing anywhere in the booklet, but small dots fill almost every calendar day. He slides his finger across the braille, reading. Walls and lamps and ceilings may understand humans. Some can even read language. And they can all be convinced to talk given the right persuasion. But he has, to date, not met any that can read braille. Few humans for that matter, either.

“Very good, Ahmed. How long until he has the pearl?”

“I put him in touch with Mickey Castellano, Poseidon's go-between. Though he lacks wit, he lacks loyalty as well. Between the two of the, I would estimate a week before he secures the pearl.”

Seth taps his finger across the days.

“A week, Ahmed? That long?”

“He is French, milord.”

His finger taps impatiently, not reading.

“I have taken the liberty to consolidate your meetings. Miami, Washington DC, and Boston will all be meeting you in New York. You will conclude your business in half the time. You can continue on from there if you choose to accelerate matters.”

Seth's finger stops.

“Very good, Ahmed.”

“And the woman, milord? If I may ask, was she to your liking?”

“She was.” Separated by a continent and a weak satellite connection, Seth can still hear the tension ebb out of Gomaa's voice.

“I am pleased that I could serve you, milord. Her documentation—passport, travel visa, etc.—are already on the plane. The New York apartment has been made ready for your arrival, as well as a reservation at xxx in St. Louis.”

“That is fine work, Ahmed.” Seth flips the day planner closed. “Meet me in New York at your leisure. Take time to visit family while you are in Algiers.”

“My family is well compensated for my absence, milord. I live to serve. I will await your arrival in New York.”

“Thank you Ahmed.”

Seth hangs up the phone. The water has stopped running in the bathroom. Mojisola is singing. He smiles. It is all coming together.

Chapter 11

“Hey baby,” Christie says. Cy's gotten used to the telephone. Omar thankfully still has one with a cord on it. He doesn't trust the cordless one Christie owns. Who knows what it does to the brain, and he doesn't want to be the Marie Curie of the telephone.

“Hi.” Cy tries to sound upbeat and fails miserably.

“Cy tell me you didn't wear your Cardinal's jersey.”

“No, but everyone else did.”

“No they didn't.”

“They did, really. Albert Pujols was there and he asked me why I wasn't wearing his jersey. They threw me out of the funeral because they thought I was a Cubs fan.”

“You got yourself thrown out of the funeral?” she shreaks into the phone. Cy pulls the receiver from his ear. So much for breaking the news through humor.

“Maybe.”

“Oh Cy, baby, what did you do?” She sounds more concerned than censorious, and he appreciates that.

“I told you, Cubs fan. Albert was very angry. He called Yadier Molina, and they threw me out of the cemetery. You know, one-two-three-throw style? It was humiliating.”

“What did you do, Cy.” She's calm but serious. Joke time is over.

“I dressed nicely. I went with Omar and we stood in the back. I listened to Reverend James preach. I listened to people sing. I stood respectfully.”

“And?”

“Why does there have to be an and?”

“Because you got thrown out of a funeral, Cy, and none of those things get you thrown out of a funeral. Are you sure you were dressed nicely?”

“Yes, Christie, I promise I dressed nicely. Tie and everything.”

“So..?”

“So Reverend James preached and he preached and he preached and my feet started to hurt.”

“And..?”

“And I started shifting my weight back and forth, trying to take the pressure off my feet.”

“And..?”

“And I ended up picking up the rhythm of the music. They were singing this beautiful mournful thing and I just kind of fell in sync with it.”

“You started dancing at the funeral?”

“No, of course not. That would be ridiculous.”

“Yes, it would.”

“I started humming.”

“Why did you start humming?”

“Well the rocking and the singing reminded me of this song I learned when I was traveling through Ireland.”

“They through you out because you were singing an Irish pub song.”

“No, they didn't know it was an Irish pub song. That just got Omar's attention. So we started talking, and I told him he shouldn't be so sad. And that's why I got thrown out of the funeral.”

Christie is quiet for a moment. Cy waits, letting the jury of one deliberate. Christie is incredibly young in comparison to he, both her parents are alive as well as both her older brothers. Last he heard, her grandparents were still alive so clearly she doesn't have a lot experience with death. Yet somehow she fits in so much better—so much easier—in this time than he.

She starts slowly, cautiously.

“Why would you say that, Cy?”

“Because he was taking this Henderson guy's death really hard. He's no older than you but you wouldn't know it to meet him. He's burdened by premature adulthood and the ghosts of parents dead six years past. Now a surrogate parent is dead. How much deeper will he dig into his hole after this one?”

“I can't fault your intention, Cy.” She pauses, gathering her words. “But that's not something you say at the funeral. He needs time to mourn.”

“He's been mourning for six years. He needs time to laugh and to dance and to sing.” He's right, dammit, why doesn't anyone understand? “Don't tell me you think any of those people would want him to be anything but happy. If their ghosts were here, that's what they'd say. They loved him and if you love someone, you want them to be happy.” He nods his head punctiliously.

“Can you imagine the world if we didn't mourn the dead?” she asks, still cautious. “Mourning shows a value of life, that it was important, and that we're sad it's gone. If we did not value it, then there would be no loss in taking it.”

“I can promise you, man has never needed an excuse to take life. There has always been war. And there always will be if not with each other then with the aliens come.”

“Do you really not understand, Cy?”

He understands in that he's seen it before. He's seen it a lot, even. But he doesn't understand why, especially in this modern world with death on television and in the newspapers all the time, how people can still bury themselves under misery. It's not sad for the person that's gone. It's sad for the people that are left behind. And what value is there in being alone? Nothing good ever came of being alone.

Well, Edgar Allen Poe and his lot, but they're a distinct minority. And Omar is no Edgar Allen Poe.

“I understand. I just don't...”

“Understand.”

He doesn't know how she does—how she always does it—but without knowing anything about his true history, she understands what he means, what he's feeling, and why despite his complete inability to articulate any of it.

“Do you want some help?” she asks.

“Yes, please.”

Chapter ???

Cy is glad that he spoke with Omar before leaving on the job. That kind of work has a lot of threads and each one has to be tied as quickly as possible for the job to be good. Take your time, and the wrong people might find one of those loose threads and then everything goes sideways and you end up in a thief's hole for two months. Not that he knows that from personal experience...

He hasn't been home for two days and if he had left things unresolved with Omar, he is certain they would have only grown worse by his absence. Some kind of perceived insult, a refusal to be in the same house as Omar or even a signal that he is moving out, which he doesn't want to do.

But things are good—things are better, at least—and now he's home with the rent in his pocket. That should get things back to normal, he hopes.

“You're too young to understand,” Alice Henderson says. She sits on the porch swing. How long has she been sitting there? Is it coincidence that she should be out here when he comes home or has she been waiting for him since he left?

He's been gone two days. Would she really wait for him all that time? Cy had not told Omar when he would return. It's kind of creepy, this old woman sitting on the porch swing, waiting for him to come home. How long would she have waited?

“Excuse me?” He keeps his voice level, placating even. He looks 33 after all and there's no reason she should otherwise.

“You're young, full of vinegar.”

Barbecue sauce, actually.

“Think you've seen the world.”

He has seen the world. A lot more of it than her, he'd wager. Has she ever left St. Louis? It seems preposterous, but St. Louis is one of those cities where the people born there might not travel outside their neighborhood much less outside the city.

“Think you have all the answers.” She rocks the chair rhythmically at an even tempo. It lends her speech a sing-song quality.

“Mrs.—” Crap, what is her name again

Henderson!

“—Henderson, is there something I can help you with?” He finishes his walk up the patio stairs and stands by the front door, his posture making it obvious he wants to be done with her and go inside.

“Leave.”

“Excuse me?”

“Leave the boy alone. Leave this house. Leave this city, if you have any decency in you.” The fingers on her left hand motion up and down like she is playing the piano. Cy looks her in the eye, but she appears perfectly lucid. Maybe it's a strange tremula that the elderly can get.

“This is my home, Mrs. Henderson. Omar has been very welcoming of me, and I greatly esteem him for that.” He squares his shoulder, giving her his full attention. He may act the fop, but he has survived 5000 years and that wasn't dumb luck.

Most of it wasn't dumb luck.

A lot of it wasn't dumb luck.

Alice leans forward, to stand he thinks, but she doesn't—or can't—pull herself from the chair. She hunches forward and scowls at him.

“Esteem him? Son, you've the devil inside you. You'll bring nothing to him but misery and heartache. You'll tear down this house and burn it to ash in the hellfire that surrounds you.”

“I've been here for four years, Mrs. Henderson, and nothing bad has happened.” Cy's words are sharper than he intends them, and though he knows it, he can't stop himself. “During my tenure here in the Thomas household, Omar has put himself through college, finished with top marks, and been accepted to law school all the while with his hellspawn tenant in attendance. My presence does not seem to limit him while I am certain my rent affords him the luxury of dedicating himself to his schoolwork while not having to worry about tuition or expenses.” Good, that should show her. “And—” No, don't go there. “—the last I checked, his name was still Omar Thomas and not Omar Henderson.” Damn. “The boy is a man and can be trusted to make decisions for himself.” Quit while you're behind. “Good day, madam.”

Cy turns and bursts through the front door. It always sticks, and he's thankful for the excuse to slam it open.

Alice stands. Her arms are shaking, her hands balled into tight fists.

You're too young to understand, you sanctimonious crone, he thinks to himself. Everyone dies. And all the mourning, the crying, the singing, the praying, none of it brings them back. Death is. Your husband wasn't special. He was special to you, but that doesn't make him any different than the millions of people that have died before him or the billions that will die after.

“Don't walk away from me, youngin'. I have more to say.” Alice stands in the doorway. Her whole body is tense. She wills him to turn and listen.

Youngin' huh? If wisdom comes with age, then Cy is the Buddha. Wisdom comes to everyone. The elderly simply have more chances to learn so are, by means of opportunity, generally wiser than those younger than they. He has known many wise old people and just as many with no wisdom at all. Which one is Alice Henderson?

Let's find out.

“It feels like you're going to live forever, at your age,” she says. “But you won't. No one lives forever.”

“Except for Jesus,” he throws in quickly.

“Don't blaspheme to me, you...you—” Alice starts shaking again.

“The last I heard, the man came back from the dead and skipped up to heaven. So unless God his father put the nails back in, I'm pretty sure he's living forever.”

Alice's mouth falls open and hangs there. Cy wants to reach over and push it up, but he has enough restraint to keep his hands at his sides.

Cy was in Italy at the time—the BC/AD changeover. He never met Jesus personally, but the guy made a splash over the years. He might have been a Speaker. He might have just been an extraordinary human being. It doesn't take Speech to be special. He might have been far darker, now that Cy thinks about it. There are crafts other than Speech in the world, crafts not founded on the mutual cooperation of two beings.

That doesn't really jive with Jesus' message, though, so he discounts that possibility. The notion that Jesus might have actually been divine doesn't even cross his mind. After a few millennia being worshiped by the Greeks and then the Romans, 2000 years isn't even the mean.

What were they talking about?

He looks back at Alice. Her mouth is still open.

“Okay then,” Cy says. “Have a nice day now.”

He closes the door.

“She's just an old lady,” Door says with a squeal like rusty hinges. “Asshole.”

“Hey, I didn't camp out on her front porch, waiting to pick a fight,” Cy Speaks back. The little old lady that just lost her husband of 45 years and fears for her surrogate son totally deserved it.

Yeah, he's an asshole.