Greetings, fellow castaways.
This week, let's look at more heroes, examining the Hero Type.
I've said before that heroes are no more than ordinary people, placed in extraordinary circumstances, that simply decide that those circumstances are not going to be the end of them.
But I've come to know that defining "Hero" is a whole lot more complicated than that. I've seen heroes who are born to the role. When I see a two-year-old place himself between his sister and danger, there's more to that "hero" thing than ordinary people. I don't know of too many toddlers who would face down who he sees as a giant wielding a knife against his sister, even if I was only showing her that a knife means "owie," and to stay away from owies.
We see heroes in our warriors, who wouldn't normally do what we're asking them to do, in that they volunteer to be subjected to unimaginable fear and violence, to place themselves between evil and the innocent.
We see them in police and firefighters, who go to work every day with no guarantee they'll make it home for supper that night.
But heroes aren't always those action stars of our world. We also see heroes in those who take stands politically or socially. Little old ladies who sit on buses. People who challenge the norms of our very society, who make us rethink our own paradigms. Teachers who inspire greatness in their students. My high school physiology teacher remains to this day one of my greatest heroes, because he not only made complex systems simple to understand, but he excited us all with the minute workings of the human body. My junior high school speech teacher was 4-foot-6, but she drove us to tackle ogres and giants of stage fright and performance fears.
I write about heroes who charge through flames, fight the bad guys, storm the mountain fortress, rescue the princess, and even heroes who cook fabulous dinners, research the answer, pull cures for diseases out of their hats, and lead investigations. But these are only a small portion of the true heroes of our world.
I believe, now that I think of it, that a better definition of "hero" is "One who inspires greatness in others, through thought or through deed." That opens up a whole lot of room for heroes.
Who's yours?
Tuesday, July 21, 2015
Wednesday, June 24, 2015
Heroes! Part 1
Greetings, fellow Castaways.
First off, if you haven't signed up to follow the blog, feel free to join up! I'll try not to bore you too much.
This week, the concept for discussion is one that comes up once in a while when a reader asks me about my series, and that is the question of what makes a hero. It's a good question, because, after all, every good story has a hero, and they come in all shapes and sizes, from J.R.R. Tolkien's Hobbits to Jonathan Swift's Gulliver, to Robert A. Heinlein's Friday, to the Brave Little Toaster and the Beaudelaire Orphans.
So let's look at how we define the term, with a few examples, and why we see them as heroes, from the strictly obvious point of view of the kid who should have paid more attention in English Class. If anyone of you have any Creative Writing background in College or what have you, feel free to jump into the discussion (plenty of room for comments at the end).
The first and most obvious Hero Type is the Warrior.
These photo shows another take on the warrior image of heroism. Though no less heroes than the previous example, these men's faces show the horrible cost incurred on the title. They were Marines on Iwo Jima, one of the bloodiest and hard-fought battles of World War II. But even among this type, there are several sub-types of Hero, from those who signed up willingly, to the draftee just trying to stay alive long enough to get back home. But the significance of the title of Hero is not diminished by circumstances.
I've said once that Heroes are not born as extraordinary people; rather they are ordinary people thrown into extraordinary circumstances, just doing what needs to be done. And I could still say that, to an extent, that holds true.
I was fifteen years old, a member of my local Sheriff's cadet post. The court pulled some strings to get me in, even though I was technically too young. It seems the judge thought I just needed something to keep me busy, something more constructive than the "hobbies" that had me standing in front of him. So take it from me, I was no hero at fifteen. But my story continues:
Part of my involvement was a 40-hour First Aid course that was the most thorough training I'd ever seen, and that included my instructor training in Battlefield Aid in the Air Force (I was my squadron's instructor for three years, but that's a different story).
I was at a family party with my father and brother, standing in the back yard of one of Dad's friends, when a crash and scream came from the house. Out the back door came the young son of the host, running and screaming, holding one arm out in front of him. That arm was a shredded wreck of flesh streaming blood across his lawn (he'd put it through a plate glass window, with predictable results). That first aid training kicked in automatically, and I grabbed him. I was terrified when I saw the damage to his arm, but the part of me that knew what to do overrode the fear. I dragged him back into the house, grabbed a wet dish rag, and clamped it onto the worst of the gashes. Then I raised his arm and with my other hand, I found the artery feeding his arm, pressing it against his bone to shut off the blood flow to the arm.
I saw Mike again several years later, and he showed me the scars. They were worse than I ever imagined. But he thanked me for saving his life. At the time, I swear, that was not on my mind. I was just doing what needed to be done.
That kind of instinct defines the warrior type. They are essentially people of action. And I call it an instinct, even though training is a critical part of the response as well. My younger son is a hero, and I can see it in the way he runs to the crisis.
He was eight years old when the local Homecoming Festival closed at the end of the weekend (they still have the festival, by the way. It wasn't closing, like for good), the owner of the local alligator sanctuary was packing his inventory away for the trip back to the shop. Among the "little friends" Dave had brought with him was a five-foot American Alligator, who was a huge hit with the kids. No, he didn't take anyone's arm off, in fact he was quite docile the whole weekend. Until closing time, when Dave and his assistant tried to stuff that 'gator into a military-style duffle bag for transport.
That 'gator swung his tail around on Dave's assistant's bare back with a smack! that I swear was heard around the world. The welt rose immediately, like he'd just taken a flogging from a foot-wide bullwhip. My boy, that eight-year-old wonder, ran ten steps to that table before I could stop him, and Dave barely had time to get one hand loose and wave him off with a panicked "NO!!!"
Shannon just can't help it. Someone screams, and he runs to the trouble. I hope he never joins the military, because he's going to find his way to the hottest part of whatever trouble is going on, and that would make a nervous dad. Yes, he's first aid trained. I can feel good with that. But he has a hero's instinct, even from the first days he could walk.
The Warrior heroes in my series are Jon Daniels and Jenna Paine. I count Jenna, because even though she's technically not a "good guy," she still counts a s hero of the Warrior Type, in that she's a person of radical action, from instinct and training.
I think I'm going to continue this discussion in future posts, because to be honest, we're getting into other territory that will take more space than just a quick blog read.
But the Warrior Hero Type is the One Who Comes To The Rescue. Whee-ha.
Talk to you next week when we take on the next type. I may even have a term for him/her.
First off, if you haven't signed up to follow the blog, feel free to join up! I'll try not to bore you too much.
This week, the concept for discussion is one that comes up once in a while when a reader asks me about my series, and that is the question of what makes a hero. It's a good question, because, after all, every good story has a hero, and they come in all shapes and sizes, from J.R.R. Tolkien's Hobbits to Jonathan Swift's Gulliver, to Robert A. Heinlein's Friday, to the Brave Little Toaster and the Beaudelaire Orphans.
So let's look at how we define the term, with a few examples, and why we see them as heroes, from the strictly obvious point of view of the kid who should have paid more attention in English Class. If anyone of you have any Creative Writing background in College or what have you, feel free to jump into the discussion (plenty of room for comments at the end).
The first and most obvious Hero Type is the Warrior.
Here we have a classic example. St. George, our knight in shining armor, rides in to rescue the virgin from the horrible, fire-breathing dragon. Today, our warriors are still seen as heroes, and rightly so.
I've said once that Heroes are not born as extraordinary people; rather they are ordinary people thrown into extraordinary circumstances, just doing what needs to be done. And I could still say that, to an extent, that holds true.
I was fifteen years old, a member of my local Sheriff's cadet post. The court pulled some strings to get me in, even though I was technically too young. It seems the judge thought I just needed something to keep me busy, something more constructive than the "hobbies" that had me standing in front of him. So take it from me, I was no hero at fifteen. But my story continues:
Part of my involvement was a 40-hour First Aid course that was the most thorough training I'd ever seen, and that included my instructor training in Battlefield Aid in the Air Force (I was my squadron's instructor for three years, but that's a different story).
I was at a family party with my father and brother, standing in the back yard of one of Dad's friends, when a crash and scream came from the house. Out the back door came the young son of the host, running and screaming, holding one arm out in front of him. That arm was a shredded wreck of flesh streaming blood across his lawn (he'd put it through a plate glass window, with predictable results). That first aid training kicked in automatically, and I grabbed him. I was terrified when I saw the damage to his arm, but the part of me that knew what to do overrode the fear. I dragged him back into the house, grabbed a wet dish rag, and clamped it onto the worst of the gashes. Then I raised his arm and with my other hand, I found the artery feeding his arm, pressing it against his bone to shut off the blood flow to the arm.
I saw Mike again several years later, and he showed me the scars. They were worse than I ever imagined. But he thanked me for saving his life. At the time, I swear, that was not on my mind. I was just doing what needed to be done.
That kind of instinct defines the warrior type. They are essentially people of action. And I call it an instinct, even though training is a critical part of the response as well. My younger son is a hero, and I can see it in the way he runs to the crisis.
He was eight years old when the local Homecoming Festival closed at the end of the weekend (they still have the festival, by the way. It wasn't closing, like for good), the owner of the local alligator sanctuary was packing his inventory away for the trip back to the shop. Among the "little friends" Dave had brought with him was a five-foot American Alligator, who was a huge hit with the kids. No, he didn't take anyone's arm off, in fact he was quite docile the whole weekend. Until closing time, when Dave and his assistant tried to stuff that 'gator into a military-style duffle bag for transport.
That 'gator swung his tail around on Dave's assistant's bare back with a smack! that I swear was heard around the world. The welt rose immediately, like he'd just taken a flogging from a foot-wide bullwhip. My boy, that eight-year-old wonder, ran ten steps to that table before I could stop him, and Dave barely had time to get one hand loose and wave him off with a panicked "NO!!!"
Shannon just can't help it. Someone screams, and he runs to the trouble. I hope he never joins the military, because he's going to find his way to the hottest part of whatever trouble is going on, and that would make a nervous dad. Yes, he's first aid trained. I can feel good with that. But he has a hero's instinct, even from the first days he could walk.
The Warrior heroes in my series are Jon Daniels and Jenna Paine. I count Jenna, because even though she's technically not a "good guy," she still counts a s hero of the Warrior Type, in that she's a person of radical action, from instinct and training.
I think I'm going to continue this discussion in future posts, because to be honest, we're getting into other territory that will take more space than just a quick blog read.
But the Warrior Hero Type is the One Who Comes To The Rescue. Whee-ha.
Talk to you next week when we take on the next type. I may even have a term for him/her.
Tuesday, June 9, 2015
Jenna Lives
Greetings and welcome, to all who have seen and wonder what those words mean. Consider yourselves at home, and welcome. Drag up a comfy chair while I explain. And for those already familiar with Jenna and her exploits, this is (almost) a spoiler.
Jenna Lives.
It's a good thing for Jenna, and a bad thing for anyone who's ever been on her bad side. And to let you in on a secret: She's not done yet.
When we first met her, Jenna was a promising young physical therapist, companion and rehab aide to Nadia Velasquez. So what went wrong? I mean, besides being embroiled in a deadly secret that could mean the death of millions of people. Well, oh-so-awesome readers, the answers are in my first, EPIC-Award-winning novel, Becoming NADIA (Click on the picture to see more):
"Whoa there," you say. "What do you mean, Jenna's one of the bad guys? She's such a nice person, so sweet and kind, and"
...oh, forget it. She damn near killed Jon, and at the end of this one, she totally destroys---
*wags finger* Ah, ah, ah. You almost made me tell.
Okay, she's one of the bad guys. But she's really not a bad person. Or is she? In my second novel, Unalive, Jenna comes head to head with the agenda behind her bosses' stated goals, and learns a secret about herself as well that could mean the difference between life or death. In the process, she manages to not destroy Las Vegas or half the Eastern Seaboard as she puts two and two together in a way doesn't quite add up to five.
"Okay," you ask, "so she's really not one of the bad guys?"
Well, no, not really.
"Then she's a good guy?"
Well, no, not really. As a matter of fact, by now, you're either going to love Jenna or hate her. And we're just getting started. I mean, if you were betrayed like she was, you'd be royally pissed, right? And where vengeance is concerned, "good" and "bad" are off the table. the only thing that matters is simple, final and bloody retribution. This time, all the stops are pulled, no measure is spared, and Jenna is willing to give everything including her own life to make sure The Pinnacle never again pose a threat to her or anyone under her protection. She just might, at that.
"So," you ask, "How does one get started in the awesome, ass-kicking, super-agent business, anyway?"
Sherman, set the Way-Back Machine about twenty years before the events in Becoming NADIA. Let's check in on Jenna when she was just a little...girl? Okay, let's call a spade a spade. To some, she's a girl. To others, she's nothing more than Project 14-257. What's the price for a life? What's the price for peace? When it's measured in blood, is there still room to turn around and walk out? Not according to some. Check out this one, folks:
So now you've been introduced. It's my hope that Jenna becomes as real to you as she's become to me, that she finds a place in your heart and mind, and that truly:
Want a sticker of your own? Email me at cyrus dot keith at yahoo dot com and ask. We'll get one to you. If you feel like buying my books, I certainly won't stand in your way. My work is available at Barnes and Noble, Amazon, and a good dozen or so other retailers.
Thank you for stopping by. I look forward to hearing from you.
Jenna Lives.
It's a good thing for Jenna, and a bad thing for anyone who's ever been on her bad side. And to let you in on a secret: She's not done yet.
When we first met her, Jenna was a promising young physical therapist, companion and rehab aide to Nadia Velasquez. So what went wrong? I mean, besides being embroiled in a deadly secret that could mean the death of millions of people. Well, oh-so-awesome readers, the answers are in my first, EPIC-Award-winning novel, Becoming NADIA (Click on the picture to see more):
"Whoa there," you say. "What do you mean, Jenna's one of the bad guys? She's such a nice person, so sweet and kind, and"
...oh, forget it. She damn near killed Jon, and at the end of this one, she totally destroys---
*wags finger* Ah, ah, ah. You almost made me tell.
Okay, she's one of the bad guys. But she's really not a bad person. Or is she? In my second novel, Unalive, Jenna comes head to head with the agenda behind her bosses' stated goals, and learns a secret about herself as well that could mean the difference between life or death. In the process, she manages to not destroy Las Vegas or half the Eastern Seaboard as she puts two and two together in a way doesn't quite add up to five.
"Okay," you ask, "so she's really not one of the bad guys?"
Well, no, not really.
"Then she's a good guy?"
Well, no, not really. As a matter of fact, by now, you're either going to love Jenna or hate her. And we're just getting started. I mean, if you were betrayed like she was, you'd be royally pissed, right? And where vengeance is concerned, "good" and "bad" are off the table. the only thing that matters is simple, final and bloody retribution. This time, all the stops are pulled, no measure is spared, and Jenna is willing to give everything including her own life to make sure The Pinnacle never again pose a threat to her or anyone under her protection. She just might, at that.
"So," you ask, "How does one get started in the awesome, ass-kicking, super-agent business, anyway?"
Sherman, set the Way-Back Machine about twenty years before the events in Becoming NADIA. Let's check in on Jenna when she was just a little...girl? Okay, let's call a spade a spade. To some, she's a girl. To others, she's nothing more than Project 14-257. What's the price for a life? What's the price for peace? When it's measured in blood, is there still room to turn around and walk out? Not according to some. Check out this one, folks:
So now you've been introduced. It's my hope that Jenna becomes as real to you as she's become to me, that she finds a place in your heart and mind, and that truly:
Thank you for stopping by. I look forward to hearing from you.
Saturday, June 6, 2015
D-Day: A Rememberance.
Good morning, fellow Castaways.
I promise I won't do this too often, but it is something that needs to be said today. Today is the 71st anniversary of the D-Day Invasions, and to me is a day of introspection and remembrance because of the significance in so many ways of the operation.
It was the largest amphibious invasion in history. More than 5,000 ships landed 156,000 soldiers on the beaches, beginning at 6:30AM. 24,000 men were inserted just after midnight, dropped by parachute or landed using assault gliders. So as I write this, the echoes of one of the largest struggles of man against man still ring through endless time. Of that number, 4,414 were confirmed dead by the end of the day, with more than three time that missing or wounded. German casualties were over 1,000 killed, and over 3,000 civilians lost their lives as well.
It was the beginning of the end of the Third Reich , the initiation of the liberation of Europe from Adolf Hitler's Nazi regime. The landings took place in June of 1944. By the end of August of 1944, France was once again a free republic. Germany fell by May of 1945. The United States, Britain, Canada, and Free France joined together to make it all happen beginning on that very day 71 years ago.
In no way should we glorify war. The beaches were a meat grinder of cataclysmic proportions as men fought and died by the thousand. Forget the "good guys, bad guys" thinking. Just leave it behind. On one side, we have the Allied forces and their desire to remove Hitler from Europe. On the other side, we have German men and boys who were defending a threat to their homeland. It was a perfect picture of Hell itself, and no man or woman should have to go through it again, ever.
But as long as evil exists in this world, we will have men and women who will stand up with their very last breath and say, "No, you will not conquer. No, you will not enslave. No, you will not oppress." We as free people must remain ready to stand between evil and the innocent, to protect with our lives the liberties given us by our Creator, and ensured by good and strong leaders.
We have to remember the horrible cost paid by those who came before, as an example for us to follow: not to die, but to fight with our very lives for freedom.
You wonder why I look with such disdain at our Big Brother culture, why I value personal liberty so highly? I look no further than my own father in law, who went ashore at the Anzio Beachhead in Italy, in the Third Wave.
The liberty they fought and shed blood for was the level little understood by many people today, who see nothing wrong with laying down their freedom for security. Folks wonder why we crotchety old farts shy away from "the new order" of things. Today is a prime example why.
God Bless the USA.
I promise I won't do this too often, but it is something that needs to be said today. Today is the 71st anniversary of the D-Day Invasions, and to me is a day of introspection and remembrance because of the significance in so many ways of the operation.
It was the largest amphibious invasion in history. More than 5,000 ships landed 156,000 soldiers on the beaches, beginning at 6:30AM. 24,000 men were inserted just after midnight, dropped by parachute or landed using assault gliders. So as I write this, the echoes of one of the largest struggles of man against man still ring through endless time. Of that number, 4,414 were confirmed dead by the end of the day, with more than three time that missing or wounded. German casualties were over 1,000 killed, and over 3,000 civilians lost their lives as well.
It was the beginning of the end of the Third Reich , the initiation of the liberation of Europe from Adolf Hitler's Nazi regime. The landings took place in June of 1944. By the end of August of 1944, France was once again a free republic. Germany fell by May of 1945. The United States, Britain, Canada, and Free France joined together to make it all happen beginning on that very day 71 years ago.
In no way should we glorify war. The beaches were a meat grinder of cataclysmic proportions as men fought and died by the thousand. Forget the "good guys, bad guys" thinking. Just leave it behind. On one side, we have the Allied forces and their desire to remove Hitler from Europe. On the other side, we have German men and boys who were defending a threat to their homeland. It was a perfect picture of Hell itself, and no man or woman should have to go through it again, ever.
But as long as evil exists in this world, we will have men and women who will stand up with their very last breath and say, "No, you will not conquer. No, you will not enslave. No, you will not oppress." We as free people must remain ready to stand between evil and the innocent, to protect with our lives the liberties given us by our Creator, and ensured by good and strong leaders.
We have to remember the horrible cost paid by those who came before, as an example for us to follow: not to die, but to fight with our very lives for freedom.
You wonder why I look with such disdain at our Big Brother culture, why I value personal liberty so highly? I look no further than my own father in law, who went ashore at the Anzio Beachhead in Italy, in the Third Wave.
The liberty they fought and shed blood for was the level little understood by many people today, who see nothing wrong with laying down their freedom for security. Folks wonder why we crotchety old farts shy away from "the new order" of things. Today is a prime example why.
God Bless the USA.
Monday, May 11, 2015
You're Doing It Wrong!
The following story is entirely made up. Nothing actually happened. The point is the point, and that, my friends, is the point.
Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart was practicing piano one day when a guest strolled into the parlor. He listened to Mozart roll through scales and arpeggios for a couple minutes, and then ten seconds after the master began playing his latest piece, the stranger cleared his throat.
"Excuse me, sir, you're doing it wrong."
Mozart stopped, hands frozen above the keyboard. "I'm sorry?"
"You're doing it wrong, sir. Your left hand is playing all these weird notes on the bottom of the keyboard, and your right hand is way to high. There's too much distance between them."
"Is that right?" said Mozart. "Can you tell me how you knew this?"
A smug grin spread across the intruder's face as he continued to explain that he'd read a book once about how to play piano, and though he hated piano music, he knew all he needed to about how to play piano. "And," he concluded, "that is why I know you're doing it wrong."
"So you've never taken any lessons?" asked the master.
"No, I despise the sound of a piano, myself."
"But you've read a book about piano music?"
"Yes, sir." The grin disappeared, replaced by a wimpish pout. "In addition, if you really want people to enjoy your music, you're just going to have to play on a more elementary level. All these fancy notes and runs and things just make less talented people feel bad that they can't keep up with you. We have to make it fair for others. You're just not inclusive enough." And with that, he produced a pair of handcuffs and slapped them across Mozart's wrists.
Mozart stared at his hands. Who was this man anyway? He hated piano music, but he had the gall to come into Mozart's own study and tell him how to play. Mozart reflected back on his years as a musician, learning the mechanics of sound, chord structure, music theory, all the hours and years he'd spent perfecting his craft, living his love for music out loud in every piece he wrote. And to top it off, he restricted the master's ability to play the way he best knew how!
But, as he looked again at his hands, Mozart decided to take on this challenge, to defy this upstart and prove him wrong once and for all. He started to play again, and true to form, he worked around the restraints placed on his ability. Even though he couldn't spread his hands to play the full length of the keyboard, he used the range he had to play a beautiful, sad concerto in G minor.
He no sooner played the last notes when once again the stranger stepped in. Hauling a wire cutter from his pocket, he then proceeded to snip and remove every third string from the sound board of the baby grand. As he cut and pulled, he said through gritted teeth, "You're doing it wrong. You can't play those notes again. I'm afraid we'll have to step in and make sure you play the right way."
"What's with this 'we'," asked Mozart in frustration. "Do you have a mouse in your pocket? I don't see a 'we' anywhere in here!"
The intruder wheeled and waved his handful of wires under Mozart's nose. "We are those who know best, Mr. Mizzart. We have to show you, you don't have a monopoly on the right way to play music." Tossing the collection of strings into a corner wastebasket, he added. "We've arranged for you to take oboe lessons, by the way. If you don't understand other instruments, you'll never be a musician worthy of performing."
Then he walked out.
We spend way too much time telling others that we know better than they do about how to live their lives, how to conduct their faith, how to run their businesses, how to raise their children, even how to write their own stories, that we have no idea how much a hypocrite we're proving ourselves.
My bible tells me every man (and woman) must work out their own salvation between them and God. Yes, there are certain things that are laid out as basic. As a Christian, I profess faith in Jesus Christ as my God and Savior. Jews have their own faith system, Muslims their own. Even atheists have a faith system, though getting one to admit it is like pulling teeth.
So why is it that people who have no faith spend so much time lecturing people of faith how they need to conduct that faith? So you're going to tell me who I can worship, how I'm supposed to worship Him, what worship standards are acceptable to YOU? I don't go into a Baptist church and start prophesying in tongues. I don't march into a synagogue and demand everyone bend their knee to Jesus. Don't tell me you've read a bible and then tell me what Christianity is, when you have no concept of the Spirit of God working miracle after miracle in your life, when you have no appreciation or idea of the life that I find in these words and promises from a Being beyond all our comprehension.
And then I see people screaming at each other on Facebook these hate-filled, ignorant memes, heaving vitriol at each other across the aisle.
Whatever happened to civil discourse?
Maybe it's just me, but our world has grown less kind in the last thirty or so years. What do we do to fix it?
I'm open to suggestions.
Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart was practicing piano one day when a guest strolled into the parlor. He listened to Mozart roll through scales and arpeggios for a couple minutes, and then ten seconds after the master began playing his latest piece, the stranger cleared his throat.
"Excuse me, sir, you're doing it wrong."
Mozart stopped, hands frozen above the keyboard. "I'm sorry?"
"You're doing it wrong, sir. Your left hand is playing all these weird notes on the bottom of the keyboard, and your right hand is way to high. There's too much distance between them."
"Is that right?" said Mozart. "Can you tell me how you knew this?"
A smug grin spread across the intruder's face as he continued to explain that he'd read a book once about how to play piano, and though he hated piano music, he knew all he needed to about how to play piano. "And," he concluded, "that is why I know you're doing it wrong."
"So you've never taken any lessons?" asked the master.
"No, I despise the sound of a piano, myself."
"But you've read a book about piano music?"
"Yes, sir." The grin disappeared, replaced by a wimpish pout. "In addition, if you really want people to enjoy your music, you're just going to have to play on a more elementary level. All these fancy notes and runs and things just make less talented people feel bad that they can't keep up with you. We have to make it fair for others. You're just not inclusive enough." And with that, he produced a pair of handcuffs and slapped them across Mozart's wrists.
Mozart stared at his hands. Who was this man anyway? He hated piano music, but he had the gall to come into Mozart's own study and tell him how to play. Mozart reflected back on his years as a musician, learning the mechanics of sound, chord structure, music theory, all the hours and years he'd spent perfecting his craft, living his love for music out loud in every piece he wrote. And to top it off, he restricted the master's ability to play the way he best knew how!
But, as he looked again at his hands, Mozart decided to take on this challenge, to defy this upstart and prove him wrong once and for all. He started to play again, and true to form, he worked around the restraints placed on his ability. Even though he couldn't spread his hands to play the full length of the keyboard, he used the range he had to play a beautiful, sad concerto in G minor.
He no sooner played the last notes when once again the stranger stepped in. Hauling a wire cutter from his pocket, he then proceeded to snip and remove every third string from the sound board of the baby grand. As he cut and pulled, he said through gritted teeth, "You're doing it wrong. You can't play those notes again. I'm afraid we'll have to step in and make sure you play the right way."
"What's with this 'we'," asked Mozart in frustration. "Do you have a mouse in your pocket? I don't see a 'we' anywhere in here!"
The intruder wheeled and waved his handful of wires under Mozart's nose. "We are those who know best, Mr. Mizzart. We have to show you, you don't have a monopoly on the right way to play music." Tossing the collection of strings into a corner wastebasket, he added. "We've arranged for you to take oboe lessons, by the way. If you don't understand other instruments, you'll never be a musician worthy of performing."
Then he walked out.
We spend way too much time telling others that we know better than they do about how to live their lives, how to conduct their faith, how to run their businesses, how to raise their children, even how to write their own stories, that we have no idea how much a hypocrite we're proving ourselves.
My bible tells me every man (and woman) must work out their own salvation between them and God. Yes, there are certain things that are laid out as basic. As a Christian, I profess faith in Jesus Christ as my God and Savior. Jews have their own faith system, Muslims their own. Even atheists have a faith system, though getting one to admit it is like pulling teeth.
So why is it that people who have no faith spend so much time lecturing people of faith how they need to conduct that faith? So you're going to tell me who I can worship, how I'm supposed to worship Him, what worship standards are acceptable to YOU? I don't go into a Baptist church and start prophesying in tongues. I don't march into a synagogue and demand everyone bend their knee to Jesus. Don't tell me you've read a bible and then tell me what Christianity is, when you have no concept of the Spirit of God working miracle after miracle in your life, when you have no appreciation or idea of the life that I find in these words and promises from a Being beyond all our comprehension.
And then I see people screaming at each other on Facebook these hate-filled, ignorant memes, heaving vitriol at each other across the aisle.
Whatever happened to civil discourse?
Maybe it's just me, but our world has grown less kind in the last thirty or so years. What do we do to fix it?
I'm open to suggestions.
Sunday, April 26, 2015
Man Up!
Greetings, fellow castaways on the distant shores of the mind. This week, I want to take a look at a lost art, a form our modern culture has told you is "old-fashioned," "out of style," "archaic," or out of line with this modern, "enlightened" culture. It's art of being a man. More specifically, a gentleman.
Gentlemen are labeled these days a male chauvinists. Groups like Promise Keepers are dragged through mud, nit-picked to death, bullied and scorned. The going image is one of knuckle-dragging brutes, dominating and overlording their spouses and children, perpetuating male domination to the detriment of everyone else.
Well, I've been to a Promise Keepers function, and I can tell you it's nothing like that. In fact, it's exactly the opposite. It's a holding accountable of every man to a high standard of conduct honoring and cherishing his partner and children. Paul's letter to Ephesus lays it down in no uncertain terms: Ephesians 5:25 says this: "Husbands, love your wives, just as Christ loved the church and gave himself up for her." Loving my wife in that context means laying down my entire life to protect and honor her. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
Being a gentleman is NOT outdated. It's more important than ever that every man learn what it means to be a man. Androgyny may be the fashion, but it's not conducive to a functional society. There are rules for courtesy for a reason. They keep a society from falling apart and devouring itself like a suicidal cannibal. And if there is going to be a United States, or any other country, left in fifty years, we need to reestablish rules of courtesy by which we can get along. And we all need to get along. Look at Facebook if you don't believe me.
Change has to start somewhere, folks. It can be a little thing in the beginning, and it can grow. So, to quote Michael Jackson, I'm starting with the Man in the Mirror. That means I'm defining to myself what it means to be a gentleman. I'll let you see why in a moment.
1.) A gentleman knows when to hold his tongue. That means clamping my mouth shut rather than respond to the latest hate-post from Bernie Sanders. As much as I growl and seethe, Sometimes I just have to clench and look away. Especially if saying something would be the same thing as throwing a diamond to a gorilla. Some people will not be convinced, no matter what I say or how many times I repeat it. So I'm just going to shut up and walk on. Some fights just are not worth the headache and backlash you're going to generate by jumping in. If everyone on Facebook would just shut the hell up one extra time per day, the internet will be a safer and more civil place by at least 1%.
2.) A gentleman honors and protects a woman's dignity. Period. Not that a woman can't defend her own honor. It's a respect thing. And while we're talking respect, how about I respect other men as well? Everyone is worthy of honor and respect, until they prove themselves to be otherwise. That means no name-calling, period. Terms like "stupid," "wacko," "nut-job," and "clown" will not cross my lips, as much as I want to launch out.
3.) A gentleman won't take the first punch, unless his life or safety is in direct jeopardy. If he does have to take that punch, he makes it count. A gentleman is not a wimp. He knows when to walk away, which is always. If he's cornered, he takes every option necessary to win his way out of it, for his own safety and anyone else with him. He fights to get out of the situation, and knows rules of engagement are out the window when lives are on the line. He will always place himself between evil and the innocent.
4.) A gentleman places others before himself. He lays his own life down for the sake of his wife and children. He provides for them, protects them, and makes himself accountable to them.
5.) A gentleman allows room for disagreement without condemnation. He does not judge people on what they do or don't believe, on their appearance including skin color, or on their actions. He allows room for the Ultimate Judge to render judgment. He does not compromise his own beliefs or faith, but he does not appoint himself as the Last Prophet, standing on the hilltop and pointing fingers. Because he himself is no better a person than anyone else.
The bottom line is this: I'm talking to that man in the mirror. I'm holding him accountable to a higher standard of behavior, one that makes peace with those with whom he deals, on all fronts. It might mean he has to be a little less opinionated, a little more restrained. But if I'm going to make this Civility thing work, I have to start somewhere.
Who's with me?
Gentlemen are labeled these days a male chauvinists. Groups like Promise Keepers are dragged through mud, nit-picked to death, bullied and scorned. The going image is one of knuckle-dragging brutes, dominating and overlording their spouses and children, perpetuating male domination to the detriment of everyone else.
Well, I've been to a Promise Keepers function, and I can tell you it's nothing like that. In fact, it's exactly the opposite. It's a holding accountable of every man to a high standard of conduct honoring and cherishing his partner and children. Paul's letter to Ephesus lays it down in no uncertain terms: Ephesians 5:25 says this: "Husbands, love your wives, just as Christ loved the church and gave himself up for her." Loving my wife in that context means laying down my entire life to protect and honor her. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
Being a gentleman is NOT outdated. It's more important than ever that every man learn what it means to be a man. Androgyny may be the fashion, but it's not conducive to a functional society. There are rules for courtesy for a reason. They keep a society from falling apart and devouring itself like a suicidal cannibal. And if there is going to be a United States, or any other country, left in fifty years, we need to reestablish rules of courtesy by which we can get along. And we all need to get along. Look at Facebook if you don't believe me.
Change has to start somewhere, folks. It can be a little thing in the beginning, and it can grow. So, to quote Michael Jackson, I'm starting with the Man in the Mirror. That means I'm defining to myself what it means to be a gentleman. I'll let you see why in a moment.
1.) A gentleman knows when to hold his tongue. That means clamping my mouth shut rather than respond to the latest hate-post from Bernie Sanders. As much as I growl and seethe, Sometimes I just have to clench and look away. Especially if saying something would be the same thing as throwing a diamond to a gorilla. Some people will not be convinced, no matter what I say or how many times I repeat it. So I'm just going to shut up and walk on. Some fights just are not worth the headache and backlash you're going to generate by jumping in. If everyone on Facebook would just shut the hell up one extra time per day, the internet will be a safer and more civil place by at least 1%.
2.) A gentleman honors and protects a woman's dignity. Period. Not that a woman can't defend her own honor. It's a respect thing. And while we're talking respect, how about I respect other men as well? Everyone is worthy of honor and respect, until they prove themselves to be otherwise. That means no name-calling, period. Terms like "stupid," "wacko," "nut-job," and "clown" will not cross my lips, as much as I want to launch out.
3.) A gentleman won't take the first punch, unless his life or safety is in direct jeopardy. If he does have to take that punch, he makes it count. A gentleman is not a wimp. He knows when to walk away, which is always. If he's cornered, he takes every option necessary to win his way out of it, for his own safety and anyone else with him. He fights to get out of the situation, and knows rules of engagement are out the window when lives are on the line. He will always place himself between evil and the innocent.
4.) A gentleman places others before himself. He lays his own life down for the sake of his wife and children. He provides for them, protects them, and makes himself accountable to them.
5.) A gentleman allows room for disagreement without condemnation. He does not judge people on what they do or don't believe, on their appearance including skin color, or on their actions. He allows room for the Ultimate Judge to render judgment. He does not compromise his own beliefs or faith, but he does not appoint himself as the Last Prophet, standing on the hilltop and pointing fingers. Because he himself is no better a person than anyone else.
The bottom line is this: I'm talking to that man in the mirror. I'm holding him accountable to a higher standard of behavior, one that makes peace with those with whom he deals, on all fronts. It might mean he has to be a little less opinionated, a little more restrained. But if I'm going to make this Civility thing work, I have to start somewhere.
Who's with me?
Monday, April 13, 2015
I Yam What I Yam
I'm tired, folks.
I'm tired of being labeled. I'm tired of trolls coming out of the woodwork to level accusation against people they don't know from Adam, whom they have never met and about whom they know nothing, aside from a single statement with which they disagree, and so they heap derision and vitriol instead of bringing value to create a civil discourse.
So here's the deal, folks:
1.) I am an American, and I refuse to apologize for it.
The United States went from a ragged collection of subservient colonies, to the world's greatest superpower, in less than 200 years. No, I'm not proud of the way certain people groups were treated throughout our history. Remember, I was around when they were using fire-hoses and German Shepherds against people for just being black. But I didn't wield those hoses, nor release those dogs, and I refuse to be held accountable for it. Nor do I have any ancestors who forced the Algonquin to march the Trail of Tears. I live in a village who has been at peace with our tribe for nearly 200 years. So don't even go there, bucko.
This country is exceptional: First to mass manufacture. First in Flight. First to the Moon. First to harness the Atom. This nation leads the world in cleaning our air and water, preserving our natural resources. We feed the world. We played major parts in settling two world wars. The last thing I need is to hear our own president (or anyone else) trying to tear down the great accomplishments of our citizens, our entrepreneurs, our inventors, our doctors and heroes of all trades. Americans have done great things for the world. Yes, wonderful things happened in other countries as well. But America is exceptional for an abundance of reasons, and I will debate anyone who thinks otherwise.
2.) I am a man, and I refuse to apologize for it.
I'm not just a male of the species Homo Sapiens. I'm a man, which means more. I believe in keeping my word to the best of my ability. I don't haggle; make me your offer, and make it a good one. Don't waste my time. And don't even think you can dishonor my family or friends with impunity. I love my family, and I lay my life down to provide for and protect them. I believe in a man's right to take care of his own problems within the bounds of the law, and I believe in a law structure that allows a man the freedom to do so, as necessary to address the situation.
Now, if someone differs with me on those platforms, you're free to do so. Yay you. But if you come after me in a way that attacks me as a person, or pours vitriol into a conversation without making a sound point, I will call you on it. I'll stay civil, but I'm going to start calling trolls out for who they are.
Now, let's actually have some discussions.
I'm tired of being labeled. I'm tired of trolls coming out of the woodwork to level accusation against people they don't know from Adam, whom they have never met and about whom they know nothing, aside from a single statement with which they disagree, and so they heap derision and vitriol instead of bringing value to create a civil discourse.
So here's the deal, folks:
1.) I am an American, and I refuse to apologize for it.
The United States went from a ragged collection of subservient colonies, to the world's greatest superpower, in less than 200 years. No, I'm not proud of the way certain people groups were treated throughout our history. Remember, I was around when they were using fire-hoses and German Shepherds against people for just being black. But I didn't wield those hoses, nor release those dogs, and I refuse to be held accountable for it. Nor do I have any ancestors who forced the Algonquin to march the Trail of Tears. I live in a village who has been at peace with our tribe for nearly 200 years. So don't even go there, bucko.
This country is exceptional: First to mass manufacture. First in Flight. First to the Moon. First to harness the Atom. This nation leads the world in cleaning our air and water, preserving our natural resources. We feed the world. We played major parts in settling two world wars. The last thing I need is to hear our own president (or anyone else) trying to tear down the great accomplishments of our citizens, our entrepreneurs, our inventors, our doctors and heroes of all trades. Americans have done great things for the world. Yes, wonderful things happened in other countries as well. But America is exceptional for an abundance of reasons, and I will debate anyone who thinks otherwise.
2.) I am a man, and I refuse to apologize for it.
I'm not just a male of the species Homo Sapiens. I'm a man, which means more. I believe in keeping my word to the best of my ability. I don't haggle; make me your offer, and make it a good one. Don't waste my time. And don't even think you can dishonor my family or friends with impunity. I love my family, and I lay my life down to provide for and protect them. I believe in a man's right to take care of his own problems within the bounds of the law, and I believe in a law structure that allows a man the freedom to do so, as necessary to address the situation.
Now, if someone differs with me on those platforms, you're free to do so. Yay you. But if you come after me in a way that attacks me as a person, or pours vitriol into a conversation without making a sound point, I will call you on it. I'll stay civil, but I'm going to start calling trolls out for who they are.
Now, let's actually have some discussions.
Saturday, March 14, 2015
A Better Me, A Better You
Those of you who have known me through the years have seen a lot of changes. Forty years ago began the darkest times of my life, a period that would last ten years. For you math whizzes, I was fourteen then, beginning the most awkward part of the most awkward part of any kid's life.
I found shelter from the world in drinking, and smoking cigarettes and dope. Yep, started early, I did. About the same time, I discovered hard rock. The big acts then were Bachman-Turner Overdrive, Queen, Pink Floyd, Nazareth, and others. I'd get home from school, go to my room, get stoned and listen to the rock station from Chicago while I did my homework. And then I'd spend the rest of the night reading science fiction and fantasy, or drawing in pencil, hidden from the world. I just couldn't see myself fitting in with what anyone else was doing, saying, wearing, or being.
Always a day late and a dollar short, I just couldn't keep up with my peers. I didn't play sports, didn't belong to any clubs, and had no interests that meshed with theirs. When I had to join in conversations, as in group discussions in class, anything I said was met with blank stares, as if I'd just announced I was from Mars and had come to vaporize the town. Later, I realized that very few of my audience understood what I was saying because of my advanced vocabulary.
Later, in my last two years in high school, I found a circle of friends with whom I did share an interest, and that was theater. We were the classes that put together the plays and musicals, provided tech support. Even then, I felt I was on the fringe, outside the group as a whole.
I was in my mid-twenties when I figured out that the only way to stop feeling so miserable, so marginalized, was to simply be myself and stop apologizing for the way I spoke, the way I dressed, or the way I believed. By then I was able to quit smoking, I fought to victory over my addictions and found a better way to live.
What this week's post is about is getting along, with yourself and others, by ceasing to apologize for being you. I haven't walked in your shoes, and you haven't walked in mine. I can't ask you to understand what operates in my mind when I'm around certain types of people, because you don't have the same experiences I have. Scars remain, and though these particular individuals may mean me no harm, they may dress like, or have the same mannerisms or appearance, or the personality types of those who have done me grievous harm on the past. I may even have the same effect on you. And as humans, we tend to carry those scars in such a way that it effects our ability to interact with anyone who brings fresh light to those wounds from the past.
But we can't let scars dictate our peace. We can't let past hurts forbid us to be civil and courteous with others, no matter who they are. I may never be your friend. But I can sit at the same table and share a meal with you. I may not like you as a person. But that is no excuse for not treating you with respect and kindness. You don't have to prove yourself to me any more than I have to prove myself to you.
The key point is, I don't have to change myself for you, and you don't have to change yourself for me. But what we do owe each other is simple courtesy. And if you can't say something to my face, don't say it to my Facebook. You'll notice by my own Facebook posts that I live by my words. I don't post Bernie Sanders memes, and I don't launch attacks on anyone's beliefs. That's not just because I want to sell books (I do, but that's beside the point), but because the web is a hostile enough environment, and I'm just trying to be a little more peaceable in my corner of it. It doesn't mean I don't involve myself in discussions. But it does mean I will refuse to behave like a troll, and I think I'm right in expecting like behavior from those with whom I interact.
We can disagree without being disagreeable. But the key is to be yourself, and respect others being themselves.
Turn on the Light.
I found shelter from the world in drinking, and smoking cigarettes and dope. Yep, started early, I did. About the same time, I discovered hard rock. The big acts then were Bachman-Turner Overdrive, Queen, Pink Floyd, Nazareth, and others. I'd get home from school, go to my room, get stoned and listen to the rock station from Chicago while I did my homework. And then I'd spend the rest of the night reading science fiction and fantasy, or drawing in pencil, hidden from the world. I just couldn't see myself fitting in with what anyone else was doing, saying, wearing, or being.
Always a day late and a dollar short, I just couldn't keep up with my peers. I didn't play sports, didn't belong to any clubs, and had no interests that meshed with theirs. When I had to join in conversations, as in group discussions in class, anything I said was met with blank stares, as if I'd just announced I was from Mars and had come to vaporize the town. Later, I realized that very few of my audience understood what I was saying because of my advanced vocabulary.
Later, in my last two years in high school, I found a circle of friends with whom I did share an interest, and that was theater. We were the classes that put together the plays and musicals, provided tech support. Even then, I felt I was on the fringe, outside the group as a whole.
I was in my mid-twenties when I figured out that the only way to stop feeling so miserable, so marginalized, was to simply be myself and stop apologizing for the way I spoke, the way I dressed, or the way I believed. By then I was able to quit smoking, I fought to victory over my addictions and found a better way to live.
What this week's post is about is getting along, with yourself and others, by ceasing to apologize for being you. I haven't walked in your shoes, and you haven't walked in mine. I can't ask you to understand what operates in my mind when I'm around certain types of people, because you don't have the same experiences I have. Scars remain, and though these particular individuals may mean me no harm, they may dress like, or have the same mannerisms or appearance, or the personality types of those who have done me grievous harm on the past. I may even have the same effect on you. And as humans, we tend to carry those scars in such a way that it effects our ability to interact with anyone who brings fresh light to those wounds from the past.
But we can't let scars dictate our peace. We can't let past hurts forbid us to be civil and courteous with others, no matter who they are. I may never be your friend. But I can sit at the same table and share a meal with you. I may not like you as a person. But that is no excuse for not treating you with respect and kindness. You don't have to prove yourself to me any more than I have to prove myself to you.
The key point is, I don't have to change myself for you, and you don't have to change yourself for me. But what we do owe each other is simple courtesy. And if you can't say something to my face, don't say it to my Facebook. You'll notice by my own Facebook posts that I live by my words. I don't post Bernie Sanders memes, and I don't launch attacks on anyone's beliefs. That's not just because I want to sell books (I do, but that's beside the point), but because the web is a hostile enough environment, and I'm just trying to be a little more peaceable in my corner of it. It doesn't mean I don't involve myself in discussions. But it does mean I will refuse to behave like a troll, and I think I'm right in expecting like behavior from those with whom I interact.
We can disagree without being disagreeable. But the key is to be yourself, and respect others being themselves.
Turn on the Light.
Sunday, February 22, 2015
Now in Paperback: Critical Mass!
Wow, has it really been a full month since I came by? I am so sorry, folks. Truth is, there are several good reasons. Life threw us a wicked curve ball last December that we had to take care of. But the issue is good now, the outlook is awesome, and I give full and complete credit to a dedicated team of doctors who saw a red flag for what it was, and used God-given wisdom and skill to slay four horrible dragons in our household. Being as these dragons were chewing on other parties and I don't have specific permission to share, I'll remain discrete about details. But suffice to say, we've been very busy for the past several weeks, and the results are very good.
However, that's not what I came by to talk about. Many of my readers have been asking when the third installment of The NADIA Project is going to release in print form. There have been delays upon delays for which I apologize to you and lay no blame on circumstances beyond control, but now, here she is... (Drum roll... Curtain rising... Brass fanfare...Release the cheerleaders...Drop the confetti!)
Wounded and on the run, she turns to the man who's sworn to make her face
charges for her involvement in The Pinnacle's nefarious schemes.
After years spent hiding from The Pinnacle, Nadia runs into the one thing she
never counted on: Shelf life. As her body breaks down, she realizes it's only a
matter of the short time she has left to redeem her existence and give her daughter
a chance to live free.
In the final showdown, the two transhumans join forces against a common
enemy, and The Pinnacle come to know the deadly significance of…
Critical Mass
The nurse gave him a running report as he followed her down one hall after
another. “Your suspect is in recovery now. He’s waking up. The wounds were
severe, but he’s going to make it.”
Jon followed her through two sets of double doors that opened when she held a
card in front of a scanner. “In here,” she droned, “Bed 17—” She stopped dead in
the center aisle, her hands limp at her sides. Three federal officers and the staff
nurse lay sprawled on the floor in widening pools of blood. Along the wall on the
right side of the ward, a conspicuously empty spot where a bed should have been
was strewn about with the refuse of haste: blood smears on the floor and walls,
supplies spilled from their drawers and cabinets, an IV stand lying on its side.
Jon’s hand leapt to the radio microphone clipped to his collar. “Pete, Will!
Lock the hospital down, now! We have an incident.”
His shout knocked the nurse out of her shock. She sprinted to a small panel on
the wall and punched a large blue button. Before she reached the first victim, a
smooth tone sounded through the PA, followed by a female’s calm, practiced
voice: “Code Blue, Station Two.”
Kneeling down next to another of the inert bleeding forms, Jon checked the
wounds: a single, deep slash across the throat. Bright red arterial blood was still
pulsing onto the floor, though the strength of the spurts was weakening at an
alarming rate. “This one’s alive, but barely. How’s that one?”
The nurse’s voice was choked, hoarse, as if she’d been screaming inside her
own head since they’d walked into this nightmare. “He’s gone.” She looked over at
Jon. “Use your finger and thumb. Press on the arteries on either side of his
windpipe. I’ll be right there.” She stood and yanked the top drawer open on a crash
cart against the nearest wall. A second later, she was crouching next to Jon on the
floor, tearing open a suture kit. “Okay, get out of the way. Check on Susan.”
The doors burst open. In reflex, Jon rolled over. His pistol slid easily from his
shoulder rig. The group running into the ward stopped dead, their hands raised as
they saw the 9mm. Jon’s heart pounded in his throat. As he recognized the scrubs
and uniforms, he lowered his weapon, hands shaking.
Pandemonium erupted as the team flew into action. Jon stumbled over to a
wall. His left hand came up to his face to cover the tears rising in his eyes, but he
stopped when he saw the red blur. His hand was covered in Isaac Simpson’s blood.
His legs collapsed and he slid to the floor amid the voices of the crash team,
working on Isaac and the staff nurse. “O-negative over here, I need blood now!”
Another voice came from the other side of the room. “Susan? Susan, come on. Stay
with us, hon. Dammit, breathe!”
The radio on his hip broke squelch. “Shots fired! Shots fired on the front lawn,
officer needs assistance!” In the background, Jon heard the bark of pistol fire.
That snapped Jon back to reality. Dammit, I’m done being helpless. Let’s get
these bastards… He fought back to his feet. The weight of the pistol in his hand
reassured him as he walked, then ran toward the front of the hospital. Anger
spurred him on, faster and faster. His feet pounding in the halls matched his racing
pulse as he burst through the foyer and out into the front lawn.
Two agents were down, but they’d accounted for three of the enemy. Will
Houghmaster hunched behind a low brick wall, ducking down as another hail of
bullets flew from the two remaining Pinnacle attackers in hospital garb. A third
was helping a gown-garbed man into the back of an SUV.
Jon never broke stride. He dashed across the lawn, making a beeline for the
vehicle. The enemy agents turned their fire on him. He might have ducked, might
have even run away, but now, he was too mad. He ran harder, his anger turning
into a furious, heart-pounding rage. The man helping the other into the SUV was
just closing the door when Jon crashed into him. The door slammed shut on the
man’s arm. He screamed at the loud, harsh crack as the bone gave way.
Kicking back from the SUV’s side, Jon fired into the driver and ducked as
bullets whined around him.
A loud wet slap to his left caught his attention, and he turned his head to see
one of the remaining gunmen hit the ground under Will’s fire.
Jon snapped off two more shots at the lone remaining Pinnacle agent. One of
them hit home, and blood sprayed from the man’s chest as he fired back.
Something punched Jon in the thigh. A moan crawled from his throat as he
dropped to the grass. The dull pain in his thigh rose to a screeching crescendo as
his own hot blood spilled over his hands.
Footsteps hurried across the grass. More than one strike team… another attack
— Jon tried to raise his weapon, but it suddenly felt so heavy, he couldn’t lift his
arm. His vision closed to a tunnel. Hurts…
However, that's not what I came by to talk about. Many of my readers have been asking when the third installment of The NADIA Project is going to release in print form. There have been delays upon delays for which I apologize to you and lay no blame on circumstances beyond control, but now, here she is... (Drum roll... Curtain rising... Brass fanfare...Release the cheerleaders...Drop the confetti!)
Critical Mass
Jenna Paine is a super spy, genetically enhanced to be more than human. Nadia
Velasquez is a living weapon of mass destruction. When the secret organization
who built them both decides they are no longer useful, two enemies are thrown
together for the only purposes they could have in common: survival and revenge.
There's only one way out of The Pinnacle, and that's on a coroner's slab. Jenna
lives through a treacherous attack vowing to exact her vengeance on the people
who trained her to be the most deadly agent on the planet.
Velasquez is a living weapon of mass destruction. When the secret organization
who built them both decides they are no longer useful, two enemies are thrown
together for the only purposes they could have in common: survival and revenge.
There's only one way out of The Pinnacle, and that's on a coroner's slab. Jenna
lives through a treacherous attack vowing to exact her vengeance on the people
who trained her to be the most deadly agent on the planet.
Wounded and on the run, she turns to the man who's sworn to make her face
charges for her involvement in The Pinnacle's nefarious schemes.
After years spent hiding from The Pinnacle, Nadia runs into the one thing she
never counted on: Shelf life. As her body breaks down, she realizes it's only a
matter of the short time she has left to redeem her existence and give her daughter
a chance to live free.
In the final showdown, the two transhumans join forces against a common
enemy, and The Pinnacle come to know the deadly significance of…
Critical Mass
And what would a rollout be without an excerpt?
A slim young nurse came in through the side door and
motioned to Jon. When he stood, she drew back, inviting him to follow. Jon looked
back at Irving, checked for the rest of the security team, and went through.
motioned to Jon. When he stood, she drew back, inviting him to follow. Jon looked
back at Irving, checked for the rest of the security team, and went through.
The nurse gave him a running report as he followed her down one hall after
another. “Your suspect is in recovery now. He’s waking up. The wounds were
severe, but he’s going to make it.”
Jon followed her through two sets of double doors that opened when she held a
card in front of a scanner. “In here,” she droned, “Bed 17—” She stopped dead in
the center aisle, her hands limp at her sides. Three federal officers and the staff
nurse lay sprawled on the floor in widening pools of blood. Along the wall on the
right side of the ward, a conspicuously empty spot where a bed should have been
was strewn about with the refuse of haste: blood smears on the floor and walls,
supplies spilled from their drawers and cabinets, an IV stand lying on its side.
Jon’s hand leapt to the radio microphone clipped to his collar. “Pete, Will!
Lock the hospital down, now! We have an incident.”
His shout knocked the nurse out of her shock. She sprinted to a small panel on
the wall and punched a large blue button. Before she reached the first victim, a
smooth tone sounded through the PA, followed by a female’s calm, practiced
voice: “Code Blue, Station Two.”
Kneeling down next to another of the inert bleeding forms, Jon checked the
wounds: a single, deep slash across the throat. Bright red arterial blood was still
pulsing onto the floor, though the strength of the spurts was weakening at an
alarming rate. “This one’s alive, but barely. How’s that one?”
The nurse’s voice was choked, hoarse, as if she’d been screaming inside her
own head since they’d walked into this nightmare. “He’s gone.” She looked over at
Jon. “Use your finger and thumb. Press on the arteries on either side of his
windpipe. I’ll be right there.” She stood and yanked the top drawer open on a crash
cart against the nearest wall. A second later, she was crouching next to Jon on the
floor, tearing open a suture kit. “Okay, get out of the way. Check on Susan.”
The doors burst open. In reflex, Jon rolled over. His pistol slid easily from his
shoulder rig. The group running into the ward stopped dead, their hands raised as
they saw the 9mm. Jon’s heart pounded in his throat. As he recognized the scrubs
and uniforms, he lowered his weapon, hands shaking.
Pandemonium erupted as the team flew into action. Jon stumbled over to a
wall. His left hand came up to his face to cover the tears rising in his eyes, but he
stopped when he saw the red blur. His hand was covered in Isaac Simpson’s blood.
His legs collapsed and he slid to the floor amid the voices of the crash team,
working on Isaac and the staff nurse. “O-negative over here, I need blood now!”
Another voice came from the other side of the room. “Susan? Susan, come on. Stay
with us, hon. Dammit, breathe!”
The radio on his hip broke squelch. “Shots fired! Shots fired on the front lawn,
officer needs assistance!” In the background, Jon heard the bark of pistol fire.
That snapped Jon back to reality. Dammit, I’m done being helpless. Let’s get
these bastards… He fought back to his feet. The weight of the pistol in his hand
reassured him as he walked, then ran toward the front of the hospital. Anger
spurred him on, faster and faster. His feet pounding in the halls matched his racing
pulse as he burst through the foyer and out into the front lawn.
Two agents were down, but they’d accounted for three of the enemy. Will
Houghmaster hunched behind a low brick wall, ducking down as another hail of
bullets flew from the two remaining Pinnacle attackers in hospital garb. A third
was helping a gown-garbed man into the back of an SUV.
Jon never broke stride. He dashed across the lawn, making a beeline for the
vehicle. The enemy agents turned their fire on him. He might have ducked, might
have even run away, but now, he was too mad. He ran harder, his anger turning
into a furious, heart-pounding rage. The man helping the other into the SUV was
just closing the door when Jon crashed into him. The door slammed shut on the
man’s arm. He screamed at the loud, harsh crack as the bone gave way.
Kicking back from the SUV’s side, Jon fired into the driver and ducked as
bullets whined around him.
A loud wet slap to his left caught his attention, and he turned his head to see
one of the remaining gunmen hit the ground under Will’s fire.
Jon snapped off two more shots at the lone remaining Pinnacle agent. One of
them hit home, and blood sprayed from the man’s chest as he fired back.
Something punched Jon in the thigh. A moan crawled from his throat as he
dropped to the grass. The dull pain in his thigh rose to a screeching crescendo as
his own hot blood spilled over his hands.
Footsteps hurried across the grass. More than one strike team… another attack
— Jon tried to raise his weapon, but it suddenly felt so heavy, he couldn’t lift his
arm. His vision closed to a tunnel. Hurts…
Saturday, January 17, 2015
Review: The Burned Bridges Protocol, by Abigail Borders
Good evening, fellow castaways. It's not every day I get to discover a new author for whom I'm excited to see their next work, but here she is, Ms. Abigail Borders.
First off, I do need to let you know I've been acquainted with Abigail for better than a year, and we swap critiques on a pretty regular basis. That said, Abigail Borders' first published work The Burned Bridges Protocol was not one I'd seen other than a cursory glance and beta read of the first chapter. And I'm glad it was that way, so I could appreciate the final product without having already seen any of the previous rewrites or versions.
Seven hundred years ago, disaster forced humanity to abandon Earth. Life
on the colony ship New Edinburgh is all sixteen-year-old Lilliane, the
best programmer in her year at the Institute, has ever known.
Enjoy it I did. First off, it's an easy read. And by easy, I mean the words flow so easily through my brain that it's not work to read. I finished this in just a few hours. It's a short work, too at just over 200 pages, and the print is a bit larger than many other recent works I've read. It's marketed as a novella, which is just shy of a full novel-length work.
Which leads into my one minor criticism of the book: It could be longer. One or two scenes, in my opinion, could have been filled out just a fuzzy more. But don't let that stop you from diving in head-first and devouring it.
I promise no plot-spoilers, but it's not easy. I want to tell you all how it starts with a "What the..." and ends with an "Oh, wow," and fills the pages between with more than one "I did NOT see that one coming!"
I can guarantee your mouth will drop open when you get to the reason for the title of the book. It takes a lot to surprise me like that, but she did it. I think what I like the most is Abigail's sense of humor, a twisted, tongue-in-cheek kind of style that reminds me of a fluffy pink bunny riding a werewolf's shoulder and pointing at Elmer Fudd while screaming "There he is: Get him!"
I should have expected this from Abigail, but with an imagination as lively as hers, it's hard to know what to expect at any given time. And in this case, that's a very good thing.
Five thumbs up.
First off, I do need to let you know I've been acquainted with Abigail for better than a year, and we swap critiques on a pretty regular basis. That said, Abigail Borders' first published work The Burned Bridges Protocol was not one I'd seen other than a cursory glance and beta read of the first chapter. And I'm glad it was that way, so I could appreciate the final product without having already seen any of the previous rewrites or versions.
 |
Click the image for the buy page. |
A week ago, Lilliane woke up in a
life-pod. Its destination? Earth itself. Because it's time to rebuild.
It's up to Lilliane and the four other survivors of the New Edinburgh to
reclaim humanity's ancestral home.
Today, the life pod arrived at
Lady Diana--the lunar holding station that was once the luxury holiday
destination for Earth's super-rich. It's supposed to be a good place. A
safe place.
Not anymore.
Today, Lady Di is a battlefield.
Because while Lilliane and her friends thought they they were the only
humans left, somebody else got to Lady Di first.
And he will stop at nothing to keep Lilliane from ever getting to Earth.
Enjoy it I did. First off, it's an easy read. And by easy, I mean the words flow so easily through my brain that it's not work to read. I finished this in just a few hours. It's a short work, too at just over 200 pages, and the print is a bit larger than many other recent works I've read. It's marketed as a novella, which is just shy of a full novel-length work.
Which leads into my one minor criticism of the book: It could be longer. One or two scenes, in my opinion, could have been filled out just a fuzzy more. But don't let that stop you from diving in head-first and devouring it.
I promise no plot-spoilers, but it's not easy. I want to tell you all how it starts with a "What the..." and ends with an "Oh, wow," and fills the pages between with more than one "I did NOT see that one coming!"
I can guarantee your mouth will drop open when you get to the reason for the title of the book. It takes a lot to surprise me like that, but she did it. I think what I like the most is Abigail's sense of humor, a twisted, tongue-in-cheek kind of style that reminds me of a fluffy pink bunny riding a werewolf's shoulder and pointing at Elmer Fudd while screaming "There he is: Get him!"
I should have expected this from Abigail, but with an imagination as lively as hers, it's hard to know what to expect at any given time. And in this case, that's a very good thing.
Five thumbs up.
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