No Words



I don't need to tell any of you it's been a rough week here on Planet Earth.

I can imagine aliens discussing Earth as we sometimes discuss bad neighborhoods. "I'd not touch down there, Zalod," said G'Frick to his cephalopod friend. "That place is so violent you can get killed just for drawing a cartoon."

G'Frick the three-legged saucer pilot is quite correct. On Earth, you can indeed be cut down simply because someone finds the lines you drew with plain black ink to be unacceptable.

You won't see me type the words 'as an artist' here in reference to myself. I do not and have never considered myself an artist. I don't wear a lot of black turtlenecks and I don't launch into lengthy orations on the 'art of the craft' or the 'craft of the art' or anything else along those lines.

I'm just a guy who tries to tell entertaining stories in the hopes of making a buck off them. I believe the classic definition of such activity is that of being a 'hack.' I've been called that before, and I didn't take the expected offense. Storytelling is an ancient and noble tradition, and so is eating. I don't see a single conflict of interest there.

But I do take offense at the notion that my words might get me killed one day. While my body is hardly likely to ever grace the cover of GQ Magazine, I've come to rely on the wretched thing, and rifle rounds would put an end to that relationship.

Am I likely to ever be targeted by nut-job fundamentalists of any stripe over something I wrote?

No. I write fantasy. Sure, there are a lot of people who see my genre as a tool of Hell, Devil, and Co., but in a happy twist of fate these people don't tend to read anything but Jack Chick tracts and they are thus unaware of my existence, much less my list of titles.

But that's not the point, really. If one of us hacks is in danger, then we all are, to a degree. Because once the arts come under assault -- once we who draw or write or make music or sculpt or paint are told we can't cross this line, or say these words, or mock this idea, then we might as well hand over our tools to the gunmen and let them take over the whole field of human expression.

Which would mean we'd only ever get to see one narrow view of the world and our place in it. Only hear one song. Only read one book.

I don't care to live in such a world. I doubt you do either.

It won't happen, of course. No matter how many gunmen take aim, or how many bullets fly. We as a species are simply too fractious, too ornery, too determined to each have our own way to ever unite, willingly or not, under a single icon.

Which is either our saving grace or our fatal flaw. Only time will decide that.

But for now, the arts and the artists and yes, even the lowly hacks, we will fight back. No one is ever going to tell me what I can or cannot write. And I'm not alone. At my sides slouch ten thousand times ten thousand bleary-eyed, coffee-swilling hacks, each of us pounding furiously away at manuscripts while not giving one single wet frog fart what religious, moral, or cultural objections our works might raise.

Do I write to insult, to mock, to inflame?

No. Quite the contrary, in fact. I want to make my readers happy. Happy with the experience of reading my book. Happy that they chose to spend their time and money on my work. I welcome Muslims, Christians, Jews, Wiccans, Pagans, Druids, Rosicrucians, Witches, Pastafarians, Subgeniuses, Orthodox Mayonnaissers, molds, fungi, Dalmations, heavy earth moving machines, robins, meter readers, Batman, and everyone else to my books. I don't want to hurt anyone's feelings. I just want to tell a good story, and make someone smile.

But I'll be damned if I'll let anyone tell me how to do that. Nobody has the right. To no one will I extend the privilege.

So, to my fellow hacks, to the artists, to anyone and everyone who works to illuminate or illustrate some facet of existence, I salute you. We just lost a few of our own.

Mourn them, yes, but carry on. We owe them that. Let's bury the nut-jobs under an avalanche of good books and good music and good art. Bad books and bad music and bad art, even. Anything, as long as we don't ever let madmen dictate the direction and content of the arts from the barrel of a gun.

Carry on, folks. Always carry on.




2015: The Time Traveler's Field Guide

Don't press the red button. Really. Just don't.
Thank you for purchasing the GE Time Tourist Model 100. We hope you enjoy the advanced features of this deluxe time machine. With proper care and maintenance it will provide you with many years of carefree service, provided you don't create Catastrophic Paradox Events and destroy the universe (this event is not covered in your GE Extended Warranty purchase).

You have entered a destination year of 2015. This destination year presents many opportunities for fascinating tourism experiences. Please observe these local customs and practices to prevent detection by the locals.
  • Cell Phone Use. To blend in, you should AT ALL TIMES be either texting, browsing, conversing, or otherwise consulting your cell phone (i.e., a primitive hand-held computing/communication device, see Glossary for complete description). Proper use involves holding the device within 20 cm of your face at all times, even when walking, driving, or engaging in any other form of interaction. Direct person-to-person communication in 2015 is rare, and generally only conducted between Suspects and their Arresting Officers (see Glossary for full descriptions). Cell phone use during Movies (see Glossary) is mandatory.
  • Verbal Communication. When in public, and especially in the presence of Small Children (Figs. 6 through 37) pepper your speech with expletives common to the time (See Glossary, Vocabulary Addendum 16). Do so forcefully, in a loud voice, and with frequent repetition.  TIME TRAVELER PROTIP -- If you are not drawing hostile glares from strangers, you are insulting them by NOT USING ENOUGH PROFANITY. Increase potency and frequency.
  • Clothing and Dress. When in a casual public setting, demonstrate your down-to-earth nature by donning soiled, mis-matched clothing, which should prominently display profane verbiage (see Glossary, 'Shopping at the Wal-Mart, early 21st Century'). If attending a formal event or venue, dress appropriately in cargo shorts. No one has paid any attention to dress since 1959.
Use of English in North America. By 2015, spoken English as a language had begun to devolve into the system of grunts and gestures extant by 2100. If you find yourself in North America in this period, here is a guide to basic communication, including the phrases selected by fellow time tourists as those most often employed among the natives:
  1. "I seen / done / been." Use of tenses for verbs was largely abandoned by American English speakers in 2015. Thus, do not say "I have been to the emergency room," but say instead "I been treated for gunshot wounds at the emergency room." When giving statements to the police, do not say "I saw the crazed gunman open fire." Instead, say "I seen him start shooting, please stop beating me, I'm not resisting, I'm not resisting."
  2. "Like." The word 'like,' once defined as 'similar to' or 'having affection or favor toward,' became an all-purpose modifier by 2000. Thus, one should say "Like, I mean, you are, like, in, like, the room but, like, I don't know, like, yeah," when one means "I am in favor of light trade embargoes when they benefit local farmers."
  3. "Bro / bra / bae." All indicators of an intimate relationship, or precursors to an impending bar-brawl. Use sparingly, as the rules for usage are still evolving. Suggested safe use: "Like, bra, I been like, you know, sure." CAUTION: Use of the phrase 'Don't tase me bro' will almost certainly result in a tasing (see Glossary for definition).
  4. "I am sorry if you were offended by my words / actions / discharge of a shotgun in a petting zoo." Apologies in which the speaker takes responsibility for any wrongdoing vanished from the language in the 1990s. Instead, the speaker should acknowledge the hurt feelings, but then blame the other party or parties for feeling them. Particularly popular among political figures until elections were eliminated in favor of random coin-tosses by the Like It Matters Act of 2079.
The year 2015, while an excellent choice as a tourism destination date, also presents certain risks for even the seasoned time traveler. Remember, avoid direct eye contact with the natives, don't eat anything from the '99 cent value menu,' and don't bother with any of the Diehard sequels.


New Year De-Resolutions


A new year is nearly upon us.

Many greet the arrival of a new year with calm resolve. They see the dawning of January 1 as an opportunity for growth, for change, for making bold, daring dreams come true.

Me? I'll be down in the bunker cataloging my stores of rice and ammunition. I mean sheesh, people, have you looked outside lately?

Chaos abounds. Economies tilt on the precipice. "Duck Dynasty" was renewed for another season. If some low beast isn't slouching toward Bethlehem, it's only because the civil war in Syria sent it on a long dusty detour.

So with all that in mind, and you do realize whose blog it is you are reading, I offer unto you my de-resolutions for the upcoming new year. Mind your head, the bunker ceiling gets really low back here where I store the potable water.


  • As Thoreau suggested, simplify, simplify, simplify. I shall seek to reduce my dependence on the products of technology -- you over there, STOP LAUGHING. Okay, well, you got me. Even I can't complete this obvious farce with a straight face. Fact is, I'm going to bury myself in gadgets while I still can, because the day may come when staring into a meager brush-fire and swatting at mosquitoes comprises the evening's entertainment for most surviving North Americans.
  • I will seek to better know my neighbors, in order to re-establish a sense of community. Hilarious, right? But this time I'm not kidding. Just a few minutes of conversation, a brief visit, and you'll know a lot about the people you live by and, more importantly, where they keep their canned goods and other post-apocalypse valuables. After all, looting need not be a haphazard affair, if one invests a few moments in preparation!
  • I will start -- and finish -- at least three major DIY home improvement projects this year. First, because doing the work yourself saves money, second because you don't want a thirty-man construction crew knowing where your secret escape tunnel lies, and finally because even the most lax county building ordinances frown on the installation of .50 caliber belt-fed air-cooled machine gun turrets.

So I say, bring it on, 2015! Just wait until after June because the radiation shields on the backup pantry won't be ready until then.

Mug and Meralda News


The print edition of All the Turns of Light is now on sale! You can grab a copy from Amazon or Barnes & Noble. 

Here are links to each store. Both cost around $10.80 US as of this posting.


Of course, e-book editions are available everywhere as well, for a good bit less than ten bucks.

If anyone wants a signed copy, slide me an email and we'll work something out!

Hope you all had a good Christmas. I got a remote-control quadcopter with a built-in camera. As soon as I can do more than drift sideways and crash, I post some drone video!

Until then, it's back to work. Take care, people!






Pre-Yule Post

"Sorry, kid, it's a Zune."

The holiday is nearly upon us. The stores are all packed with what appear to be shoppers in the early stages of zombification. The streets are choked with them too, usually sitting at traffic lights texting furiously while the lights go from red to green to yellow and red again.

What I really want for Christmas is a pair of water-cooled, belt-fed 50 caliber machine guns mounted to the hood of my vehicle. While I abhor violence, I do find it amusing if applied with panache, and nothing says 'Hey moron get off your phone and drive' quite like sawing their Ford Taurus in half with a relentless hail of large-caliber lead.

One aspect of the holiday season that truly needs updating is the traditional music. I'm not sure if I'm the only one's who has noticed, but modern people rarely go a 'wassailing, nor do they dash through the snow in sleighs, one-horse and open or not.

What we need are songs that reflect the experiences of our time, and, as always, I'm here to help!

Updated Christmas Carols:

"Stop Texting Merry Gentlemen The Traffic Light is Green"
"Mary Did You Know Your Kids Are Behaving Like Meth-Crazed Chimpanzees"
"Away in a Warehouse, Back-Ordered 'till Spring"
"The Twelve Days of Rehab"
"Ring That Bloody Bell in My Ear One More Time I'll Punch You in The Face"

The last one is my favorite. Hey, 'tis the season!

Mug and Meralda News



The print version of All the Turns of Light is ready, save for one final step -- I'm waiting on delivery of an actual printed proof copy, which I must inspect and approve. If it is up to snuff, I press a button, and the Amazon product page goes live in a few hours.

I was hoping the proofs would arrive this week, but given the time of the year, it should be no surprise they haven't made it to my door yet. I feel sure I'll see them Monday or Tuesday, and if all goes well, print copies will be on sale by Christmas. I'll keep you posted.

Final Words

I wish to extend a hearty Happy Holidays to every one of you -- blog fans, readers, people who Googled the dead Frank Tuttle and wound up here by mistake, Holly my Samhain editor, Natalie the brilliant cover artist, Maria and Randy of Bear Mountain Books, whose expert editing and conversion expertise made Turns of Light a far better book than it would have been in there absence, my beta readers, my fellow writers, and finally to Tiny Tim himself!

May the deity or supernatural force of your choice confer upon you events you will perceive as blessings, or at least stop hassling you, amen.

Now get back to work, all you authors!

The Obligatory Holiday Decorating and Gift Guide for Writers


People do strange things during the holidays. Drink eggnog. Listen to that infernal barking dogs Christmas song. Willingly sit through long elaborate meals with Uncle Eggbert, who won't drink tap water or eat anything cooked with it because that's how the secret Communists deliver the mind-control drugs.

But among the more inexplicable habits of Christmas is, to me, the urge to wrap seemingly random objects in tinsel and plastic simulated fir tree needles.

Streetlights? Wrapped and lit, because apparently they weren't already sufficiently lit. Storefronts, business signs, random shrubs, the Courthouse clock. All of it festooned with decor I assume to be festive.Some of it does indeed seem festive. Some of it, not so much.

A wreath of the front grille of a fire truck? Okay. That way, when panicked drivers look up from their texting and realize a fire truck is two inches off their bumper, they get a little holiday cheer along with enough adrenaline to induce a myocardial infarction. But that's important, because it's Christmas.

But where do you draw the line? Do we add wreaths to the gun cameras of our F-18s? Should we rush the launch of an orbit-ready Christmas tree to the ISS?

To provoke thought and discussion around this topic, let's play a little game I call "Festive or Not?"

FESTIVE or NOT?
Holly and ornaments strung along police tape at an active crime scene. Antlers added to chalk outline of decedent on pavement.

FESTIVE or NOT?
Tinsel and garlands strung from motion detector to motion detector around Area 51. Black wreaths on the front of the unmarked security vehicles that appear from nowhere to whisk you away to a place decidedly less jolly than the North Pole. Sprigs of mistletoe sent anonymously to your next of kin.

FESTIVE or NOT?
Elaborate lighting displays around each settling pool at all municipal sewage treatment plants.

It's a lot more nuanced that it looks, folks.

What to Buy a Writer, or, Look, There's a Liquor Store


Is there a writer in your life? Are you struggling to come up with that perfect Christmas gift for him or her?

If so, my condolences, because I'm a writer and I know full well what a morose bunch of budding alcoholics we writers usually are.  I'm constantly staring off into space, oblivious to the world around me until the front bumper strikes something solid and the air bags deploy.

Every year, it's the same dilemma.  What to give for Christmas?  What will make your writer's eyes light up, or at least open halfway?

As usual, I'm here to help.  My list of suggestions follows, in order of descending utility.

1) BOOZE.  HOOCH. ROTGUT.  That's right, kids, the Demon Rum himself.  Why?  Simple.

A writer's job is to plumb the depths of the human condition, or at least convince a harried editor that he or she is plumbing said depths long enough for the ink to dry on a contract.  And the first thing you'll learn when you start taking a really close look at the much-vaunted human condition is that doing so induces a sudden, powerful urge to have a drink.  Or three.  Or maybe just leave the whole bottle and start running a tab, because right after the urge to drink comes the realization that it's going to be a long bad night.

2) A THESAURUS. Because nothing works better as a coaster for the drinks mentioned above than a really thick book.  I'd counsel against actually using a thesaurus for writing, because no one wants to read sentences in which characters advance, meander, promenade, traipse, or wend one's way across the room.

3) A CAT.  Hemingway had a cat, right?  He had a cat because a cat is the only creature on Earth more vain and self-centered than the average author.  While other more social animals might feel neglected or ignored by an author, who is probably staring off into space or rummaging in the cabinets for more liquor, a cat is perfectly comfortable being ignored because it doesn't know anyone else is in the room anyway.  The cat's 'I don't care if you exist or not' attitude is perfectly suited to the author's mindset of 'What? Huh? Who?'

4) AN ELEGANT LEATHER-BOUND JOURNAL.  We all know that writers, and I mean serious professional writers with book contracts and everything, are always prepared to whip out a convincing character or a heart-wrenching plot at the drop of a dangling participle. So give your author the most expensive, ornate leather journal you can find, wait a year, drag it out from under the whiskey-stained thesaurus, and give it to the writer again.  They won't ever know, because each and every page will be as blank as it was the day you bought it.  Seriously, people.  I tried the whole notebook by the bed schtick for years, and I recorded exactly two notes in it, which read:

"Char. A sees the thing, intro. other scene w/char B, str. exc. Plot hole & 9 days."
"Why G. not cld/not E?"

Which explains why Hemingway's cat had six toes, for all I know.  But leatherbound notebooks make pretty good coasters too, and if the glasses sweat on them, you can tell people the stains are from a solo hike through Guatemala which you took to 'reconnect to your muse.'

I don't have a Number 5.  You should probably stop at Number 1, because gift-wrapping a cat is nearly impossible and writers can spot a gift wrapped thesaurus from across a crowded room anyway.

Mug and Meralda News

The print version of the new book, All the Turns of Light, is done, cover and all. Amazon is reviewing it now, and I expect the print version sales page to go live early next week (if I had to bet money, I'd say Tuesday). The printed book will go for $12 in the US, and the equivalent amount everywhere else. 


Speaking of the new book, another wonderful gift for an author is that of the Amazon reader review. Reviews tell potential buyers that the book is being read. Of course, good reviews are the very best kind, but honest ones are always welcome. If you've read it, and you liked it, posting a review will only take a moment. Thanks!

The Doctor Will Fee You Now

This won't hurt a bit.
I'm not a big fan of doctors.

I didn't phrase that sentiment well. I have nothing against physicians as people. I'm sure some of them perform a service of some sort to society as a whole, if only by dint of not being street mimes. I don't cross the street to avoid doctors. I'll talk to them at parties. I even know better than to try to wheedle free medical advice out of them, when we meet socially.

It's going to their offices and sitting on that ridiculous paper-covered bench and having the inevitable conversation about weight and exercise that don't like.

But, despite my efforts to avoid the six-hour wait in a tiny room filled with coughing derelicts and shrieking, mucous-covered infants, I am forced to visit a doctor occasionally. Last week saw one of those days.

As I sat in a corner and inhaled the kind of bacteria-rich air one normally associates with Europe during the Black Plague, I made certain stern resolutions concerning my future relationships with doctors and the medical profession in general.

  • I will NEVER wait more than two hours to see a doctor, ever again. This includes situations in which the transaxle assembly from a Peugot is protruding from my chest cavity. I will crawl to the door and leave via Hearse, if necessary, but I am done with the long waits. Here's some medical advice for you, doc -- don't schedule 25 appointments for the same half-hour. Or do, I don't care, I won't stick around. My time is no less valuable than yours.
  • I don't want to be be in your office. You certainly don't want me there.  Let's stick to the matter at hand. Stitch up whatever is bleeding and present me the bill. If I want a lecture on wellness - wait, there's no point in completing that sentence because I do not and never will want a lecture on wellness. Next.
  • If I had to sit behind the receptionist's desk and listen to the Great Unwashed hack and snort and moan and whine all day every day I would quickly grow to hate them, just as your receptionist Cruella de Satanica does. I don't expect a hug and a pat, but I didn't come here to engage in a snarling contest, either. 
  • Just give me the freaking pills. That's what this whole rant boils down to. You aren't Marcus Welby, caring, concerned comic-strip MD, and I'm not going to experience some life-changing epiphany on this paper-covered bench and run out and become a granola-gobbling, marathon-running, heart-rate aware athlete. Just scribble on the pad and let's both get on with our lives, because oh by the way you've got 175 more people lined up to see before lunch and it sounds like Cruella just bit someone.
Rant Mode off.

Mug and Meralda News


The new book (All the Turns of Light) is enjoying good reviews and brisk sales. Work on Book 3 is underway!

Also in the works is the print edition of All the Turns of Light. I hope to announce completion on that project this week. The print version of the first book in the series, All the Paths of Shadow, is already available (click here for the print version).

Markhat News

The second round of edits on the new Markhat book, The Darker Carnival, is complete! The release date is April, which is getting close.


And that's it for this week. Remember, kids, take your medicine, look both ways before crossing the street, and never fire off an incendiary round while inside the gasbag of a hydrogen-filled dirigible. 

A Spaceship for Meralda

© Unholyvault | Dreamstime.com - Spaceship Steering Wheel Photo
From time to time, I let you, my favorite readers, slip behind the curtain and take a peek backstage as a book is put together. Today is one of those days, and if the title 'A Spaceship for Meralda' didn't tip you off, I'll make it official -- we're going to talk about the science underpinning the Ovis Flying Coil, which is the dingus that gave the airship Intrepid flight in All the Turns of Light.

If you've read either Saving the Sammi or All the Turns of Light, you've already been introduced to the flying coil. I didn't spend a lot of time babbling about flying coils in All the Turns of Light because that simply wasn't relevant to the story. We know Meralda invented them, and that they can make things fly, so let's get flying, right?

But there's a whole arcane science behind the coils. Just in case you're ever trapped in a fantasy world and you need to construct a magical apparatus to escape some evil wizard's tower, here's how they work, and how to build one. 

Yes, I drew the diagram below, and yes, in fact I do know why I never became a graphic artist, thank you very much.



While puttering around in the Royal Laboratory one day, Meralda pondered electromagnets. They work in her world just as they do here -- run an electrical current through a coil of wire, and bang, instant magnet. 

In Meralda's world, electricity works just as it does here. She uses copper wire and batteries and generators and motors, many of which she either invented or improved. 

What Meralda has that we don't, though, is magic. The magic she works with is similar to electricity. It can be stored in magical batteries called 'holdstones.' It can be directed, modulated, latched to physical objects or even itself. 

But that fateful day in the Royal Laboratory, Meralda was waiting for a fresh cup of coffee to brew and it struck her, out of the blue -- an electrical current moving through a coil generates magnetism. What would happen, she wondered, if I pushed a magical current through the same coil?

You put a new crack in the Laboratory's granite ceiling, that's what happens. The entire assembly -- coil, holdstone, all of it -- simply leaped up and smashed against the ceiling as though thrown.

Meralda forgot all about her coffee. 

The flying coil creates gravity, much as an electromagnet creates magnetism. Properly driven, a flying coil can generate a gravity field sufficient to pull the whole apparatus along, as though it were falling. But you can orient the field and the coil any way you wish, which allows for level flight, hovering, whatever the operator desires.

Meralda learned to further improve the coils by latching the magical current flow to a simple electrical flow. That allows the operator to select the intensity and even the direction of the field with a bank of basic controls. She can even generate negative gravity fields, all with the same coil, by supplying different electrical voltages and rates of oscillation.

That's how Mug flies about. His birdcage has a pair of tiny hand-wound flying coils affixed to the bottom of the cage. Add a battery, a holdstone, and a few tiny controls, and Mug can fly about for hours.

The airship Intrepid, the setting for most of All the Turns of Light, used both flying coils and lifting gas. The lifting gas provided lift, and the coils pushed the airship ahead at speeds no set of electric fans could ever hope to match.

Simple and elegant, it also provided a compelling reason for Meralda to be aboard the Intrepid on its perilous maiden voyage.

Airships and their lifting gas envelopes are commonplace in Meralda's world. Of course, in the aftermath of her flying coil, the bright silver fans that have driven airships for years will quickly give way to coils. One day, someone is going to decide they don't need lifting gas either. Progress happens in her world just as it does in ours.

Sooner or later, Meralda is going to be waiting for another cup of coffee to brew, and it may occur to her -- why must flight stop with the atmosphere?

Why not just keep going up?

Thus the title of this entry, A Spaceship for Meralda. When Meralda invented the flying coil, she unknowingly touched off Tirlin's very own space program.

I know, space travel isn't normally a staple of fantasy books. I promise you that if I do include it in the next book, it will be space travel like you've never seen, and it will be wicked cool fun. 

Just in case I venture off that way, I've started designing the kind of craft I believe Meralda would create. 

Let's look at what she has available to her:
  • Propulsion, via the Ovis Flying Coils. She doesn't need rockets. She doesn't need to worry about thundering up to escape velocity. All she needs to do is set the coils for a gentle upward acceleration, and watch the ground fall quietly away.
  • Basic chemical decomposition. She replaced the Intrepid's lifting gas as it leaked through her gas bags by splitting seawater into lifting gas (hydrogen) and oxygen. With a little tweaking, she can decompose the carbon dioxide exhaled by a spaceship crew and wind up with carbon and oxygen, which can be breathed over again.
So, she has the means to fly about, and clean the air. So far, so good.

But what about a pressure vessel? I've established their technological prowess as roughly Victorian. That's great for gas-lamps and steam locomotives, not so good for assembling large, air-tight structures that don't weigh a million tons. There are limits as to what even large flying coils will drive.

But Meralda is brilliant, and I foresee the introduction of a thin, nearly-impervious bubble of carbon atoms given enhanced strength by a sustained magical field -- yes. Call it Ovinium. Perfect for a nice spherical spaceship hull, isn't it?

Okay, so now we have a hull. What about gravity?

That's simple. You hang a few short fat flying coils under whatever you want to call the floor, and set them for a wide, weak field. Everything inside that field gets pulled to the coil. Instant deck gravity, so the crew doesn't spend the entire voyage trying not to vomit.

I think this could actually work. I'll go through several ship designs, but here's the first, and yes, I'm quite aware I cannot draw.


The faint lines are steel rigging, used to stabilize the coils. The sphere in the middle is the main body of the ship. It has air, gravity, corridors and beds and kitchens and bunks. The four huge main flight flying coils are housed in nacelles away from the central hull. The four smaller coils set just below the pressure hull provide deck gravity and also augment the main coils during landing and ascent. 

There's a glass-domed flight bridge on the top of the spherical hull, and another bridge (the descent bridge) on the bottom of the ship, because you need to see the bottoms of the coils as you set the ship down. 

We're talking exposed steel beams and rigging for everything outside the pressure hull, giving the whole works a very Jules Verne look. If you look closely at the horrible drawing above, you can see the little scale dots labelled 'people' just above the words MAIN FLIGHT COILS. That's how big this thing is, because I want the movie version to look cool.

Also note the very smallest of the tiny people dots. That's Mug, furious in his flying birdcage, pointing out that airships are dangerous enough but at least they have the good sense to stay inside the atmosphere.

Maybe next week I'll post a drawing of the alternate craft, the Progress. 

If you're reading this and you're wondering just what the heck I'm talking about, well, they're books.

The second book in the series is called All the Turns of Light, and it just came out a couple of weeks ago. Here's the cover, and a link.


Book #2, All the Turns of Light

The first book in the series is also available, cover and link below.


Book #1, All the Paths of Shadow

Have a good week, people! Back to designing spaceships for a bit...

First Week Away


A week ago today, All the Turns of Light went live.

It's had a very good week. My Amazon sales have been steady, and since Amazon is the 800-pound gorilla in the room, this is good news for Mug and Meralda. 

Why? 

Because this guarantees Book 3 in the series. And it won't be three years coming, either. The outline is already taking shape. The new Intrepid is being designed. By the way, I need eleven million cubic feet of lifting gas, and six hundred and seventy-four miles of bare Number 3 copper wire. Just in case you have quantities of either lying around.

I'm even building a solar system just for this next book, because yes things are moving out of the storm-tossed skies above Hang and the Realms and the Great Sea, and our heroine will setting out for the vast dark spaces of the heavens in Book 3.

Yeah, Mug isn't thrilled with that idea at all. But he'll go anyway, because I'll finally get to use the tagline below:

In space, no one can hear Mug complain.

And what will the title of this new Mug and Meralda adventure be?

Look at the titles of books 1 and 2 first:

All the Paths of Shadow,
All the Turns of Light

The two lines above almost read as though they form a fragment of a poem, do they not?

That's because they do. This is a 4 book series, and by the time the final book is published, you'll be able to stand the books side by side in order and read the entire poem.

So what is the title of Book 3?

Well, I'm torn between two titles, actually. Because I'm deep-down an awful person, I'll give you only one of my choices for the title of Book 3. If I go with this one, the still-incomplete poem will read:

All the Paths of Shadow,
All the Turns of Light,
Every Wind of Change,
Blankety Blank Blank Blank.

No way am I spilling the 4th and final line this early.





Markhat fans, please don't think I'm giving up on him and Darla, because I'm not! Remember, the new Markhat book, The Darker Carnival, comes out in April. And you'll be happy to know I've started a new Markhat book, entitled Way Out West. 

Which means I'll be working on two books at once, thus running the risk of accidentally dropping Mama Hog in on Meralda, or featuring a scene in which Mug and Darla exchange barbs over her choice of summer hats. Which will never happen. Although it might be funny, just as an exercise...




Release Day News: All The Turns of Light on Amazon, Kobo, Barnes & Noble!


No more delays, no more vague promises of 'coming soon' or 'any day now!'

All The Turns of Light is now loose in the wild. Amazon, Kobo, and Barnes & Noble have the book, and it is making its way to market via each bookseller. I set a publishing date of November 19, which is Tuesday, but I'm sure the book will go live for purchase on each site well before the 19th.

A few basic facts about All the Turns of Light:
  • An unusually articulate marmot served as consultant for most of Chapter 5.
  • Two brave copy editors suffered minor injuries in the unfortunate gerund skirmish of October 2nd.
  • The airship Intrepid was constructed to scale and actually flown to enhance the book's realism. I now owe Mastercard 138 million dollars. The Kickstarter funding campaign will commence soon.
  • Film rights for the book have already been secured by Paramount. They haven't, but if enough people spread the rumor Universal might get jealous and snap up the rights, so let's all head to Twitter and stir the pot.
  • At no point in the book does the word syzygy appear, because man, I hate that word. 

BREAKING NEWS -- All the Turns of Light is live on Amazon and Kobo.

Amazon is the first to display a product page for All the Turns of Light!  It popped up while I was writing this. The link is below. 


Grab thyself a copy, if the Kindle is your format of choice. 

Prefer a Kobo version? They too prove swift on the draw. The link to the book at the Kobo store is below!


Both versions are $2.99.

If you missed the first book, All the Paths of Shadow, wait until tomorrow and you'll be able to get it free for the next few days. I'll be adding a Kobo edition of this book to the Kobo collection soon, so if don't read Kindle e-books don't despair.

EVEN MORE BREAKING NEWS -- All the Turns of Light is live on Barnes & Noble!

And the circle of life is complete. The Nook edition of All the Turns of Light just went live. The link is below:


Now What?

The release of a new book is followed by fourteen seconds of rest and relaxation. But no more than fourteen seconds, because after seeing a book go public, every writer I know claws their way to a monitor, pulls up their title, and watches the rankings like some sort of demented, unhygienic hawk.

Will the book sell? Will it get any reviews? Will it get any good reviews? Oh my God, what's my position on the Oxford comma? Did I remember to change the bellboy's name from Jim to Tim at the end of Chapter 12? What am I doing? Really, what am I doing, is it too late to yank the book and take up yak herding? The Amazon ranking just fell by 0.002 percent? People hate it!  People hate ME!

The author reflects calmly upon his work.
The book is out. I thank my readers for their patience and grace, my editors and beta readers and technical support geniuses for their help, and my friends for not quietly blocking me on social media when I blathered about the thing.

And now, if you'll pardon me, I must hunch over a flickering display and click REFRESH until the mouse fails or my finger does...

(image of Mad Man courtesy of Cerenzio of Dreamstime.com)



Rant Deluxe Redux

A biped similar in biomorphic construction to that of the author prepares to dispense a face-punch.

Rant the First

I have a new answer to the question "What do you write?"

From now on, I shall reply with three words -- "Japanese tentacle porn." I shall speak them loud and proud, and take a step toward the questioner, daring them to offer further comment.

I do this for two reasons. 

First, because I am sick of replying honestly that I write fantasy, only to be met with the furrowed brows and lifted nose which suggests I just offered the questioner a dirty plate of day-old trout. 

Second, because I am nearly moved to murder when I am told "Oh, I don't read that, I only read real books."

Thirdly, because yes I said two reasons but I am vexed and this is not time for numerical precision, because if people are going to express disdain for my genre and walk away I figure my new reply will send them fleeing my presence immediately, without the by-now familiar lecture concerning the error of my literary ways.

You know, I run into a lot of people who prefer sports-oriented reads, for instance. I never say to them 'Why, that's just people handling each other's balls." I don't denounce the aficionados of Westerns by saying 'Why don't you just rent old episodes of Gunsmoke?"

I don't do these things because I make some small effort, at least part of the time, to eschew being a clueless jerk. Too, I realize that there are great stories and great books being written in each and every genre, sports and Westerns and fantasy alike.

I've noticed that as I age, my level of forbearance for rudeness and dismissive behavior by strangers declines at an ever-accelerating rate. So if you're around me at a book-related event -- a signing, a reading, a class, whatever -- and you hear someone dismiss my choice of fantasy as a genre, you might want to lean in closer, because there's a good chance my response is going to be a caffeine-fueled rant aimed squarely at the inadvisability of insulting someone who juggles words professionally. 

There. I feel better. Thank you for your patience.

Rant the Second

Last week, I blogged about the now-famous video in which a woman walked the streets of New York and secretly filmed the abuse hurled her way. I'd like to thank everyone who took the time to comment and email; I learned a lot from you all, and I hope it will help me create more believable characters.

One of the specific questions I asked was this -- would my female readers want to see the inclusion of such a harsh reality in my books? I.e, would a scene featuring Meralda, for instance, being cat-called as she walked to the Laboratory be a positive contribution to my books?

The answer, and I mean it was unanimous, was a resounding NO. Including such scenes would do nothing but remind readers of the awful things they face in the real world, and there is no good purpose to be served by that.

So. Tirlin will remain free of cat-calling idlers. Even Rannit's streets won't see such a thing, and we're talking about a city which starts each day when the dead wagons haul corpse after corpse out of the blood-stained alleys. So Darla won't be confronted by aggressive idlers either, although Darla would just shoot them in the face the instant they opened their mouths. Darla doesn't suffer fools gladly, and neither does she miss.

Meralda and Mug News!




Latest update: The final edit pass is DONE. The book is complete. The cover is ready (has been for months -- another Kanaxa!). What remains to be done?

Conversion to e-book format(s). Acquisition of ISBN number. Submission to the various sales outlets.

So when will All the Turns of Light be on sale?

Today is November the 9th. My plan is to have the book up by Monday, November 17, at least on Amazon. I will keep you posted with a few very short blog updates throughout the week.

But the long, long wait is nearly over. I do hope it has been worth it!

And on that note, back to work!


On a Serious Note

For the most part, I make a conscious effort to steer away from politically-charged or potentially controversial subjects in my blog.

Today, I'm going to make a rare exception, and talk about something that I saw last week that really bothered me.

I'm talking about the short video a young woman made. It's a simple film, less than two minutes long. She never speaks. She does nothing, in fact, but walk down the street.

Now, let me showcase my social ignorance for a moment. If asked to predict the content of a film in which a young woman wearing jeans and a crew-neck tee shirt just walks around, I'd have predicted she'd receive a couple of random smiles and a hello or two. Because yes, I'm the social equivalent of a hermit crab, and I foolishly assumed that in 2014 people of any gender can just walk around unmolested in North America.

If you haven't seen the video yet, I urge you to give it a look. Less than 2 minutes, but very illuminating. The link is below.


In the space of the film, she is harassed and accosted more times that I could count. One idiot even follows her, side by side, for four whole minutes just because she wouldn't respond to his clumsy come-ons.

What the Hell, people? Every single male portrayed in this video needs what we in the Deep South call a Class II Ass Kicking (Class II because not only must the offending male be beaten, so must at least one other male blood relative, just to get the point across to the whole wretched backward clan).

Let me back up for a minute.

I'm not the most traveled guy around, but I have been a few places. Montana. Arizona. Memphis. Austin. I work on a college campus in Mississippi.

I've never seen behavior like this, and I'm a careful people-watcher because I'm always on the lookout for fiction fodder.

I'm not saying that what happens in the film doesn't happen. It obviously does. I'm not saying the film was edited, or the incidents exaggerated. Neither is the case.

I'm just saying I should get out more, but I'd better retain the services of a competent criminal trial lawyer first, because it is time we men who are NOT dishonorable cretins knock the ones who are back into the gutter from whence they crawled.

Am I advocating violence?

Yes. Quite frankly, I am, because I don't think a carefully-crafted debate on the proper behavior towards ladies is going to carry the same weight with Mr. Hey Sexy Baby that a well-placed face-punch will.

I suppose I've been sheltered. I don't see this lewd behavior here in Oxford. I do know that if someone addressed my wife in that fashion, well, my newly-retained lawyer and his good friend the bail bondsman would soon be very busy, and I would be contemplating the dubious merits of jailhouse cuisine (protip: never eat the meat loaf).

And it would be worth it. There's a scene, alas deleted before the final version saw print, in which my detective Markhat and his vampire friend Evis are discussing an incident in which Markhat broke a stranger's jaw because he insulted Darla, Markhat's then-fiancee. Markhat spends a long weekend in the Old Ruth, a notorious jail with a less-than-100-percent survival rate among even brief detainees. Evis admonishes Markhat to show a modicum of restraint next time, to stay out of jail, and Markhat responds thusly -- "Any husband not ready to spend a night in the Old Ruth on behalf of his wife isn't ready to be handing out engagement rings."

I still believe that. It's not up to the ladies to weigh themselves down with pistols and pepper spray because some men can't mind their manners. I believe it's up to the men to police our brethren, and make it crystal clear that an insult or attempted intimidation to a random woman on the street is an insult to my wife, my sister, my daughter, my mother.

And some of us don't take kindly to such things. Not kindly at all.

None of you men should. It's one thing to smile and say hello to a woman in singles club (do such things even exist anymore?). It's another to shout down a lady on the street. She isn't there to meet you, or make your day. She's going to work or going home, like the rest of us poor slobs.

To the woman in the video, I can only offer my most profound apologies on behalf of my gender, a large percentage of which is obviously unacquainted with the concept gentlemanly behavior.

And to the morons in that video, you should be two things -- first and foremost, ashamed of your inexcusable behavior. Second, you should be bleeding from a broken nose.

To the guys who saw the catcalls and the intimidation happen, you should be ashamed of yourselves too, for not standing up and speaking out.

I'm not stating or implying that women are fainting daisies incapable of taking care of themselves. Far from it.

I am saying women shouldn't have to teach strange men not to be raging arseholes. Women shouldn't be tasked with conveying that sad message one hundred times a day.

No, this kind of verbal assault and intimidation is a man problem. Each of us dudes is either a part of the solution, or an enabler.

So cut that crap out, you idiots. You might just say something around the wrong wild-eyed southern boy. Maybe I'd win, maybe I'd lose, but that's not the point -- there would be a reckoning.

Okay. Deep breaths. I'm putting my soapbox away, because I do have a follow-up question to all this, that I hope one or two of my female readers might be willing to answer.

I write several female characters. Darla, for one. Gertriss and Mama Hog. And then there's Meralda, Tirlin's lady Mage, about whom I have based two novels and a novella. But seeing the video, and then reading about 'gamergate' and the many instances of outright physical assaults against female cosplayers at cons, I have to wonder if I'm portraying my female characters with any degree of realism at all.

Meralda walks around Tirlin all the time, and aside from traffic cops doffing their hats to her and her apartment doorman saying hello, she never gets cat-called. Darla, Markhat's wife, has faced down vampires and murderous witches, but never endured a mob of idlers on a park bench commenting upon her anatomy.

Honest, such things never occurred to me, because, I assume, I'm a clueless male.

Which gives me pause. I want very much to make Meralda and Darla and all the rest as whole and as believable as I possibly can. I want readers, especially female readers, to feel as if they see some of themselves reflected in my portrayals.

So -- by omitting this aspect of being a woman in 21st century America, have I damaged my fictional people?

Conversely, do you women even WANT to see such things pop up, especially since I write fantasy, or would you rather fiction be a safer place, a bastion of reason, if you will?

I am genuinely interested in hearing your thoughts.

So that's it for this week. Next week I'll try to get back to ghost hunting and funny stuff.

But sometimes even hermit crabs should speak out.

Peace out, fellow babies!











Halloween Costumes for Writers

© Embe2006 | Dreamstime.com - Halloween Background Photo

Halloween is nearly upon us. I'm too old to trick-or-treat, according to at least one judge and the content of a sternly-worded restraining order, but that doesn't mean I don't enjoy the holiday.

Maybe you're an author, or married to one, or keeping one chained up in your basement in the hope that she'll finally finish that final book of the trilogy that you've been waiting for since 1998. If so, here are some Halloween costumes you might consider trying, because each is designed to strike fear into the heart of an author (note: if the author lacks a heart, as is so often the case, these costumes will also impact liver function, or what little remains of it). 

Enjoy!

HALLOWEEN COSTUMES TO SCARE HELL OUT OF WRITERS

Conan the Grammarian -- The Grammarian can spot dangling participles, split infinitives, comma misuse, or tense shifts in your manuscripts even after they have been corrected. The Grammarian will ring your doorbell, present his treat bag, and then deliver a scathing appraisal of your writing skills so virulent and brutal you will later be found unconscious, bleeding from your ears, unable to speak or distinguish between its and it's for weeks.. 

The Wicked Slush Reader of the West -- The Wicked Reader will appear on your steps holding your most recently submitted manuscript in her green clawed hands. Before you can comment upon the inaccuracy of the published response times, she will read aloud the first paragraph of your work, cackling with insane glee as you realize how hackneyed and trite that hook you were so proud of sounds now. She will then order her Flying Red-Ink Monkeys to storm your house, marking up any works-in-progress with the classic 'We regret that this work does not suit our needs at this time' kiss-off. 

William Strunk, Jr. and E. B. White -- The authors of the legendary writing reference book The Elements of Style simply stand in your doorway, shaking their heads in silent yet profound disappointment.

Ebook Pirates of the Caribbean -- This clown ain't Captain Jack Sparrow. And he's not here for treats -- instead, he steals your ebooks, distributes them through shady 'subscription' ebook sites, and cuts your legitimate sales in half while claiming to do you a favor. "Arr, it's free advertisin' for ya, mate," he cries, as he speeds away as fast as his thrift-store rubber dinghy can take him. "Information just wants to be free."

Count Genre Snob -- It doesn't matter what you write. Somebody you know hates that genre, and this collective disdain is personified by Count Genre Snob, who reveals his face with a flourish of his cape before remarking '"Ven are you going to write a real book? No vun vants to read that <insert genre here> vut you write, blah!" The only way to dispel the Count is to confront him with royalty statements cut into the shape of the New York Times masthead. 

AmaZombies -- You've seen them. We all have -- they roam the Amazon ebookstore by the tens of thousands, and more appear daily. You know them by the awful Microsoft Paint do-it-yourself covers, the complete lack of any editing, the haphazard formatting, and the instant and furious response to even constructive criticism. Alone, each AmaZombie self-published upload is harmless -- but if your book is surrounded by thirty thousand of them, they are a terror indeed. Barricade your house and begin immediate rationing of your Halloween candy.

Happy Halloween, everyone! Stay safe, and keep reading!





Big Mug and Meralda News!

The author, upon being served decaff.

Here we are, slap-dab in the middle of October, and I haven't posted a single 'Things That Go Bump' blog entry yet.

Truth is, it's been an extremely busy October. I've barely had time to deal with the living, much less the dead. My Tesla radio sits inactive. My new parabolic mic hasn't been used since that hot day in August when we drew curious looks from the Oxford Police Department. And I'm still not done with the new ghost hunting device, which I hope will measure truly minute changes in local magnetic fields.

But I have accomplished one thing, in the last few weeks.

Drumroll, please....

The last re-write of the new Mug and Meralda book, All the Turns of Light, is DONE.

I have an ending I'm happy with. And a beginning, and yes, a middle. The book is complete. The tale is told. 

Of course there is still proofreading to be done, and the mechanical process of turning a manuscript into a book is yet to be complete. But these tasks are small compared to the Herculean task wrestling this book into shape turned out to be.

So, for all of you who have waited so patiently for the continued adventures of Mug and Meralda, your wait is nearly over.

There was another decision to be made, when the book was finished. Should I shop it around? Try to get an agent?

After much internal debate, I've decided to remain a so-called hybrid author, and publish this one myself. Hey, if Samhain (the house which publishes The Markhat Files series, and does a darned fine job of it) handled light fantasy, I'd send Turns their way in an instant -- but that's not really their cup of proverbial tea. 

So I'll handle this one myself. 

I've paid to have it edited, by seasoned professionals, who by the way were literally invaluable in shaping the book's final form. I also commissioned an original cover, one created by the same fabulously talented artist who created the covers for Brown River Queen, The Five Faces, and now The Darker Carnival. You haven't seen Kanaxa's cover for All the Turns of Light yet, but I'm looking at it now, and it's beautiful. 

Why am I going the self-published route with this new book?

Time. Let's say I decided to start shopping Turns around -- heck, I believe it would sell, but I also believe the back-and-forth demanded by the markets would add eight months or a year to the process of getting the book out there for sale.

Now, if I was a complete and utter unknown -- just for the record, I rate myself as 'mostly unknown' -- I'd take the year, and like it, because a publisher brings with them marketing and placement and promotion I simply cannot achieve on my own.

But All the Paths of Shadow has had a pretty good run, sales-wise, and that means there's a small but eager audience out there already. 

Thus my decision to go it alone, this time.

 So get ready. I plan to maintain my hard push, and get this book out in a month, no more. I'll be pricing it at $2.99, which I think is still a bargain.

 Turns isn't a novella, either. Final word count is 85,000 words, give or take a dozen. 

 As soon as Turns is out, I will be diving back into a new Markhat. It's tentatively entitled Way Out West, and it sees Markhat, Darla, and Cornbread hopping Rannit's new steam locomotive for a trip out to the western frontier.

 Does Markhat strap on a six-shooter and don a Stetson?

 <Insert John Wayne drawl>

 You better believe it, pilgrim.

So, wish me luck and speed as I try to make up for lost time and get this book out there at last!

Oh, and happy October to you all!






The Darker Carnival cover reveal!

Few things are as much fun for a writer as seeing a new book cover, and realizing it is the perfect cover for the book..

So we're both in for a treat today, because the cover for the upcoming Markhat book THE DARKER CARNIVAL is done. The book goes on sale next April, but I don't see any reason to make you wait. So, here it is -- another Kanaxa masterpiece!



I don't know how she (Kanaxa) does it. She captured the essence of the book perfectly, she gave Markhat the perfect vampire-built revolver, and Darla has the perfect expression of elegant self-assurance. Even the shadow over Markhat's eyes embodies one of the book's more subtle themes.

I don't think I'm engaging in the forbidden art of spoilery by suggesting The Darker Carnival might be set in a carnival and that the carnival might be evil. Might be. Of course, like a magician's stage show, what you perceive and you actually happens could be two very different things.

Like so much of life, experience is often a matter of perspective. The wondrous acts of the magician are revealed as mere sleight-of-hand trickery if one steps out of the audience and observes from behind the stage.

And, on rare occasions, the mundane, rote day-today routines of life give way briefly to miracles.

You just have to be looking at the right place from the right spot to understand the true significance of either.

I hope Markhat fans will enjoy this new entry in the series. It was fun to write. Who doesn't love a traveling carnival, evil or not?

All our old friends are back, and a new face might even wind up added to the cast. But I'm getting carried away, so just scroll back up and have another look at that gorgeous cover.

April really isn't that far away.

If you haven't gotten around to reading The Five Faces, the latest book in the series which is now on sale everywhere, now is a good time! And check out that cover too. Amazing!



Welcome October!

© Marilyngould | Dreamstime.com - Halloween Pumpkin & Ghoul Photo

Finally.

It's October.

I'm not a big fan of summer, with its relentless heat and merciless humidity.

Springtime? Meh. Pollen and thunderstorms, with a side order of restless rattlesnakes, fresh from their lairs and none the more cheerful from having slept all winter. 

Winter? Here in the South, winter is just one long grey drizzly day, with the odd ice storm tossed into the mix to keep tow trucks and body shops busy.

No, I don't care much for autumn's cousins. 

But October, I like.

It's the breaking of the summer heat. The retreat of the stifling humidity. The blazes of orange and gold that engulf the treetops. The crunch of falling leaves, the first hesitant ghosts adding chills to the air.

And, of course, Halloween.



Halloween is the only holiday that even pretends to be about simple fun. I'm not expected to somehow engineer a tearful Hallmark Moment with the family on a certain date at a certain time. If I dress for the holiday, fake blood and fangs will almost certainly be involved, and frankly even as old as I've somehow become the idea of slathering myself in fake blood and speaking through crude plastic fangs still seems like fun.

I like seeing jack o' lanterns on the porches and fake spider webs in the windows and gauze ghosts hanging from the trees. Try all that in summer, for instance, and you get the neighbors dropping by with brochures to Trembling Pines, which offers a variety of 'treatment programs' for various 'disorders.'

Some people have no imagination.

That's another thing I like about October. The month, and its culmination on Halloween, are an affront to small-minded, sour-faced people everywhere. 

So carve that pumpkin, friends. Festoon your home with ghosts and ghouls of every kind, because October is finally here, and the Great Pumpkin is watching us all!


Sinister Sunday Horoscopes, For Writers


Fig. 1: The author's personal Book of Ideas and who has skulls lying around anyway?
We writers are a superstitious bunch. Everyone has their little writing rituals. Maybe you have a lucky pen, or a keyboard made from garbage pilfered from Stephen King's household trash. Maybe it's a special five-quart coffee cup. Maybe, like me, you garb yourself in the flowing silk robes of a thirty-third degree Owl-head Mason and build a bonfire made of L. Ron Hubbard books before you sit down in a gold-encrusted Regency throne to write.

 Whatever your methods, the stars hold certain wisdom, and what appears to be a serious grudge. Read on, fellow writer, and do not despair, for the stars are often wrong and usually display lousy aim...

 ARIES (March 21-April 20)
The last thing you'll expect in the cornfield next Tuesday is an actual murderous scarecrow, but if you'll think about it you've always had rotten luck on Tuesdays.

TAURUS (April 21 - May 20)
Neither the police nor the zookeepers will ever learn exactly how the gorillas armed themselves with baseball bats or managed to hide quietly in your closet.

GEMINI (May 21 - June 20)
There's no use trying to outrun Fate, especially when Fate is hopped up on bad meth and chasing you in a flaming gasoline truck.  

CANCER (June 21 - July 22)
Outdoorsmen advise that you play dead when attacked by a black bear and fight when attacked by a grizzly, but even outdoorsmen are stumped when you encounter both bears at once. Good luck.

LEO (July 23 - August 22)
Event after the events of next Thursday, the odds of anyone being besides you actually being struck by radioactive satellite debris during a gas leak explosion in a fireworks factory remain microscopically small.

VIRGO (August 23 - September 23)
Well, honestly, who knew Jason Voorhees was both real and hiding in your back seat with a machete? 

LIBRA (September 24 - October 23)
If it's any consolation, the flamethrower manufacturer is going to feel just terrible about your headline-grabbing misadventure Monday.

SCORPIO (October 24 - November 21)
See, what happens Friday at the shark exhibit is why you should never tempt a grumpy Fate by asking the (usually) rhetorical question 'At least it can't get any worse, right?' 

SAGITTARIUS (November 22 - December 21)
Even if your attacker is just a crazy guy in a Yeti suit, the homicide detectives will all agree those fake claws left quite a convincing mess behind.

CAPRICORN (December 22 - January 19)
Look at it this way -- most people have to train as astronauts for decades before they are ever launched into low Earth orbit. Of course they have spacesuits, but still.

AQUARIUS (January 20 - February 19)
Cheer up! Accusations of serial necrophilia aside, not many people can say they've lasted as the top headline on all three major media outlets for three consecutive days. 

PISCES (February 20 - March 20)
Well, you'll give it a valiant try, but face it -- hanging onto the wing at that altitude just wasn't physically possible.

Zoo Pics and Poltergeists

This week's entry will be a veritable potpourri of subjects and images. Which is writer-speak for 'I feel like hammered excrement so I'll be posting a lot of pics to hide the fact that I currently command the wit and wisdom of canned tuna.'

Will there be more EVP evidence from the Oak Hill cemetery investigation of three weekends ago? Yes there will. There is even a naughty cursing ghost, the first I've encountered. But I suppose if you're dead and trying to sleep the slumber eternal and some dude shoves an elaborate microphone in your face, you tend to might get a bit testy.

All in good time, though. Let us begin tonight's journey with a visit to the Memphis Zoo.

The obelisk just inside the Zoo ticket gates.
Well, let's back up a step so I can offer a brief word of advice concerning MapQuest, GPS navigation, and the perils therein. I plugged the address of the Zoo into my MapQuest app and set out, sure of arriving at my destination with no fuss.

But, unless the actual Zoo is housed in a derelict gas station surrounded by what appears to be a heavily-contested strip of gang territory, the GPS system has no freaking clue where the Memphis Zoo actually sits. 

"You have arrived at your destination," chirped MapQuest, as the Crips and the Bloods engaged in a running firefight over a few square yards of barren, cracked concrete. "Drive, drive, DRIVE," shouted Siri, in an uncharacteristic display of emotion, as my Android devices scrambled for cover beneath the back seat.

We did find the Zoo, after resorting to the age-old practice of asking bemused humans where the elephants are kept. 

Once at the Zoo, we were greeted by the obelisk pictured above. I assumed the fanciful animal-based hieroglyphs were merely decorative, until (too late) I translated them to be a warning, which reads "Cursed are all those who dine at the zoo eateries, for they shall suffer the Wrath of the Angry Colon, and how, yeesh."

I love the Memphis Zoo. I really do. But people, bring your own snacks -- I didn't expect great or even good food in a zoo diner, but what we were served was abysmal even by the most relaxed standards. In fact, I observed a Komodo Dragon, which prefers to dine on dead rotting flesh, grimace and spit out whole a snack bar hamburger before beating the offensive mass into a pulp with his muscular tail and saying, in passable English, 'there's really just no excuse for that.'

So. Don't trust your GPS and for the love of all that is good and true do NOT eat at the Zoo, unless you can cajole one of the gorillas into sharing an orange and you can probably do that just by saying "give me half of that or I have to eat in that place" while pointing at the snack bar. 

But now, on to the pics!








Thus quoth the raven -- "Will somebody please wash these freaking rocks?"

No, you want Yoda. Little Green guy, lives in a swamp. I sell life insurance.

   
I am done with you now. The exit is to your right. I said good day, sir.


 
"Call me an iguana again. I DARE you. Say iguana again."



Yeah, the MGM lion? My uncle Louis. 
Sorry, pal, frolicking hours are only 8 till 5. Union rules.

Wolf? Who's a wolf? I'm a Pomeranian. Come on in, we can play some catch. C'mon, kid. Arf arf?


Those are the best of the pictures I took at the Memphis Zoo. If you get the chance, you should visit one day. The creatures are truly remarkable, and they seem happy there. 

More Oak Hill Cemetery Investigation EVPs!



As both regular readers of this blog know, the last two entries have dealt mainly with an investigation of Oak Hill Cemetery in Birmingham, Alabama. Led by the crew from Expedition Unknown, we wandered the historic cemetery after closing hours, searching for instances of the paranormal. 

I captured a few possible examples of EVP (electronic voice phenomena, i.e, ghostly voices) and recorded some odd utterances by Expedition Unknown's SP-7 'spirit box' device. I've already linked the the evidence I found so far after starting the arduous process of reviewing many hours of audio.

As you might recall, I took two digital recorders to Oak Hill. I left one behind accidentally, but it was recovered the next day and mailed back to me by one of the gracious Oak Hill volunteers (thanks Renee!). So I've finally been able to compare audio captured by one recorder against audio captured by the other. 



For instance, my Zoom mic recorded the words 'get out' while we visited the Erswell vault. Luckily, my Olympus recorder caught the same occurrence. I've posted links to both recordings below, so you can compare them.



In the instance above, I believe the Olympus unti was closer to the SP-7 and also perhaps aimed right at it, thus the clearer recording. 

I located another series of words created by the SP-7 and recorded by my Olympus device. And when I say words, I mean naughty words.  First you'll hear a female voice say 'get the blank' and then a male voice says out. Listen for yourself! This was also captured in the Erswell vault.


Testy, testy.



But perhaps the most interesting EVP of all came through well after our group left Oak Hill, leaving the cemetery empty -- or was it?

I propped my magnetic recording device on top of a marker while an EVP session was taking place. The magnetic detection box was off, but my Olympus didgital recorder was attached to the box, and was running, recording sound.

Which it managed to do after being left behind all night long. Yeah, my new Zoom mic beats the little Olympus in terms of recording quality, clarity, sensitivity, and such, but the Olympus captured 12 hours and 37 minutes of deserted cemetery audio.

And here is a voice, from nowhere, about 3 hours in....



And that's not the only utterance. I can hear a voice, but can't make out the word or words on this clip. Can you?


I'm still going through the 'empty graveyard' audio, and will hopefully have more next week!

In Closing

Re-write on All the Turns of Light still in progress, blah blah blah. You've heard all that before and I imagine you're as sick of reading it as I am of writing it.

Wish me luck and a sudden burst of manic speed, please.


Oak Hill Cemetery Investigation with Expedition Unknown, Part Two

The so-called 'Creepy Cherub,' Oak Hill Cemetery in Birmingham.
Tonight I'll reveal a few more EVP (electronic voice phenomena) samples captured during last week's investigation of Oak Hill Cemetery in Birmingham, which was hosted by the gracious and talented staff of Oak Hill Cemetery and led by the intrepid members of paranormal research group Expedition Unknown.

To read Part One of this series, skip back a week, or just click here.

The most time-consuming part of any paranormal investigation is evidence review. For example, we were in the cemetery from 8:00 PM until midnight. I left both my digital audio recorders running the entire time, which means I shall now enjoy the singular pleasure of listening to eight full hours of unfiltered audio, most of which consists of footsteps, my inane ramblings, and the sound of distant trains. I didn't mind the trains so much, because if there is anything more mournful than the sound of a freight train passing in the middle of the night it is standing in a cemetery and hearing the sound of a freight train passing in the middle of the night. Seriously, you'd have to listen to half a dozen Johnny Cash albums back-to-back to even approach that kind of industrial-grade mournful. 

But I digress. I'm still not done listening to the audio, but I have three more odd sounds for you to listen to tonight. 

Big Radio Tower

The first oddity takes place at about 44 minutes and 30 seconds into my main recording, captured on my Zoom H1. We are all walking, heading up the big hill toward the spot where subtle movement in the shadows was observed. One of the investigators remarks upon a big radio tower.



But right before he says those words, you can hear a faint, oddly modulated voice speak. To me, it seems to be saying 'Hey (unintelligible unintelligible).' It continues speaking even as the investigator speaks.

I have no idea what made these sounds.

Here's the first clip, unaltered. The 'hey' starts pretty much as soon as the clip does. Click below to listen.

Hey1

And here's the same clip, amplified for clarity.

Hey 2

I can hardly wait to advance my second audio recorder to the same time and listen to its recording. Of course since I left my second audio recorder in the cemetery, I can't do that right now -- but the good people of the Oak Hill volunteer staff (thanks Renee!) have mailed my gear back, and it should be here tomorrow, so expect an update on this next week.

Train and Moan

This clip needs no amplification at all! You'll hear some conversation, a train, and then a moan (the moan is about 14 seconds in). Go ahead, have a listen.




The scene was this -- Eric, the fearless Expedition Unknown intern, was dispatched to conduct an EVP session at a tree about which movement was observed by 4 people. The first part of the clip mentions 'Eric has a K2' and the green light thereof. Then the train whistle blows.

All the scratching around is me moving the mic so that it points away from the train. The moan or groan is so loud no amplification is required.

Now, one could argue that the source of the groan was one Frank Tuttle, an obscure and undeservedly non-famous fantasy author who was very much above the cemetery ground that night. And I admit that is entirely possible, although I've been doing cemetery sweeps long enough to know to tag any old-age related groans. Could it have also been my stomach?

Yes, but again, I hope I'd have tagged it as such, since in either case it would have clearly been audible.

I'll compare these two events when I have my second recorder back. Until then, I offer this one as a possible EVP, but one tainted by suspicion.

Alabama Devil Dog

This third offering was captured at the foot of the Grand Army of the Republic marker, which denotes the resting places of Civil War soldiers, both Union and Confederate. The site has seen reports of whispering in the past.

We gathered about the marker and conducted an EVP session. During the session, I heard what I thought was a dog howling, and I tagged the sound as such. The other members of the group disagreed, saying it didn't sound like a dog.

My mic must have been facing the wrong way, because the sound I recorded was much fainter than the sound I recall hearing. Even with the amplified snippet, you'll need headphones or a Mighty Wall O' Speakers to hear the sound, which is a brief high-pitched wail. Again, I hope my second recorder captured a clearer aural image of this instance.

But for now, here it is. The first one is unaltered; the second is amplified as much as I could manage without degrading the sound quality. 

Devil Dog 1 (howl about 4 seconds in)

Devil Dog 2 (howl isolated)

I'm still up in the air with this one. Yes, it could have been a dog -- but several of the witnesses claimed the sound took place from a point very near us, almost standing in the circle with us. 

What do you think?

More to come next week!

Writing Roundup

It's been another week of editing on the new Mug and Meralda book. Which I believe is yet another variation on the same theme I've been stuck with for months now. Look, what can I say, I don't want to release a book that still needs work, so -- I'm still working. 

In the meantime, I have many other books you might enjoy reading! One such worthy is featured below. Click and buy, if you are so inclined, and the spirits say you are....




 



Oak Hill Cemetery Investigation with Expedition Unknown

The gates to Oak Hill cemetery in downtown Birmingham, Alabama.

I'd like to open tonight's entry by extending a heartfelt thank both to the crew of Expedition Unknown, paranormal investigators par excellence, and to the knowledgeable and intrepid volunteers from Oak Hill Cemetery, who not only joined the late-night investigation but provided us with a wealth of information about the sites and stories we explored.

Expedition Unknown conducts public investigations of various sites on a regular basis. You may see their upcoming events calendar by following their page here. I heartily encourage anyone interested in the paranormal to consider attending an event. You'll be informed, entertained, and exposed to sound investigative techniques.

Oak Hill Cemetery is nestled in the heart of Birmingham, and due to the tireless efforts of the Oak Hill volunteers and staff, the cemetery is beautiful. If you live in or about Birmingham, or you're simply interested in Southern history and folklore, Oak Hill is a wonderful place to visit. Guided tours are available, and you can even speak with historic re-enactors who assume the garb and roles of some of the graveyard's most famous and colorful citizens. Please visit the Oak Hill website here.



My visit to Oak Hill began at 8:00 PM last night -- Saturday, September the 6th, 2014. It was a hot night in Alabama, as most summer nights are. The sky threatened rain all afternoon, and though there were gaps in the clouds directly overhead, lightning danced on the horizon all around.

We met the Expedition Unknown crew in the old chapel. There, we discussed equipment and a few ground rules. The EU crew doesn't employ a lot of the practices you'll see on TV ghost hunting shows -- no 'provoking,' for instance. No Ouija Boards, no taunting, no seances. Basic respect for the property is stressed -- these people are, after all, beloved family to someone out there. 

I like that about EU. You won't find them leaving so much as a gum wrapper behind, because they're classy folks, and they're serious and professional about their investigations.

The Cefalus were grocers. 
Now then. I set out with a variety of instruments, to the extent that I really should have brought a pack-mule and a Sherpa or two. Note to self: limit gear to all future field trips to what I can carry in one hand and a small backpack, no more. Also, if it's hot, BRING WATER. I sweated, like an overweight 51-year-old pig last night, and I fully expect to discover at least one EVP sample which says 'Hey that guy in the Harley shirt needs to start working out right after HE TAKES A SHOWER EWW.'

Science isn't easy, and sometimes it doesn't smell good, either. But I digress.

We were led around the cemetery by Renee and Tammy, who supplied us with the stories behind the names on the gravestones and the vaults. Which was wonderful. I'm often saddened by cemeteries because the stark name-born-on-died on inscriptions on the markers reduce whole lives to nothing but a span of years. It's good to be reminded we are more than just the measure of our days.

I have more than 3 hours of audio to analyze. Six hours, really, because I had not one but two digital recorders running. So far I've been through a fraction of that, and I've already isolated what may be an EVP a mere 3 minutes into the investigation.

Our first stop on the tour was the Erswell family vault. Edward Erswell was a prominent cabinet maker in early Birminghad, and he turned his woodworking skills to the manufacture of caskets during a cholera epidemic which killed thousands. 

Photo taken by Carrie from Flickr - https://www.flickr.com/photos/st-carrie/
The Erswell family vault because a grim staging space during the cholera outbreak, when bodies arrived at the cemetery in such numbers they couldn't be prepared and buried immediately. So the corpses were stacked in the Erswell vault, to await burial.

Yeah. Bodies stacked by the dozen in the brutal Alabama summer heat. I leave that scene to your imagination, and I hope your imagination has a strong stomach.

My static field detector, ever vigilant. 

We weren't quite to the Erswell vault when I picked up my first anomalous sound. We're all walking, in a group. 

Everyone knows to 'tag' sounds they either make themselves or recognize as background noise. Cars passing, for instance. Someone will say 'Tag, car.' This way, no one later interprets the sound as that of a Class IV Free-Floating Vapor, or the shade of Benjamin Franklin out to fly kites in the lightning. 

The sounds you are about to hear were not tagged. I do not recall hearing them, or I certainly would have remarked upon them. They are so loud I have applied neither noise reduction or amplification.

What are they?

I have no idea. They are not words, that I can discern. They are moans or cries of some sort. 

First, listen to the long snippet, which contains the conversation between two investigators as we walk.


The investigators are discussing EVPs. You should hear the first faint moan at 5 seconds in. The second louder one is about 7 seconds in ("you have 3 of them..."), clearly audible over the words. The last moan sounds about 9 seconds in.

The moans are nearly as loud as the spoken words, and I have no recollection of them.

Here's the loudest moan, isolated:


But that's one advantage of investigating with a group. I know several other recorders were running at the time, so I'm reaching out to them and later I'll be able to compare their recordings to mine.

I will keep you updated as to whether anyone else captured or identified this noise.

The second phenomena took place inside the Erswell vault. Which by the way is now free of corpses. But is it free of history?

Expedition Unknown brought along a so-called 'spirit box,' which rapidly scans FM radio bands and broadcasts the jumble of sounds via a small speaker. Surprisingly, these spirit boxes have been known to form words and whole phrases from the usual gibberish, and last night may have produced just such a phenomena.

We gathered inside the steamy, dark confines of the Erswell vault. The story of the stacked bodies was recounted, and as various instruments and recorders worked Expedition Unknown brought out their SP-7 spirit box. 

I've posted a link to a 14 second cut of the whole session below. 


In the clip, investigator Stephen Guenther asks if anyone is with us in the vault. At the 14 second mark, it seems as if the box responds with 'get out.'

Here's the response, slowed by 36% for clarity:


There's a lot more audio for me to go over. I will post more excerpts next week!




A final cautionary tale.

One of the pieces of gear I took was a device designed to pick up and record faint EM radiation. And when I say faint I mean very faint -- it was so sensitive I could turn my phone's volume down to zero, pull up a song, hit play, and listen to the song over my super-amp device from a good distance away. It was picking up the tiny signal generated by the phones even tinier audio amp. I was really proud of that device.

Testing it here at home proved it's a viable instrument for picking up faint EM signals and rendering them audible. I could easily identify common sources, such as 60 Hertz house current, or the high-pitched whine of a nearby cell phone, or the buzzing of a fan motor.

But, once in downtown Birmingham, when I switched the amp on in the chapel before the investigation I was horrified to hear, loud and clear, a country station blasting out music.

I hadn't counted on being immersed in such a strong field of urban background EM fields. And as such I used fixed internal components to set the amplifier chip's gain to a maxed-out 3000X.

To make matters even worse, in the final moments of the investigation, I put the amp atop a marker while I aimed my mic toward an EVP session. I then walked away, and left the mic, the magnetic pickup, and the audio recorder attached to the chassis there in the cemetery. 

Good going, Tuttle. Smooth move. You da MAN.

I was nearly back to Oxford when I suddenly realized what I'd done, because my brain is ever-vigilant, but four hours behind. 

Thus, I am forever grateful to Oak Hill expert Renee, who not only found my derelict EM amp but is keeping it safe and seeing it home. To Renee, my thanks! 

And to everyone else, a good night. Because staying up late is yet another task my silly brain is not suited for. 

 






Mirror, Mirror



The image above was created when I fired up my prototype hyperdrive and accidentally sent my camera (briefly) to a point somewhere near the galactic core. The camera came back intact, which is great because I'm pretty sure the warranty doesn't cover damage caused by hard vacuum and intense gamma radiation.

I kid, of course. That is a genuine image, but I created it in my mirror-box, which I played with earlier today for your viewing pleasure. Those lens reflections were created when I took the image below.



Here's the same shot, as the hyperdrive engages:


That really is a rugged little camera. Also, the galactic core is full of tee-shirt shops ("I traveled a hundred thousand light years and all I got was this lousy thorax covering") and souvenir stands, just as I suspected. Hardly worth the trouble.

Mug and Meralda Update

The most difficult book I've ever written continues to churn along. Still more work to do, but I promise I'm doing it as fast as I possibly can. 

I need more hours in my day. The hyperdrive camera passed a couple of Earthlike worlds that sported 30 hour axial rotation periods, and I'm thinking of moving my writing space onto one of them via a wormhole door. All I need is 30 million kilograms of superconductive iridium and a pair of D-cell batteries, and at least one of those items is probably available from Amazon.

I already tried cloning myself so the copy could write, but all the lazy slug did was goof around on social sites and download old games. He's on the couch now, engrossed in Planescape: Torment, and promising to 'really hit the manuscript hard tomorrow, dude.'

He's lying, of course. I should know. 

Yeah, I know it doesn't tie into the text, but it's pretty.

Movies You Should See

If you only see one movie this summer, may I suggest you make that movie Guardians of the Galaxy?

I finally saw it. And it was an absolute blast. I remember seeing the original Star Wars back in '77, and this movie took me right back to that moment, when I was a kid enjoying the perfect frickin' movie.

It has everything -- humor, heart, excitement, and gorgeous visuals. Yeah, okay, it's also cheesy as Hell, at times, but you won't care because at its core its a movie about people who've lost everything coming together to find each other.

Find each other, and KICK ASS.

That's a potent combination. Also, I was told that Rocket Raccoon's character is very much mine, and I heartily approve of that sentiment. 

I believe movies that show the good guys coming from behind to win the day are so powerful because life doesn't work that way. It ought to, but it seldom does, and that's a shame.

Go see Guardians. Leave your inner critic at the door. I swear you'll lose thirty heavy years, at least for an hour or two.

Worth the ticket price, and then some.


Rowr.
What is that, portrayed above? 

I have no idea. Best I can figure, the image was taken about 23 thousand light years from Earth. Not a world I'll be visiting. Long on claws and fangs, short on eateries and theaters. 

It's a dangerous cosmos out there, fellow humans. Remain vigilant, and of course purchase fine reading material on a regular basis.






Tula Cemetery EVP recording, October 1, 2017

 

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