Book Review: Somewhither by John C. Wright

From the description on silverempire.com:

All Ilya Muromets wanted to do was save the girl. Maybe Penny would get his name right as he swooped in to rescue her from her mad scientist father’s machine. And then they’d get married and live happily ever after.

Armed with only a squirrel gun and a samurai sword, he manages to fall into another world entirely. Alone.

Without saving Penny.

Ilya is captured and brought to the Dark Tower. A place where every man knows all the failures and successes of his life. A place where every man knows the day he will die. Everything the Stars have written will happen the way they proclaim.

Ilya’s only way out is to swear fealty to the dark lord. An action the Stars claim he cannot avoid. They want his recently discovered power for their own, and they’re willing to torture Penny to make him submit.

But Ilya doesn’t believe in the destiny the Stars give him. He’ll make his own, even if he dies doing it.

And in the highest heights and deepest depths of the dark tower, Ilya must discover who he really is.

Science Fiction Grandmaster John C. Wright leads readers through a break-neck coming of age story as Ilya rushes to rescue the girl and save the world. His trademark imaginative world and over-the-top action will delight fans of his work.

Will Ilya find Penny in time to rescue her?

And can they escape the Dark Tower when the Stars know their every move?


This tome has it all – old school science fiction, fantasy, science fantasy, action, metaphysics, hope, horror, humor, gore, whimsy, Christianity, and too many other subtle facets to name. Chances are you’ve never read a book like this before.

The first several chapters are extremely time-dilated (ie: lots of expertly masked characterization and exposition threaded between somewhat distant plot points) and yet you never feel like ‘nothing is happening’. This is in part due to our hero’s odd yet refreshing personality. He has a clear, singular goal that he never loses sight of despite myriad setbacks and distractions. Because he knows what he wants and Mr. Wright is able to make every passage drip with mystery, tension, whimsy, or emotion (often all of these at once), there is never the sensation of words wasted or navel-gazing or anything thrown in just as ‘filler’. People are not kidding when they name him a grandmaster of sci-fi.

On its face the plot is really quite simple – a young man is thrust into heroism through a combination of his own desires, chivalry, and inherited duty. He must rescue the beautiful princess from the evil sorcerer’s tower, picking up allies along the way and learning how to be his best self. 

But there’s really so much more to it than that. Ancient history, diverging timelines, moral quandaries, and musings about the nature of divinity and the structure of the universe (multiverse) itself. There’s steampunk, magipunk, various intersecting magic systems, and of course, faith. And that’s what ultimately seals up the whole thing as great to me – Christ’s power is displayed as supreme in a way that no typical Christian Fiction I’ve read can show. I won’t spoil how though because it’s just so fun to read!

Don’t let the mentions of whimsy and faith mislead you though – this is not a child’s book. There are intense depictions of evil, graphic violence and some language. 

I strongly suggest you get your copy today and dive into this surreal, yet more than real, adventure.

Godzilla vs. Kong – Flash Review

Really it’s more just some quick thoughts about it, for various reasons, one of which is that it’s hard to say anything new about the cheeseburger everyone else has already chimed in on.

And that’s really what the movie is. It’s a popcorn kaiju flick that really belongs in the summer months.

A very small percentage of films like this (not just kaiju, but other potentially ‘brainless’ genres) will hit the scene with unexpected depth or artistry, such as the original Gojira, Shin Gojira, and perhaps a few others. Most exist to give monster-lovers what they want – big monsters fighting and destroying things.

This movie does that, and does it reasonably well.

The human plot is predictably (and understandably?) simple, using them primarily as an excuse for us to have POVs in the story’s various locations, and secondarily as a source of humor.

That bit is one of my biggest complaints about the script. The humor is terrible. I’d prefer the cheese of goofy Japanese side characters to this style of humor any day. Despite being set up as hyper-competent in their fields, the two male leads are framed as clueless goofballs, a quality which emasculates the African American Brian Tyree Henry somewhat more than his counterpart, to the movie’s detriment. The main issues there are that 1. I would have liked a strong male lead and 2. while scientific and engineering geniuses might be awkward, this is not the type of humor you’d expect from them.

The adult female lead, Ilene, doesn’t fare much better in the character department. She escorts the only character that matters, Jia, and doesn’t do much else.

It’s easy to have empathy for Jia of course, especially as a parent. Small, deaf, child, big eyes. That’s really all it takes. But she plays her part well enough. If anything should have been expanded in the human department, it should have been her relationship with Kong. There is a solid tradition of children connecting with the monsters of kaiju films, and it might have been interesting to see a deeper dive with good writing.

The teens are forgettable and pointless. Millie was wasted and given an unlikeable character.

The villains are villainous, and that’s just fine. It was a little bothersome to me that Maya, the villain’s daughter, and most attractive character, existed only to reveal the predictable twist and then die. Not that eye candy is much of a thing in most kaiju films, but it never hurts.  I’m not a sensitive viewer but I did note that she was also shoehorned into the ‘evil Asian girl’ trope. Whoops.

The hollow earth and conspiracy angles fit nicely in this Monsterverse setup, and I enjoy that kind of stuff anyway, so it gets an A in the writing department.

One last bit concerning the script I’m tempted to critique is the amount of Godzilla in this Godzilla movie. Kong is really the protagonist, with Godzilla framed as the villain. It works, but I’m a G man and would rather an excuse for them to have equal time, even to the detriment of the plot (which I wouldn’t consider a given).

On to what matters – the kaiju themselves.

Visually it looks good enough, probably better in a theater. While the CGI is decent, there’s something about suits and models that computers can never touch. Overall, Shin Gojira was more visually believable, and if I’m not mistaken that movie leveraged both types of visual effects.

If anything bothered me visually, it was that Godzilla seemed to have been scaled down to Kong’s size rather than the other way around. I understand various reasons for that, such as wanting Kong to be able to hold onto a skyscraper or two, but it nagged at me seeing Godzilla as being small. Especially after the apparent scale of the kaiju in King of the Monsters, this was sometimes jarring.

Minor spoilers in the next section. Skip if you don’t want to hear fight details.

The fights are good too, with some real tension over Kong’s submersion in the ocean, where Godzilla is right at home.

It bothered me that depth charges would not be enough to wrench Kong from Godzilla’s grip in the ocean, and if they were, they’d have injured the monke too.

The Hong Kong fight is the best one, both during the main fight and after the final ‘twist’ which was actually spoiled in a trailer. I was surprised when some of the action in the main G v K fight pulled me in as well as it did. The monster posturing, roaring, and really hammering their strength home was all very enjoyable. Naturally it did my atomic reptile heart good when Godzilla broke some dumb monke ribs, but I was truly impressed at the fight choreographer/animator’s use of Kong’s flexibility and speed to disrupt, dodge, and stunlock Godzilla’s fire breath. Even as a G fan I had to smile at Kong’s moves.

Now, should something that big be able to move like that? No, but we don’t mind. This is not a place for realism.

The ‘twist’ fight was also great, if a bit short. Kaiju teamups are always welcome. The ‘twist’ looked nice as well, though I would have preferred a more traditional rendition – more Megazord style and less Transformers. Still, his special moves and laser breath looked awesome. I’d love to see him come back.

Really, that’s it. It’s an above-average kaiju film (if that makes sense with the number of them that we actually get in a year) and a solid installment in the Monsterverse. If you like kaiju movies, give it a shot.

You know what else has a hollow earth and kaiju?

How Black the Sky is a fast-paced tale of heroes coming together to face a threat from deeper in the earth that they don’t understand. Magic, fighting, monsters, violence, betrayal, and transcendence. 

Buy your copy today!

Hero’s Metal Book 1: How Black the Sky 

#blog-post, #movie-review

Justice League – Snyder Cut Flash Review

I was walking past the TV store window and the Snyder Cut just happened to be playing, so I dutifully stood there for four hours and watched it in its entirety.

Here are my thoughts in brief.

First off, I think the film is notable for its unusual nature – that of a cut not simply released due to demand, but finished and probably iterated on in response to that demand. If this has happened before with a film, I am not aware of it. Viewing the product was at the least a curiosity.

My experience with AAA games brings to mind some issues that could arise from this practice, but that’s something we might tackle later on. 

If you find yourself asking whether the effort put into this rerelease was worth it, I would have to say yes, with a qualifier.

The qualifier is that the millions spent on this massive correction to the record could have been spent on something new and shiny rather than a recut. Alas, I am not the producer, so this notion shall die here.

For what the movie was, it worked.

It made vast improvements on the Whedon cut by setting up each character’s motivations, including – or perhaps especially – our villain’s. While none of these were particularly special or new (Cyborg’s was the best), they provide a flow to the narrative that was previously missing.

Naturally this accounts for a large portion of the increased runtime, which begs the question of whether the thing feels too long.

I am one to enjoy extended cuts. In fact I rather love it when I can find a free day to watch LOTR extended editions all in a row. Thus going in knowing that the movie was going to be mostly crescendo with occasional peaks, my expectations were reasonably set. Really it has a good pace and gains enough momentum so that it doesn’t feel like a slog.

I felt none of the type of mental exhaustion that I might watching something like a Transformers movie, nor was I bored.

So let’s do some quick hits on the high points.

The expansion of Cyborg’s role and story felt the most like new material to me, though to be fair I don’t have a clear recollection of the original cut. I felt for the character and would happily follow him into another adventure.

If I’m not mistaken, Batman’s role in the finale was expanded, and it was great fun to watch. Batfleck looks so solid and burly, it’s just satisfying to watch him (or his CGI double) commit bone-crunching violence against the baddies.

The movie really loves Wonder Woman, almost to the point of cheese, but it treats her respectfully enough and shows her strength with fun visuals.

Steppenwolf was a huge improvement, even shining through my blurry memory of the original. His design is better if not perfect and his action is enjoyably brutal. Again, though his motivations are simple – pleasing his master to regain favor – they help in providing a reason for him to do what he’s doing beyond mere destruction.

The teaser of Darkseid is cool. I appreciated his aura of menace and the depiction of his Omega Beam. But this brings me around to our low points.

At four hours, and with no plans that I’m aware of for a direct sequel to this iteration of the JL, Darkseid should have been brought into full play. We could have edited some of the setup and various other scenes, ditched some of the copious slo-mo, cut the epilogue that felt like a vestigial appendage, and gained enough time to include Darkseid in at most another plot thread (perhaps he’s working at odds with Steppenwolf or about some other villainous business) and at least a second boss fight. He wouldn’t even have to die.

I don’t get the sense that the teaser will actually bear out into a real sequel, so I fear that DC fans will miss out on the resolution of this Darkseid’s plot.

Other cons.

The casting of Flash is not my favorite. I know these movies have a hard time crossing line between TV and Film, but Grant Gustin’s Flash is a great fit (or was last time I watched a few seasons back) and he should have been pulled in for this. He knows the character, people love him. It just makes sense.

Aquaman is still underdeveloped. There is no other solution to this than to have released his movie first.

And of course, Superman is underutilized. Characters like this are very difficult to write into team situations. Captain Marvel suffers the same issue in Avengers Endgame. I have a few characters of my own who need careful management in order to keep from making everyone else on the team irrelevant. 

In fact this is a theme in the Arc Legacy.

But needing to perform a macguffin ritual to resurrect him is one of this story’s greatest flaws. 

I would have much preferred if his return was more similar to the comics run after his death in the 90s, where he himself takes action and eventually returns. This way we get to see him doing things and still get him coming in as the cavalry charge.

Instead we get a contrived and confusing process involving the motherbox. While this does provide action for Flash and Cyborg, and allows for the ‘Superman is crazy’ fight, I still just don’t think it was worth it.

Finally, despite my overall enjoyment of the viewing experience and the pleasure of seeing a work improved, the film isn’t more than a one-watch movie. The story is too simple to require repeat viewings from someone who remembers plots – if not all the small details – very well. So rent it or buy in the bargain bin, if you buy it at all.

So is it worth your time?

If you feel like sitting down to watch a high-budget superhero epic with the director’s passion for the project on full display, then yes.

If you’re already weary of superheroes or accustomed to the tight writing of MCU films, probably not.

Either one of you will enjoy my novel RawJack of course, in which plucky superheroes take on the elite blood magic practitioners of a society dominated by sorcery. 

Heroes, magic, a futuristic city, call it superhero magipunk!

Blurb from the author’s website:

Penance – by Paula Richey and “Thomas Plutarch”

Penance Copper is tired of being a tool for evil.

She’s been working for Acid ever since she was small. She had no other choice, he owned her. Even with her superpowers, she’s never been able to escape. But at least he only has her steal. Never anything worse than that.

Until he orders her to use her powers to kill the superhero Justice for investigating trafficked girls.

Penance doesn’t want to be a murderer. She uses the opportunity to run away from Acid and make a new life. One where she can make up for everything she did on Acid’s orders.

But events larger than Penance are spinning into action, and soon she is embroiled in an intergalactic encounter with an alien boy named Kail, who is perhaps as lonely and broken as she is. Even if he is infuriatingly arrogant.

The first young adult series in the shared Heroes Unleashed universe launches with the Teen Heroes Unleashed series. Readers will love hardworking, sassy Penance as she tries to learn to use her superpowers to save the world instead of to steal.

Can Penance and Kail find the missing girls and save the Earth from an alien invasion? Or will Acid find her again and punish her for running away?

Read Penance today to find out!

This novel from Silver Empire’s Heroes Unleashed series is a strong debut from author Paulie Richey. Kinetic and touching, it fits right in with the rest of the brand. Despite its YA branding, I have to say I think superhero fans of any age will enjoy it.

Plot

It’s tight and moves smoothly from one event to the next. The characters have agency and this drives things forward almost the entire time. There is a bit of a slowdown for our main characters going into the third act, where I itched for them to be back in the action, but this slow spell serves the characters and their budding relationship well. It also provides time for exploring some of the tropes necessary to the YA angle. Ie: the mains getting to know each other.

Really that’s something we come across in all action fiction with romantic subplots, and I think Paula handled it well. The finale was appropriately painful and exciting, setting us up for the next installment.

Character 

Characters are distinct and well drawn. Penance is both likeable and pitiable, a girl locked in a hard place but with the inner conviction to find her way out. It was a bold decision to run her discovery of faith in parallel to her ascent into heroism, and I think it worked. As with most unmasked depictions of the Gospel in fiction, the faith elements feel 3 dimensional in a way no fiction can. While this may be a bump in the road for non-Christian readers, I assure you that the author’s treatment is sincere here, not at all ham-fisted. Understand that Penance’s faith is linked to her heroism and enjoy.

Kail makes a great counterpart and foil to Penance, the straight man to her comedienne. It will be interesting to see what he does with the life he gains over the course of this story.

The supporting characters are varied and memorable, some with powers and others mundane. Readers with a penchant for many POVs will enjoy the scenes focusing on these people swept up in Penance’s storm.

Craft

My first impression of Paula Richey’s prose was smooth. The novel is well-written and lean. I never had the urge to skip or skim, quickly finding myself able to trust the author with where things were going. Scens flow sensibly and the whole structure is snappy enough that we get to see several locations without feeling confused or lost.

This is an excellent debut and I am eager to see how Paula’s writing grows and continues to improve.

Critique – no spoilers, but may affect your perception on first read.

It’s always hard for me to do this part. I’m a positively oriented person and tend to give the benefit of the doubt when I disagree with a decision.  With that in mind, and considering how good this book was overall, I can only note where I might have done things differently. I may or may not be correct ‘objectively’.

The main thing is the section where things slow down for our mains so they can have time to romance a little. Again I argue (against myself?) that this is necessary for the novel, but I might have (being male) kept the two on the run rather than allowing them respite. If there were to be tender moments between them, they would happen in an even more fleeting place of hiding, and quickly. 

Paula handles the potential loss of momentum by switching POV to characters who are still in danger, which works. Had the supporting characters been less interesting people, this could have backfired, but Paula pulls it off nicely.

There is a good twist in the finale that I wouldn’t change, but it does have the effect of dimming the sense of victory ever so slightly. I won’t say more specifically, just that I wanted the trouble to ramp up a little higher and the win to feel bigger.

All in all, this is a very good novel regardless of genre, and though I am not technically the intended market, I daresay a homerun for that market.

Well done, Paula!

#blog-post, #book-review

Christ is my Redoubt

The recent scrambling  in conservative circles to take positions online that will be protected from, or at least resistant to, censorship has had me thinking.

Everyone knows in their hearts that people shouldn’t be punished for their thoughts, even if these thoughts are ‘wrong’. The question of when to take action against a perceived opponent is where our issue comes in.

The bulk of people who would typically be labeled ‘conservative’ have been tending to wait until the negative effects of an idea begin to surface, then utter warnings and pleas for moderation long before any action is taken to quash the idea, if any action is taken at all.

Lately, those who we label ‘liberals’ have been calling for preemptive action against not just the effects of conservative ideals, but to put a lid on the ideas themselves – disallowing their dissemination at all. This is where we have a problem.

Now there is a world of information and thought that surrounds the statements above. From a religious standpoint, one wonders if ‘liberals’ might have a good thing going here, just from the wrong side of the spectrum. What is freedom? Who deserves it? Is my freedom more important than yours? Can they even coexist when we fundamentally disagree on almost everything under the sun?

These are all things to be tackled, but if I don’t boil thoughts down for the purposes of today, we won’t get anywhere.

So for the sake of brevity let’s say that all ideas shall be allowed to be expressed verbally and shared with people of like mind without being censored, regardless of their perception as evil by any faction.

This of course doesn’t bear out in practice, but we need a rule to continue.

If we could leave it at that, the only question left is that of dominance – whose ideologies win out when presented in the marketplace on equal ground? Ideologies clash in the ring, and theoretically the audience goes home accepting that the winner is the one who they saw win.

I think this is the way most people assume the world works. Unfortunately, it’s not.

Outcomes are disputed, goalposts are moved, and rules of engagement and play are redefined to cast winners and losers in new lights. The resulting chaos is what our western, and perhaps global, society is now dealing with.

It looks like a red dawn for conservatives, and especially conservative religious people, as we are currently in a place where their ideals are being labeled as violent and dangerous in themselves, with calls for vectors of dissemination to be restricted ‘for the good of all’.

I fully recognize that ‘conservatives’ have in the past pushed similar authoritarian measures, resulting in physical violence and other negative effects. Let’s acknowledge that such response violates the rules of engagement I mention above, then get back to today’s message.

If you are not conservative, or not Christian, and reading this, feel free to flip the positions in your mind so that you are not cast as the invader but as the defender. While I don’t believe this stance ultimately works out with what I’m outlining today, it’s certainly a way for you to ensure you understand my perspective.

As a religious person, a Christian, I perceive that the outer walls have been breached. ‘My’ media no longer portrays heroes (generally). ‘My’ books include everyone and everything except religious notions of purity. ‘My’ education is in the process of reframing the past to generate new ideological victors in the present. If my voice grows loud enough, and I say something that disagrees with the zeitgeist (or at least the very vocal and empowered portion of it), I will be harassed and potentially shut down. If the angry spirit of censorship continues to gain momentum, I might even be physically harmed.

I’m left with few options. 

I can try to hold the line before a breached wall, as compatriots to the right and left are incapacitated, captured or killed. Some will desert, others defect. With only one man’s firepower, it’s an untenable position.

Defection and deference are right out. Bowing to the opposing faction means relinquishing my deeply held beliefs, abandoning my identity, and more importantly, the Truth.

Retreat gets a bad rap, but a mode of retreat is exactly what’s called for.

A redoubt, if you aren’t familiar, is a temporary or backup fortification, one of the uses of which would be to fall back to should the outer wall fail. Note that there may also be a Keep to flee to, as well as the Catacombs. I don’t think we’re there yet, but of course things move quickly sometimes…

In any case, you are starting to see my premise.

If I am a conservative without Christ, then my redoubt is made of the same material and design as my outer wall, but more hastily and less sturdy.

With Him, my redoubt offers real hope.

As I fall back from the breached outer wall, I see the debris of what’s fallen – pseudo Christianity, warm fuzzies without the acknowledgement of sin. Messages of Love and Hope and Goodwill, without mention of Who bleeds love, promises hope, or offers goodwill. Media that proclaims heroism and virtue, but portrays nationalism and patriotism as their ultimate forms rather than holiness and dedication to the Gospel.

The examples are too countless to name, but you get the idea.

At the Redoubt, a structure not made by human hands, each beam and stone has been placed with care and precision. It’s actually stronger than the ancient outer wall. Sin cannot rot the wood, and weeping can’t erode the stone. The warriors stationed there are mightier than those from the parapet. Paladins who refused to take their stand on a battlement they knew was weakened from the start. 

All the strength and security of the fallback structure come from the presence of the Messiah. Picture fleeing from demons into the mane of Aslan. Relief, safety, and renewed vigor wash over you.

The only way the Redoubt will not stand is if He Himself calls for further retreat, or if His Spirit is made unwelcome by defections and compromise.

Then there is the Keep.

Then the Catacombs.

And only once all who are destined for it have been reduced to dry bones will the fortress be taken. Even then, it’s only for a little while.

Make no mistake, this will happen. 

Revelation 13:7 speaks of the beast: “He  was given power to make war against the saints and to conquer them. And he was given authority over every tribe, people, language and nation.”

But it won’t be the end, for “This calls for patient endurance and faithfulness on the part of the saints.”

We’ll stand for as long as we can, sharing the Gospel and calling out sin, trying desperately to save as many souls as can be saved, but we won’t end the war.

Only the Sword from His Mouth can do that, and it will.

So the Redoubt is established as a viable, and perhaps paradoxically superior, position.

What does it mean to make a stand there?

For me it means that I am not just an author. I am a Christian Author. If I say or write something that is taken as violent wrongthink, the target of ire becomes the identity I proclaim. I am armored in Christ.

When I make a moral judgement as to how to manage my family, it’s not because of my ‘conservative ideals’, but because of my religious, specifically Christian, beliefs.

If someone demands that I dedicate my craft, mind, or body to things that are socially acceptable but evil to me, my refusal stems from these parts of me being dedicated to Him, unable to be released from Holy Servitude. I cannot bow to the golden statue because it would betray my God.

Stand taken, an opponent’s only recourse is to attack the Redoubt itself, which cannot fall until Christ allows it to. This is a bold, loud act that requires unmasking at least and violence at most.

He who assaults the structure of the Redoubt attacks Christ Himself and cannot succeed until the retreat is called.

My hope comes down to one simple thing that envelopes all my efforts: confess the Messiah.

Now, Christ as General may order me to step out of safety to save the injured or lost, or even to get behind enemy lines and collect defectors. While in the line of danger, I may be harmed. The armor of God will do its work too, but I won’t shirk the duty before me in fear of an arrow to the eye.

Further, we may yet retake the outer wall, repair the breach, and even expand the fortress grounds.

It’s possible that a Christ-oriented society will persist in some form for two thousand more years. Who are we to guess?

In the meantime, as demons wail against holiness and call evil things good, I believe we should regroup at the Redoubt and keep doing the work we’ve been called to do. Abandon the compromised outer wall, but watch for the opportunity to restore and improve it. And as you regroup with your compatriots, be certain that the redoubt you adopt is built on rock and not sand.

Do your work well, refine it and purify it for Him, and don’t let fear of attack or defeat paralyze you in your mission.

Revelation 19:11

11And I saw heaven opened, and behold a white horse; and he that sat upon him was called Faithful and True, and in righteousness he doth judge and make war. 

12His eyes were as a flame of fire, and on his head were many crowns; and he had a name written, that no man knew, but he himself. 

13And he was clothed with a vesture dipped in blood: and his name is called The Word of God. 14And the armies which were in heaven followed him upon white horses, clothed in fine linen, white and clean. 

15And out of his mouth goeth a sharp sword, that with it he should smite the nations: and he shall rule them with a rod of iron: and he treadeth the winepress of the fierceness and wrath of Almighty God.

16And he hath on his vesture and on his thigh a name written, KING OF KINGS, AND LORD OF LORDS.

The Mythos Project, or Conservative Retellings

 With the rise of big tech censorship and open calls to silence voices that do not agree with the zeitgeist, I’ve been slowly coming to a premise that you may be able to guess from this post’s title. The coronachan stimulus bill’s insane inclusion of language concerning ‘illegal’ streaming sites pushed my thoughts over the edge.

I’ve been thinking to myself, what will we do when we can’t watch or read or play the stories that entertain us and spice our lives?

What will I watch at Christmas when Die Hard – which already must be rented or bought – is banned because ‘the terrorists didn’t deserve to be killed. John should have sent a social worker,’ or ‘John is too macho’? What’s left when something newer like Cobra Kai – which I find fairly moderate politically – is either morphed out of shape and bent to political purpose, or simply removed entirely?

I could list many IPs and go into detail concerning the things that might cause such canceling, but I don’t think I need to. Some will dig into my specific examples anyway and miss the point. Through either age, neglect, or censorship, old stories will begin to disappear.

It’s the worst for movies because the physical market has shrunk considerably. There are some things that likely never made it off VHS, and piracy controls have always been strongest for TV and film.

Practically every game ever can be run in emulation, so legality aside there are options, and I would guess that passionate gamers care for their collections fairly well. Still, it’s troubling that fresh, reliable copies and equipment can be hard to come by. Preserving the gameplay itself is one matter, but some games from all decades sported amazing stories, and that’s what matters here. 

Fiction in print seems to be somewhere in between these two. You can find copies of most things you’d want – at least I can – but at some point the used prices will rise too far due to rarity, or else the tomes will waste away from neglect or damage. If there were stories in your past that you’d like to share with your children, what will you do when you can no longer access them?

My current practice is to code the things that are important to me into my new stories, but I think we can be even more intentional than that. We can take the ‘conservative’ mythos that we so value and retell our most precious stories the way that subversives love to retell fairy tales. The difference being that we would keep the morals of a story intact, and in some cases even sanitize or further solidify them.

Let’s chat about encoding the old stories first. People do this anyway – it’s impossible to escape – but putting intentionality into the mix is always more effective when seeking a specific product.

Here’s my example: 

Coming to Power is a sci-fantasy epic that grew out of essentially everything I ever consumed. It gestated for many years and was complete within the last few years. So what of our mythos is encoded in it? Those who have read the book may be amused.

Jon could reasonably be called a composite of Mario, Link, Simon Belmont, Goku, Aragorn, and Bastian (Neverending Story). His eagerness to participate in the heroic quest was an echo of Bastian’s passion, and a reaction to the reluctant heroes I often encountered since I read a lot of fantasy from the 70s/80s. See Thomas Covenant and others.

His power over coherent light began as an analog to Mario’s fireball combined with Link’s full health energy sword projectile, the aesthetic solidified once I discovered the searing beams of devastation in Dragonball. That’s the superficial stuff, but the themes are there too: Saving the girl, defeating the darkness inside and out, and finding honor and glory after doing the right thing.

Masters of the Universe comes into play with my Hero’s Metal setting, where the characters are extremely powerful and have specific talents and roles. The world itself is alien and old, with mysterious ruins and possibly even magitech. Pierce does the right thing because it’s right, just like He-Man, and as a bonus, we’ve got elements of Conan in there for flavor and depth.

Some of this was intentional, some of it was not. All of it adds color, spice, and strong bones to the world-building and narrative.

You can check other examples of this type of encoding with Alexander Hellene’s Swordbringer series and Brian Niemeir’s Combat Frame: X-Seed. Please leave comments as to other examples you might have in mind!

So being aware of our influences and sometimes highlighting them is all well and good, but what if I want to experience Die Hard with my son and it is no longer available?

Come ‘round the fire, young ones, and let me tell you the tale of John McClane and the Fall of Gruber.

I don’t know about you, but my memory isn’t too great, especially in the moment when I need it, so why not write it down?

Now I’ve got more than one reason not to simply transcribe Die Hard beat for beat, as great as it is. But even were I to try, the conversion to prose is going to change some things. Between my own bents, the conversion process, and possible lack of diligence in the transcription (ie: paraphrasing), the story will be altered somewhat. This is how myths are grown.

Somewhere in the distant past, a blacksmith forged a really nice sword and a brave knight performed many great feats with it. As the tales of this knight passed from mind to mind the blacksmith was forgotten but the sword still needed an origin. So then, the knight found it. But no, he didn’t just find it, a fairy gave it to him. No, not a fairy but a lady. Oh, and she lives in a lake. Etcetera. 

Forgive me for a terrible glossing over of the Arthurian mythos, but you get my point.

This brings me around to the main point. It’s time for conservative retellings. 

Now I don’t really like the word ‘conservative’ but I’m using it because it’s widely understood. Maybe we can chat about the term another time.

The point is that we are on the verge of losing some important culture, from Ghostbusters to Daredevil to even Tolkien himself. In some cases, the original versions of things may be banned, as outlandish as that may seem. In most, I would guess they’ll just be allowed to fade away and become unavailable. In many situations, the new versions of things will continue to alter the underlying morals and themes and become the new definitive version. It’s that latter scenario that has Tolkien fans concerned about the upcoming Amazon series. We’ll see how it goes.

In any case, I think the idea of retelling is something for conservative creators to consider. Now we wouldn’t have as much leeway in adapting something like Die Hard as leftists do with fairy tales – I use it as an example because we are currently in the Christmas season. But I think the restriction of copyright in this instance could prove to be a strength. It forces the reteller to apply the age-old methods of myth creation and alter the story fairly significantly while keeping the original spirit intact. Iron out flaws, accentuate the goodness.

I’ll leave you with a quick example using my favorite of Christmas movies. Don’t take it too seriously because I’m not either. It’s just an example.

In my Die Hard retelling, Joe MacMahon travels to Supra City to attend his scientist wife’s unveiling of Time Window technology. The Christmas connection is that they are going to peep on the birth of Christ as a proof of concept demo. No sooner has Joe arrived at the Very Tall Science Building than terrorists seize the building and commandeer the time equipment.  Their demands are simple: be allowed safe passage from Supra City, time equipment in their possession. When and if demands are not met, they will start casting hostages through Time Windows to be lost forever. (Dangerously overloading the equipment’s power levels allows for actual travel!)

When Brahms Stoober, the big bad, begins to play with the tech, it creates a stack of Time Zones that Joe must ‘climb’ in order to save his wife and stop the baddies. The air ducts become unstable wormhole connections between Zones. The machine gun becomes a plasma rifle. Sergeant Al would be largely the same, but perhaps the men are both veterans instead of police, or there might be some other force that they fight for. Keep the foot injury and the general sense of John – I mean Joe’s – toughness.

When Joe finally defeats Brahms they fall through the cascade of Time Zones and while Joe ‘lands on his feet’, Brahms does not and is plummeted into the depths of time.

That was a quick brainstorm but I think you can see how the spirit of the tale is retained while the superficial things are altered 1:1 or sometimes 1:10. Magnified or diminished.

It doesn’t have to be all this on the nose, either. We could do a Gremlins story in any setting, even with different rules for the monsters. We could do Ghostbusters in space, the focus being on good vs. evil, order vs. chaos, individualism vs. the bureaucracy, etc.  

Of course all of this pertains to writing the stories and does us no good producing video or games – we will have to learn to collaborate with our fellow artisans to recreate the full cycle of the culture – but all of these mediums start with story first anyway.

So that’s my call to action. It doesn’t mean we all switch gears and retell these stories exclusively, but that we keep these ideas in mind and remember that our tales can be preserved through the means man’s myths always have – retelling.

Read Coming to Power and see how far someone’s ‘high school novel’ can grow if you get diligent and let it. Then check out my other books and the books of all the #pulprev and #superversive indie authors!

Thank you for reading.

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The Beauty Below

I caught the creepy bug this week and decided to follow through. The short tale might be a little undercooked in some ways, but sometimes a rare steak is just what’s called for eh?

Maybe we’ll do something else with it later, but for now I wanted to post it for your reading pleasure.

Enjoy!

***

The dust storm was devastating. It screamed its way under the car’s hood and suffocated the thing until the engine gave up the ghost. Hardly mattered – I couldn’t see but five feet anyway and we’d been crawling along already. I let the car coast down the very slight hill, praying not to get rear-ended. 

We were still on the road, but beyond that I had no idea how far along the old highway I’d come. I imagined the endless feathery shadow of the treeline to the right and vast fallow fields on my left, but I couldn’t see them. Hoping there was a shoulder, I eased off the asphalt. Gravel under the tires. Crunching, we came to a stop.

I took the key out of the ignition and blew out a breath. What now? Millions of tiny impacts left minuscule scratches on the windshield and windows.  It was easy to think nature itself had it out for me at that point. If I got out of the car, sand would pour into my mouth and nose, burying me from the inside out. Or millions of primitive, microscopic knives would rend my flesh down to the bone.

Or maybe I’d just get lost, mere feet from the car but unable to locate it for the intensity of the parched storm. Wander into the field, and die.

Had it been daytime, such morbid thoughts might have seemed silly. At night, though, all this and more seemed reasonable.

I could just sit in the car, wait it out. The dust storm would end eventually. Morning would come.

But was that a glimmer of light on the left? Some lonely farmhouse, its porchlight a beacon for lost souls such as me. 

Or, a will-o’-wisp’s arid cousin, patiently waiting to lure me to that aforementioned dusty death.

After ten hours driving, no stops since a cheap diner lunch in a no-name town, I admit that the chance for some human company was the thing that pushed me out of the car door, leather jacket in hand.

I pulled the jacket on, bombarded with sand as a gust swooped in just to spite me. I almost skipped locking the car, then took the moments of stinging pain to see to it. Praying for an empty road, I sprinted through the void across the highway. I did not become road kill, and the storm did not murder me.

There was a lull in the storm and I saw the farmhouse’s porch light again. A breath of relief quickly earned me a mouthful of grit. It wasn’t a farmhouse though. It was a full-blown manor.

The dust blew in again but I caught a glimpse of the place first. 

Old but maintained. Fresh white paint despite the abuses of nature. A wrap-around veranda. Warm light from many windows. 

Someone lived there. Surely they would help me.

I started toward the house, bumped into the white picket fence before I saw it, then hopped over.

The sandstorm shied away from the manor and visibility increased.

By the time I mounted the steps to the veranda, I could see a whopping twenty feet instead of three, and motes of sand struck my face only infrequently. Perhaps there was a stand of trees or some other windbreak on that side of the house. Whatever the source of protection, I welcomed it.

The double doors of the manor’s entrance were a block of brown among all the white. Light shone through a long, red, rectangular window set above the doors. So the place had once been a… house of pleasure. Keeping these windows was typically considered cute – a sign of character – but I’d always thought it strange.

After a short hesitation, I knocked. The knocker was a looping, sinuous sculpture of brass that suggested a snake without being one. The polished metal clunked and the knock resounded in the heavy wood of the door.

I waited.

When there was no answer I began to consider just going back to the car rather than knocking again. Clearly someone was home, but if they were unwilling to answer the door, I didn’t want to be a pest. I glanced down the porch. There was a pair of rocking chairs. It would be impolite to sleep the night in one without permission, but with a storm like this raging on, perhaps I would be forgiven.

I was still debating when I heard the sound of a latch, and the left side door opened.

The man standing in the entryway looked sleepy and confused at first. He scanned me from feet to head, seemed to have a thought, then breathed out and deflated as if resigned to something unsavory.

“It’s a nasty one out there, stranger,” he said, pulling the door open further and stepping aside. “Shake off the dust and come on in.”

I did so, and he shut the door behind me.

“Thank you so much,” I said, searching out his eyes. “You have no idea how –”

“Oh no, I do,” he said. “If it gets any worse it’ll rip a man’s skin off.”

I laughed hoarsely. “I’d been thinking the same thing.”

He grunted and started down the short hall.

The man was a head shorter than me, solidly built. A day’s worth of stubble covered his face. Thick, dark hair and eyes that seemed perpetually shadowed. He almost fit the profile of a farmer, but there was something still too urban, too polished about him for me to believe that.

He turned right into a den with two large, comfy looking recliners and a long leather couch. A classic baseball game played on a very large TV mounted to the wall.

“Have a seat,” he said, gesturing to one of the recliners. “I’ll get you some water.” When I moved to obey, gratefully sinking into the still plush but well-loved cushions, the man nodded and exited the room through a door on its far side. His voice came back to me from wherever he’d gone.

“What’s your name, stranger?” he asked. I raised my froggy voice so he could hear me in the other room.

“Shane,” I said. “Shane McLeary. Thanks for letting me in. Really, I can’t –”

He cut me off again. “Alright, Shane. I’m Edmund.”

Edmund. Not Ed or Eddie. 

The room was a one hundred percent standard man-cave. The giant TV, bulky furniture, and heavy bookcases built into the walls. There was a stand of pipes on one of the shelves, and a sweet lingering scent of tobacco. A family crest on one wall, decorative swords crossed behind a shield with a spear-wielding knight on it. Edmund’s dirty boots sat by the portal leading back to the hallway.

He returned shortly with a tall glass of water, dripping with condensation. He gave it to me, then fetched one of his pipes and a lighter, and sank into the leather couch with a groan from the glossy brown cushions.

I drank the water, washing the grit from my mouth. Edmund lit his pipe and blew out a few smoke rings.

“Storms have been getting worse lately,” he said.

“They’re bad everywhere,” said I, “or so I hear.”

“Hard to know what to believe these days, isn’t it?”

“Everybody lies,” I said.

Edmund grunted and nodded. “You smoke, Shane?”

“No thank you,” I answered. I used to, then decided life was too short. I wasn’t going to say that to a stranger though.

Edmund shrugged. “Might as well, I figure. Smoke, sand, water – something’s gonna get me one of these days.”

I just nodded.

“You almost made the next town, you know.”

Millville. I’d known I was close. Made the engine’s failure hit even harder.

“If the storm lets up, you might even make it before dawn,” he said. “But if not, you’re free to stay. It’s… just me around here. My room’s downstairs so you’ve got six to pick from on the second floor.”

“Thank you,” I said. “I really appreciate it.”

“People have to pull together in these weird times, don’t you think?”

“Agreed.”

He pulled the pipe away from his mouth and froze in a way that raised my hackles, glancing at me sideways. 

“You’re not here to kill me, are you Shane?”

The sudden, incongruous question threw me for a loop. “Um, no. No I’m… not that kind of guy.” I chuckled nervously, then saw the smirk growing on one side of Edmund’s mouth.

He laughed. My chuckle grew less nervous.

“You city boys, I tell ya,” he wound down to a chortle, then took a puff off his pipe. “Oh, I used to be one too. Then I came out here, and I just couldn’t leave.”

“I can imagine,” I said. Edmund smirked at this but I didn’t know why. “It must have been even better in the old days.”

“Must have,” he said. 

There was silence, and I started to wonder if I should make more small talk. What did Edmund do for a living? I’d tell him I was an accountant. Was he retired? Any family? But there he sat, smoking and studying the ancient baseball game, stone-faced. I got the distinct feeling he didn’t really want to talk. Maybe I should excuse myself to turn in.

Edmund saved me from hesitation.

“You can head to bed, if you want, Shane,” he said. “I know I’m not great company. Been on my own a long time, you know? Probably out of practice.”

“I uh, I am pretty tired. I’ve been driving since eight a.m.”

“Brain dead and saddle-sore,” he said. “I know the feeling. Well, like I said, you can head upstairs and pick whatever room you like. Each pair shares a bathroom, not that it matters with only you here.”

I stood and picked up my water glass, took a sip. “Thank you, seriously, Edmund. I’ll find a way to pay you back for the kindness.”

He waved the notion away, eyes still locked on baseball. “Forget about it. Hey, feel free to raid the kitchen if you need something. If I don’t see you in the morning, nice to meet you.”

“You too,” I smiled. Leaving the room felt awkward, but so would lingering. I committed to the former.

The hallway outside Edmund’s den led around a corner to the stairs. Old but solid, they creaked as I ascended. The long hall upstairs was carpeted in thick crimson and the doors to all the rooms were closed. Classical nude paintings graced the walls, frames ornate but worn with age. I figured Edmund had inherited the place from an elderly relative. Could it even have been from the home’s original mistress?

I picked the nearest bedroom and opened the door. Dust scratched at the window behind its bronze-colored curtains. The bed was a heavy old four-poster, and there was a mahogany dresser, a side table, and a rocking chair. The door to the bathroom stood open. A shower was tempting, but for now I closed and locked the door. 

I draped my leather jacket on the side table, set my water glass down next to it, and sat on the edge of the bed. The mattress sank down further than I expected and I almost fell backward. There were more paintings in the room, but I didn’t recognize them. Two on each wall, bronze-painted frames in contrast to the gaudy crimson and white patterned wallpaper that matched the carpet.

The images were painted in a similar style to the baroque pieces in the hallway, but seemed to depict more modern scenes. Each painting featured a nude.

Two of them commanded my attention.

The first was of a woman walking down the middle of a night time street in Paris, Eiffel Tower looming on the skyline. She was facing away from me and carried a black umbrella in one hand, held over her head to ward off a slanted rain. She was in mid stride, bare skin gleaming with rain water despite her umbrella. The only other figures were a homeless man reclining on the steps of a townhouse, staring into his cup and oblivious to the strolling beauty, and a posh businessman whose gaze had been captured by her.

The second painting depicted a room much like the one I was in. An extremely muscular man lay in the bed, bare-chested and otherwise covered by clinging sheets. A slender woman in sheer white nightclothes hovered over him, pressed against the ceiling as if by a reversal of gravity. The artist had been brilliant, suggesting with a very subtle tension in the man’s prodigious muscles that he desired to rise to his counterpart on the ceiling.

If there had been any doubt in me about what kind of place this had once been, these images dispelled it.

It made me feel strange about lying down in the bed, but it wasn’t like the house was still in business. Someone had long since cleaned and pressed the sheets and duvet. A slight musty tint to the air suggested that no one had been in the room in a long time, except perhaps to dust it since the surfaces seemed to be freshly cleaned.

I lay back horizontally across the bed, not ready yet to commit to retiring. I dozed off anyway and woke with a sharp intake of breath. 

I sat up, momentarily disoriented by the unfamiliar setting. I checked my phone for the time – I had slept for two hours. The crick in my neck agreed with the clock.

I stood and went to the window, pulled back the bronze curtains. The dust storm still pelted the glass, and so all I could see was a light brown haze ringed in shadow. I hoped my car was alright.

I finished my glass of water and my mouth requested more. Much more.

Would I disturb my host if I went downstairs? But he’d said to feel free. Accepting his hospitality might be more polite than shutting myself in. I decided to go.

The creak of the stairs followed me down and I feared to bother Edmund. But when I entered the kitchen from the hallway and looked through into the den, he was out cold, stretched across the leather couch. A batter whose name I didn’t know hit a home run on the baseball game.

Edmund had a modern fridge and I filled up my water from the spout in the door. Curious, I opened the fridge to see what Edmund had stocked.

The door shelves were full of beer bottles, mostly Coors Original but a healthy variety of oddball craft beers. There was a bottle of white wine that looked like it had been there for a decade. Then apples, cheese, bread, and a large glass tupperware with some kind of leftovers. Beer sounded alright but I refrained.

I stood at the island in the middle of the kitchen and sipped my water, listening to the game on the TV. Vaguely I wished that Edmund was awake. The strange, dark night and disorienting nap had left me feeling soft and lonely. Conversation, even awkward conversation, might be nice. I drummed my fingers on the counter, and then I heard something.

The creak of a door, something soft scraping against wood, and a series of light taps, rapidly fading.

I wouldn’t have pegged Edmund for a cat person. I looked down the hallway past the stairs before deciding to check it out. Maybe the cat would keep me company.

The lights were off in the hall so that the far end was mostly in shadow. There I found a slightly open door, darkness beyond. When I pulled the door open further it creaked and I stiffened, foolishly guilty about exploring while Edmund slept. Past the door there was a stairway leading down. I’d always loved places that were old enough to have basements, and I couldn’t resist checking it out. I wasn’t about to go down in the dark though, so I felt around on the wall inside until I found the light switch.

The light source was down below, around a corner and nothing more than a faint yellow. It was enough to make out the steps though, and so I started down, watching the shadows for the cat.

It didn’t appear, nor did I accidentally step on it, but I did notice that the corners of the wooden steps were worn smooth.

I reached the bottom of the stairs. No sign of the kitty. The yellowed glass lamp hanging from the low ceiling illuminated a stone-walled room. The blocks in the walls were polished grey stone and mortar that sealed in a permanent chill. The floor was nicely laid concrete. There was a wine fridge and several stacks of boxes lined up against two of the walls. Washing machine and dryer. A half dozen retired paintings had been leaned up in a row in one corner.

At first I thought the cat must be hiding behind the boxes, but then I saw the shadowy alcove in the far corner. I approached the little nook to peer in. More steps, these of stone, leading down. The stairwell was dark and it breathed cool air on me. I thought I heard the patter of the cat’s feet on the steps.

Having come this far out of mere curiosity, it seemed harmless to continue down.

Basements were uncommon enough – a sub-basement was too rare not to peek at. Most likely it was a bomb shelter, or perhaps it had once hidden slaves or prohibited liquor.

A lungful of the air gave me a chill, but I went down anyway.

Dim electric lamps were bolted to the stone walls at steady intervals, providing just enough light not to misstep and kill myself with a seemingly endless tumble. I’d expected one or two full turns of the spiral, but the stairs went on. I began to reconsider my choice. Then my feet touched the floor of a large, dark room whose far walls could not be reached by the dim light from the stairwell.

I saw no light switches, no hurricane lamps or candles, and I had no fire of my own.

Surely my trepidation concerning the dark before me was childish, but then what good would exploring deeper be if I could not see?

I turned around to head back up, then heard a loud scraping sound and the footsteps of a man. A wave of guilt washed over me and I felt like a trespasser. 

“Edmund?” I called. It must have been him, but he didn’t answer. The footsteps grew louder. Their heaviness disturbed me at first, but then I remembered Edmund’s boots. Still, I backed away from the stairwell. I could flee into the darkness if I had to.

Then came Edmund’s voice. My shoulders relaxed and I let out my breath.

“Shane?”

“Here,” I said.

I heard him sigh. “I hoped you’d stay asleep. You come down for a snack or something?”

He was closer now, just a few spiral turns away.

“Just water,” I said. “Thought I heard your cat. I followed it and got curious. I was actually just about to head back up so, why don’t I follow you?”

Edmund hit the floor and stopped. He squinted slightly at me. “I’m afraid we can’t go back up.”

My stomach felt as if it had been filled up with sand. He’d trapped me down here. He was some nutcase that took in weary travellers only to slice them open and eat them in his weird, cold basement. I tried to keep my cool.

“I barely made it through before the door closed,” he continued. “And lucky for you that I did.”

I couldn’t understand what he meant by this and all I could think was that I needed to get past him somehow. He saw me twitch.

“It’s  shut,” he insisted, but I was already sprinting past him, an arm out to ward off any attack. I heard him growl lowly but he did not try to stop me.

I bounded up the steps two or more at a time, almost slipped twice, but kept my feet. When I reached the top of the stairwell I found only cold, bare stone. The way back was indeed shut.

My experience with movies and books told me there must be a secret switch or button here somewhere, as silly as it sounded. I pushed at the stones in the wall foolishly, searched the ceiling with my eyes. Nothing. Edmund was right – the way was shut. If he could open it, it certainly didn’t sound like he was willing to. I started back down.

“I tried to tell you,” he said.

“What’s this about?” I asked. He pursed his lips. “You joked about me being a killer. What about you?”

Edmund shook his head. “It’s not like that.”

“You’re not exactly restoring my confidence, Ed,” I said. He prickled. But I was done being polite. Murderer or not, Ed here must be up to no good.

“It’s just how it works, Shane,” he said. “The only way out is through.”

“Through what?” I asked.

“Just through.”

Not very helpful. The dread in my gut fueled a rising anger. Socking Edmund in the face might not open the door, but it would sure feel good.

“So what, I’m supposed to just trust you? Follow you through?”

“Trust or not,” he shrugged. “I wouldn’t want to go first though, if I were you.”

I turned away from him, exasperated. “What kind of place is this anyway?”

“No word for it,” he said. “But I can tell you it’s not good.”

His statement chilled me more than the subterranean air. If it wasn’t good, what was it?

I started to ask this out loud, pointless as it was, but Edmund was already on the move. Afraid to lose him in the dark, I followed him across the room.

As my eyes adjusted I found I could just barely see him. It was enough to keep me close without accidentally colliding. We came to a blacker darkness – a hallway? – and Edmund reached into a recess in the wall. I imagined spiders and roaches crawling over a cobwebby lever like in some old movie, but Edmund showed no such squeamishness. 

He had retrieved a torch and now he lit it. Good thing he was a smoker and had his lighter.

The flame grew quickly and illuminated his face. He looked older than before, with wrinkles that I did not remember. Must be an effect of the flickering light – campfire shadows.

I followed him into the hallway. It was long and narrow. My weariness and confusion had dulled my mind and it took me long moments to realize the torch had been both prepared and accessible. How often did Edmund come down here? And why?

“Come on, Ed,” I said. He shot a sharp look over his shoulder. “Edmund, sorry. Just tell me what this is, alright? Maybe I’ll believe you’re not a psycho.”

“I don’t give a crap what you think of me,” he said. I decided to keep calling him Ed after all. “Look, it’s an old place, alright? Stuff that was here before anyone ever settled. Sometimes the secret door is open back there, sometimes it’s not. I think the mechanism must be broken. But it always closes after someone goes through.”

“Why couldn’t we just wait until it opened then?” I asked, but Edmund shook his head.

“Might wait for days – I camped out in the basement a couple times to find out. At least this way we can be out some time tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” there was a shrill edge to my voice that I didn’t like. I calmed myself.

“It’s a long way, man,” Edmund said. “Nothing to do about it. What, you got somewhere to be?”

That shut me up. I didn’t really.

“No,” I answered. “Millville was just a stop. I figured I’d hang there for a week or two. Get my bearings.”

The long, straight hall ended in a ‘T’ and Edmund led us right through a series of shorter halls. There were heavy wooden doors at irregular intervals. Some were simply barred, but others had rough iron locks and handles. I wasn’t sure I wanted to know what was inside the rooms.

“Running away from something,” Edmund guessed. “Seems like kind of a luxury these days.”

He was right on both counts. Crossing state lines was an ordeal. The nasty weather didn’t help. I’d really thought my old Jeep was hardy enough to make it if a storm were to catch me out, but I’d been proven wrong. And about fleeing…

“It was a girl,” I said. I don’t know why. Maybe I just wanted to share with someone since I hadn’t yet been able to.

“You’re running from a girl,” he stated, deadpan.

I scoffed. “Not like that. I… I just had to get out of there after things didn’t work out.”

“Sounds like a wuss move, man, I’m not gonna lie.”

“Yeah well it was a small town. Her town. Her people. No way was I going to have peace there, even though it wasn’t my fault.”

Edmund nodded and offered no more mockery.

We entered a short hall with an abrupt end. There was another of those heavy, locked doors. An actual skeleton key hung on a peg driven into the stone wall. Edmund fetched the key and unlocked the door, then put the key back. It swung open with a prolonged squeak. Beyond were more stairs.

“Aw, no. More stairs?” I complained.

“It won’t be the last descent,” Edmund said. “Come on.”

I didn’t like it, but I followed.

“So why’d you break up?” Edmund asked as we eased down the time-worn steps.

I hesitated but humanity got the better of me and I confessed. “She just wanted things out of the relationship that I couldn’t give.”

“Never heard that from a man before,” he said.

“Well it happens alright?”

He sniffed out a chuckle. “What was it? Get married? Settle down and pop out six kids?”

I scratched the side of my head. “Kind of the other way around. She wanted to live together, but she wouldn’t commit. I wanted to…”

“You wanted to get married,” now he uttered a full-bellied laugh. “Can’t tell you what kind of bullet you dodged, man. Lucky for you.”

“Lucky? I loved her.”

“So what?”

“So marriage made sense.”

“You only think it makes sense.”

“And the guy living alone in a whorehouse knows better?” I spat.

Edmund was silent for so long I thought that maybe he wouldn’t speak at all anymore. Then he did. 

“Yeah,” he said. “I do.”

We came to the next landing. It was a long, wide hall. The central walkway was flanked by rows of fluted columns. Strips of electric lighting shone down from the ceiling, but it was still too dim to really see what was past the columns. I stuck close to Ed.

I hadn’t let go of the conversation yet. 

“I don’t know… Call me a traditionalist but I just couldn’t imagine spending our lives together without getting married,” I confessed. Mom and Pop raised me in church and I’d never left. Actually, Mom had warned me about Larissa. Guess I should have listened.

Edmund grunted, but after a moment he responded. “Well, good for you, sticking to your guns.”

We seemed to be heading straight toward the far end of the room, where another closed door awaited us. Edmund passed under one of the dim yellow lightbulbs and I caught the glint of grays salted into his otherwise dark hair. I hadn’t noticed the grays before.

“How long did it take you to map this place out?” I asked.

Ed hesitated. At first I’d taken these pauses as reluctance, but I was starting to see he was the kind of man who often chose his words before speaking.

“There are maps in the house. They’re not always legible – old, you know – but altogether they give you a good idea of the layout. A dozen spelunking trips down and you know it like the back of your hand. The main path, anyway. Now, quiet.”

We reached the door, which was barred. Edmund lifted the bar and opened the door. We stepped through into a barely lit hall. I wondered why Ed would bother taking the time to come down and shut all the doors properly after a trip through. How often did this happen?

I started to ask but he waved me into silence with a sharp gesture. The only reason we should need to be quiet was if…

“Is someone down here?” I whispered. He gave me a hard look that wasn’t an affirmation but nevertheless shut me up.

The hall curved and bent around corners. I couldn’t see a reason for this as there seemed to be no rooms or side passages in this section of the complex. Perhaps it made sense in its original context. Perhaps the structure had once been above ground, and the passing of ages had buried it.

Dozens of turns brought us to a heavy door made of iron bars. It was open, unlike all of the other doors, we’d passed through, and I soon saw why. The locking mechanism had been smashed and ruined. No point in shutting the door if that didn’t work.

“What is…” I started, then shut myself up. I didn’t want to find out why Edmund had ordered silence.

We stepped through. 

The hall beyond was straight and wide. In keeping with the suggestion of the massive iron door, the hall was lined with prison cells. We were in a dungeon.

Everything to this point had been fairly dry and well-kept, but the dungeon lived up to its image. Water trickled from low cracks in the walls and ran into drains in the unoccupied cells. Mould had taken up residence in the branching lines of grout between stone blocks and the tiny craters eaten away by moisture.

“Why on Earth is there a dungeon down here?” I stage-whispered.

Edmund’s finger shot up to his lips again and his eyes bore into me. Without words, he impressed upon me that the matter of silence was one of life and death.

Edmund turned and stepped lightly. I followed his lead.

The wall at the end of the line of cells had been smashed to bits and a tunnel dug into the rock beyond. It was hard to tell in the dim torchlight but I thought the ceiling in there was sloping downward.

Another several dozen paces and we were deep into the wet throat of the tunnel. The ceiling was indeed dropping down on us. With every step, it was a little closer to my head.

Then the stone brushed my hair, and then I had to stoop to continue.

I almost asked how low it would get but held my tongue.

I found out soon enough anyway, when Edmund knelt and took a deep breath. With him out of the way I could see that the tunnel compressed to a space maybe two feet high.

“Oh, no,” I said, but I did whisper.

Ed half-turned toward me. He pointed at the torch, then drew a finger across his neck.

I know my eyes went wide as saucers. We’d have to crawl through in pitch darkness. I backed up several steps. Me and tight spaces did not mix.

Edmund held out his open palms and shrugged, What do you want me to do about it?

I massaged the bridge of my nose. If Edmund was to be believed, this was the only way through. I had no way of knowing if that was a lie, but trying to find another way out alone could easily cost me my life. There was no telling how many labyrinthine branches we had passed behind all those closed doors.

I steeled myself. Phobias and hesitations aside, I was no coward. I nodded to Edmund and he nodded back.

He held up the torch, It’s time for light’s out, buddy. Then he rolled it against a dry patch of stone until it smouldered and left us in darkness. Darkness but for the hellish red-orange glow deep in the torch’s head.

As Edmund went prone and started to pull himself into the tiny gap, I remembered my phone. But when I took it out of my pocket and tried to wake it up, the screen stayed dark. So much for the flashlight app. As if being buried under countless tons of stone wasn’t enough, something down here was messing with electronics too. No wonder Ed hadn’t brought a flashlight.

I wanted to share my observation, if only to get his confirmation that this was another weirdness of the place, but I sensed that he was entirely committed to the gap by now – he probably couldn’t even hear me.

I knelt, took the largest breath I’ve ever taken, went prone, and followed.

The constant tamping of probably deadly panic, the crushing black, and the excruciatingly slow progress robbed me of all sense of time. Only mounting thirst and hunger provided any hint that it was passing at all.

At times the low ceiling scraped my back. Water dripped onto my face. Things crawled across my bare ankles above the loafer and I prayed they wouldn’t worm their way into my pant legs.  My hand would brush against the tunnel wall and loose dirt would fall. I feared to make a noise, lest the whole thing cave in on us.

Several times weariness and sensory deprivation begged me to give up. I could just lie there until I died. It was unlikely Edmund would be able to rescue me even if he turned back to find me – how would he pull me through? So my life was in my own hands.

The instinct for survival pushed me on.

After however many hours, a change finally came. First it was a movement of the air, a breeze slipping past the invisible Edmund up ahead. Then it was dim flashes of light in between the motions of his crawling. 

I thought I heard him whisper, We’re almost there, but it could have been my imagination.

Then the  light grew rapidly and Edmund was out, on his knees, offering me a hand. I took it and slithered free.

We were in a small round room lit by glass-shaded lamps. I could not tell how they were powered, but when I gave thought to electricity I checked my phone again. Still dead.

I could see the ruin of what had once been a doorway but was now filled with the rocks and dirt we had just crawled under.

Ed had faced away from me, waiting for me to catch my breath so we could go on. His posture was different – he seemed to slouch. We were both filthy and exhausted and I couldn’t blame him for the lack of enthusiasm.

“How much further?” I asked softly. His voice sounded raspy when he answered.

“It’s still a ways,” he said. “Next level down, keep your eyes on me. Don’t take any side passages, no matter what you see or hear, do you understand?”

I didn’t but I nodded, then remembered he wasn’t looking at me. Why was he hiding his face?

“Yes,” I said. “Eyes on you. What’s the big deal though? What’s ahead?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” he said.

“Try me,” I insisted. If the way forward was dangerous, I wanted to know why. The mysteries of Edmund’s insane basement complex had worn me thin. He didn’t reply and started to cross the room, relighting the torch. 

I caught up to him and put a hand on his shoulder. It felt bony. I spun him around and gasped.

His face was emaciated, angular, his eyes sunken and shadowed. His hair was thin and damp, now fully silvered. 

It was Edmund, but starved, strung out, aged. There was more to it, but I couldn’t say what. 

He let me gawk for a moment, then cast his eyes down in shame.

“Edmund,” I breathed. “What on Earth?”

“Like I said, you wouldn’t believe me. Come on.”

He turned and I was too shocked to do anything other than follow.

The small round room let out into another tunnel of raw stone, this one intact. Within twenty paces it branched out into a dozen other paths. Ed was certain about ours though – he never hesitated at a junction.

We hit a steep decline and followed it down. I couldn’t believe that going even deeper into the earth would ever result in our escape. Yet I had no choice but to trust Edmund. I would rather have followed him for another two days through the cursed labyrinth than backtrack through the crawling tunnel alone.

We must have followed the descending tunnel for a thousand feet. It got colder and colder. I furrowed my brow when I saw that Edmund had begun to limp.

The sudden reappearance of architecture at the bottom of the long decline shocked me. I’d assumed we were truly spelunking from here on out.

Heavy blocks of grey stone framed out a large doorway. In the portal – darkness but with the faintest hint of a rainbow haze. I figured it was a trick of my eyes, like when you shut your eyelids really tight and every color is superimposed on the black.

Flanking the open doorway were six columns carved like totems, three on a side. At the base of each was a coiled snake, and each depicted the heads of a hare, a dog, and a horse, stacked in that order. The snakes seemed to slither up each column to bite the throat of the creature at the crown. There was the bust of a lion, an ox, a man, an eagle, a cardinal bird, and most shocking to my eyes, an alien. It had the elongated head and large saucer eyes they were so typically depicted with.

I did not want to go through that door.

“Ed,” I said, “are you sure we have to go this way?”

He held out his hands to indicate the wide tunnel. There was nowhere else to go. I could climb back up a ways and try one of the branches, but if it led to the surface, surely Edmund would have taken us that way.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “It just looks…”

“Like I said, just stick with me,” he pointed a firm finger at me. I nodded and gulped.

Edmund watched me for a moment, then turned and stepped through the strange doorway, torch held aloft. Averting my eyes from the wicked totems, I followed. The tunnel beyond the door was narrower than where we’d been, claustrophobic. There were new branches of tunnel leading off the center every few meters.

There was just enough light to see where we were going, but it wasn’t all from the torch. I couldn’t tell where it was coming from. Painted across the dark was the lingering suggestion of rainbow lights, kaleidoscopic squares and triangles spinning in infinity. They turned so slowly…

My feet led me off Edmund’s line and I stumbled on a partially formed stalagmite. He halted and watched me recover. When I looked at him I felt a sharp sense of embarrassment. Mere feet into the tunnel and I’d already been led astray.

There was something wrong with these caves.

I signalled that I was okay and we continued.

We came to a junction of five identical tunnels. Ed picked one on the left but I could not tell his criteria. The new path wound down in a shallow spiral and my heart sank with the elevation.

Then, another straight tunnel with countless branches of its own. This portion of the complex gave me the distinct impression of a hive.

I heard something – the whisper of fabric. I didn’t look.

A light patter of feet like the cat steps that had led me to the basement to begin with. I watched Edmund.

Then a giggle. A young woman. It startled me and I feared for her safety. I only refrained from looking because I realized she wouldn’t be amused if she was in danger.

A form appeared in one of the side passages. Edmund didn’t seem to notice. Despite the darkness I could tell she was lithe, healthy, wearing a dress of sheer, clinging cloth. Platinum hair spilled over her shoulders and bright eyes reflected the sourceless rainbow lights. She was smiling at me.

I wanted her. We could rush down the tunnel together and she would share with me her delights. We could linger there forever, in a place as cold or hot as I liked, on fine linen or rough ground.

In my surrender she would offer me every carnal freedom. Edmund was not invited and wouldn’t be able to find us. 

Edmund. My eyes flicked over to him and I realized he was further to my left than before. My feet had wandered again. 

The lithe woman stiffened in my peripheral vision and then seemed to flit away. When I looked at where she had been, she was gone.

“Ed…” I said.

“Eyes on me,” he ordered.

Then came the voices. They slipped across my mind like memories of a dream and I could not recount what exactly was said, but the suggested sensations lingered. There were the voices of all kinds of people – men, women, children.

Some words inflamed me, others repulsed. It was as if something was fishing in my mind. How to get the desired response, a response of unrestrained desire? Each of my reactions served only to reveal my weakness.

I watched Edmund through all of this, sweat dripping from my brow, my face and hands clammy. He trudged on as if none of it were happening.

The voices swirled, the vortex of them contracted. Their timbre and character focused to a point, cascading from merely female, to women my age. 

They told me what felt like everything I’d ever wanted to hear, from the innocent to the lascivious to the unimaginably reprehensible. The words themselves were lost in a haze.

“Please –” I started to say. The extremes of pandering pleasure would drive me mad if they didn’t cease.

Edmund heard me.

“Don’t talk to them,” he said. “They’ll get you to look. We’re almost out.”

I knew he was right. I wanted to look. The desire was so strong it made my eyes hurt to focus forward.

But as in the pitch black of our crawl through the low tunnel, I prayed, I kept moving, and I endured.

I could see that the tunnel narrowed ahead. There were fewer and fewer branches leading away from the center.

The voices grew louder and I braced myself for screeching cacophony, but they became plaintive instead. Lonely, asking, begging.

Then they receded.

We walked a ways further, deep into the narrowed tunnel, with only the torch and that sourceless light to rely on.

Edmund slowed and barred my path with his arm.

“Careful,” he said.

We edged a little further forward before he stopped us completely.

“Stairs,” he said, pointing down. Then he pointed a few feet to his right. “Cliff. One misstep and it’s all over, got it?”

I couldn’t imagine how going deeper yet again would lead us out of this black hell, but any spirit I’d possessed had been spent resisting the voices. I just nodded. My own voice had deserted me.

We started down the stairs.

I trailed a hand along the stone to my left, a reassurance that there was more to the world than Edmund and the steps beneath my feet. Stupidly I reached out to my right to prove the open air and my mind reeled when there was indeed nothing there. Dizziness threatened to throw me over the edge, but a deep breath and my left palm on cold dry stone brought my senses under control.

Edmund’s limp grew more pronounced the further we went and I worried about him, but I knew there was no stopping now. The only way out was through.

We must have gone down a thousand feet when pinprick lights flicked on in some distant firmament. They twinkled like fairy gems, in every shade and hue like the rainbow light that had guided us here and still suffused the air.

Far, far below a structure was illuminated. A step pyramid lit by impossible crystalline lamps on stanchions at its corners. The whole surface of the monument was plated in gold and engraved with strange forms that I could not resolve.

On the pyramid’s flat top there was something that looked like an altar near one corner, with the incongruous shape of a bed opposite. Between was a low dais and something that looked like a throne.

“What is that?” I asked. My voice was hoarse.

“The seat of my mistress,” Edmund said. He turned his face halfway back to me and I choked. The skin of his face hung loose. His eyes were even more recessed, darker and bloodshot. His already thinning hair seemed to have fallen out in patches. His lips were parched and cracked. “It is the only way through.”

There was no thought. I turned to run back up the stairs. It would have been foolish. I probably would have slipped and fallen to my death. But suddenly I knew that would be preferable to taking one step further toward the monument below.

Edmund caught my wrist before I could flee. His grip was inescapable, holding me still as easily as a father restrains his child.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

I swung at him but he caught my other wrist, then drove a hammering blow into my gut. I doubled over, the breath knocked out of me. As I gasped I felt his hand on the side of my head. He slammed it into the cliff face, and everything faded away.

***

I awoke to the blurry sight of the distant rainbow stars. Something soft was beneath me. Hushed voices spoke nearby. Someone moved.

“Ah, yes,” came a woman’s voice. “He is awake. I am terribly sorry that it had to come to violence. I do so prefer consent.”

I heard her come nearer with a whisper of fabric. Boots shifted somewhere behind her. I tried to lift my head.

“No, my dear,” said the woman. “You must recover. Take your time – we have all that we need.”

Her face floated into my view and light fingers touched the bloody side of my head. She drew her fingers down my cheek to paint a trio of cold, wet lines.

“Clear your mind,” she said.

The suggestion was powerful. I strove to obey as if shaking off a concussion was a choice. Somehow, it worked, and her blurry face sharpened.

She was beauty.

Both real and a dream, her loveliness was at once visceral and unfocused. Were her eyes hooded and dark? Or wide, bright and blue? Her hair might have been a cascade of molten chocolate or a thin curtain of gold. Her appearance did not cease shifting as she studied me, and her voice followed suit.

She helped me sit up and I saw the rest of her.

Shoulders wide and strong. A full bust beneath a dress like silver mist. Or was she small and dainty? Were her hips low and nearly straight, with only the gentle suggestion of a curve, or were they wide with the promise of children?

Was it me that could not decide?

No, I realized. She was searching me out in the same way the apparitions above had done. But she was more powerful. She would not be denied.

“What is it that you want, Shane?” she asked, voice husky and low.

No, it was high and light, plaintive but inviting like a lonely flute.

“I can be anything you wish. This place can be anywhere.”

I couldn’t have spoken if I wanted to. I’d finally understood why Edmund had brought me down here. There was no escape. There was no way through. His mistress had set him to this. He served her and her alone. But she had used him up.

With effort that set a fire in my mind, I tore my gaze from the woman and saw Edmund. He looked even worse than before. There were leprous spots on the skin of his arms and face, and but a wisp of colorless hair remained on his head. His back was hunched and his mouth was covered in sores. He caught me looking and turned away in shame.

Then the woman’s burning cold fingers turned my face back to hers.

“What is it, my love?” she asked. “What will set your soul aflame for me?”

She captured my eyes with hers and I felt the digging in my mind.

“Where is it, darling? Let go. Give it to me and I will multiply it a thousand fold for you. Is it pursuit? Tradition? Is it eagerness and animal abandon? Fear?”

She leaned in closer. I could smell her. Even her scent was overwhelming. Sweat. Cinnamon. Lavender. Soap. Blood.

“Youth? Age? All you have to do is tell me. There is nothing I cannot give you.”

She shuddered as if chilled, then startled and froze. A smile spread on her lips, both naked and painted as red as my blood.

“Ah, there it is,” she moaned. “How loyal you are.” She chuckled. “She is brunette. Her hair waves and it is always frizzy. She complains but you find it endearing. She is tall but not taller than you.”

The woman’s appearance continued to shift. She took a deep breath and came closer to me. She put her hands on my shoulders and guided me onto my feet.

“Her face is delicate but for her lips. Wide mouth. Large teeth. She hates those too but her smile melts your heart anyway.”

The digging in my mind ached like a migraine. Her visage and form changed more and more rapidly… and settled on something familiar that was finally coherent enough to identify.

Larissa.

Brown eyes. Sad but bright. The wrinkle to the left of her mouth from that sardonic smirk of hers. Her long, pianist’s fingers still grasped my shoulders, possessive.

“I knew you’d come back,” she said. We stood in the door to her home. Vince the chocolate labrador watched us happily from the tile floor inside, wagging his tail.

I knew that it wasn’t her, but mercy… it sounded like her and my heart hammered as violently as the moment I’d fallen in love. The house smelled right. Even the dog’s panting was just as I remembered.

“I knew you didn’t really mean to leave.”

A sound escaped my lips but I couldn’t find words. I’d been reduced to a babe, with only half-formed syllables to express myself. As with the former apparitions, I knew I shouldn’t speak to her. I knew I shouldn’t look.

But it was too late. I had looked already, and her eyes had captured mine.

I wanted to look. I wanted to hear.

Because her voice was a song, because I hadn’t meant to leave, I’d just been a fool. The dust storm was a sign – it had stopped me just in time. The night would have passed, reason would have returned to me, and I would have gone back to her. Back forever. I would have done anything she wished then, just to remain with my love.

But now she was here. She’d come for me. Come to save me. Come to claim me.

She stood a mere foot from me, dressed not in a diaphanous, revealing nightgown as the last apparition had been, nor in the shifting fashions of Edmund’s mistress, but…

Mistress. This was not Larissa. I’d known it. I thought that for a moment I hadn’t cared.

She looked like her, sounded and smelled like her. She would feel like her.

“Does anything else really matter?” she asked. She pressed in close and stared into my eyes.

Did it? This Larissa would give me whatever I wanted. We were mere moments away from endless, perfect love.

“All you have to do is pledge to never leave me,” she said. “Call me queen, and be utterly mine. It is what you want.”

“What I want,” I repeated. My mouth was like sandpaper.

What I want.

I had something to express that, didn’t I? A trinket, valuable, but not too fancy. I had planned to give it to Larissa before Christmas. I had hoped to hear her say one devastatingly simple word. Yes.

“Yes,” I said, and Larissa smiled beautifully at me. “I wanted her to say yes.”

Larissa’s brow furrowed.

The velvet box was in my pocket still. It hadn’t been long since I’d struck out on the road, and I hadn’t been able to let go of it yet. I found it, held it before me as Larissa removed her hands from me and backed away a step.

I opened the box. Within, a thin golden ring with the biggest diamond I’d been able to afford.

Larissa’s reaction confused me. She’d said she’d give me anything. Why was she not beaming at the ring?

“No,” she breathed. “I will not submit. You cannot…”

I saw her panic. Her fingers flexing, shoulders tense. Larissa always flicked her eyes to the left during an attack. Left and back, left and back.

“You cannot ask this of me,” she said, and backed away another step. “P-put that away. You don’t need it. We don’t need it.”

“I do,” I said. I’d forgotten that she wasn’t really Larissa, but it didn’t change my heart. “I love you, Larissa. More than anything on the planet. I need you, but it has to be right. We have to do it right.”

“No, no, no,” she said. I couldn’t understand why she’d promise me my dreams and then renege. Her foot struck the dog as she backed into the house and Vince slunk away with his tail between his legs. 

I noticed that the back wall of the living room was gone. In its place was a gold-plated throne.

But that wasn’t right either, was it?

The shining gold was a veil. There were shapes beneath.

“Larissa, please,” I said. “I won’t fail you.”

But she was shaking her head, backing away. The living room was gone. The impossibly large cavern loomed around us. Pinprick rainbow lights flickered violently.

I fell to my knees then, out of words, and held up the engagement ring from the edge of despair. I knew now that Larissa wouldn’t take it. History would repeat. Why had I bothered to try again anyway?

But I had no other recourse. Without this, all I could do was move on and start over.

“NO!” Larissa screamed. I felt the force of it and fell on my back. The ring slipped from my fingers and I heard it rolling and bouncing down the steps of the pyramid. A sharp, cold wind blew across the top of the pyramid and thousands of rainbow candles blew out. The only light left was a sickly orange from the monument’s crystal stanchions. 

But the structure was no longer bright and gold. It was grey, rutted stone, wet and mouldy. What had been a bed was a cold slab. The altar was shaped the same, but had also lost its royal veneer.

And the throne was not regal at all, neither metal nor stone, but a horrid thing made of the skulls and bones of men. Chalk white mortar held the structure together and blood-painted symbols stained each skull’s forehead.

I came to my senses and panic took me. I scrambled away from the throne of death, but a figure rushed to my side and stopped me.

“It’s okay, Shane,” said Edmund. He still looked and sounded horrible, but there was a light in his eyes now. “She fled. I don’t know what you did, but she fled.”

Ed smiled and looked up at the black vault over our heads. Then he looked back down at me, beaming.

“I think we’re free! What did you do, man?”

“She… she was searching for what I wanted most. I asked Larissa to marry me but she… she said no, again.”

Edmund let out a horrible laugh. It sounded sick, but somehow real joy rang through.

“Oh that’s rich, man. That’s great. I never would have thought of it – you’re a genius!” He slapped me on the back and the sting dispelled some of my shock. I still wasn’t entirely sure what had happened. “Come on, get up. Let’s get out of here in case she comes back.”

“I don’t understand,” I admitted.

“I may not either,” he said. There were stairs leading down to the base of the pyramid and Edmund was leading me toward them. “But my guess is you asked for the one thing she couldn’t do. Or wouldn’t do. And if you couldn’t make a deal, she had no power. She may never have felt helpless before – she wouldn’t know how to handle it – so she fled.”

I didn’t have anything to say to that. I was no genius. If anything had saved me, it had been grace. I thought of the engagement ring, lost on the steps of the pyramid.

I decided to leave it there.

Returning by the way we’d come was a slog, but I was too bewildered and exhausted to be tense anymore.

The climb up the long stairs was painful, but Ed’s torchlight was a greater comfort than the rainbow lights had been.

The cave system where I’d narrowly resisted the glamours of those apparitions seemed to be empty. Either they had been a part of the mistress’s power or else they had no confidence that they could tempt us again.

Perhaps they’d been lesser spirits, hoping to feed off the mistress’s dregs.

The tunnels, the dungeon, and the complex were all the same. Going through the crawling tunnel, I let myself space out and not worry, and time seemed to go by much faster. The return trip from anywhere is often like that. Lack of anticipation, I suppose.

When we finally reached Ed’s sub-basement, I hadn’t even bothered to wonder how we’d get back in. The answer was simple as it could be – the way was open. I didn’t ask whether Ed had a way to open it, whether it had been some strange spell, or whether it was tied to the mistress’s presence. I just stepped through.

Ed himself still looked terrible. Worse in the electric light, in many ways. But his back was straighter and he smiled often. There was a life in his eyes I hadn’t seen even before our night of surreality.

We limped into Ed’s kitchen and guzzled cold water. He offered me food but I declined.

Then he told me to go get some rest in my room, but I couldn’t imagine sleeping in there. I wanted nothing to do with anything the mistress had ever controlled.

The dust storm had quieted but not cleared entirely. I wouldn’t be able to get a tow until morning, so I had to stay somewhere. I decided that a rocking chair on Ed’s front porch was far enough from the madness for now, and though I expected to stare into the night for hours and probably not sleep at all, I think I was out cold within minutes.

In the morning the storm had settled. Lingering dust painted the sunrise red and the sky remained slightly hazy. It was probably as clear as it would get.

Ed called me a tow truck from Millville and waited with me at the side of the road. We leaned together against the white picket fence.

“Still planning to stick around Millville for a bit?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said. “I’ve been a little too busy to adjust the plan.”

He laughed. “Well, maybe I’ll see you at the grocery some time.”

“Maybe we’ll grab a beer.”

“Sounds good, man.”

The tow truck arrived. I shook Ed’s hand and his eyes thanked me. I didn’t think I deserved it, but I also didn’t want to invalidate his feelings. I hoped he’d leave the place. I prayed that his mistress had abandoned him when she fled from me. I’d probably come back to check on him whether I saw him in town or not.

The handshake was firm, and I used it to pull Ed into a hug. We didn’t know each other well, but now we were comrades of a sort. I thought the hug was in order, and Ed did not resist.

When we stood apart he turned his head to the side and I caught him wiping his eyes. I pretended not to notice.

The tow man hooked my Jeep up swiftly and invited me to hop in his truck. I gave Ed one last nod of farewell, then settled in for the drive to Millville.

Aggression Yields Protagonism

This post on MultiVBooks

While we are often off-put by people with overly aggressive natures, there is no denying that these people typically control the room, platform or story they are in.

We saw this just last night (9/29/20) in the very unusual presidential debate. Trump came out swinging, badgering Biden, interrupting the moderator and generally asserting his dominance in the room. Whatever you think of the politics involved, whatever your expectations of decorum in a debate, and whether your mind was changed on any particular ‘talking’ point, I would have to say that Trump owned the room.

He pushed his narrative forward by being verbally aggressive.

I have been sort of reluctantly watching season 2 of The Boys on Amazon. It’s hard for me to resist Superhero fiction made with any level of quality, and even when I know ‘grey’ characters aren’t ever going to turn it around, there’s a part of me that still watches in hope. Beyond that I still enjoy studying the craft of screenwriting and narrative.

Anyhow, one thing that I’ve noticed is that despite a shifting focus between several characters – Hughie, Frenchie, The Deep, Starlight, Homelander, Butcher – only a few come across as satisfying protagonists. I find myself far more interested in Homelander, Stormfront (even though she’s not getting any tight POV) and to a lesser extent, Butcher.

Guess what these characters have in common? Aggression. One old adage holds that the more aggressive party will usually win the fight. For our purposes, said party will drive the plot (and strike the audience as more intriguing).

Hughie’s back to being a pushover most of the time, The Deep’s in an existential crisis, Starlight is trapped and mostly reactive, and Frenchie’s just simping full time.

Homelander and Stormfront (and again, to a lesser extent Butcher) are actively seeking their goals, and doing so aggressively. The other stories are mostly filler for me, making this pair the primary protag and antag respectively in my eyes.

So both of these were negatively-oriented examples of protagonistic aggression, but the principles apply to all characters. Aggression doesn’t always have to be verbal or physical.

One can aggressively court a love interest, or pursue a scientific breakthrough, or stand up for what’s right in court. You could simply call it being proactive, but I’d argue that shifting from ‘merely’ proactive to fully aggressive ups the energy of a situation.

Not to toot my own horn, but I think that I succeeded in this myself with my current line up of heroes. All are motivated by a hatred of evil. Pierce from Hero’s Metal is further energized by his adrenaline addiction. Jon is desperate to find atonement. Jack has a fierce dedication to the Godly aspect of Justice. All of their passions help me to show them pursuing their goals quite aggressively, so that they are never stuck in a reactive state. 

This motion creates a wake that supporting characters can ride in or pull tricks off of – they can be the ones to react. And all of it together really helps to keep the conflict in view and the narrative in motion.

Thus, when I write, read, or watch, I will continue to seek aggressive (remember that this doesn’t necessarily mean violent) protagonists. I’m done with passives and characters who have to learn to ‘come out of their shell’, at least for a little while. 

This was all sort of off the cuff, so let me know what you think and help me refine my doctrine of protagonistic agression!

God bless.

State of the Multiverse

Hello there, dear blog visitor or regular reader!

I’d like to take a moment to thank everyone who’s bought, put one of my books on the tbr pile, read, and reviewed any one of my works. Just knowing that the stories are out there doing some kind of work does my writer’s heart good.

Thank you!

For those who are curious, here is where the Multiverse stands right now:

RawJack has moved the most copies, with Coming to Power in second place. Hero’s Metal #1: How Black the Sky brings up the rear, which I’d expect given the seemingly niche heavy metal aesthetic. I may consider altering the branding of it to focus more on sword and sorcery (so as not to scare people off), though I fear that will change my artistic outlook. We’ll see.

I had been hoping that I would be able to see more quickly which of the three series warranted a sequel first, but that hasn’t quite worked out.

On the note of new material, Hero’s Metal #2: Out of the Deep is complete but for a few gaps that need to be filled in revision. This one has been a rough road, and various factors contributed to slow my progress and create insecurity. Whenever I read through, though, I appreciate what’s grown out of HM#1 and I think that many of my fears have been allayed by the passage of the months. Currently I’m planning to polish the story up and release Out of the Deep next. Those who are interested in the strange world and heroic characters of Hero’s Metal will enjoy it greatly I think.

The following release should be my first YA-style novel, working title of Rattan. This one is a mashup of Academy and Survival, with a female MC that I was quite pleased with. It takes place on yet another new planet, in a future fantasy setting that may or may not have some relation to RawJack’s. I need one more revision pass on Rattan and a few final proofread, and it too will be ready to go. 

I hope to have both out before the end of the year.

Several weeks ago I derailed my other plans for the year entirely with a sudden and overpowering urge to write a Knightrider-Cyberpunk-GameLit rag that took off swiftly but was slowed when I had to go back to my day job. (Any other writers out there who enjoyed the lockdown?) I would like to have this one out within a week of the release of Cyberpunk 2077, but at this point it’s a really fast turnaround and I’m not sure if I’ll make it. The adventures of Gun and Octavia may have to wait a little longer, but hopefully I’ll surprise us!

Heading into 2021 I plan to work up the first of my true space operas, dive deeper into Arc #2 (it’s already started) and knock out the rest of Hero’s Metal. As intel comes in concerning the reception of the other series, I may see fit to change the order of things. If you, dear reader, have any input I’d be glad to hear it!

I have far more concepts to work up than there is time for, and so I am always looking at the possible line ups to balance fun for you and myself with marketability. That said, if I could find my way to a sustainable crowdfunding structure/sales combo, I could go full time and just write everything! I would certainly enjoy that (it’s the dream, isn’t it?) and I’m sure that you would too. Stay tuned.

On the financial front I am still paying for covers out of pocket, but starting with Wave 3 I would like to consider at least small crowdfunds so I can up the art budget. 

And that’s about it! 

Thanks for reading, comment here or hit me up on Twitter @HabitualLevity. I’ll see you in the pages!