BLOGS

From one vet to all others...

Memorial Day Quotes

When last we saw our heroes, they were brought to the man who saved them. But why?...

link: TO LANDS FAR AFIELD

I might get rid of the daggers.

Afro-Futuristic ViSions -

Supernatural

Although an Afro-Futurist may use terminology to inspire interest and fire (inspiration, zeal) in their readers, DO NOT BE FOOLED. It is with the sincerest heart that their goal is to bring about the natural spontaneity of our being within the framework and outer region of our culture. 
It would be an injustice for an Afro-Futurist to stagnate themselves and their readers with the constraints of language which originally 'impressed' upon them the need to move away from the cultural dogma of science fiction and paranormal. 
An Afro-Futurist does their best to incorporate foundation of their culture with the given tools they have and in most cases been raised in. The Anglish Language. 
It is not our goal to express a hatred nor a disdain for the language unless we make strides to speak our own tongue along with others. Even in such a case, hatred and disdain, only causes structural and organ (sphere) disruption, as seen in the case of those with said 'diseases'. 
One word that seems to cause alot of attraction is SUPERNATURAL. When the average or even 'conscious' person hears this word, immediately there is a feeling of superiority, rush of adrenaline, curiosity and all manner of self-imposed and induced energies that follow. However, I am here to tell you...it is nothing special. Nothing more special than the wind that you cannot see but feel and then reflect on the concept of what is unseen and so and so. 
In my case, I write from experience, the swirl of cycles, the breeze outside my window, the breeze inside my chest, the unfolding of the expression of our organs (spheres) and the movement of our culture within all objects. So basically, the word SUPERNATURAL is like a redbull jolt of bs. Reminds of the scene with Wendy and Prince when she said to him "We do it only to make you feel good." However, it seems we all need a jolt from time to time. 
AND at the same point the following definition will only leave you boxed in!!!!
1.
of, pertaining to, or being above or beyond what is natural; unexplainable by natural law or phenomena; abnormal.
2.
of, pertaining to, characteristic of, or attributed to God or a deity.
3.
of a superlative degree; preternatural: a missile of supernatural speed.
4.
of, pertaining to, or attributed to ghosts, goblins, or other unearthly beings; eerie; occult.

So to end off you can restart a new cycle of thought. Watch your terminology or you may become terminally ill.

Visit http://www.djadjanmedjay.com/ to support my work. Follow my screeches (only small birds tweet) at https://twitter.com/#!/DjaDjaNMedjay

Bought mine Tuesday...

Movie Site: RedTails2012
Amazon links:
Red Tails DVD
Red Tails Blu-Ray
Red Tails - Instant Video
Red Tails Reborn - Documentary

Today i joined, the Black science fiction site and it's been a wonderful pleasure the warm welcomes the great folks i am truly best by great creative minds like myself

http://http://wix.com/chynamccoy/baynelegacyapocalypse

Please enjoy the Bayne legacy website.

Right now i'm working on raising funds in order to immediately start production on the Bayne Legacy apocalypse Graphic Novel. Looking for this franchise and Bayne to walk amongst the many greats.

I just remembered another book by a black writer that I reviewed on Mondo Ernesto

BIG MACHINE is by Victor LaValle, who admits to being a horror fan, and lists Stephen King and Ambrose Bierce as influences.

THURSDAY, OCTOBER 8, 2009

NOT JUST ANY OLD BIG MACHINE

It was the cover of Victor LaValle’s Big Machine that caught my eye. Automatic pistols, cats, ghostly black people, and an array of objects dancing in a white background, under the red, swirly letters. It suggested hardboiled mayhem, but was so un-noir.

It’s the Twenty-First Century, folks. Noir is getting to be cliché. Black translated into French ain’t enough. We need more than darkness. How about some ultraviolet – the invisible light that makes the scorpions glow in the dark? Just a humble suggestion.

Anyway, the flaps and blurbs mentioned Hieronymus Bosch and paranormal investigations – could be kinda weird. Then I read a review that compared it to Ishmael Reed’s Mumbo Jumbo, which I consider to be one the great novels of the Twentieth Century. I ended up plunking down some hard-earned money for it.

It’s not the Mumbo Jumbo of our century – we’ll be lucky if we see such a thing – but I was not disappointed. The range of traditions that LaValle draws upon include Ishmael Reed, Chester Himes, Octavia Butler, and Philip K. Dick. He admits to being a horror fan, uses a quote from John Carpenter’s The Thing as an epigram, and lists Shirley Jackson, T.E.D. Klein, Stephen King, and “my man” Ambrose Bierce as influences. He’s not your typical African American writer, and this book will probably not become an Oprah selection.

Big Machine is the story of Ricky Rice, an ex-junkie janitor, who was raised in a cult that is truly bizarre but disturbingly believable. He is recruited into a group of psychic investigators, because he can hear The Voice. He is drawn into the wars between secret societies that include the one he grew up in. The story tears back and forth through time, revealing him and his world in startling, jagged chunks like brutal time-travel. And where it ends up is far beyond, and more fantastic than I was hoping for. Fans of the science fiction/fantasy/horror megagenre will enjoy the mindblowing conclusion.

The “paranormal” entities in the book are truly something different, have the texture of reality, and stand out in this age of cheap fantasy media overload.

Part of me wonders why Will Smith and Denzel Washington aren’t fighting over the movie rights, but this book digs deep into heroin, race, religion, politics, and other specters that are haunting Twenty-First Century America. It’s scary in a way that “horror” loving pop culture will have a hard time cozying up to. Which makes it a better book, and one to look out for.

http://www.mondoernesto.com/2009/10/not-just-any-old-big-machine.html

Crawling the Jefferies Tube - Captain Montgomery Scott

CNN: In the end, it was Scotty who got beamed up

Society of Physics Students: The SPS Observer

Frederick Douglass, Blessings of Liberty and Education, Teaching American History.

A Tale of Cats versus Evil

A haughty woman festooned in heavy brass jewelry, the tacky kind, loud, banging and discordant, stands looking at a rhyming dragon who is gazing into a viewing pool with her.

The dragon is an unextraordinary member of his species. His scales are dull, coated in coal dust, his musculature, once mighty has the look of an athlete past his prime; a bit pudgy in the middle and soft overall. His wings, while still mighty from lifting his massive bulk, droop whenever he is on the ground too long and the flesh between the skeletal frame, flap loosely, like poorly hung drapes.

His countenance is one of supreme unhappiness, his fanged head hanging low, nearly dipping in the viewing pool. It would not take much imagination to see him drowning himself. Their hellish surrounds sizzle with fiery tendrils that rise up from the molten earth, a part of the Stygian underworld, rife with the screams of the damned, their cries an unending concerto adding to the misery flowing through the air; surely an unpleasant place, at best.

The woman’s mouth is tight and she speaks through clenched teeth, her displeasure evident as she points her finger directly into the dragon’s smoking visage. He winces and responds. “‘Where the sun touches the Earth.’ That was such a vague clue.” He whimpers. “How was I supposed to know the answer to the riddle was in the Arctic Circle and it mean the aurora borealis?”

Her answer sizzles like a hand on a griddle; a hand held there against its will. “You are supposed to be a Rhyming Dragon, one of the riddle-masters of Stygia. Supposedly one of the finest minds of daemon-kind. Answers are supposed to be your stock in trade.”

“We don’t get National Geographic in Hell. No auroras either. Until last month, we didn’t even get the Internet. Until I checked Wikipedia, I didn’t even know what an aurora was.” He turns his head away looking at an imaginary bit of lint on his tail.

“No matter, the Conjunction of Worlds is already taking place. Can you take me to where the Goddess will arrive?”

“Yes, I can, but we may already be too late.”

“Hope for your sake, we’re not.” She climbs onto the neck of the dragon and he wheels away into the Stygian sky. The Woman in Brass, gestures and a portal begins to form in the distance. The demon climbs before diving through the portal into the Harrowing, the voidway between worlds.

Semii jumps up onto the desk of the Man and surveys his work. With his tail waving back and forth, his posture spoke eloquently of impatience, hinting anxiety, his tail stiff with the very tip flickering back and forth.

The digital representation of the goddess Bas-Tet on the widescreen monitor is sublime perfection. Semii presses his cheek against the screen, basking in the bliss that is Bas-Tet. Meanwhile his brothers are outside standing watch, just in case the Evil is able to detect what they were doing before they were ready. Fat Boy positively glows with power and Big Red looks as menacing as Semii has ever seen him. The two of them are outside watching the Ways hoping to see anyone approaching. But the most dangerous task of freeing the goddess would still fall to him.

“Man, will this work? We don’t have much time.” The Man was a genius with computers, but revealing to him the secrets of magic may have been too much. The battle against the forces of Evil was supposed to remain part of the Secret Lives of Cats.

“You know I have a name?” The Man looks at the Cat he believed was HIS pet only to discover their roles were actually reversed and it was he who is being guarded and protected from an unknown threat, his cat does not deem him important enough to know about.

“Yes, you have a name and we are forbidden to use it. Names have power. We never use yours to prevent Evil from gaining control over you. Have you finished the task at hand?”

“Semii, this digital representation is an exact reproduction of the piece of wall at the museum. I have used over fifty high resolution images. If your magic is as good as you say, this image will be perfect.”

Walking across the keyboard as he had done so many times in the past, Semii stood and nuzzled the man under the chin. “You know I can’t let you remember any of this. She would never forgive me if she knew you were aware of our Secret.”

“If you erase my memory, how will I know if this works?”

“If you look up at sunrise and the chariot of the Sun God Ra does not appear, you will know something is wrong.”

“No pressure, huh?”

“No. Not a bit. You may pet me now. Mmmm. You will forget this when I am gone. Life will return to what it was before. My brothers will keep you safe while I am gone.”

“So you guys are doing things like this all the time? Saving the world and preventing Evil?”

“Yes. Of course. We have done this for your entire existence. Without Cats, Humanity would not even exist. You would have starved to death overcome by Rats, Ignorance or some other dreaded catastrophe. You may thank me with an extra treat from the special stash on the top of the refrigerator when I return.”

“Have I ever helped you before?”

“No. But if this works, I may call upon you again. But it will remain our secret.”

“Good luck, Cat.”

Semii jumps up into the lap of his Man and waves his tail creating the sigil of Horus in the air. “Thank you, Man.” With a bounding leap, he jumps directly toward the monitor and passes through the glass with only the tiniest of ripples. The Man smiles, shakes his head and falls asleep.

The cat lands on the tundra grass and flexes his toes into the tough permafrost. Nasty place. Glad I don’t live here.  He looks up and sees the moon already deeply in eclipse. With his legs flashing in the fading moonlight he runs forward into the night. The aurora forms in the distance, first tiny wisps, growing stronger with each passing minute.

“Hurry, my champion, the time draws near, I need you to anchor my passage.”

“I am coming, my Goddess. As fast as my frozen body will allow. Was there no other point you could have come through? Someplace with a tropical climate? You do remember we are descended from desert dwellers.”

“Yes, my child, I do. Please forgive my imposition. If we escape, I promise we will go somewhere warm. Beware, two Stygians approach.”

“I sense them, but they will not stop me from arriving in time.” The night lit up as an explosion of fiery venom shook the ground near the running cat.

The dragon swooped out of the night sky, his passenger clinging tight to his neck. “You missed.”

“Mistress, I am a Rhymer, not a fighter. My venom glands don’t get much use.”

“Then perhaps you would make a better floor covering than Rhyming dragon.” A second and more accurate burst of venom flies from the dragon’s mouth. Only a split-second bound saves Semii from disintegration. The shockwave from the exploding venom sends him flying into the frozen grass, inert and still.

“Land there.” The dragon lands and his body glows with heat. His feet sink into the permafrost as he melts the ground around him. His passenger, wearing the skin of a human woman, rises from his prostrated neck and lightly floats just above the icy ground. As she walks across the ice, the aurora grows brighter and the sky sizzles with electrical energy.

She find Semii lying on the ground with smoke rising from his tiny body. “I found you, you little bastard. Your trick was good, but it wasn’t enough. I will stop your goddess and her kin from returning. This is the ascendancy of daemons, no gods need apply.”

She picked his tiny body and looked into his one open eye as she began to squeeze his neck, choking him. She rejoices inwardly as his lifeforce slowly fades away. He spasms one last time and then hangs still in her hand. Curiosity overwhelms her and she brings his tiny body close to her face, amazed that something so tiny could be so much trouble.

Semii suddenly struck out, slashing the arm, face and the eye of the woman, flipping about and landing on his feet to streak away into the tundra grass. The woman screams and clutches her face with one hand. With the other she sends forth bolts of power that landed wildly onto the tundra.

“You don’t know much about Cats do you?” The dragon’s voice was quiet. “You know they have nine lives, right? Do they even brief you guys before they send you into the world anymore?”

“That’s a myth.”

“So are we. That’s gonna leave a nasty scar. Wounds from Cats never heal.”

A furious scream rises up from the tundra as the moon darkened completely and the aurora lit up the sky, swirling and crackling and off in the distance touches the Earth, just for a moment. Leaping into the arms of his goddess, a cat rejoices.

Where the Sun Touches the Earth (Cats versus Evil) © Thaddeus Howze 2012, All Rights Reserved

Lamiarum Unguenta (Witches Unguent): By boiling (a certain fat) in a copper vessel, they get rid of its water, thickening what is left after boiling and remains last. Then they store it, and afterwards boil it again before use: with this, they mix celery, aconite, poplar leaves and soot. Then they smear all the parts of the body, first rubbing them to make them ruddy and warm and to rarify whatever had been condensed because of cold. When the flesh is relaxed and the pores opened up, they add the fat (or the oil that is substituted for it) - so that the power of the juices can penetrate further and become stronger and more active, no doubt. And so they think that they are borne through the air on a moonlit night to banquets, music, dances and the embrace of handsome young men of their choice. -- Giovan Battista Della Porta. From De Miraculis Rerum Naturalium, Book II, Chapter XXVI (1558 AD)

“Hurry up, girls. The bobbies are on their way.” Margaret’s glamour had worn off as she walked into the door, slamming it behind her. Her hideous hook of a nose arched out over her wide mouth, distorted by her decades of constant magic use.

She was beautiful once, with wide blue eyes and rosy cheeks, those days long behind her, her flaxen hair now knotty wisps covering her now sunken eyes and hollowed cheekbones. Her dress, ragged, something taken from the body of an unfortunate who made a fine tincture last year.

“You know better than to rush me, Maggie. Flying potion isn’t something you rush to get done. The fat has to be rendered just right.” Elswidth was standing over a caldron in the middle of the common area, with a strange arrangement of bottles, beakers and piping winding around the room. She turned a tiny spigot as droplets of rendered fat fell into the dark fluid in the ceramic bowl he held in her other hand. “Ah, such a sweet scent.” The room was in complete disarray, tables and chairs lie broken. Scraps of clothing and dark spots fleck the dimly lit walls. Elswidth’s eyes reflected the poor candlelight like a cat’s.

“Was that Malcolm?” Margaret asked? She sniffed conspicuously, eyes narrowing in recognition.

Elswidth looked over her shoulder, “why yes it is, how did you know?” Her cats eyes open wide, drinking in every scrap of light. Margaret’s dirty shift and shuffling gait stirred up dust in the hall, each speck twinkling in the light of the full moon from the common room’s skylight. Margaret’s squat and wide form filled the narrow corridor leading into the common room.

“I’d know that sweet, buttery scent anywhere. Did you save any for me?”

“Why would I do that? How else did you expect to make it to Prague unless I used all of him. Look at you, fat as a cow. You would be lucky to make it halfway there.” Elswidth spit on the floor and kicked a dirty shoe into the fire under the caldron.

“Now, sisters, there’s no reason to fight. We have had a good time in London. It has been very, very good to us, hasn’t it?” Selene came down the stairs, staff in hand, followed by three brooms and a couple of old bags festooned with strange locks that resembled demonic mouths. They opened and closed at random, snapping at each other.

Selene was young as witches go, barely a century and looked it. Still lithe, full and sensuous, she filled her sisters with both a hunger and an envy that was easy to see. Her dress, slick, diaphanous, showed her ample bosom and wide hips and it clung possessively to her, looking almost alive. A closer look, might notice its fleshy tone, it silky texture like the skin of a small child or perhaps several small children. Then you might look away.

Her eyes, dark, unpleasant, and cold, had the look of a reptile, replete with slitted eyes and flickering lids. Even with this disturbing feature, her face was like cream, smooth, flawless, the result of bathing in the blood of innocents.

“Yes, Selene, it has been good to us. We must thank Jack for inviting us. Orphanages aplenty, homeless vagrants, the sick and dying who work in the black smoke filled streets of Whitechapel have made our work all too easy.” Elswidth smiled as she thought of how many young ones this orphanage had when they came to work in it nearly a year ago. There were nearly fifty children whose parents died from consumption. Vowing to find them homes, the three women, with impeccable references, set out to reduce the population of the orphanage through what they claimed was a process of finding the children homes in neighboring countries. A third of the children were actually shipped out of the country and were never seen again. The remainder, too weak and sickly to be of any true value laboring anywhere else were rendered for their essential elements.

Margaret called her bag and broom from Selene’s magical wake. As her bag approached, she noticed one of the clasps was unmoving. Grabbing her broom, she hit the bag repeatedly and each blow opened one of the mouths until they were all howling. Once they were all open the bag also opened and she counted the tiny flasks inside. One was missing. Gripping her broom tightly she turned to Selene and lightning leapt from her eyes.

Selene turned at the last second and interposed her staff between the lightning and herself, deflecting it into the room. “Sister, you seem upset?” Her smile belied her pretense of innocence.

“You stole it, didn’t you. The only thing I wanted from this entire trip.”

“It isn’t fair you would keep such a thing to yourself.”

“You could have made your own. You are always going on about how superior your magic is.”

“But it’s so much easier to let you do the heavy lifting, for me.”

“Stop it! Both of you. Don’t you hear what’s going on outside?” Elswidth was stirring the last of the rendered fat into the blood-red elixir in the caldron. “Handle that. This will take at least another ten minutes to be ready.”

“Yes, Sister.”

Selene and Margaret stand still for a moment, and a gentle mist slowly forms at their feet. A slow groaning and creaking begins and the house shudders imperceptibly. The crowd outside the house feels a sinister dread and becomes quiet without knowing why.

Margaret wipes her hand over her face and her glamour of beauty is restored. She looks prim and proper, a headmistress of an orphanage. Selene’s dress of awful flesh, appears instead as a proper frock of black and white satin and she looks like a young woman in the prime of her life.

Margaret opens the door as the nervous bobbie was about to knock. He was very young, a face barely used to shaving. He sported a stylish mustache in order to appear older. His uniform fit snugly; likely a hand-me-down from one of the older constables. His movements and mannerisms indicate he was still not quite used to be obeyed.

“Miss Margaret, I am relieved to find you here. I am empowered to arrest you and bring you in for questioning regarding the murder of Malcolm Little, one of the last of your children to be seen here. Your neighbors accuse you of murder most foul.” His head momentarily looked back at the crowd, as if taking strength from their presence. He could hear the sounds of whistles in the distance and seemed relieved that other police would be along momentarily.

Margaret smile was a well-practiced thing, design to disarm and charm, a kind of smile you can only get with decades of experience evading those who might do you harm. “Constable, that is simply preposterous. Malcolm is here with us this very evening. He will be leaving tonight with us to go to Prague. We have done exactly as we promised to empty this particular orphanage of these wards of the state. We have removed the burden they placed on this community, finding homes for them all. Come inside and see for yourself.”

“No, we shouldn’t have anyone with suspicions to have any further doubts. You are all invited into our sanctuary to see what we have wrought for the children of this part of town.” Selene’s smile beamed over the crowd of ten or twelve onlookers and they slowly moved toward the house. The bobby came into the house past Margaret and saw a well kept, antechamber and hallway that emptied into a common room, with clean and serviceable if not well cared for tables and chairs. Elswidth stood there with a young lad of ten or eleven and the rest of their bags and cloaks.

“Satisfied, constable?” Margaret voice was less pleasant than before.

“I am sorry I doubted, but I had to be sure.” The constable brow was furrowed as if he were puzzled by something but wasn't sure what it was. Then he realized what it was. Where was their carriage. Surely, if they were leaving tonight, they would require transport.

Before he could ask, he was interrupted by the honeyed sound of Selene’s voice. She had ushered them into the common room and was now standing behind the group. “Such a dutiful gentleman and conscientious citizenry should be rewarded, don't you think, Sisters?” Elswidth eyes flickered with mischief. She held out her hand and her broom flew into her grip.

“Wha” was all the constable could mutter before the room was suddenly ablaze. Selene’s hands were contorted into the ritual signs of flames. Elswidth’s hand gestured with the primal sign of fear, overwhelming fear; coupled with the burgeoning realization of what they were seeing, the townsfolks were all but paralyzed, their vocal cords unable to even tremble, their bladders voided. Speechless, one made the sign of the cross.

Margaret reached under her dress and pulled forth a wicked dagger; before the constable could speak again, a crescent of silver flashed in the full moonlight and his blood filled the very air, splashing the frozen townsfolk in this crimson bounty. Her clawed hand formed a binding of hideous strength; without touching him, she held him up in the air as if he were light as a feather. Carving his beating heart from his chest, she dropped his body onto the floor as her demon bag ran over to her its mouths open and eagerly accepting the steaming heart.

“Am I forgiven, dear Margaret?” Selene walked past the now burning townspeople whose silent screams filled the house, joining in with those of the children who once lived there. The sounds seeping into the very walls.

“Of course, dearest Sister. The heart of Jack the Ripper was a one of a kind prize, but the heart of an honest man and a dozen fools is a close second.” Margaret was still angry but the heart of the constable would make a fine youth reagent, and the bound souls of the townspeople could be harvested and distilled for their next disguises they would need in Prague.

They were going to be disguised as artists and live among the art community. They would need young and beautiful bodies. There were several to chose from in the room. She would forgive Selene, for now. She was too powerful to confront today, but Margaret was a patient witch. It was how she caught Jack the Ripper. She would catch Selene off-guard, sooner or later. Elswidth pets her demon bag and packs it onto her broom. Her eyes reflecting the dying embers of the locals, she cackles to her sisters, “Prague awaits.”

As the roof collapses in the terrible fire, people outside the house trying to keep the conflagration from spreading, see three shadows flicker past the bilious moon, the flash of silver buckle mouths opening and closing in its pearlescence. Only once the three of them are gone, do the screams of the damned bleed from the burning ruin and resound for hours in the alleys of Whitechapel.

Flying Potion © Thaddeus Howze 2012, All Rights Reserved

Having purchased Nelomaxwell's comic and read it over the weekend. I have decided to put up a review here.

So here goes

Hierophants issue 1

Publisher: Nelommaxwell comics
Writer: Ra'chaun Anton Rogers
Art: Kurtis Hamilton

Synopsis: Following the unfortunate shooting of an African American young man by the police, racial tensions are reaching a boiling point in N.Y. Out of this conflict appears the Geist, the city's newest superhero who steps in to intervene before a full on riot begins. This first issue introduces us to the character, his civilian life. The people important to him and his views of the world, while also giving us glimpses of the greater world and legacy at work in the Geist's destiny. In parallel to this we see the personal conflicts experienced by one of the police officers working in the neighborhood where the Geist has suddenly appeared.

Thoughts on the story: This story starts out almost straight into action as the Geist jumps in to stop the riot and then moves along to setting up the character as his personal life. Overall this is a good first issue, it kept me interested the whole read and certainly left plenty of places where to go with future stories. I'd particularly like to see perhaps an issue down the road that focuses almost all on Officer Marcus as I enjoyed this portion of the introductory issue. Pacing of the story is good, narration takes it's time setting up the setting and characters while providing excitement to those interest in action. It leaves us on a cliffhanger that was well presented (thought honestly there, I'm pretty sure I know what's going on but I won't spoil for those that haven't read)

Thoughts on the art: The first thing I can say is that it is unlike almost anything I've read so for, that's a plus. Distinctive art is just another thing to make a good comic. It does look good. That being said, the style works very well for some panels. But others to me had issues with the balance between the casting of the shadows versus illuminated portions. Overall it's a good first impression, but the artist is still in a polishing phase, there's room for improvement but it's a good start.

Final Thoughts: I highly recommend everyone to perchase Nelom's comic. I found it enjoyable and worth the purchase, as a first issue it's got promise to make for a very good on going series. It's a first issue done right, it got me interested right on the first page and made me want to get the second issue.

Final verdict:
Story: 4 out of 5
Art: 3.5 out of 5

Buy this comic!

Good Day, Everyone!

Trash, my debut novel, is now available for your reading pleasure at Smashwords.com!

Here’s the links!

Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/160029

Other options are:

Option #1:  Amazon Kindle:

http://www.amazon.com/Trash-ebook/dp/B007X65DAG/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1337729143&sr=1-1

Option #2: Lulu.com:

 http://www.lulu.com/shop/elizabeth-camali/trash/paperback/product-20068772.html

For free samples of my work go to:

Option #1: Author’s Den:

http://www.authorsden.com/visit/viewwork.asp?AuthorID=69807&id=51892

Option #2: Fiction Press:

http://www.fictionpress.com/u/502753/Elizabeth_Camali

Prologue/

They were riding the steam train again, sitting behind Ripple, the edges of their seats smudged with black and velvet. The train lurched to a stop, and the doors slid open.

Beyond was utter darkness.

“This is our stop!” Ripple shouted. Even as he spoke these words he had the queer feeling of time doubling over.

The Copper man leaped up and ran to the exit, Karla and Joseph at his heels. They jumped down and the metal doors slammed shut behind them.

Outside, the station's wood was rotted, the doors boarded up. The windows were dusty and smashed—the few remaining shards of glass, hanging like broken teeth. Ahead, the train disappeared into the fog.

“Hurry up!” Ripple shouted, “Or we'll be trapped here!”

Another wave of déjà vu washed over him, this one so strong it made him dizzy. Nevertheless he took off running past the train into the fog. A mist shrouded forest stood in the distance, and he sprinted toward it. Karla and Joseph followed.

Time slowed to a crawl. They moved in slow motion now—struggling through a syrupy wave of moments...seconds...minutes...

“Keep running!”

Joseph reached out and took Karla's hand.

And they began to change.

Ripple became a black wolf, his fur streaked with silver. Karla, a smaller dark lupine, Joseph, a wolf with burnt sienna fur—running through the towering redwoods, oaks and weeping willows.

Thin light pushed through the treetops and made splotchy patches at their feet. Mist floating in the air, thick and cloying.

Ripple vanished.

“What's happening!” Karla cried out, glancing wildly around.

Joseph took a few aimless steps forward, squeezing his head between his hands. Grandfather—! Grandfather where are you!”

The sound of approaching hoofs echoed through the forest. A creature ran toward them, weaving easily between the trees. From the waist up, she was a fetching Bronze woman of twenty or so odd years with sepia skin.

But her torso curved out into a burgundy mare's hindquarters, her hair curled about her shoulders, her small breasts cupped by a silver bustier.

The last time they'd seen a centaur, had been during the Time of Legend. Then the female centaur had been a Guardian.

But they sensed that this creature was no ally. An aura of malevolence floated about her, as cloying as the fog.

“Hello!” she said, her lashes fluttering prettily above her green eyes. “I haven't seen you here before. Are you lost?”

They stared at her. Joseph opened his mouth. For several seconds nothing came out. “We uh—my grandfather came in with us.” he stammered.

Her eyes glittered balefully. “You mean Ripple? Yes, I know where he is. He'll be staying with us now. And you have business elsewhere.”

“Wha-what are you saying?” Karla gasped moving closer to Joseph.

But he was melting away in her arms.

She screamed horribly—clutching at the floating flesh that was her lover.

The centaur galloped past her into the woods, her mocking laughter mixing with the Indigo woman's cries.

* * *

The New World awoke to a roaring wind, light blazed from the mirror—swallowing the planet—a churning, savage vortex. Tundra's inhabitants cried out, as their flesh bled from their bones like wet clay.

The world shuddered.

And was still.

Chapter 2/Stranger

Joseph came to on a carpeted floor and lifted his head to gaze at her. She stood with her back pressed against the wall, her face twisted in fear.

“Karla?”

She looked down at him: a slender, dark woman with a long face, high cheekbones and full lips. She was dressed in a sheer nightgown. Wavy tresses spilled over the Indigo woman’s shoulders.

“Who are you?”

He rose from the thick carpet: a tall, muscular man with reddish-brown skin. His thick hair

was gathered into a ponytail at the nape of his neck.

“I’m Joseph...”

“You called me 'Karla.' Why? That's not my name.  I'm Sonya. Where did you come from?”

His eyes searched her face. “I don't know.”

Karla...The name was like a caress. It reminded him of a song—the words forgotten, but the melody etched upon his heart.

Joseph tore his eyes away from her and scanned the bedroom. To his right was a high bed with a canopy. A wardrobe sat beside it. Across from him, stood a vanity table and mirror. Filigreed lamps were arranged here and there about the room.

The furniture spoke to him of antiquity—of an older, bygone age. Yet above the vanity hung a triangular clock, full of visible cogs and dials and encased in metal. It was ticking loudly.

The Copper man looked behind him, at the tall mirror encased in a delicately carved frame.

“I think...I think I came from inside your mirror.”

Her eyes shot to the glass, and a curious mixture of fear and longing played over her face.

“From my mirror?” He nodded. “Ho-how did you do that?”

How indeed? “I’m not sure.”

BAM! BAM!

“It’s one of the servants! Hide there!” She pointed behind the bed.

Sonya cracked the door. A plumb face peered inside. “Yes, Elsie?

“Are you alright, mum?”

“I’m fine.”

“But I heard you scream!” Despite her humble demeanor, Elsie sounded annoyed not to know what was troubling Sonya, and not to be confided in. She pushed at the door—a polite but insistent way of trying to get inside.

The young woman put her weight against the door. “I had a nightmare.”

“Would you like me to stay with you?” Elsie said imploring; but the plea didn't reach her eyes, they were cold and hard.

“No. Goodnight.”

In the next moment, Sonya's face was above him. “You can get up, she’s gone now.” She turned away from him, pulled a robe from her dresser and slipped it on.

“You can’t stay here. Someone's bound to find you.” She picked up a huge candle from the vanity, and lit it. “I was just about to go downstairs for some hot chocolate and biscuits. Would you like some?”

He nodded. “Alright.” Sure. Why not? Your mirror spit me out and I don’t know who I am. You don’t know either. But yeah, I’d love to share some chocolate and biscuits. An ironic smile curled about his lips, as he followed her out of the room.

Sonya watched him out of the corner of her eye. I should just scream again and have him dragged out of here. But...I've seen him before.

They came out into a long hallway, and made their way to staircase that split the hall in half. The carpet was a deep wine color, and oil lamps were interspersed along the walls.

Paintings of citizens wearing top hats and derbies hung from the walls; some with high buttoned coats and collars, others with walking canes. Still others wore glass monocles, and dresses with cinched waists, bustles and petticoats.

Many also sported curious short metal tubes with gears, strapped to their waists. Those are firearms!

And at this, a sense of wrongness swept over him.

Joseph glimpsed more of the portraits across the stairwell. All at once he realized that he was dressed in a likewise fashion. He wore a jacket with wide lapels, a high collar shirt and stovepipe pants. But he had no weapon. And for this, he felt strangely grateful.

Downstairs, Sonya led him past the staircase, and to the right to the kitchen. While he sat at the wooden table, she rummaged about in the cabinet, sneaking glances at him as she did so. At length, she pulled down glass canister of chocolate and sugar, and set them beside the gas stove.

“Do you know what you were doing,” she asked, “you know just before?” He shook his head.

The Indigo woman turned a knob on the stove, and held the candle to the eye until the flame caught. She blew out the candle, poured water into a tin, coffee pot and put it on the unit to heat.

Sonya fished biscuits from the glass container on the table. “Well, you must remember something.”

Joseph leaned forward, his face twisted in concentration. “Very little... I remember being with you—well, somebody that looked like you. But I don't think we were here.”

Sonya gazed down at him for another long moment, then turned away, pouring hot water into two mugs and stirring chocolate and sugar into them.

“Come on,” she said, handing him one. “Let’s eat in the breakfast room, I can think better in there, and the servants are less likely to stumble across us.”

She led him back out into the hall, past the staircase into an adjacent alcove. They sat in the

low chairs, a small table between them. To their right, an entire wall had been crafted of glass.

Beyond it, he glimpsed an alien city.

Sonya sipped her chocolate. “You'll have to get out of here, you know. If my father finds you, he’ll turn you over to the enforcers.”

Joseph looked confused. “What's an enforcer?”

“The peacekeepers. They make sure we citizens don't break the law,” she smirked, “nobody can break any laws but them. If they detain you, they’ll stick you with an indentured family and keep you there—maybe for as long as ten years.”

I don't like the sound of that.

“Or they'll make you fight in the wars,” she went on, “After your service, municipal lets you start to pay your bond off. That could take another two years.”

“Sounds like slavery to me,” Joseph said dryly.

A hard smile curled about her lips. “Yeah, I guess it is. You got ID? Look in your jacket.”

He patted his coat. He pulled a folded parchment from his inside pocket.

“Let me see that,” Sonya unfolded it to reveal an ink drawing of him. Beneath it a calligraphy inscription read:

Joseph 22833

Race: Copper

Eyes: Brown

Hair: Black

Height: 6 feet 0”

Weight: 200

Profession: Artisan

The bottom of the page was stamped with the wax insignia of a T.

“You’re an artist! Well, that’s a start. Too bad you can’t remember anything else. But it’s still dangerous for you to go wandering around Topaz with amnesia.”

Topaz. This name too, sparked a faint memory. “That’s where I am?” he asked.

“That’s where you are. And if they pick you up—even with amnesia, even with papers―they’ll throw you in an asylum. It's where they put crazy people. But not all the time.”

Sonya chewed at her bottom lip. “I’m betrothed to a man twice my age. When I told my father I wouldn’t marry him, he threatened to commit me.”

“Do you have any bills? If an enforcer stops you, you might be able to bribe him into letting you go.”

Joseph's head spinning was from all the foreign information being thrown at him. He reached into his pants pocket, and pulled forth a small bundle of rectangular bills.

A man's face was engraved in the center of each one... a cruel face crafted of angels and sharp edges, and stamped with the letter T.

Joseph tapped the image with his finger. “Who is he?”

Sonya handed the currency back to him, with a trembling hand. “Tehotep, my betrothed. He rules the empire.”

The Copper man stared down at the face a moment longer, before shoving the bills into his pocket. Once more, vague formless images tugged at his memory.

“I want you to go to my friend Joan's house. You'll be safe there. When you get there, offer to pay your way. She's always strapped for bills...It’s near morning, you better get going.”

Sonya led him out of the alcove to a heavy oak door. She opened the door onto a tree lined street. Three houses down, it dipped down into a steep hill. Ten feet away, a trolley car idled on the tracks in the middle of the lane; puffs of steam poured from the corkscrew pipe at the front of the car.

She followed his eyes to the trolley. “It's safer for you to walk, sometimes enforcers ride the train,” and pointed to the incline. “Go down that hill, and follow the street for a mile. Take a right at Culpepper. Travel another two miles and make a right at Mulberry.”

“Then just keep walking. You can’t miss it. Joan's building is 2000 Mulberry. It sits between two others. Cobblestones lead up to her door. Her apartment is H-12; it's upstairs.”

Sonya lifted her arm to display a bracelet with objects hanging from it. “Here help me get this off... Show her this and tell her I sent you.”

“Give me your papers too.” She carried the sheet to the end table behind them; then dipped the feathered quill into an ink well, turned the paper over and scribbled on the back.

The Indigo woman waved the paper a few times to dry the ink. “Give this to her too.”

Joseph hesitated, he was loathe to part company with this mysterious woman. He felt connected to her somehow.

“Will I see you again?”

Sonya smiled. “Count on it. Joan is my best friend.”

* * *

Outside he turned the paper over.

She'd written one line.

Look at his arm.

Copyright 2012 Valjeanne Jeffers all rights reserved.

Immortal IV: Collision of Worlds is available for purchase. Contact me at sister24moon@gmail.com

also available at Amazon  and Barnes and Noble

This is kind of an open question. How many black creators on this site actually make a steady living off of creating? I mean don't have a day job but only create in their respective craft? I just wanted to know. Do you think black (Animation, Fiction,Comics, Game creation, ect) can be a viable way to earn decent living? Thoughts?

Hey guys, HELP! I need more storage space on my DropBox account for my collaborative animation project at school. Would you mind creating an account from this link and helping me earn 500MB each of storage space for your referrals?

What do you get out of it? A basic account with the same bonus storage benefit when you invite friends (via email, Twitter, Facebook) to sign up. For my artist and entrepreneurial friends this is the perfect way to share files back and forth with your (or perhaps our?) future collaborative projects. Thanks in advance and I really appreciate your help.

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Awk! I can't believe I forgot this one! It was early in the morning . . .

http://www.mondoernesto.com/2011/07/alchemy-lost-and-found.html

It's a review of Minister Faust's incredible novel The Alchemists of Kush. My apologies to Minister Faust, but this way his book gets an entire post to itself.