BLOGS

I saw this post mentioned on Twitter and decided to check it out. It's a discussion between bestselling thriller novelist Barry Eisler and Joe Konrath. The beginning came about from Eisler's rejection of a half a million dollar book deal in order to self-publish. It's rather lengthy, but you can read it here:

http://jakonrath.blogspot.com/2011/03/ebooks-and-self-publishing-dialog.html

Here are three concepts mentioned that really got my attention.

1.) Publishing and selling short stories digitally. I have to admit, I never thought of doing that one. But now that I think about it, it makes sense. I have a lot of short stories that I think are good, but have trouble getting them published for a variety of reasons. And finding paying magazine markets is another challenge. Not to say I have anything against magazines and journals. They are a great way of getting exposure. Some of the ones I have been in contact with also have editors that give reasons and suggestions including with the rejections. But I still think selling short stories individually is an appealing idea. I do have a collection of short stories available for free on Smashwords.

2.) Selling digital books is easier. I have seen this happen to me already. Although my e-book sales are nowhere near the two authors in the discussion, they are greater than my print books. With little effort on my part marketing wise. It seems to me that users of e-readers tend to browse more, and pick up titles from unfamiliar authors. My books being priced at $0.99 on the Kindle and on Smashwords is probably a contributing factor.

3.) The more you write, the more you'll sell. This one makes a lot of sense, and I'm kind of upset with myself for not coming to this conclusion myself. I think I've been so focused on marketing my print books, trying to get those sales closer to my e-book sales, and getting my work published in magazines and journals that I haven't been writing as much as I used to and would like. I gotten wrapped up too much in the business part of writing I forgot about the reason why I started writing in the first place: out of love for words and to share my stories. In the blog, the authors talk a bit about their touring experiences and the pros and cons of such. I personally like going out with my books, meeting people and getting to place a face and name on my readers. I like knowing they're more than just dollar signs on a royalty sheet. However, the authors were talking about doing hundreds of events in a year. I prefer to keep my events in the 1 - 5 scale. I will, however, get back to writing more stories and more often. I'll even go back to publishing more of my work, namely poetry, on my blog again.

There is so much more that could be said about this blog post. But these are 3 that struck a cord with me.

Mocha Memoirs Press, LLC is calling for submissions of novels, novellas and short stories.

We’re currently looking for titles in the following genres: horror, science fiction, fantasy, and romance. We’re most excited about seeing stories in the subgenres of cyberpunk, steampunk, near-future sf, and space opera.

We do publish paranormal romance, science fiction romance, fantasy romance, and dark fantasy romance. We’d like to see submissions in these areas as well. Our interracial romance titles have been very successful, so feel free submit those as well.

To submit your work to us, submit a cover letter, completed work and synopsis to Nicole Givens Kurtz

mochamemoirspress@gmail.com.

Thank you.
Mocha Memoirs Press, LLC.
http://stores.lulu.com/mochamemoirspress

As someone who frequents message boards oriented around African history, I've run into several individuals who have some very...unorthodox ideas about the role of black people in world history. According to these people, black Africans founded nearly every significant civilization in antiquity, including Greece, Mesopotamia, the Olmec culture of Mesoamerica, and the Chinese Shang Dynasty. I've even met people claiming that the ancient Celts and Vikings were black!

Such individuals would likely be called "radical Afrocentrists", but the more I consider their claims, the more I doubt that this label is really applicable to them. I've noticed that these guys actually seldom pay much attention to cultures inside of Africa itself; they're more concerned with finding blacks in far-flung reaches of the planet. Take as an example Gregory Walker's Shades of Memnon trilogy, which claims a significant black presence in Olmec Mesoamerica and Shang Dynasty China. Walker may proclaim that his books are pro-African, but while the protagonist is indeed Egyptian, as far as I can tell he is in Europe, Asia, and the Americas rather than Africa proper for most of the books' length.

On the other hand, if you study the word "Afrocentrism", you'll see that it implies a focus on Africa. How can people be Afrocentric if they spend more energy declaring non-African cultures to be black than encouraging the study of genuine African cultures? This emphasis on peoples outside of Africa isn't Afrocentric, but is if anything the opposite.

Mind you, I'm not against the notion of black Africans exploring faraway lands by itself. If there's any evidence for it, I can even buy African merchants trading with the Olmecs, Chinese, or what have you. However, I really do not like the idea of black Africans founding every significant non-African culture, for it's implicitly disrespectful to non-Africans. It's tantamount to how Europeans used to claim a non-African origin for every major civilization in Africa, such as Egypt and Great Zimbabwe. The truth of the matter is that the history of world civilization is multichromatic, with its builders ranging in complexion from ebony black Kushites to lily white English. That's a much more colorful picture than the one painted by racial supremacists of any shade.

Recently, I was talking to Wanuri Kahiu, director of the Kenyan science fiction short film Pumzi (she's also set to direct Who Fears Death: The Movie). I asked her how she came to science fiction . She said that she didn't grow up reading or watching science fiction, that it was organic. "The story led me to science fiction," she said.

I had a similar experience. As a kid, I read everything, including some science fiction but not much (I didn't see a hint of myself in science fiction novels back then- no girls, no blacks. I didn't purposely shy away from sf, I simply was never drawn to it and I didn't have anyone to turn me on to it). Yes, I grew up consuming Isaac Asimov books like crazy...but not his science fiction novels, his science books (though I did read I, Robot...I enjoyed reading about the robots). As the story of Pumzi led Wanuri to science fiction, the stories of Zahrah the Windseeker, The Shadow Speaker and Who Fears Death led me to it.

My short story "Spider the Artist" was pivotal for me. It was my first time consciously writing "pure" science fiction. One day, editor John Joseph Adams had come to me and asked me to write a story for his anthology Seeds of Change. He said, no fantasy, just science fiction.The idea was a bit foreign for me because my world on and off the page is full of magic and fantasy. However, I always like a good challenge so I took him up on it. "Spider the Artist" was the result.

After writing it back in 2008, I was sure of two things: 1. That I was on the right path with Who Fears Death (I was editing it around the time I wrote "Spider the Artist" and I remember going back to it and turning the volume up on some things). 2. That I would write more science fiction. I liked the taste very much. I thank John Joseph Adams for gently nudging me to the table. I think he changed the direction of my work.

A burst pipeline in Nigeria

Here's a brief description: "In “Spider the Artist,” Nnedi Okorafor takes us to Nigeria of the future, where Big Oil protects the pipelines with spider-like AIs known as zombies, and tells the tale of a woman who faces down one of the murderous machines armed only with a guitar."

SO, I NEED A COUPLE OF COMIC BOOK ARTISTS AND GRAPHIC NOVEL WRITERS FOR AN INTERVIEW ON FRIDAY...OTHER ARTISTS HAVE FALLEN THROUGH AND I NEED OTHERS.  i FEATURE THE TALENTS AND ASPIRATIONS OF AFRICAN AMERICANS PLEASE LET ME KNOW IF YOU ARE INTERESTED AND HAVE A WEBSITE AND WORKS UNDERWAY OR PUBLISHED!!!!

MY SHOW AIRS ON FRIDAYS @ 7 PM CENTRAL TIME,  I GOT OVER 1000 LISTENERS IN JUST A MONTH!  DOING WELL THANKS TO THE SUPPORT HERE.

CONTACT ME:  WWW.BLOGTALKRADIO.COM/CHASITIE-S-GOODMAN

AMANDLA.NING.COM

QUICKEST WAY TO GET ME IS THROUGH EMAIL:  CHASITIESGOODMAN@GMAIL.COM

SEND ME A MESSAGE HERE ALSO!  fOLLOW ME ON TWITTER:  @GODLAUGHS

this is not yesterday...

and as much as I would like, its not today either.  Its tommorrow, and it will continue to be tommorrow until I am able to enjoy today.  Our lives are not spent enjoying today,they are spent preparing for tommorrow. Tommorrow when the rent will be due, tommorrow when the car payment is due, tommorrw when when the sun has promised to come out. 

Well, I strive to slice a little bit of time to enjoy today.  A little bit of sanity to relish today. A little bit ot time to recognize the life that flows in and out of my lungs.  The happiness that pulses through my bloodstream.    When it is so easy to live in misery and fear tommorrow, we must remind ourselves to look forward to whatever joy is promised in tommorrows. It is afterall, so easy to see clouds, to feel rain and to hear thunder, but when is the last time you stopped to hear, God's Laughter?

http://www.blogtalkradio.com/chasitie-s-goodman

So the media lies, and when we believe as Black women that we cannot find a decent Black man, than we are gullible, twisted gnomes that are more influenced by media than we are by the truth that we stare at everyday.  I see PLENTY of beautiful Blacks and Browns brimming with love and satisifaction in each other everyday.  When I buy into propoganda, I practice putting up walls in the way of a Brotha already too busy, and weighed down with stress, to climb.  Sistahs, when this happens, the Brothas simply won't climb the wall, they will keep it moving.

Sistah's we need an awful lot of encouragement lately!  An awful lot of self help manuals, books, and shows.  Just listen to your heartbeat, it tells the story of generations of Black men that have stood up to odds, and that have stood up with us as well.  Our men were the original superheroes, strong, bold, and unapologetic.  I think that they still are, just take a look around this site!

On a side note, I am looking for artists that have created Superheroes.  I would like to interview a few of you on the radioshow- http://www.blogtalkradio.com/chasitie-s-goodman 

In peace Yall!

Two of my fantasy books have recently received positive reviews.

The first is for my latest work Detecting Magic with Dick Hunter: The Mort des Hommes Files. It was reviewed by Book Reviews Weekly on their website and on Amazon.com. You can read the review here.

The other review is for my 2009 novel The Laroarian Conflict. The review was done by Chelsea Perry of Apex Reviews and can be read on Amazon.com.

Thanks for reading.

I just discovered a new and free software for authors and writers

She was Annabelle’s shadow, trailing the dark woman as she rode in horse drawn carriages, sipped wine on balconies, danced in chandelier lit ballrooms. But she always returned home to her quarter alongside the river.

Now the twin moons shined through twisted branches. The vampire followed their light down the dusty road to the juke joint. Unseen **** walked alongside her.

They stepped inside a wooden shack, the air thick with tobacco smoke and the smell of frying meat… Annabelle felt the glances of the crowd and didn’t have to probe their minds to know their thoughts.

How she dress the way she do, when she don’t never do no work?

Where she been all this time, to come showing up now?

She still looks the same -- not a day older! It ain’t natural!

Envy. Curiosity. Fear.

Annabelle sauntered over to the far left corner to where Fatback, the proprietor, sat beside a tub of beer. A table of liquor and glasses was set up beside the tub.

The big, yellow man smiled up at her. “Hey pretty, whatcho want?”

“Moonshine.”

Fatback poured her shot of clear liquid. “That’s a mighty strong drink, little girl. Sure you can handle it?”

She favored him with a smile, and dug into the pocket of her dress for a crumpled bill. As Annabelle sipped her drink, she let her eyes roam over the couples grinding in one another‘s arms. Her eyes settled on one heavily built, brown man.

Fatback smirked. “That’s Roscoe, a married man. Not that you care.”

She sent her burning thoughts to Roscoe… his eyes found hers and slid down her body like butter.

He wound his way through the dancers, and after the briefest hesitation gave her his hand. “You wanna dance?”

Wordlessly she stepped into his arms and their bodies pressed together, his pungent odor in her nostrils, and slipped her hands down the hard muscles of his back.

At the front of the juke, on a crude wooden stage, a buxom young woman sang, accompanied by men playing the piano and harmonica:

             And just can’t get enough…”

Annabelle whispered in his ear: “I’m going home. Wanna come?”

He gave her a lazy smile. “We ain’t got to go that far… Let’s go outside.”

“You want me? Then meet me at the water pump behind my cabin.”

“Where --”

She put her fingers to his lips. “You’ll find it,”

She left him standing in the middle of the floor, staring after her. After the briefest hesitation, Roscoe walked outside. She was gone.

But her voice called to him.

It should’ve frightened him, but instead his desire swelled until he thought he’d lose his mind. Roscoe ran the length of the road, following her honeyed murmur… to the quarter. To her cabin...

Copyright 2008, 2009, 2010 Valjeanne Jeffers-Thompson all rights reserved

      Throwing both hands up the painted youth replied, “No mischief at all sir Knight! I only know it took all my strength just to get him to lay upon the cart! Each day as night fell, he grew heavier. When we came here last evening, the wheel of the pushcart came off. I couldn’t try to move him until morning and just before dawn, the hyenas attacked us. Long as he is on the cart during the day, Oboe can be pulled along. He is so weak, I think he will soon die.” Just after the youth mentioned death, an unnaturally cold wind rolled in from the desert. It was the Chief who said after a hard shiver, “Hoooo! I never expected to again feel the chill of a winter wind living here.”

      The chill wind also affected the Knight as well for goose-pimples stood high upon his skin. The Chief’s words sparked within the Knight’s memory. His wife’s skin had been cold as well and then there was her other warning about ‘bringing the traveler to her at the dam before the last rays fell today.’ Looking to the sky, morning was in its full glory and soon the sun would blaze upon the land. However, the Knight noticed an insignificant gathering of clouds in the sky which should not be. The rainy season was long over and there would be none for months to come. His decision was made. Hastily, he and the Chief set to the task of repairing the cart with the Old Father still upon it. Based on Qatula’s account, if they took him off the small cart they’d never get him back on. Difficult as the task was, they were able to make passable repairs to the wheel and get underway.

      Shortly before the sun reached the midday mark in the sky, a much larger pack of hyenas had found the bodies of several of their kind. Two were the dominant female and male of a rival pack. As the much larger dominant female of the master pack’s nose took in the scent of her dead rival, she picked up the scent of a strange male creature that had made the kill. For certain it was not a lion. There were similar scents too and one of the strange creatures was near death. Whatever these creatures were, they posed a threat to this territory. The dominant female would not have it. Cackling for her packmates, the female loped off into the cypress forest after these strange interlopers. With the largest and most fearsome of all the desert hyena packs behind her, the interlopers would soon find themselves as a fine feast!

      It was as the youth said, as time went on the old man grew weaker and what should have been a simple matter for one man to handle, saw them all putting forth maximum effort. Both men put an arm around the two pushcart handles opposite the other and drove the cart further with the youth between them pushing with both hands. The Knight kept his shield on right arm while the Chief’s hung from his left. Both held their spears in their shield hand. Should anything come along they would be at a disadvantage to attack but not to defend. While pushing the cart over a path never intended for carts while huffing and blowing to keep his wind the Chief asked, “Is this damn thing getting heavier?” Looking down to see the ever deepening cartwheel tracks the Knight grunted, “Absolutely.”

      Looking up through the spindly but heavy cypress leaf canopy, the Knight’s dark brown eyes could see the sun had reached its apogee but they were not near the halfway mark to the dam. Another thing which had not escaped his notice was the summer breezes were now cold wind and thick white clouds were gathering. At the speed they now traveled, they would barely reach the dam by sunset. In addition to the mysterious dying old man growing heavier with each passing hour, doubling their efforts would see them all too tired to go on in less than an hour.

      Going faster was not possible and going slower meant not meeting the deadline. His wife said for him to use his better judgment. But what to do? Suddenly, from far back down the path towards the river mouth the Knight heard the last sound he wanted to hear ... hyenas. From the sound of their cackling, they were busy exploring this new area. Soon, the novelty of the forest ferns would wear off and they would be upon them. “Chief, our hyena friends will return shortly.” Looking up from his toil to see the seriousness in the Knight’s eyes the Chief grunted, “Odin’s teeth! How many?” Trying his best to be cheerful the Knight replied, “a few more than before!”

      Casting about for an easier way to get the cart to the dam the Chief then quipped, “To bad this damned cart can’t float! All we’d have to do is use our spears to pole it along.” The thought struck the Knight for a moment. Strangely enough, the pushcart was remarkably similar to a flat-bottomed barge in design just smaller. However, with the old man getting heavier as time went on it was likely the impromptu craft would sink. Combined with the occasional crocodile taking up residence in the lake, the idea of floating the cart wasn’t too attractive an idea. Once more his wife’s words, “use your better judgment” rang out in his mind. “That’s not a bad idea. We may have to go with that if things get bad.”

      For some reason, the Chief was not encouraged by the Knight’s words. Just under the sound of the growing wind, the Chief could now hear the cackling of multiple hyenas getting closer. Looking to the youth who now had his back against the rear of the cart and pushing with all his might the Chief said, “Boy, get yourself up on the cart and take my spear!” All too eager to stop pushing the youth replied, “You sure you two old timers will be able to push this thing without me?” The Chief’s eyes grew wide with indignation but it was the Knight who replied, “We’ll manage. The question is; can someone like you barely out of soiled swaddling and smelling of teats handle a spear?”

      Infuriated, the youth nearly fell backwards as he suddenly stopped pushing. The sudden difference in the cart’s weight without his assistance was markedly noticeable by the two men. “Hooooof!” bellowed the Chief as he had to bear down considerably. To the Knight’s surprise the added weight caused him to put far more effort to the task as well. Quickly, the youth climbed aboard the cart and took the Chief’s spear and announced, “Oh and my name is not ‘Boy’! It’s Qatula! Hey, this is a nice spear....” Movement through the fern covered forest floor caught Qatula’s attention. “Um, something’s coming. A lot of somethings!”

      Both men looked over their shoulders and saw the green forest floor come alive like small ocean waves as dozens of hyenas charged towards them! “Odin’s Mother!” Though the Knight never called upon the Gods for aid, he did appreciate the Chief’s sentiment. With his usual calm the Knight said, “That’s a lot of hyenas.” Turning back to pushing the cart the Knight said to Qatula, “Looks like we’re going to have to make for the lake after all. We’ll have to go up the path a bit further for higher ground and a better run at the lake down the slope. The last thing we’ll want is to get stuck in the mud or rocks. Qatula, the hyenas will take some time to feel us out first before they attack. We must use that time to get further along. It will be up to you to keep them at bay until we do!”

      Seeing the sudden respect and expectation from both men bolstered young Qatula’s spirits. Taking the borrowed spear firmly in hand, the youth nodded his head once sharply in acknowledgement. Not long after, the dozens of dark forms broke through the ferns surrounding the path yipping and cackling loudly amongst each other. Without looking up the Knight said, “As long as your eyes are the only ones they see, they’ll think we are some strange creature and will be cautious. Wait until one gets very close and stab it with the spear! Kill it if you can, but make sure it gets hurt. That will cause the others to be more cautious. Once they get brave enough, they’ll all come at once.”

© 2011 H. Wolfgang Porter. All Rights Reserved.

Go to Night Time Traveler Pt. V

      Looking to the Chief, the Knight signaled for him to make ready. Now crouched and stalking forward as to not alert the pack, the Knight looked for the dominant female. The youth swatted and swung his branch hitting the beasts repeatedly but to no real effect. Suddenly, largest of the grinning devils snapped its jaws upon his makeshift weapon and wrenched it from his hands. With no weapon, its fellows dashed towards him! Leaping backwards, the youth somersaulted away from their slavering jaws landing on the cart next to the now screaming old man. As the hyenas yipped angrily at their prey’s evasion, an abrupt death-yelp burst from the dominant female. The hyenas turned to see another two-legged beast land atop the completely surprised female only to witness its head severed just above the jaw line!

      Having used the forward momentum from his leap, the Knight drove the edge of his shield through the largest hyena's head only to stop deep in the moist soil. Before the nearest hyena could react, a flick of his arm saw the long fighting knife buried deep within its body. Off to his side, the Knight heard the Chief’s spear claim another of the pack as he leaped forward with a blood-curdling growl. With a strong pull, the Knight freed the shield which pinned the dominant female to the ground in death accompanied by an ill sucking sound. By now, the remaining hyena’s were in full route except for one.

      The Knight turned to see the fierce glowing eyes of the Dominant Male as they caught the rays of twilight. The Knight knew exactly why the beast stood with raised hackles, bared fangs and murderous intent. Putting down his shield and sticking the Great War Spear’s haft into the ground, the Knight slowly stepped forward and said, “I too would want blood for my mate. Come see if you can take it.” All eyes locked upon the two adversaries as they stood stock still. The hyena no longer cackled for only a long growl escaped its jaws. The Dominant Male took in the two-legged creature as its eyes would not turn away in submission. Infuriated by the two-leg’s defiance, the hyena charged and then leaped ready to tear out the two-legged male’s throat!

      The Chief ready to throw his own spear, watched in amazement as the Knight side-stepped the beast. In doing so, the dark-skinned warrior threw his brawny arm around the hyena’s neck and outstretched forelegs which was followed by the loud report of breaking bones. The hyena stared out with eyes wide in death for it had been so quick as to not allow a final rattle. The Aesir Chief stood with eyes agog after so skillful a kill. “Damn this will make a fine drinking tale!” Before the Knight could reply, out came the high and low pitched cracking voice of the youth. “Eh, that wasn’t so much! I had them all ready for the kill until you two showed up!” Looking away from the rude adolescent to the frightened old man the Knight inquired, “Are you well Old Father?” It was the youth who answered. “Ah, he’s all right.” Not one to suffer children disrespecting their elders the Chief interjected, “No one was talking to you boy. You should show your thanks for having your young hide saved.” Now with dawn in full bloom, the painted youth looked at the Chief and said, “Wow! Where did you find this one? His skin is white as old bones! And look at his hair! How much did this slave cost you?”

      Just as the Chief’s lips drew back baring his teeth at the youth’s suggestion, the Knight cut in saying, “You are being rude boy.” The youth turned to see the cold expression on the warrior’s face and he jumped back behind the cart and said, “Whoooo! You are scary!” The Chief drew near the Knight and said, “The Priestess won’t mind if I stab him will she?” Flashing a rare grin the Knight replied, “I’m not sure. But accidents do happen.” With a toothsome grin shining through a red-brown beard the Chief said as he drew his sword, “I think I can manage an accident just fine.” The youth looked from the Knight to the Chief and back to the Knight then hastily said, “Great sirs, you have shown me my behavior has been poor and I beg both your pardon! I humbly thank you for saving our lives!" Satisfied, the Chief looked to the Knight and asked, “Does that work for you Sir Knight?” Giving a single nod while looking directly at the painted youth the Knight replied, “Apology accepted.”

      After the Knight’s inquiries were made of the Old Father called Oboae and the Youth named Qatula it was revealed they were both traveling with a caravan on its way through the deep desert to a great city by the sea. It was one night midway through the journey that Qatula noticed the Old Father had walked out into the desert while the caravan slept. Thinking to bring the old man back, the youth borrowed a small pushcart to make it faster to return since the oldster was so feeble. Searching the better part of the night for Old Oboae, Qatula found him among the dunes crying about wanting to return to his home ‘in the valley’ before his death.

      Despite the Old Father’s protests, Qatula put him on the pullcart and rushed back. Unfortunately just before the dawn, the caravan had packed up and left without them! Unable to catch up with the caravan, the pair were lost and eventually were caught in a sandstorm. The next morning they found themselves by the riverside and Old Oboae pointed down river only to utter, “My Valley.” Since then, the Old Father had not uttered another word and had been growing weaker with each passing day. Looking to the Knight Qatula pleaded, “I beg you sir, help me fix the cart and lead me to the valley he spoke of!”

      The Knight pondered their tale carefully. It was not implausible considering he too had wandered into the Valley from the desert after being separated from his own caravan. The Aesir Chief and his men also found the Valley after being lost at sea and crossing the desert. In fact, all of the people living in the Valley could trace their ancestry back to someone who had been lost and made their way here through the wilderness. Then there was his wife’s warning to ‘use his best judgment’ when it came to dealing with the traveler. However, there were two traveler’s instead of one. One an old man wanting to return to his homeland before death and the other a simple youth trapped by his good intentions. The Knight’s first thought was to help the old man as it was unlikely anyone else would come this way soon. A moment passed and the Knight replied, “Fine. But we’ll leave the cart behind. It will be simpler to carry the Old Father.” Qatula was about to say something and then remembered his manners as the pale-skinned hairy giant moved to lift the frail old one from the cart.

      “All right old-timer, here we gooooof!” exclaimed the surprised Chief. By all looks the near jet-black graybeard could be easily carried with one of the Chief’s strong arms. Yet, no matter how he tried the former seafarer couldn’t so much as budge Old Oboae from the cart! “Odd’s blood! What sort of trickery is this? I’ve pulled ship’s anchors that weren't as heavy!” The Knight’s eyes narrowed at the prospect. He’d come to know the Chief well enough to be sure the man would play no pranks at so serious a time. The Knight had also come to know that when dealing with his wife’s world, nothing was as it seemed. Just to be certain, the Knight stepped forth and tried to cradle the old with no success. Looking to the youth, the Knight saw him barely holding back his laughter. Doing his best to hold his anger in front of the Old Father the Knight asked sharply, “What mischief is this boy?”

© 2011 H. Wolfgang Porter. All Rights Reserved.

Go to Night Time Traveler Pt. IV

I read the first issue of Damage Control when it first hit the stands back in the early 90's and asked myself, who would have thought about the wreckage of a superhero battle and the logistical nightmare it must be to clean up; someone who had a little bit of experience cleaning up after other people. I related to the comic immediately, and though I had no idea who Dwayne McDuffie was at the time, I was certain I would hear from him again, if for no other reason, he saw the world from a different point of view and was persuasive enough to convince someone to take a risk on him. 

Imagine my surprise when I found out he was black. Thus began my relationship with his work. I made an effort to find anything he was involved in and whenever he was involved, it was something I liked, approved of and respected his efforts to quietly bring change. I guess we will never really know the story of what it was like for him to deal with the challenges of working in the comic industry, but I am certain they were monumental, thus making his successes that much greater. He was versatile, he wrote the entire range of comics, from the magical to the super-scientific, pulp to space opera, his stories were logical, well-considered, and even when he missed the mark, it was never by much. The man was also prolific, he worked on a number of projects simultaneously, yet did not sacrifice quality. He could be counted on to tell solid tales and to make the most of the characters, their histories and always showed respect for the work that had come before.

His great respect for the history of comics allowed him to recreate classic ideas in new ways. Dial H for Hero became the wildly successful Ben 10 series spawning multiple iterations of the character, hundreds of new aliens, new ideas and spurring an entire generation into the ideas of space, science, aliens and the indomitable human spirit. His work with the Justice League managed to maintain the icons comfortably in their roles as the premiere heroes of their generation and still found ways to keep them fresh and evolving. The role of John Stewart, which has been so quietly pushed back in the comics, spoke volumes about the lack of heroes of color and McDuffie's effort to bring some parity in that regard. John Stewart was as heroic as any of the icons in this modern pantheon and the work of JLA will be considered a classic in animation for decades.

Static in both of his iterations (comic and later television adaptations) had all the hallmarks of the quintessential superhero, optimistic, serious, wisecracking and yet serious about wanting to make a change in a world that seemed to have forgotten how to change. Static's onscreen presentation gave young people of color a chance to see themselves represented in the heroic model as the leader, as the initiator, as a member of a family, with obligations to both school, friends and to their duties as a superhero. The animation also allowed McDuffie to address social issues that affected black youth and to show them the possibility of a life different than the one they thought was their only choice. I read an interview with him in the Atlantic last year and enjoyed learning so much about his personal views.

Dwayne McDuffie's passing is the loss of an industry giant. He helped to dispel the myth of there being no place for a black man in an industry dominated by whites. His work was always inventive, creative, but still respectful of the history of the genre. His greatest successes include the work on Milestone and Static Shock, creating black heroes with depth, dimension and character. At a time when no one believed there was even the potential for black heroes, McDuffie went about the business of making it happen. Twice nominated (as part of the team) for an Emmy for Static Shock, McDuffie gained the respect of his industry winning numerous prizes and nominations for awards.

Writer, editor, visionary, leader, dreamer, persistent, focused and undoubtedly a bastard from time to time, it would take all of these qualities for a brother to make a way into the comic and later movie industry, making Dwayne McDuffie a hard act for anyone to follow. And yet we must follow. He paved the way showing us we could not only make a difference, not only create something new, but to bring our stories, our views, our dreams to our children because if we don't, who will. Dwayne McDuffie inspired me greatly and I can say my current efforts to write heroes of color and to portray them in ways worthy of respect, not as caricatures is reflected in my own work.

We are great because we stand upon the shoulders of giants. Dwayne McDuffie was one of those giants. He will be missed. We salute you, sir.

Thaddeus
@ebonstorm

   I would like to let everyone know that my completely rewritten novel "The Dawn of MAN" is now available from iUniverse and Amazon Kindle. I describe it has a hard hitting, fast paced and imaginative story of revenge, redemption, the bond of friendship and the triumph of man against overwhelming odds.

   In the near future, another war in the middle east, skyrocketing energy costs, the crash of the stock market and civil unrest will set America ablaze. At a pivotal point in history, the first black president will be tested beyond human endurance and the American people must overcome long held and deep seated fears to survive modern man's first contact with an alien species.

E. Lewis

Lightning flashed.

The Archangel Michael waited. He heard the warning claxons, not activated since the Great Pogram, six centuries earlier and extended his senses to the Guardians at the Four Gates. Each had turned its attention skyward. They all locked onto a streaking meteor blazing brilliantly over the horizon heading toward the Celestial City. He moved toward the center of the city and rose skyward, his two wings slowly carrying him into the storm of Heaven. Rain covered him once he was beyond the radiance and he welcomed its cooling embrace. He felt too little these days, filled with the administrivia of managing Heaven. The unknowns of battle were his meat and drink, figuratively speaking, since he rarely ate or drank. This new threat was what he was made for.

The fireball moved fast, fast enough to be nothing but a threat. The outer defenses did nothing, as he had asked. He sensed they would not be enough as it approached them. He saw them cringing as it flew overhead, with a heat terrible enough to burn an angel. Heaven made ready below him and Gabriel stood by beneath him should he not be enough. There had never been a threat that ever took more than two Seraphim to deal with except for Him. And this, this clumsy thing was not his way.

Michael summoned his power and his two wings became four and his two eyes became four. Flame began to rise from him and his four wings became six and his four eyes became six and flame began to come from them. He increased in stature and his glow cast a light onto the Celestial City. He opened his mouth and began to sing in the tongue of Enoch, the language of Angels and could hear the Litanies of Heaven being sung below him, and the city harmonized with him.

He moved away from the city and flew out over the wall, gaining speed, preparing to stop the fireball before it even reached the city. The Four Guardians activated their Enochian patterns and the City's radiance hardened, a great shield protecting the walls of Heaven and its attendant suburbs. Michael streaked away from the Celestial City, a brilliant star, as tiny as the fireball was huge. He could feel the heat. He could smell the smoke as it passed through the air, miles away, he could feel life. It was alive... He could hear it screaming. Seconds away, he prepared himself for the impact.

Jehoel watched awestruck as Michael streaked away.

The skies above Heaven were momentarily lit with the light of a thousand suns. Multiple streaks of lightning covered the dark sky. These flashes were arrhythmic but constant, and the rumble of thunder cascaded ceaselessly. There were clouds but their movement would be strange to an onlooker. If one were to watch one would see this was a never-ending storm, moving constantly. It always rained here. Sometimes less, often more, but it never stopped, and had not for at least six and half centuries. Moving through the cloud cover and dodging the lightning were tiny flying figures, some human in appearance, others not so much, heading to and from a magnificent city of immense size in the distance. Its magnificent spires and minarets, towers and cathedrals, skyscrapers and monoliths all glowed with a pure radiance that soothed the weary flyers, or walkers who approached the city and came within its glow.

This city provided the only other light visible in this place. A steady source of golden light similar in tone and warmth to a gently rising sun. The only difference was the light did not illuminate the darkness past a few hundred miles from the city proper. Beyond that region was darkness, only punctuated with the never ending flashing of lightning in this permanent darkness. There had not been a sunrise in Heaven for almost seven hundred years.

A flying cloud of winged eyes dipped down from the sky and approached the Easter Gate. The breathtaking speed of its approach was noted by the sentries and by the city itself. The cloud of eyes began to slow as it came down to the Eastern Highway and merged with the oncoming traffic. The Celestial City proper is a huge structure, a perfect cube, but there were the Celestial suburbs as well and these stretched on for hundreds of miles outside of the City walls. To imagine the City properly one would have to image a cube on one of its points, half above the ground, half below. There are dwellings in both halves of the city and all types of entities lived there. 

Jehoel Softspeaker was returning to the city and hated the traffic that had been growing worse in the recent decades. She was an Angel of Mediation and returned from a negotiation with nearby Paradise Realms discussing terms of merger with the Celestial Host. She had been unsuccessful in convincing these other paradises to join with the Host in the coming War. Elysium wanted nothing to do with the war. They would not commit any of their divine resources, energy or heavenly servants to the cause. The Celestial Host was not trying to coerce anyone into serving, at least not yet. There were many angels negotiating on the behalf of Heaven, each going to realms they were familiar with and welcomed.

Jehoel was told to return to the city and report the results of her trip. Waiting in traffic would take several days before she would be able to enter the city, and while she waited, she Sang. This close to the Celestial City, everyone sang while they waited to be admitted. The walls of the city comprised of precious stones, resonated, reflected and refracted the songs of the approaching visitors or residents. Each stone of diamond and with flecks chalcedony returned the exalted songs of Heaven to its visitors in a way that soothed their souls, warmed their bodies, calmed their spirits and ensured everyone, no matter how long they waited, no matter how cold or tired they might be, were in a perfect state of bliss when they entered the shelter of the city.

The songs, each different, each unique to the singer created a greater harmony as they were woven together in a magnificent chorus lead by the wall's sentry angels. Clockwork mechanisms were seen patrolling the walls of the city. Great machines that resembled a variety of natural creatures, great lions with greater roars to match, capable of melting steel, bears with huge paws with stone rending claws, and clockwork eagles flapped their mechanical wings in the rain, circling the city in every rising spirals, each wing the length of a football field and capable of shaving the edge of a diamond. Heaven was known for its automatons of clockwork, each a veritable work of art from an Angel of craftsmanship and their attendant servants. Each piece was completely unique, and possessed of a singular nature that allowed each to come to life and fulfill a task assigned by the Angel upon their completion.

This song was heard throughout the realm as an echo in the soul of every person who came to Heaven. It was the Celestial Beacon and often when humans were in the act of dying, they could hear and see the Beacon as a tunnel of light they were drawn inexplicably toward. When you arrived here, you had to walk, down one of the cardinal roads which approached the city on one of its four points where each gate directed you into the Celestial City where you began your new life as a servant of Heaven. The Celestial Beacon was nearly irresistible to anyone who arrived in Heaven but if you chose to resist it, you were able to reach the only other destination here, Sheol, the City of the Archangel Lucifer Light-bringer. This other city has a variety of names, Dis, the City of Brass but it was most commonly known by its residents as Hell.

There are other Paradise Realms for the non-believers and with those the Celestial Host were in good relations with, had portals to those Heavens were accessible from here. As the primary religion remaining after the Compact on Earth, nearly all souls passed this way before they went to their personal Reward. Unaffiliated souls were able to be directed to whatever Afterlife they believed in but they were processed at the halfway point between Heaven and Sheol. Nothing is known of those souls that are processed there and the Angels there do not speak of it. Traffic between Heaven and Hell was always a constant as souls that had been released from hell were slowly migrated toward Heaven and newly arrived souls that needed the cleansing fires of Hell were directed there. All in all, an efficient arrangement.

In the central processing center of Heaven, where the spirit energy of prayer was processed and stored for later conversion into illiaster, cocoastrum and aether, there was a problem. This problem had presented itself in fits and starts for the last decade, but recently, it had grown to new proportions. Enough of a problem, that it needed someone to look into it, preferably by someone who would not make the problem worse, be seen by Humans and thus cause a religious event. Once upon a time, such a schism might not be such a bad idea, but now schisms divided resources that should be spent best on the Celestial Host, not on any rival gods or god-lings, trying to make a comeback against the Holy Church.

She fell. A shooting star in a place that has not seen stars for the dark clouds that perpetually cover it. Unconscious and unaware of her peril. As she fell, she burned. She burned, not from the fall but from that which made her fall. A machine unlike anything she had ever seen. She had been around since the making of the Celestial City and had never seen anything like this thing. It was more fearsome than the Malakim, warrior angels to heaven, whose wrath and ferocity have few equals, more horrific than the great Iron Golems, with their hidden hearts, that protected the Gates to Heaven and whose gaze, when released, destroyed all things, mundane or celestial.

She arrived in The Happy Hunting Grounds expecting what she always experienced there. Blue skies, except when it was needed to rain, warm days, and the sun shining overhead. It was a place so beautiful that if she did not know this was Heaven, a particular heaven, she would think she was back on Earth. The great plain below her was always covered with buffalo migrating from west to east covering the ground from horizon to horizon. This was her memory of the place, beautiful, grass-covered plains with verdant wildlife, and spiritual beings enjoying their ease in this paradise.

It was not what she saw when she crossed The Veil Between Worlds.

There was a pyramid, immense and coal black, standing in the Great Plain where all visitors to the Realm first appeared. Jagged bolts of black lightning leaped from it and struck the ground around it. Where it struck, creatures made of stone and glass, six legged, vaguely horse-like rose from the Earth. Ferocious, these creatures immediately joined the fray. Their screams chilled her blood, and their speed, grace and lethality became immediately apparent as the creatures engaged anything living within range. The black pyramid had doorways open upon it sides and creatures streamed forth like black locusts or black ants, and anything touched by these clouds was stripped to the bone in seconds.

The ground rumbled constantly as if it were experiencing an earthquake. Distant mountains already aflame with fire and smoke erupting. This was a paradise realm, volcanoes were simply impossible here. The air was choked with sulfurous smoke. The fields of grass were blackened with burns and the buffalo lay as charred skeletons across the plains from horizon to horizon. There were no spirits in repose, they were in battle against a variety of foes, whose eyes burned with a bright light akin to searchlights. And the things those lights touched, burned. She hovered in the sky above a battle, her hundred eyes taking in everything, the wind, the smoke, the flames, the battles both on the land and in the air.

She heard the howl of Coyote and saw the flash of lightning from the Thunderbird. They were surrounded, standing guard over the bodies of the Great Bear and the Rattlesnake. Each in their iconic forms, they were twenty to thirty feet tall. Each of them glowing the power of the Great Spirit of this place, each a guardian of their people's spirits. Those spirits were fighting for their very existence against enemies whose skin was like stone, dark and heavy and deflected the lightning from the Thunderbird's flapping wings. Coyote howled again and the creatures stopped their advance, shook and exploded into shrapnel fragments destroying their brethren who were proof against his howl. The Thunderbird's flapping wings created a great wind driving the shrapnel away from the gods' defensive position.

The Great Bear rose to his feet, having taken one of the black pyramids strikes directly to his chest. Towering over his enemies, bleeding profusely, he released a mighty roar and waded into his enemies again. The spirits of Men were here along with these godlike icons of this realm. They wielded magic and weaponry, ancient and modern with great effect but the enemy was numerous and powerful.

Medicine men summoned lightning from the burning sky, striking the ground with great explosions, casting defensive spells from their tribal staves against the burning light of the hexapeds. Tribal women wielded clouds of feathers from their headdresses as flying razors slicing into the armored hides of the enemy. The women conjured and the Earth opened and swallowed their giant enemies.
Horse thundered into the fray, his shining and sharp hooves flashed and dispatched enemies in a single strike. And yet with Coyote, Snake, Bear, Boar, Horse, Crow, Eagle and Thunderbird, all iconic gods of this realm, they were unable to stem the tide of the battle. The best they could do was to hold their own and refuse to give ground.

This battle raged for days. Nonstop. More Men appeared, more weapons appeared. No quarter was asked for and no was given. The horrors were supplemented by the hunched forms of man-like creatures each with huge hands, misshapen heads, each with the strength of ten men. There were monsters that flew and breathed a liquid fire all over the battlefield. Others bled acid, some had flaming vision. One by one the gods fell.

Bear fell first, surrounded by Men he led into the fray, they held their ground protecting him. Bear had engaged several of the enemy's larger ogre constructs and slew them all. He began to move toward the center of the enemy line, confident he would be able to disrupt it. His bear men, wearing an armor of bearskin, channeled his ferocity and his power, each of them filled with the strength of a great bear. He lent them courage and ferocity and they took the vanguard toward the structure the invaders arrived in. The men fought with great axes headed with razor sharp obsidian. They were once legendary warriors in life and in spirit they were even greater.

The tower targeted Bear again and black bolts flew like arrows toward him. His men leapt to his defense and time and time again blocked the blast, each giving his life for a few more yards. Bear drew closer to the center of the battle. The tower redoubled its efforts, and soon Bear was forced to take those strikes himself. He never stopped moving and mere feet from the largest of the ogre-like giants leading the battle, he was struck with six black spears of lightning. So fierce was the strike, for a moment, the entire area was hidden in darkness. When vision returned. Bear was dead. His men fought on but without the ferocity of Bear they were soon overrun and trod into the mud.

Snake crushed creatures and spit venom across the battlefield but he was the next to fall. Large winged dragons dropped down from the sky and savaged him and all were unable to reach him so embattled they were, all they could do was watch. Snake wrapped his coils around the aggressors and bite one of them who died as the venom burned through it. The remaining dragons released their liquid fire and Snake burned and died. In his death throes, he squeezed the life from the remaining three dragons. The dragons and Snake thrashed about and when the smoke cleared the dragons and Snake were still.

She watched, her hundred eyes remembering every detail, every creature, every structure, every shadow, every movement, spell, construct, machine and every sound that took place on the battlefield. But she took no other action. It was not her way, nor her duty. She had already predicted the outcome of this battle. Her actions would not change that outcome, only delay it. This information had to be returned to the Celestial City, so she watched and waited.

Raven and Coyote fought side by side, while the Thunderbird and Horse had been split apart from them. Boar lead a group of humans and buffalo against the enemy and they managed to reach the foot of the pyramid. A cloud of darkness exploded from one of the open doors and the darkness covered them. When the cloud disappeared, only bones remained. Boar was unaffected and proceeded to climb the pyramid. Lightning struck him as soon as he touched the pyramid, but his rage was all consuming, so he kept climbing, even as the lightning carved holes in his flesh, he kept climbing. His screams were heard all across the battlefield and were so horrifying everyone stopped and turned to watch. As he reached the main door on the pyramid, a man stepped out. A tiny man compared to the giant form of Boar. He had two flying snakes over his shoulder, each with scales of iridescent black and huge feathered wings. The snakes open their mouths and a terrible light surrounds Boar. His movement slows and his tusk stops mere inches from the strange man in the red cloak. The two snakes scream again and Boar is blasted into chunks of stone that land at the foot of the pyramid.

There was nothing she could do but return to the Host armed with this information. She could feel the Raven and Coyote sealing the realm and any passages to other nearby heavens. She knew that if she planned to leave, she would need to leave now. The Thunderbird bought them time by intercepting the lightning strikes directed at them and reflecting them back into the enemies legions. Instinctively she knew this was nothing more than a test. These creatures could have won this battle days ago, they were simply testing their capabilities against this relatively weak Paradise. They would be seeking stronger test subject soon.

As she turned to go, She could feel the will of the Enemy directed upon her. She made ready her magic and could feel Heaven on her mind as she tried to Transit. Her computations indicated she would not make it. In those seconds, she compacted all of her observations, conjectures, calculations, her dreams, her love and her life and sent them before her, a sigil streaked away into Transition; being without mass, it could transition instantly. The black pyramid extended a great cannon from the point and swiveled it in her direction.

She flew faster turned her eyes toward the sky. It was only then did she realize hundreds of other pyramids were descending on the Happy Hunting Grounds. Only one had devastated nearly every major deity in residence. They would not know this. She had to make it home. The Great Cannon fired and she was enveloped in flame.

 
She transitioned into Heaven, taking the flames with her.

Michael became aware of a waveform approaching him and stopped. He was far enough from the suburbs of the Celestial City for the confrontation. As the waveform reached him, he realized what it was. The Resonance of an Angel. The last will and testament as it were; all they knew, all they dreamed, all of their life was encoded in the Resonance. It was hers.

He braced himself and flew directly at the fireball, he would have to time this just right. At the moment of impact he separated becoming Guardian Michael and Warrior Michael. Guardian grabbed her from within the fireball and slowly descended to the ground, she was covered with burns, and all of her eyes were closed. Her wings were burned off. Her flesh crackled and sizzle with the energy of her life-force oozing out of the cracks. He covered her in his Light and she was soothed. But Michael was not very good with Light so he could do little for her but ease her pain, and protect her from his Warrior.

Warrior extended its four wings and blocked the path of the fireball and the sky lit up with its pallid sickly green color. Warrior thought he could control the explosion, his powers were strained to their limit. Moving through time, he summoned other versions of his temporal self and they combined their powers increasing his ability tenfold, but even that was not enough.

The sphere seemed to only grow stronger the longer he delayed it. Warrior extended his awareness into the flame and saw this weapon only grew stronger the longer it was delayed in reaching its target. The weapon only grew more powerful the more energy he put into trying to stop it. Whoever this was, they knew the defenses of Heaven too well. The Guardians at the Gates would have tried to annihilate this only increasing its power. They counted on someone trying to delay or attack it with energy weaponry. He knew he had only seconds to decide how to deal with it. Since he had already summoned his temporal selves he knew instinctively that time was the element needed. He directed his power and his temporal selves into moving the object through time but not space and his temporal selves surrounded the object until it would have reached the Celestial City. In those seconds, the Guardian erected a shield over himself and her. Nothing would penetrate it. He only hoped the Warrior would not need it more.

The bomb detonated lighting the skies of heaven in every direction, and a fierce shockwave swept from Warrior Michael's position. Gabriel ran from the gates of the city and moved as if time had no meaning. He streaked through the bomb blast debris as if it was not moving. The Gate Guardians directed their vision toward any debris that moved through the clouds and destroyed it before it could reach the outskirts of the suburbs. Gabriel took five seconds to reach the Warrior as he fell from the sky. Warrior Michael had lost an arm during the explosion and was blackened and burned. His wings were shriveled and mere wisps of their former greatness.

Guardian Michael was also unconscious. His left arm was also gone and he was covered with burns, but he protected his charge from any further harm. Gabriel angry that Michael had insisted on doing this alone was incredulous as his Light began to heal the catastrophic injuries Michael had suffered. Michael was an Archangel, what could do this to him?

Jehoel Softspeaker, along with everyone else standing outside of the Celestial city cowered as the super-hot winds blew through the streets, miles from the bomb blast seen in the distance. She had not been the only agent to return unsuccessfully. It would appear our enemy has decided to let the Host know of their intentions. Heaven was at war.