Black as Night

As the Sheriff escorted me into the center of town, I could sense the game behind me returning to its previous exuberance. The townsfolk seem to take their football seriously and whatever they sensed earlier didn't seem to warrant further investigation once they saw the Sheriff was on the job. That made me nervous.

The pain in my chest returned with a renew vigor and I stumbled and dropped to one knee.

"You okay, son?"

"To be perfectly honest, Sheriff, I could do with a bite to eat." 

"Well, under the circumstances, it would be bad manners if I had you meet the mayor on an empty stomach. I am certain he would not want our town's reputation for hospitality to be ruined on my account."

"On my way into town, I noticed everything's closed. What do you have in mind?" Too many afternoons of bad B movies had me thinking he was going to invite me to his home and chop me up in his basement.

"One of the benefits of being the Sheriff is a key to the diner. I am certain we can rustle up something from the fridge. Now tell me something, how old are you? 'Cause to look at you, I'd think you were sixteen and a bit young to be out here in Providence, no disrespect."

"I'm eighteen."

"Ah. Existential angst might be enough to get you here, then." 

When we reached the diner, the Sheriff let us in and locked the door behind us. He moved behind the counter in what appeared to be a diner straight out of Happy Days. Big counter, wide spinning seats, a jukebox, diner booths with bright red padded chairs. All we were missing was a laugh track and a guy in a leather jacket. I spun around on one of the stools a couple of times, but stopped right before the Sheriff came back into the room.

"Made you a BLT, hope you eat bacon." He smiled and carried the two plates and cups like a pro. Noting my smile, he added, "Did my time as a waiter when I first came to Providence twenty years ago. Some skills never go away."

That seemed like a strange thought to me. This was a guy that seemed to have been a Sheriff forever. I can't imagine him having ever been anything else. That was another thing about this place, the very nature of everything here seemed overt, powerful, strong as if each thing were the perfect representation of the thing I was seeing. Ms. Hart tried to teach me something about that once, but I couldn't recall what she called it.

Talking around the most delicious BLT I had ever eaten I had to ask the question that had been nagging me since I got here. "Sheriff, where is Providence? I mean on a map."

"Now see, we were doing so well. Why did you have to go and spoil it with a philosophical conversation. Let's finish our meal with less weighty questions and then the mayor can answer such deep and meaningful questions." I didn't see him eat his sandwich but when I looked at his plate, his food was gone. 

He was sipping on a cup of strong, black coffee. I could smell it and the scent of it reminded me of my father. He drank his black. I remember taking a sip and finding it the most bitter thing I had ever had. He laughed as I choked it down. When I asked him why he drank it that way, he said he wanted the essence of the coffee. Sugar and milk watered down the true nature of the oil that coffee was made from. It was important to him to engage the coffee in a struggle of its nature versus his. I didn't quite understand it then. But now its making more sense. The real struggles of the world were not always cataclysmic. They were the tiny conflicts we fight every day, those were the battles that needed to be won in order to win the war. He started his day off with a battle he could win.

"Sheriff, if you can't tell me where Providence is, can you tell me what it is? My teacher taught me about the realm of Logos, where the perfect representation of everything can be found. When I am looking around here, everything seems simply too good, if I can use the word, iconic, even. I mean, look at this jukebox, its perfect, lights all work, each label for the records is perfectly written, no scratches, no flaws. It's almost as if it had never been used."

Leaning back onto the counter, he had leaned his hat forward and while sipping his coffee, shadow seemed to fall on his face and for a moment, all I could see was the glittering of his eyes. Across the room, I could feel a chill in the air and his words seemed darker, colder and just a touch menacing. "Providence ain't like any town you have ever seen, boy. Providence is every town you have ever seen. Everything seems perfect here because it is. Everyone who lives here is someone who had despaired of finding a place that could hold them, make them feel human, people out on the edges of the world, a world that has forgotten that everyone isn't beautiful, or wealthy or loved. Providence is where those forgotten people get to come and be normal."

There was a mirror on the wall across from the jukebox over the dinner booths. I hadn't noticed it earlier but when my eye fell across it, I could see the Sheriff on the stool but what I saw wasn't even remotely human. Misshapen, with a long arm draping onto the floor, the other surrounding the tiny coffee cup. The glint of a long tusk, touched what did appear to be the Sheriff's cap. Legs, thick and frightening, covered in a scale ended in large clawed toes. When he spoke next, his smooth and methodical voice was replaced with a harsh, scratchy sound like gravel being ground together to approximate human speech. "Are you ready, not a good thing to keep the mayor waiting too long?"

I snapped my head back into the room and I saw the Sheriff return to his beautiful, glamoured appearance. When I looked back into the mirror, he still looked the same now. Whatever I saw was gone. I wanted desperately ask the Hat what was going on, but since we entered the town proper, it hasn't made so much as a sound, so I wanted to keep it a secret, for as long as possible. "Yes, sir. That sandwich hit the spot. My complements to the chef." 

The walk to the main building at the center of town was short. As we walked, I saw the sky darkening slightly,  and the wind picked up just a bit. I could taste the slightest moisture in the air and the distant flash of lightning in the hills surrounding Providence foretold rain in a couple of hours. 

"Company's coming. Let's get a move on." The Sheriff picked up his pace and the sound of his boots echoed off the walls of the nearby shops and down the alleys. I was underwhelmed by the very ordinary outside of the building. It looked like an old bell tower or a building that might have been a church in the past. 

But once past the doors, its inner appearance was simply majestic. It had a high inner ceiling and stained glass windows. Where I would have expected pews the floor was open and clear with a very ornate sigil that I did not recognize, on the floor made from a mosaic of tiny tiles. It was beautiful even to my underdeveloped sense of artistic mastery. I had never seen anything quite like it. "Mind your hat." The Sheriff took his hat off as he entered the building. I followed suit. My Hat was hot in my hands, like a living thing. It vibrated with a hum like a cat purring.

"Stay on the White. Do not touch the black tiles." The Sheriff took a circuitous route to the stairwell, carefully avoided any of the tiles which were completely black. Paying close attention I did the same. The longer I walked the longer the walk seemed to take. I realized something was happening when I noticed the angle of the sun. A significant amount of time was required to navigate the room and when I realized I had reached the stairs, at least thirty minutes had passed. The angle of the sun was completely different. But during the movement, I was unaware of the passage of time until I reached the stairs.

"Don't ask."

Did I really ask that many questions? When we reached the second floor, the building was made of the darkest wood I had ever seen. It seemed to absorb the very light from the room.  All the windows were stained glass and no direct sunlight came into the room. But I think sunlight would refuse to enter here, even if it could. The air was heavy and still. Thick with age, like a closet that has not been opened for a long time. 

The Sheriff pointed down the hall to a large set of doors. "The Mayor will see you in that room. When you get there, knock and wait until told to enter. I will see to our other guests. Good luck, son."

"You're not coming?" Suddenly being here didn't seem to be the good idea I thought it was when I was first convinced of it. 

"This is as far as I need to go. Goodbye, Last Scion. I think we shall never meet again. I am sorry."

I turned down the hall and the Hat in my hand thrummed and nearly sang with anticipation. I could feel it's familiarity with this place as if it were coming home. Walking down the hall, it grew darker, a subtle thing but by the time I reached the end of the hall, I could barely see anything. The doors were a cold stone, matte black, absorbing all light, reflecting nothing. 

I knocked. The doors absorbed the sound muffling my pitiful attempt to be heard. I waited. I knocked harder with greater vigor, wanting to be heard. It didn't matter.

"Enter, Adam, Last Scion of the Clan Equinox." The voice was startlingly clear. And then I realized why. It was coming from the Hat in my hand. I pushed the door open and entered into a room that was completely without light.

I walked in and the Power in my chest flared to fiery life. I could feel it trying to illuminate the darkness. It failed. I bumped into a chair, something leather, plush and padded.

"Sit down. Place the Hat on the chair across from you and we shall begin our negotiations."

"Hello Heberon. It's been a while."

Whose Heberon? I can smell a perfume, smoky, dusky, a sandalwood and a voice that sounded like the Hat, with a decidingly more female sound.  

"Hello, my Dark Master. It has been a century or two. I hope we haven't kept you waiting."

"Not at all, my dear. Did you explain to your young charge about his unconditional surrender?

"We hadn't gotten around to that part, yet my Master."

Equinox © Thaddeus Howze 2011. All Rights Reserved [@ebonstorm]

Isaac Asimov once said, "Individual science fiction stories may seem as trivial as ever to the blinder critics and philosophers of today — but the core of science fiction, its essence has become crucial to our salvation, if we are to be saved at all.”

Some time in the mid 1960s:

                                          Chapter 09

    Chicago, the Windy City.  Not because of the biting, damp cold winds of winter, that whipped around downtown skyscrapers and could force you into oncoming traffic in the street if you weren’t careful.  No, it was named so because of it’s colorful politicians.  One may read about the source of its nickname deriving from the Columbian Exposition or its rivalry with Cincinnati, but school children were taught that the nickname came about based on the “windy” nature of those who lived and ruled there.
    Regardless of the origins of the name, Chicago’s summers were notoriously hot and humid.  And the large garage that the four transplanted young men from North Carolina were calling their headquarters, was like an oven during the afternoons and evenings while they worked.
    By the time Christopher had arrived from his cross-country trip with Chuck, Riley and Peanut had most everything set up.  They had an electronics shop set up that would have done any manufacturing company proud.  And with Riley’s experience with building communications gear, he and Peanut were quite confident that whatever Christopher demanded, they would be able to deliver.
    When Christopher had brought everything he owned into the small apartment Chuck had secured for them, he had Chuck bring him to the shop nearby.  When Riley and Peanut saw Christopher and Chuck walk in the back door, they both gave a whoop and ran to greet them with slaps on the back and laughter.
    They paused to ask what was in the sack Christopher was carrying, and laughed when they saw the Philco clock/radio.
    “Hey man, we already have a hi-fi in the office.  We even have a couple of speakers hanging on the wall out here,” Peanut admonished.
    “That thing looks like it’s seen better days, my man,” added Riley.
    “Just hang on gents, you know it’s rude to drop in on friends and not bring gifts,” Christopher countered.  “Riley, get me an extension cord and Peanut, you and Chuck find some way to attached the guts of this thing to that steel beam over there by the wall.”
    “Get out!  You mean you and Chuck brought the...the, thing inside that?” Riley said, pointing.
    “Can you think of a better way to hide it?” said Chuck. “I almost threw it in the trash when we were packing everything into his trunk.”
    The four quickly cleared everything from around the beam.  Chuck and Peanut found four industrial clamps to bind the device’s base to the beam while Riley waited to plug the device in.
    “Okay, now I need some insulated gloves, thick rubber ones,” Christopher requested.
    “Is it dangerous?” asked Riley.
    “No, but I’ve never touched it without gloves.  I’m just being careful.”
    Christopher took the end of the extension cord and plugged his device in.  As he moved to the device, the other three took an involuntary step back, chuckling as they saw each other mimic the action.
    When Christopher flipped a switch on the device, there was a slight hum that quickly died out.  Then he turned a small dial.  The heavy beam rose silently into the air, and when it reached chest height on Christopher, he backed down on the knob leaving the beam to hover silently in the air.
    “I’ll be God damned!” cried Chuck.  “If that isn’t the God damnedest thing I’ve ever seen, I don’t know what the fuck is.”
    Riley was silent as he approached the beam.  He reached out and barely touched it, seeing if he could feel the energy holding it aloft.  After he determined that there was no static discharge or arcing display that could, or would kill him, he applied a little push to the bean and was rewarded with a slow movement away from him.
    “Did you feel anything?” Peanut asked.
    “Hell no, not even a little vibration,” Riley answered.
    “Man, I couldn’t even lift one end of that thing off the ground, Chris.  That shit is unbelievable!” said Chuck, not able to hide his astonishment.
    The garage went silent, with only the noise of the traffic out on the street penetrating the air.
    “So now you know how I felt when I first turned the thing on,” Christopher said quietly.
    “Brother, this is so fucking big!  If The Man ever finds out about this, we are so fucking dead.”

Hello All,

The launch of my publishing industry website began yesterday and goes through Monday. Come on by and soak up some knowledge and leave a comment, ask a question, join in dialogue. Visit the website to join in: http://www.BecomeASuccessfulAuthor.com

Below is the welcome post. Enjoy.

Welcome to Become A Successful Author. I started out in the publising business a little over a decade ago as an editor at Third World Press, a 40+ year old publishing house that has way too many awards list and quite a few million-plus-books-sold authors. They publish mostly nonfiction, which is not where my heart is, so I moved onto several publishing houses as a freelance developmental editor for fiction. All along my journey in the publishing industry, I’ve always looked for ways to promote and help authors be the best they can be.

I decided to step into the world of self publishing last October and was quickly inundated with questions from my traditionally-published friends on how to do this, that, and the other. Between those questions and the questions I receive on the craft of writing, I quickly became swamped and found myself repeating the same information. That’s when it hit me—You’re an author with roots in nonfiction. Write a book that contains the answers you continually receive. Give authors the full picture instead of bits and pieces. Next thing you know, I was over 60,000 words into Become A Successful Author. When I first began writing the book, I had intended on naming it Become A Published Author, but as I wrote I realized anyone can be a published author. I want you to be more than published. I want you to be a successful author.

I can’t tell you what success means to you, but I can give you tools to help you write, market and build your high-quality brand efficiently so you can go as far as you’d like in your writing career. I released the eVersion of Become A Successful Author a few weeks ago and was a little surprised at the feedback I received from an author who hadn’t read it. He emailed me about a guest post I did the other week. It was as if he was offended that I had the audacity to say he wasn’t already successful or that he didn’t already know the business. I didn’t know this guy from Adam, but that he had such a strong reaction told me that he was part of my target audience. I’ve been in the business for a decade as a developmental editor, author and marketing manager for various publishing companies and don’t know it all. I’m learning new information every day and never intend to stop learning. I truly hope that none of you get to the point where you think you know it all.

Since I don’t know it all and what I do know is my opinion (granted an educated, professional opinion), I’ve called in the troops to help give additional perspectives on this new world of publishing we are in. I don’t always agree with everything they say, but I want you to see others’ views also. Be sure to sign up for the newsletter so you don’t miss any post. Trust me, this is going to be one fun trip.

Enough of my rambling. It’s time to get to this month’s articles. Before we start. To celebrate the official launch of this Website, I’ll be giving away a few advance review copies of the print version of Become A Successful Author, which is due for release February 2012. Be one of the first to hold a copy in your hot little hands. I will also be giving away a copy of Guide to Writing & Publishing Science Fiction, Fantasy, Horror by Rob Shelsky and a copy of Book Marketing & Promotions on a Budget: Quick Tips by Shelia Goss . All you have to do to be eligible is comment on the blog posts Sept. 8 – 12, 2011. The more you comment, the greater your chances of winning a copy. Shy, don’t want to comment? Be sure to sign up for my newsletter. Besides notices of the articles, you’ll receive goodies like a chance to receive an advance review copy of Become A Successful Author.

Deatri King-Bey

http://deatrikingbey.com/

Don’t have your copy of Become A Successful Author? What are you waiting for? Order your copy today. Become A Successful Author Table of Contents

Purchase the eBook version of Become A Successful Author from: Amazon, Barnes & Noble

Don’t miss out on future posts. Be sure to subscribe to the Become A Successful Author newsletter.

From the Editors of Damnation Books:

Suddenly discovering that you’re different from baseline humanity is certainly the sort of thing that could change one’s worldview overnight, but that just isn’t interesting, especially since it’s been  done ad infinitum. How about the people that look out for ‘Number One?’ People with flaws? People with serious psychological issues? People that have been looking for a ticket out of their circumstances  and finally lucked into it? People who’ve devoted themselves to their success and have reached it, at long last? The nerdy kid who doesn’t have to be pushed around and isn’t willing to hide anymore? The  jealous girl that’s tired of being the ‘other woman?’ The disenfranchised homeless man? The bored housewife who wishes she’d made some different choices?
 
 To some, this just screams ‘supervillain,’ or ‘antihero,’ and in many cases, you’d be right. But usually, these are stock characters without much substance. They’re the “bad guys.” Real life isn’t that simple,  and even the meatier, more realistic metahuman portrayals out there are seen mainly in comic books; rarely in a prose anthology.
 
 Show me substance. Show me what would really happen if today’s people had superpowers.
 
" I’m looking for stories of 3,000 to 5,000 words that handle the topic of superpowers and metahumans from unique, interesting and realistic perspectives. There are no limits regarding historical eras or  futuristic settings, but remember to suspend disbelief. The stories don’t all have to involve bad guys or bad girls, but I do require that stories about heroes have a basis in something more than simple  idealism. Your protagonists don’t necessarily have to have superpowers, even (think Ozymandias, Punisher, Batman, Catwoman). Elements of thriller, horror, noir, erotica, and science fiction genres are all welcome, and if you have a good idea that doesn’t quite fit into those ranges, send that along too. And yes, there is room for hope, too…a little at least. After all, the title is in the form of a question. Does power corrupt? If so, is it absolute? Perhaps; perhaps not."
 
 Send your stories to subs@lincolncrisler.info in standard manuscript format (http://www.shunn.net/format/story.html). Submissions open on June 27th, 2011. Authors will be notified of acceptance soon after [the new deadline, December 1st, 2011]. Payment is in the form of  shared royalties (40% electronic, 25% print). The anthology is scheduled for tentative publication in March 2012 by Damnation Books (http://www.damnationbooks.com/).
 
 UPDATE: The deadline for this anthology has been extended to December 1st, 2011. Also, to address a couple of concerns: reprints will be addressed on a case-by-case basis, and we’re seeking one-time print  and electronic anthology rights with two-years exclusive right to publish accepted stories.
 
 UPDATE 30 JUL 11: I’ve accepted five stories to date. I have a War-on-Terror-inspired antihero, an imbalanced hero who’s also a villain, a guy with healing powers who thinks it’s a gift from Jesus,  an arrogant bastard with reality-altering powers and a stranger who’s healing powers may only scratch the surface of his potential. So…I don’t need any more stories about people with HEALING POWERS, but I’d love to see the following:
 

Good luck everyone!

Regina:)

Hey Y'all!

This is a heads up: Next week I'll be at ISEA Istanbul presenting my paper titled,

Cybism and Decoding the Letter: Countering Mass Culture’s Reductional Breakdown Through Afro-futuristic Forms of Representation and Emergent Game Platforms

Basically, I'm overlaying my research into urbanized forms of Afrofuturism, as conceptualized by modern graffiti pioneers Rammellzee, Futura (formerly 2000), Kase 2/Case 2 and others.  These forms have influenced new media such as Graffiti Analysis.  Read more about it HERE and HERE.

Wish me luck!

The fate of dozens of worlds hangs on the words of two young commandos and the choices they must make.

"Don't you die on me!" 

Her breathing was shallow and slowed. I wasn't sure whether the patch would hold. The round had gone clean through but the bleeding was terrible. 
  
We were fifteen miles behind the Henrenkai lines. Our dropship was shot down and we were hauling the Henrenkai hive pupae in our ruck-sacks. Our orbital bombardments had worn this world down, but there were still too many worlds that we had lost to the Henrenkai and this was a vulnerability we could not lose. They only spawned once every two hundred years on a tiny number of their inhabited worlds. 
  
Intelligence reports gained through psychic torture revealed which worlds were spawning and how soon. In an act of desperation, Command bombed five of the six worlds and destroyed them completely, kill untold billions of humans and Henrenkai. On this one, they planted us. An extraction team, trained for infiltration.  
  
There were ten of us. We were creche-raised, five males, five females. Genetically created from the best DNA humanity had to offer, we were stronger, faster, smarter and trained as commandos. We were given psychic gifts to bind us together. We could sense the presence of each other over vast distances, we could read each other's thoughts, when allowed. It multiplied our fighting prowess by coordinating our attacks. We had the firepower of a regiment; perfectly attuned. But it also made it so we could never touch each other without protective clothing. The fusion of our minds could destroy us both. 
  
We were raised together, Califer and I, and I loved her more than anything. But she could never know. It was forbidden. Creche-commandos were allowed to intermingle with any other military forces except other commandos. This was for our own protection. 
  
In all other ways we were as close as two people could be. We trained together, worked together, and have been on nearly twenty sorties without any incident. Our team was one of the most highly decorated commando units in Creche-Command history. Now except for me, High Sergeant, Doro Vanimen and High Sergeant, Califer Prin, our tactical squad is dead. We had never infiltrated a Henrenkai hiveworld before. Our intel was simply insufficient to the task. 
  
"Calli, you have got to get up. We can't stay here. There is another LZ thirteen miles from here, but they are shelling to keep our pursuit down. You have got to get up." Her eyes are flickering. She must be glanding a dopamine derivative. 
  
"Ugh. Pupae?" 
  
"Got 'em."  
  
"How much time?" 
  
"About twelve minutes." 
  
"There is no way, I can make it like this. You have to complete the mission." 
  
"I am not leaving without you Calli." I was trying to sound casual. 
  
She looks at me with those beautiful green eyes and I knew I would do whatever it took. If I had to carry her myself. We are getting off this rock. "Set the pace." She picks up her maser, and stumbles. 
  
"Leave it." If it comes to us having to fight again, we're done, anyway." She drops it, relieved. I set a brisk pace and I can hear the status reports in my earbud. They are about to begin shelling again. She is keeping up, but her pace has lost the light step I loved so much about her. 
  
When we were young, she was always the best of our battle-sisters in fighting and dancing and I knew right then, there would never be anyone else for me. We would train in our nightsuit armor, skin tight and I marveled at her perfection, her essence and her ability to totally kick my ass, even though I outweighed her by thirty kilos. When we were done, we would sit back to back and rest and talk, her hair tickling my neck, smelling of sweat, and nothing was ever better than that. 
  
Her nightsuit had sealed up around her wound and pressure sealed the injury. It was a railgun round, so fast it simply overwhelmed our bulletproof nightsuits. We got hit by one of their skyships and we lost Carlto, and Marina then. Multiple hits tore them apart. She got hit as we jumped the last wall and then ran to the first drop point. I covered her when the wreckage of the dropship fell down around us. 
  
"Calli, I have something I want to tell you." I could feel the larvae moving around in my pack. It distracted me and I almost lost my nerve. 
  
"Not now. Have to focus on running." Her temperature was elevated. Her body was going to go into shock. She is running on pure will. 
  
I have to tell her now. "There has never been anyone else for me but you. Do you understand that?" 
  
"And you know that's forbidden. It is the only rule we have never broken. I have had others, haven't you?"  
  
"No. Never." She seemed almost shocked at my words. 
  
"What do you expect me to say?" She stumbles and falls to the ground. "That I am happy that you love me? That I am willing to die for you and I to be together?" She gasped in pain. 
  
I reach down to help her to her feet. She slaps my hand away at first.  
  
Then she takes it and I heave her to her feet. She throws her arm around my back and I put my arm around her waist. We start running again. The sound of the shelling has begun and is slowly creeping up behind us. The explosions echo around the strange rock formations common on this world.  
  
I look back over my shoulder and my optical enhancer detects movement about three miles behind us closing fast. The shelling is slowing them but they are not stopping. I think they know what we are carrying. Their larval Queen. The fate of their Race. The only Ransom that they will respect. 
  
"We have to move, Sergeant. Dammit, run for all you're worth. We can fight about this when we get home." 
  
"Okay." 
  
And for six long minutes we are running. She has let me go and seems to have found a second wind. For a few seconds, I am struggling to keep up with her. We are getting close to the dropship coordinates. Less than two miles.  
  
Ten thousand steps; we're going to make it.  
  
Then I hear the buzzing. Their skyships, giant insects with forty foot wingspans, carrying two of them on their backs. They are using their chemical weapons and splashes of acid rain down around us. 
  
I look back for a second and I can still see them coming. Its half a regiment now, and a shell destroys thirty or so, but they do not stop to care for the dead. They are here for their Queen. 
  
"Bravo Six, we are nearing the extraction point." 
  
"Understood, we are inbound in two minutes. The area is hot, we will not be landing." 
  
She looks at me. And then looks around. "You have to go. I can't do a hot pickup." 
  
"I'll carry you." I was past pride. I pleaded. 
  
"All of the Human Worlds rest on your back now. What's more important, me or them?" 
  
"I would let them all burn for you." I meant it. 
  
"Well, I won't let you." She snatches my maser from my arm and kisses me on the lips.  

"GO!" Her telepathic command blasts through my mental shields like they weren't there. She was my entire universe in that infinitely long second. All that she was, all that should could be was inside of me. 
  
She ran to a rock for cover and I turned and ran faster than I had ever run, tears flowing down my face. I could hear the maser, one of the fliers goes down. She was decimating them. Then it fades. And soon after stops. 
  
I see my dropship coming in dragging a line and it's gunners shooting in every direction. I have to time this just right. They will not be able to come back. They are being pursued in the air. Acid rains down around me but all I can do is see her face. The dropship pulls up to avoid a missile and the line leaves the ground. I leap and I feel her directing my movement, arching me. 
  
I hit the line, grab on and the dropship rises fast, speeding away from the planet's surface, nearly tearing my arms from their sockets. They don't dare shoot us down now. 
  
I am tempted to hurl the pack from the ship as we pull away. She stops me. 
  
Save them. You can save them all. 
  
But I couldn't save the only thing that matter to me, you. 
  
I will always be here with you. 
  
As our ship streaked away into the armada, I looked at the planet. The final resting place of all that I loved, my family. My creche. My Calli.  
  
I wept.

Runners © Thaddeus Howze 2011. All Rights Reserved

“Don't wear white after Labor Day” the old folks always said.

I didn't understand why when I was younger, but now, oh, I get it. Because I loved to stroll out at night, hang out with my boys, you know? But you see, white made you stand out like a beacon, and when the hungry ones would come, if they saw you all shining bright in white, they figured you were the sacrifice of the hour, and got you. They couldn't help it during a new moon. Especially if you were a kid, but it didn't really matter.

Now, when I was a kid, the old folks said it without explaining why we had to avoid that color after Labor Day. It was said, and everybody listened. Nobody wore white for months after that day. Well, I do remember a couple of older people who wore it, just as bold as you please, but not at night. No, buddy, not at night. Especially not with a new moon, man! Except for Trinni and Elder, who thought they were big and bad one night, and strolled outside, smoking cigs and talking junk, daring the hungry ones to come.

Trinni was never seen again, but one of his white high tops were, splashed with deep red and stinking of something like a garbage dump full of dead bodies and doodoo. Elder, well, he went nutso, speaking in that funny Jamaican sounding language about “it got him, mon, oh, god, de eyes!” Crying like a baby. They put him away, and then all we heard for years was don't wear white, and remember what happened to Trinni and Elder.

Ok, so I kinda took it all as legend as I got older, well, until I was twenty years old, and there was an incident, totally true. There were some girls, some kind of church function, where the kids had to wear white outfits for a play, and two of them were walking home after...I don't know. I know it was the night of the new moon, and they wore white and called themselves walking home, giggling and laughing over how nervous they were in the program, and what boy was watching them, and what boy they wish was there watching them.

Too bad they didn't take seriously what was really watching them that night.

But anyway, everytime I hear “Don't wear white after Labor Day,” every time, I feel a twinge in me. Not like it was when I was a child, but still.

Have I ever seen the hungry ones? Well, let me tell you a story, also totally true.

It was like this. My childhood friend Eric and I were headed to a party, totally ignoring the unwritten Rule of White. All I was thinking about was going to the club, to celebrate one of our other friend's birthday, and the white shirt Eric wore didn't even cross my mind.

We were twenty one, so you know we weren't thinking about my grandfather asking Eric before we left my house earlier that evening, if he was going to the party in that shirt. Eric, always cocky, was like, “Yeah, why not? Don't you like it?” Pleased with himself.

Granddad said to Eric, calmly but seriously, lighting a pipe, “You should change, boy. Not good to wear white after Labor Day,” and then fixed a stare on me, that I will admit hit a place in my gut, like ice. “New moon tonight,” he finished. I was like, “Well, he'll be inside most of the night, so...” kinda joking, not looking at him, picking and brushing imaginary lint off my own shirt.

He didn't say anything else, and when I glanced back at him, he was just sitting. Just staring at me, his bald head shining and thick gold hoop earring glinting. Staring, like I wasn't twenty one, grown, and in control, I thought. I told him that I would see him later and I left.

Eric and I had stopped by the store, just to get some snacks, so we wouldn't eat like pigs, and mess up that cool image we thought we had, and some mints - you know, for the ladies. Who was going to hang with us if we smelled? I was hoping to hook up with some sweet, innocent – or not so innocent – lady for the night, so I had to be at my best!

So driving along, it was pretty dark, and the club where our friend was having the party was out a ways, in the deep country, so it seemed. Around about eleven, I started to feel something inside, like forboding, a funny feeling of dread. I figured I was nervous, you know, I mean, it was the party of the year, and I was excited.

I tried to keep up with the conversation Eric and I were having as I drove, but that funny feeling was all over me and I kept looking all around the night engulfing us outside. Eric made a comment about me watching the road, a couple times, asked if I wanted him to drive. I started getting angry at him a little, because I was grown, and could drive and get us to a party without his help. However, I rolled down the window for some air.

I was starting to get the shakes and the sweats, though. So I asked Eric to pass me a bag of peanut M&Ms. I figured the sugar rush would help me, keep the shakes at bay. I could maybe get a drink once at the party to relax me. But the M&Ms didn't really help; I had to pull over. Eric got real serious, and asked me if I was ok. I told him I felt funny, and had to stop.

He made a comment about the country animal smell outside, and offered to take me home, and for a second I did want to go home, because this was getting really out of hand. But miss out on the party, all that flesh? I figured if I sat for a few more minutes, let the M&Ms do their thing...

Eric and I got out of the car to switch places, because there was no way I could drive. The smell got worse, like something real nasty. “Heck is that?” Eric asked, covering his nose with his arm. “I know, man,” I said, trying to hurry to the other side of the car. It was pretty dark, and I glanced up at the clear sky, the image of the black new moon.

And then...I didn't see anything at first; it was like a dream. I could smell them, along with the scent of blood, but everything else was unreal. Eric was screaming, yelling, calling me, crying. Then, as the smell of blood and guts got stronger, I very briefly saw a glint of gold and eyes the color of the new moon.

I only heard Eric for a few seconds, but all I could think about was that screaming, as I drove away.

Granddad walked in the house not long after I got home. He didn't say a word as he looked at my naked chest, the blood all over my skin. He just stopped, then watched me, my eyes. I felt calm, full of understanding, but sadness, too. My best friend had died tonight.

Granddad didn't speak for a while, and as I looked at him, at his gold earring and cold black eyes, I asked him, “Why him, Granddad? We were like brothers. I was trying to hold out for the party. I couldn't.” My grandfather said, “No, you couldn't. New moon tonight. And he knew not to wear white. Just as the girls you got last year did.”

My grandfather came to me, standing a few feet away, so the blood on his own body would not mix, despite all of it being Eric's. “They were warned, son. They knew not to wear white.” He paused. “Never liked that boy anyway,” he said, and headed upstairs to clean up.

I followed with a sigh, no longer hungry, wondering how my grandfather could be so cold.

So don't think you can just do what you want. When they say not to wear white after Labor Day, especially on a night of the new moon, they mean it. I can tell you for sure, those old folks know what they are talking about.

I met Nicole Sconiers at OnyxCon 3 in Atlanta. I immediately downloaded the Beckyville short stories and dug-in. I couldn’t stop reading them. The stories push the envelope of issues that pertain to African-American women such as issues surrounding hair, attitude, rage, and injustice. These stories are not for the faint of heart. Sconiers uses speculative fiction to share those internalized emotions and feelings that some Black women have towards being victimized and treated as if they are racially inferior but it’s done in a snarky, satirical manner. I especially love the stories that expose issues surrounding Black women’s hair. I know I am always asked about my Sisterlocks. LOL!

I had to interview Nicole after reading Escape from Beckyville and she graciously agreed to answer my questions. Please read her interview. Nicole, thanks for writing the Escape from Beckyville series and agreeing to interview with me. To read the rest of the interview, try this link:

http://www.aliciamccalla.com/blog/48-interview-with-author-nicole-sconiers-beckyville-has-the-snarky-racial-humor-of-undercover-brother-but-with-the-sophistication-of-the-invisible-man-

or visit www.aliciamccalla.com

It's a longer interview but really good.

Wanuri Kahiu (director of the Kenyan science fiction short Pumzi and the Who Fears Death movie) discusses African Science Fiction:

Also, you can purchase Pumzi here. It is also streaming on Netflix.

Innsmouth Free Press has Historical Lovecraft anthology on sale:

http://www.innsmouthfreepress.com/?page_id=10930. My story, "City of Witches" is in this anthology. Enjoy!

Though I don't have a story in the upcoming Future Lovecraft anthology (on sale Dec. 1st),  a young man from Nigeria, Ezeiyoke Chukwunonso, does. His story "Last Man Standing" will appear in Future Lovecraft published by Innsmouth Free Press:

http://www.innsmouthfreepress.com/?p=13847

Just finished reading Milton J. Davis' wonderful Meji Duology.  This is an epic tale of twin boys, Ndoro and Obseki, born under the sign of Sesu tribal superstition. Obaseki is chosen to die by the Sesu, because twins are considered an abomination, a curse. But Shani, the boys' mother, schemes to have Obaseki taken away to her people, the Mawena, where twins are considered a blessing. Ndoro struggles to win a place among the Sesu, to become a great warrior, win his father's blessing, and shed the stigma of his birth. Obaseki grows into manhood among his mother's people, the Mawena, but has a special, "magical" gift that alienates him from tribe and family.

This is a story of quest and power struggles, inter-tribal marriages and wars, magic and prophecy. This is also a very complex and well-plotted duology. Character-driven and truly epic in scale, this fantasy is totally original in plot and conception. Rich in texture, language, vivid landscapes, and set in an alternate Africa called Uhuru, we are treated to vast stretches of mysterious jungles, magnificent cities, sprawling deserts, and characters who live and breath, suffer and die. We are shown a wealth of culture and traditions rarely seen in fantasy novels, and rarely seen in this type of setting.  This is an exqusite tale, written with dash and eloquence, beautifully realized and masterfully told. It never disappoints, sucks you right into the lives of its characters, and suprises you at every turn. This is epic fantasy, grand sword and soul at its best. It has a heart and soul, love and romance, and friendships that are tested in the face of superstition and enemies. The story of this duology is unique --- and a duology is also something that is very unique in this age of neverending, multi-volume sagas.

Great job, Milt!  Keep on writing! I'll be posting a review on Amazon as soon as time allows.

Watch the debut episode of The Book Look here:

http://newsone.com/entertainment/books-entertainment/ccarneynunes/newsone-presents-the-book-look/

It's been a long time since I checked in with something to say. But last night on a local PBS station I was watching a travel show with guide Joseph Rosseno (I think that's his last name.) Well, he was in Rwanda, visiting the villages, observing their educational programs, how not only the silverback mountain gorilla has been protected from poachers, but how conservation of land and wildlife ----- flora, fauna, farmlands, and communities has become a new way of life. He said that something like 5 or so museums have been built since the horrible genocide of 1994 -- these museums honoring the over one-milllion victims of this horrendous chapter in Rwanda's history. Healing and forgiveness, according to Rosseno, have helped Rwanda rise from this awful tragedy. Communities of people are coming together in peace, planting trees and helping to protect the farmland, helping families and villages prosper and grow. I was touched by these amazing people and this incredible country. The beauty of it is awe-inspiring, and yet I saw signs of poverty that, God willing, will soon be overcome. I put Rwanda on my wish list of places I would visit, had I the money to do so. The people were lovely and friendly, open-hearted and open-handed. I felt like I was watching a role model for the way the world should be.  I pray that Rwanda becomes a beacon of light in a world that seems to be growing darker all the time.

On another note, I am nearly finished with voulme one of Milt Davis' incredible MEJI DUOLOGY. I will file a report as soon as I'm finished. I'll probably take a break to read another friend's novel, and then return to Book Two of Meji. I'm really impressed with Milt's writing in this one. Wonderful!

The Trans-Atlantic Fan Fund is looking for candidates for the 2012 Eastbound TAFF trip.  Candidates must be nominated by 5 SF fans known to the current TAFF administrators, John Coxon, Anne Gray, and Brian Gray. Three of those nominators must be resident in North America and two resident in Europe. In addition to their nominations, prospective candidates have to submit a written platform (not exceeding 101 words), a deposit of $20, and a pledge to take the TAFF trip in 2012 if they win. TAFF will send the winning delegate(s) to attend the 2012 Eastercon, Olympus, in London April 6 to April 9 (http://olympus2012.org/). TAFF delegates are also expected to write a trip report and administer TAFF for two years. The fan fund will pay for the trip and related expenses, as well as the publication of the completed trip report. Candidates will be voted on by interested fans from all over the world.

For more information, see www.taff.org.uk.  The North American TAFF administrators are Anne and Brian Gray; send nominations and other materials to them at 5006 Royene Ave NE, Albuquerque, NM 87110, USA or akg.netmouse@gmail.com. European nominators should send materials to John Coxon, either on john.coxon@gmail.com or by mail to 14 Chapel Lane, Peterborough, PE4 6RS, United Kingdom.

If you would like to take us up on this fantastic opportunity please find people to nominate you and let us know, since the deadline for nominations is September 31st! If you have any questions about what's required of you or how to acquire nominations, please feel free to get in touch with any of us and ask. We hope to see you running for TAFF soon!