Origins of The Sixth Precept - Part 6

So I decided to write a Kim Yoshima novel.

It seemed a logical step to progress from the short stories to a larger piece although it turned out that the way I set about writing the novel was anything but logical. In my infinite wisdom, I planned on combining all three short stories with their very different plots into one coherent narrative. I knew I could do it! I knew it could work!

Ha!

It was a challenge (as my writing group warned me it would be) but I threw caution to the winds and dove right in! I had written two previous novels – the first from fifteen years before that took me five years to finish. It was a science-fantasy comedy that, in the end, really didn’t work although I have taken out bits and pieces of it for other stories. The second novel I wrote is one that I’ve shopped around and still hold out high hopes for publication someday. It’s dark science fiction (of the soft variety) and does have blue-skinned aliens in it – I’ll sue the producers of Avatar!  J

Anyway, it wasn’t like I hadn’t taken on a big writing project before so I should have known better and certainly should have listened to my writing group whose advice I once again rejected.  Hindsight, you know.

The Sixth Path was envisioned as a very large novel divided into six sections, each one representing the six axioms of my unknown ancient philosopher and titled as such. Kim not only had to deal with comic book characters come to life but ETs, time travel, alternate dimensions, mental telepathy and my old friends Wing Toy and company! Yikes!

During this time, I also tried my hand at another Kim Yoshima short story but realized as I was finishing it up that it should also go into the novel. It was called “Shadow Hunt” and is now Chapter 9 of The Sixth Precept, the only short piece that actually fit and made sense for the longer work. In it I introduced Kim’s friend Lazo Sibulovich and the shadow-trackers who became integral parts of the novel.

I ended up with a 130,000 word novel that had way too much going on it. But, as the old expression goes, I couldn't see the forest for the trees.

IFWG will be releasing my second novel Unlikely Hero in June of this year.

IFWG will be releasing my second novel Unlikely Hero in June of this year.

Constructed in action scenes that take place on a Global scale, and involve both law and outlaw where the distinction between the two is often muddy. So in the final chapter the murders are solved but a rather likeable criminal escapes retribution.

This statement, revenge is best savored when it’s no longer expected, describes the plot behind the story of ‘Unlikely Hero’. There are a number of angry people in this tale of murder with a sufficient reason to commit the crimes.

Alex Cahill lives a double life as a news reporter and a paid assassin. He has no reservations about killing anyone for money, and does so many times in different circumstances through out the pages. His unusual concern when he accidentally injures a child surprises his cohorts.

That child, Garth Ahern, believes he is predestined to die in prison like his father. He has reached the age of nine convinced of this by the screeches of an abusive mother and the condemnation of an old priest. Deprived of a daddy, the boy needed a hero.

Set in the late seventies, the Ahern brothers raised in the turmoil of Northern Ireland have followed very different paths. The Eldest, with the help of friends escaped to America; his natural ability in electronics in the growing age of computers allowed him to carve out a financial empire. The Youngest, the victim of treachery put this schooling to his advantage by becoming a paid killer. Only the middle brother married, his wife bore a son eight months after his death.

Violence surrounds that boy. Garth is orphaned by his mother’s murder; the event draws his ‘Yankee Uncles’, who previously hadn’t known of his existence, not only into his life but also into each others’. One becomes the predator and the other the prey in a battle where financial gain appears to be the prime consideration. Revenge, however, is the more volatile reason for murder.

Garth’s Uncle Mathew attempts to give the child a secure home and decent future. Those efforts may be wasted when his Uncle David accepts a contract to kill Mathew.

While there is no effort made to hide the actual identity of Alex Cahill from the reader, certain situations will make them ponder which brother is he. Can he be Garth’s father?

Lots of Irish wandering through these pages so the work must impart some humorous incidents along with the violence. I hope to garner a few chuckles when Cahill interacts with certain members of English and Irish law enforcement. A smile or two should occur as the foreign child, Garth, attempts to dominate the Yankees. And if I can’t draw a few giggles along with the sighs and shudders during murder or sex, I’ll have to toss my passport in the Atlantic.

Aliens and X-Files

Alien Corridor. This is the new cover, I hope you all like it.
Linda Fields, at www.sparkinspirepublishing.com is the artist, and there's a story to the whole thing.
I met Linda through a jewelry sale (my 'real' work), and we hit it off immediately. She writes, and has some amazing artwork too.
I looked at her work, and was so taken by this image, I wrote a scene in 'Alien Corridor' which was set in this mysterious house at the edge of the lake.
Much later, I then told Linda about the scene, and she promptly offered me use of the image.
A few negotiations later, it was mine.
It does, however pose a serious problem.... it does raise the bar.
Now all my other covers have to be brought up to the same standard.
Click on the pic to go to my amazon books.

SANGO

Sango the god of thunder was held in healthy respect in her village and you do not swear in his name in a trivial manner. One of the things her mother always told was not to stand in the doorway when it rains as that might irritate Sango if he was on a mission. One of the several functions of Sango was like some kind of investigative police officer as you could appeal to Sango if you wanted to catch a thief, or someone had refused to tell the truth about something and it was important. Interestingly, you could have your answer within seven days, the standard regulation time.

Ife had been skeptical until one lazy afternoon, during a previous visit when she had

heard a scream and rushed out. The day had started innocently dry and sunny with no

hint of rain in the wind nor in the sky, then a slight breeze had started and while still

sunny some showers of rain started. Suddenly there was a loud rumble and flash of

lightning, the rain stopped, as the screams came.

Lying on the ground with a bag of cocoa beans on his chest had been a pastor. It was

clear what had happened. He had stolen the bag of beans and the victim had appealed

to Sango to fish out the thief. No one could touch the body in obedience to the custom, her grandmother was sent for and she started up drums and songs, to summon the devotees who soon joined her. They had to search for Sango’s axe round the victim and they danced watched by crowd as they searched for the axe, when they found it they needed a black smith to extract it from the ground, so they took the man to the blacksmith. Sango was known as a blacksmith in his earth days when he lived as a man before he became a god so blacksmiths were always consulted on anything that had to do with him.

However the devotees found the axe just a few meters away. Ife had stared awed by the whole drama. Just before the pastor finally died, the devotees revived him and asked him to explain what had happened to him, he confessed to stealing the bag of cocoa beans, the Sango priests were asked to conduct the funeral by a shame faced congregation. Ife had wondered a lot about traditional religion and became hesitant about seeing it as a joke.

She remembered that her Dad had said religion was a matter of faith, experiences and

conviction. He had said those who practiced traditional religion believed it and it worked

for them. He just wished to be left alone because he felt it was presumptuous attempting to describe a Creator or the concept of one. She did not really know what he meant but she had nodded in some dim understanding.

There was also her mum who insisted that the world was full of evil spirits and could only be overcome by constant prayers, fasts, and seeing visions. She would light candles everywhere, refuse to drink palm wine or even water that was in bowl that had contained palm wine. Will pray into water to make them holy or sanctify them as she

said. Her father would tease that the savior she followed took the occasional bottle or

else why would he make casks of wine from water as a wedding guest? Ife would be afraid to laugh with her father because of her mother’s scandalized expressions and pursed lips of intense disapproval.

The Garden Of Eden

A whispering wind played lullabies as it blew through crystal leaves that acquired color changes from the notes. Shades of orchard swelled to purple or faded into pampered pinks and powdery violets. Waterfalls of radiant shades of rainbow colors inserted their plaintive tunes. Atamar was not always a generous host and gentle moments like this on the small planet’s surface were of short duration.

The couple stepped into a stand of umber pines. She yanked her hand from his. In her grumbling it was evident that she didn’t appreciate any of these fantastic sights. Since he had intentionally brought her to the gardens he was disappointed when she didn’t appear at all impressed by their beauty.

He could still feel warmth from the memory of her grip. You were holding hands with a general. He struggled not to laugh out loud.

The highlighted blonde hair of this general was on a level with the tall lieutenant’s shoulder. Her uniform was constructed to down play the figure beneath. So while it fit snugly to minimize wrinkles it gave no hint of feminine curves. Icons that adorned her collar and chest advertised her rank and many accomplishments. Her hard eyes matched the lieutenant’s own blue-gray shade but while his twinkled with mirth, the general’s were contemptuous.

“You didn’t always have blonde hair?” he said.

“So, that’s important, why?”

He knew she was going to make this difficult. She might admit the face was familiar to her from old photographic images; but it didn’t belong on this body adorned in the alien clothing he wore like a second skin.

“My name is Lieutenant Anderson O’Brian,” he said.

“You are out of uniform, O’Brian. You have an explanation?”

“Lack of a tailor. Sir.” He added the ‘Sir’ as an afterthought. If she noticed it made no impression. He paused to pluck several ruby colored fruits; offering her one, he bit into the other.

She followed the action and her remarked, "Not bad," was another unpleasant surprise causing him to snarl in annoyance, “How could anyone not be impressed by this flavor?”

She took another small nibble then tossed it away in disgust. “When you’ve survived on synthesized food...” She paused and snapped, “That’s not important.”

He halted to demonstrate a flaming bush by only changing the shade of its flowers from apricot to brilliant orange.

She barely glanced at the oddity before she sank on to a convenient rock and demanded in her finest officer’s tone, "Give it to me straight, O’Brian, how long have you been here?"

"I'm not sure.” He hovered above her --deliberately standing tall. “The Conamar found me badly injured some time back and patched me up." He gave a soft laugh before he continued. "Made me as good as new. I think. I haven't discovered any parts they left out."

"Or added?"

He felt uncomfortable. She’s studying me like a bug. He knew instant anger. Why should she presume there was something weird about him when actually she was the one in the wrong time and place. "Just a damn minute!"

"Hold on. Don’t flip out." A brazen grin suddenly played at the corners of her mouth. "I wasn't trying to be nasty lieutenant. How long do you figure you've been here?"

He received the impression she thought she was talking to a certified idiot. So his tone never softened as he said, “Not certain, a year? Maybe a little more."

"Try forty some years?"

"Hell no! The ship I left Earth on didn't have any fancy sci-fi machines to freeze dry me!"

"Look, O’Brian or whatever the hell you call yourself, stop yelling at me." Her own pitch wasn't exactly subdued. But then her voice dropped and she motioned to another large rock. “Park,” she said. A curious smile formed on her mouth as she watched him seat himself. His long legs stuck straight out meshing into the tall grass like slender fallen logs. “You certainly are the right height,” she remarked.

"I don't have the answers.” She continued. “ I can give you a few particulars.  Thirty-eight years ago, by our calendar, a spatial phenomenon, we tagged The Rift, formed in an area of space close to Earth’s moon.

“My father's name happened to be Anderson O'Brian. He was a pilot on one of the ships sent to investigate. Several weeks later the remains of the others were recovered. My father’s ship was never found so it was assumed he made it through The Rift. It took two more years before another attempt was made.

“Those ships returned with one hell of a tale. Another star system with several unpopulated planets with breathable atmosphere. Can you imagine the reaction?"

Interested but still peeved by her superior attitude he said, "More land to pollute." The look she gave him reflected her lingering disgust. He regretted the outburst. The last thing he wanted was for her clam up. There were too many answers he was desperate to learn.

She stood and brushed off the seat of her trousers. She slapped the helmet she’d been carrying in her left hand against her thigh in a gesture of agitation. "We didn't see it that way. Most of us saw it as a second chance for mankind. Relief for our over-populated Earth."

Quickly he got back to his own feet. "So you built the armada loaded with the means to clone whatever armies you needed and set off to conquer those planets?"

"Not exactly O’Brian. I told you, we believed those planets had no sentient life. Our mission was to colonize.  As for human cloning, that started as individual cell copying for medical purposes. Eventually a group in London discovered they could clone an adult; bypassing the childhood stage entirely. Some of those scientists accompanied our Colony Ships. The reasoning was we could carry less people then clone those needed to build a colony. Since the clones themselves are sterile with no family ties, they could remain, while the Originals would return to Earth with the necessary information so new colonists could come to populate the planet."

"Colony ships?" he said as a question that reflected his knowledge of what those ships had been doing in the Star system of Atamar.

"We were colony ships.” She went to her knees at the edge of one of the silver-blue ponds that dotted the gardens. She cupped her hand and scooped the liquid, and he watched with her as it drizzled through her fingers. “We were sent off with prayers.” She seemed to be reminiscing.

“An awful lot of people believed God had opened The Rift for the benefit of mankind. Only we didn't find that new horizon. Either we took a wrong turn or were spit out in the wrong place.” Her voice now hinted of desperation. "The Originals were growing old, tired, and desperate to go home when we entered this star system."

She leaned her back against a tree truck. She hugged her legs to her chest like a small child. She stared at him with hard gray eyes. "And Christ,” was a whisper, "now I discover a friggin' father who is a good thirty years younger than me. And you bitch about cloning? What the hell are you, mister?"

Sci-Fi Worlds: Of Rebels and Heroes

Sci-Fi Worlds: Of Rebels and Heroes: I was watching the 25th anniversary special for the Phantom of the Opera on PBS and was moved by the story once again. Such grand themes,...

Evil only lurks in the dark.

The windows of the sliver-gray Audi were halfway down. The
car was parked in the campus parking lot. A comfortable 73 degrees
on a pleasant Spring day, a slight breeze, coming from the west,
played in his short spiked, salt and pepper hair.

He waited patiently for his next mission. There was a time, he
recalled, when he’d been so nervous and anxious that the palms of his
hands sweated as he waited. It was not that way anymore. Oh sure,
each hunt was exciting, but nothing like it had been in the beginning.
Now it mimicked, Just another day at the office. He smiled and
winked the long lashes of his right eye. For an instant a sunbeam
flashed in the windshield, and reflected itself in ice blue irises so pale
they nearly faded into the whites: ‘Killer eyes’. His mother smiled
when she said it to him as a boy, but in later life, he began to wonder
if she knew.

Occasionally, a person came to the parking lot, got in their
car, and drove away. He saw them, often they were women, but none
interested him. He waited patiently for a certain young, attractive
woman. He’d know her the moment he saw her. She’d be petite, preferably brunette, slim and nicely developed.

The radio dial was set to a classic rock station. He popped the
tab on a Coke, took a deep drink, and then lit a Camel. The Moody
Blues were playing Nights In White Satin as he took a drag from his
cigarette. It was a pleasant way to spend the time.

It was near three o’clock, when he saw her. She left building
C and her dark-brown hair bobbed as she pranced across the asphalt.
“Yes, yes, yes,” he whispered. She was perfection. He wasn’t going
to strike out today. Tight faded cutoff jeans hugged her slender hips
and a snug blue knit shirt emphasized her shapely breasts. As the shirt
pulled up and down with her motion, he caught glimpses of lightly
tanned flesh.

She yanked open her car door and parked her delightful
bottom on the seat, so he engaged the Audi’s ignition. When she
settled behind the steering wheel and closed the door, he slipped the
Audi into drive. Her car was some kind of white Japanese import that looked
like the typical box with wheels. Her engine coughed a bit and the wheels started to
turn. Her backup lights came on. He let up on the brake, and prepared for the chase.
He stayed three-quarters of a block behind her, trying to keep
at least one car between them. It wouldn’t do to allow her to spot
the tail. After a fifteen-minute drive, she pulled into an apartment
complex. Luck was with him; there was a parking spot on the street in
front. In a few seconds he was out of the Audi and into the lot of the
complex in time to see his quarry enter apartment 115 on the ground
floor.

Unhurried, back he went to his car, drove around the block,
and entered the parking lot on a north side lane. He circled around and
parked close to his prey’s entrance. 3:15 pm made it the perfect time
of day. The majority of people were still at work and older children were
prisoners of school buses. His mouth creased in a snide grin. It was
daylight and evil only lurks in the dark.

Now it didn’t matter if she saw his car. He left it and walked
openly to her door, rapping on its wooden surface.

Without any hesitation, she pulled open the unlatched door.
“Yes? What can I do for you?”

Up close, she smelled of mint and lingering lemon, perhaps
from an earlier shower. There was a small brown and white terrier
leaping at her side. A bigger, more unruly dog would have changed
the plan, but fortunately for him, this was not the barking kind of
mutt. Instead, the little fellow licked his shoe.

With his left hand he grabbed the small dog’s collar and lifted
him in the air. While the fingers of his right hand grabbed the front
of the girl’s shirt, his bent knee came up into her belly, shoving her
back into the apartment. Stepping in quickly, he kicked the door shut
behind him.

Panic raced across her brown eyes as she squealed, “Why?What?” like it was one word.

“Shut up!” He held the struggling mutt in the air; it
was too frightened to breathe while he shook it. “You scream and I’ll
break the dog’s neck.”

“No, please! Don’t hurt him!”

“That depends on you—little girl—depends on you.” He
slurred the words suggestively. “Just how bad do you want ta live?”
He let loose of the dog’s collar and the terrier fell injury-hard against
the floor, yipped, and scurried under a couch. He still held the girl’s
shirt. An easy hundred pounds heavier, he twisted the shirt and pulled
her closer. His free hand grabbed the back of her hair.

More Characters Come Alive

What should I write about for today's blog?

Sester: You should write about me
Adrian: What a terrible idea
Argus: I'm with Adrian. We don't need your head to swell up anymore than it already is.
Adrian: I was speaking generally
Argus: Yes, that too
Sester: You two are just jealous because the women in the book club loved me
Adrian: Nonsense.

Yes, as the boys have indicated, I was at a women's book club on Wednesday night. They were kind enough to pick The Empire as their book for February and were doing a review of it, with me in attendance. Suffice it to say, I was somewhat nervous. Even though I believe in my own storytelling abilities, you never know. I don't expect everyone to love the story or even to like it. A few would be nice. It was a great experience and I got some valuable feedback. Most of them seemed to like the story and loved the characters. Only one of them didn't like it but she thought the story had great potential. All of them wanted to read the second book. The cliffhanger appears to have been quite successful and their favorite characters were Bryce, the comic relief, and of course, Sester. There was a fascination with his character.

Sester: It's understandable
Argus: No, it isn't
Sester: Don't worry. You'll get your turn in the second book
Argus: I'm not like you. I have no interest in attracting attention
Adrian: Nor I
Sester: Then it's perfect, you can leave it all to me. It'll be a public service. I'll even do it free of charge.
Adrian: Don't do anything

There was a lot of speculation about Adrian's back story and about Sester and the Guild. It was wonderful knowing that the hints and clues that I dotted throughout the book came across as they were intended to and added depth and interest to the story. It was hard not to give them spoilers for the remainder of the series.

I love the women of this book club. They were very thoughtful in their analysis and asked very intelligent questions. I hope I was able to add something useful and entertaining to their meeting.

Jack Eason : Turning Point » The Vandal

Jack Eason : Turning Point » The Vandal

FREE!

The Devil Came East and found a perfect playground.  Promotional price on this novel still free at Amazon’s Kindle, or for a few dollars at Barnes and Noble‘s Nook. If you would like to join a Serial Killer in his trek through the Big City hunting victims or join those trying to apprehend him, take a few minutes to check this book out.

Neil Harris, a psychiatrist, on a late night radio talk show is the first to realize Satan has appeared in New York City. Lonely women who call his show to chat are committing suicide at an unusually high rate. When Neil shares his suppositions with his friend, Detective Sergeant Joseph Farley, of the local police department, the search for the killer commences.

Not only a mystery, but a personal drama, Joe Farley, forty-five, recently divorced with some heavy financial baggage, is a bit of an underachiever. He is hampered by the fact he is given minimal help to find the killer and must share authority with a much younger ‘man on the move’ sergeant. Joe has a new love interest, a belligerent child, and a fierce loyalty to Neil  Harris(considered a suspect) thrown into the mix of complications.

Although this Goal Oriented  Serial Killer will meet and greet you on the opening page, and there are numerous hints throughout the text, it’s unlikely the reader will come to the proper conclusion any sooner than the police.

When our killer finds the perfect female, he makes a mistake and stays in one place too long.
With the police rapidly closing in on him, the Devil decides to go west. Can he escape or will the officer he attacks become his final victim?

Characters that Come Alive

This isn't about writing characters. It isn't about designing characters that pop out on the page. It's about those characters who are so strongly formed that they develop lives of their own, sometimes independently of their creators. This is nothing new. Just ask the authors of the books that you love the most, the ones where the characters are so well defined that they become indelible images.

When it first happened to me--of course, it had to be Adrian, the cold, cynical scientist making snarky comments--I thought that I was going crazy. Is it normal to have characters talking to you as if they were alive. Is it normal for them to have opinions, or refuse to do things, or insist that they like one of the new characters and proceed to act like an idiot around her?

After speaking to my writer friends, it seems that it is perfectly natural.

Whew. So, I'm not going insane.

Adrian: That's a matter of opinion
Sester: Of course, you're not.
Writer: Is that your professional opinion? What am I saying...you're a figment of my imagination.
Sester: I'm a psychostrategist. People are my specialty.
Adrian: He specializes in annoying them.
Sester: Only some people. *grins*
Writer: Why did I give you that irritating grin?
Sester: I think it's endearing.
Adrian: It's a mark of insanity.
Writer: Whose?
Adrian *goes back to work*
Writer: Hello? Are you ignoring me now?
Sester: He's trying to be delicate.
Argus *enters* Delicate? You're talking about Stannis.
Adrian *glowers, but continues ignoring everyone under the guise of work* 
Adrian: Stop adding your own interpretations of my actions
Argus: You always ignore people
Adrian: I do not
Argus: Oh, I forgot, you just pretend to ignore them
Adrian: Shut up
Argus: Hit a nerve?
Adrian: *glares*
Sester: He's not ignoring you now
Adrian (to writer) You brought him in because I was ignoring you
Writer: Did I?

And that's my world of Empire characters. I must admit, they can be quite amusing. Unless they get snippy about something in the story. When they become quiet, that's when something is seriously wrong. It means they're unhappy and are sulking (Adrian: I do not sulk) or are boycotting the story line. (Writer: Why did you think I was talking about you?) (Argus: You do sulk) (Adrian: *glares*) (Writer: Stop it. I'm trying to write this blog) (Adrian: I didn't ask to be included) (Argus: He thinks everything is about him) (Adrian: I do not) (Writer: STOP IT!)

(Writer: Now where was I?) It is much easier when the characters have a voice of their own. (Sester: Need some help?) (Writer: NO!) (Sester: Why are you shouting?) (Writer: Sorry. Didn't mean to shout. Just...leave me alone so I can write, alright?) (Sester: I'll be right here if you need me) (Writer: I won't) (Sester: Wow, you sound just like Adrian) (Writer: Stop it) (Sester: *grins*)

(Bryce: Hey, how come I'm not in this?) (Writer *grumbles something incoherent because this is a PG-13 blog*) (Sester: It is? When did we decide this?) (Writer: There is no WE in this blog) (Sester: I think the other writers might object) (Writer: I'm not talking about them, just YOU) (Adrian: Exactly) (Writer: I'm talking about all of you) (Adrian: Fine *temperature drops a few degrees*) (Writer *gulps* Adrian? Hello?)

Complete silence.

Oh, dear...