Three Cents Worth

The Almost Good News

2012-02-24T03:15:00.002-05:00

For quite a while I've been alluding to the fact that there's some exciting news coming. Well, it looked that way, but I've been waiting and the good news just didn't quite come about. Let me tell you what happened.

Back in December, I joined a television program marketing website, which seems to be one of the best ways to get my script for West of the Warlock in front of the right people. Hollywood executives don't generally look at freelance material, and unless you're connected you don't have many options. TV Writers Vault is one of the rare exceptions, where unagented, unknown writers can pitch television projects.

There is a membership fee involved, and it was really more than I could afford at the time, but I figured I'd go all-in and see what happened. It was still a longshot, but if somebody actually looked at my script, I knew they'd be hooked. That has long been my greatest problem—getting anyone to read my material. So, I scrounged up the membership fee and put together a fresh pitch for the West of the Warlock television project. Then, it was all up to the executives.

In mid-January, I got an exciting hit. An executive over at Cross Genre Entertainment reviewed my project and requested to see my script. It was thrilling, and seemed like an answered prayer for a time... until they never contacted me!

You see, the way that TV Writers Vault works is, the executives review the pitches, and if they want to see a script they ask the website to send them the writer's contact info, and then they're supposed to contact the writer directly. Well, for whatever reason, the people at Cross Genre Entertainment never got back to me. I don't know if they changed their minds, or what. All I know is that after a month of waiting, they still haven't contacted me (and they're supposed to do that within 3 days of asking for contact info).

It's really a sad situation, but there is still hope that the folks over at CGE will contact me someday. The worst part of it is not knowing why. Why didn't they contact me? Was it all a mistake? Did they click the wrong button and never want to read my script to begin with? Did they try phoning me in the middle of the night and I missed the call? Did they just plain change their minds? It is a mystery that may never be answered, since according to the TV Writers Vault terms of service I can't contact them unless they contact me (though, I did post a subtle reminder on their facebook page).

This isn't the end, of course. There are any number of other executives using the TVWV website who might want to give West of the Warlock a chance, and it's always a remote possibility that some producer will read the book and ask about the filming rights on their own. The script is just waiting to be read, and it could be a major hit for whatever studio has the foresight and fortune to produce it.

Oh, and if any of you run across a television producer who's looking for a truly original show, don't hesitate to mention me by name! I've got several projects in the sci-fi & fantasy genres just waiting for the right people to bring them to life.

Failed Again!

2012-02-23T15:21:00.001-05:00

So, another ABNA pitch round has come and gone, and for the third year in a row I find myself cut out of the action at the starting gate. It's getting to be an all too familiar occurrence, and I've come to accept that getting The Guns of Mars to the semi-finals in ABNA#2 may have been a fluke.

The hardest point of getting bumped during the pitch phase is that you get no feedback whatsoever. There's no explanation of why your pitch was rejected, so you're left scratching your head. I guess the people reading the pitches just aren't interested in what I write, for whatever reason.

This year, I had planned to submit "Virtual Domination" into the contest, it being the unpublished 4th volume in the Morgan Asher saga. However, in the last few days before submitting, I felt my pitch for Virtual Domination wasn't good enough and was certain for rejection. At the same time, I'd been tinkering with the promo for Prisoner of Time, which I self-published a few years ago, and seeing that the contest accepts self-published books I felt it was my best bet this time around. In retrospect, I doubt I'd have gotten any farther if I'd gone with my original submission plans, but we'll never know.

Anyway, here's the "pitch" I wrote for Prisoner of Time this year:

A dark entity lurks within a virtual environment, and he's trying to get out. A sorceress hell-bent on revenge inadvertently pits herself against him in her own quest for vengeance, and a jaded hero finds himself caught in the middle of an epic struggle of bad versus evil in "Prisoner of Time."

Morgan Asher hates virtual reality. While billions of people waste their lives on computer-generated fantasies, he desires a real life, but he finds himself drawn into a sword and sorcery program in search of a lost lover he long believed to be dead. Entering the world of Fantasan, he quickly finds himself in over his head, pitted against xenophobic elves, dastardly pirates, and sword-wielding monks hell-bent on his destruction. It seems everyone is out to get him.

All the while, a trap is being set by a mad sorceress, Josie Johansen, a woman who blames Morgan for the death of her best friend. Josie intends to make Morgan a prisoner of time itself, exiling him to the distant future, yet everything changes when a mysterious demon reveals himself—for the fallen angel Haloran seeks to escape his simulated prison and enter the real world! To stop the ascendance of Satan-incarnate, Josie must set aside her personal feelings and cooperate with Morgan, but will she ever be willing to forgive him?

I believe this is far superior to the current back-cover blurb I have for Prisoner of Time, and plan to start using this in the future on my website, and eventually on the back cover of the forthcoming 2nd Edition of the book. So it wasn't a total loss. It would have been nice to get somewhere with the ABNA again, but it's obvious that their literary interests lie in a different direction than mine—their loss.

Here's to failure! It looks like this is shaping up to be another one of those years...

Plebians of Plebiscite (Minstrel Mondays)

2012-02-20T18:12:00.000-05:00

Here's a little something I threw together several years ago. I think it's one of my better pieces, actually, but you be the judge.

Drinking muddy water from a mason jar,

letting it all soak in

This is my life,

the sunny side of this hard land.

I till the soil of the seeker's vision,

fertilize their imaginations to

unending possibilities.

A mosquito lands upon my arm,

I crush it with my hand

and somewhere a dragonfly dies

for the sustenance I have extinguished.

Ripples appear in the pond's surface

as a slumbering mystery decomposes

hidden among the muck,

unknown to the minds of modernity.

Slide sideways through the hallways

of possibilities.

Our world is always remarkable

through the unshaded eyes of innocence.

yet unremarkable to the rose-tinted vision

of the unperceptive plebeians of plebiscite.

You know this means something,

but don't ask me what,

for I'm just the poor farmer

laughing at the idiocy of it all.

So Very Tired

2012-02-19T16:19:00.001-05:00

I'm sorry that I haven't put together this week's Family Sunday column, but I had to take some time off after the hectic week I've had. Helping to organize the Washington County Republican "Super-Caucus" was wild, and yesterday was long and exhausting. We didn't have the massive turn-out we could/should have had, but we did get 306 voters, and had a lot of guests from the various Presidential campaigns, giving us a pretty packed room.

For those interested, the vote totals were:
Ron Paul: 163
Mitt Romney: 80
Rick Santorum: 57
Newt Gingrich: 4
Undecided: 2

It'll be an interesting State Convention in May.

Anonymous Comments May End

2012-02-17T03:27:00.004-05:00

When I started blogging on a regular basis, I decided it was a fair and logical thing to accept "anonymous" comments, so long as they were moderated. In the past year, that has worked out for the most part, but I've gotten a few "off color" posts, as every blog owner can probably imagine. This hasn't been a really big problem until recently, when a sudden influx of them has driven me to reconsider my position.

I tend to avoid controversy with my posts, as I'm really not a lover of conflict. I am a fun loving writer, who is generally satisfied to weave my imaginative tales for all, and I like to keep my opinions and politics separate from this job. Yet, now and then, I've found myself sliding into the hazardous realm of political opinion, and expressing one viewpoint or another that has drawn the attention and ire of differentially-minded people. Some of those folks have turned out to be less than civil, posting narrow-minded and offensive comments, and that has left me wondering if I should stop accepting anonymous comments entirely. Sure, the comments can be deleted before anyone besides me sees them, but it is annoying as hell to deal with an onslaught of childish trolls who think you should shut up unless you express their point of view exclusively.

There are times when you have to take a stand, and there are plenty of people who will always be standing on the other side when you do, waiting to take a cheap shot. I would simply ask that those who read my blog posts refrain from spewing vulgar epithets or belittling my intelligence and integrity, simply because we may disagree. Like that famous line from the Shootist goes, "I'll not be wronged, I'll not be insulted, and I'll not be laid a hand on. I don't do these things to others, and I expect the same from them." What a wonderful place the world would be if more people (especially online) took these simple words to heart.

So, when was the last time you had a run-in with an internet troll?

West of the Warlock (Peek/Sample 1)

2012-02-15T03:00:00.001-05:00

There are a lot of new people reading the blog these days, and many of them aren't aware that much of my unique Fantasy-Western cross-genre novel is available to read for free at Hall Brothers Entertainment. So, for those who haven't stopped over there and started reading, here is the beginning of Episode 1:

The dust of the hills rolled up in great plumes behind the stagecoach as it thundered down the well-traveled road. The blued steel plates glistened in the late-afternoon sun, an armored behemoth among parched sagebrush. It was the pride of the fleet, owned and operated by Ferguson and Finney Limited. The mining consortium had a dozen coaches that made trips between Sacramento and Selwood, but this one was special, for transporting the most valuable cargoes.

The beasts hauling the coach were not horses, but sand mares. The cold-blooded reptilians looked more akin to dragons than equines, with scales and thorny protrusions covering them from head to tail. Six of the bulky creatures were attached to the yokes, and even with the heavy load they could outrun the fastest racehorse. The wild version native to the southern Rockies and Sierra Nevadas could turn you into a tasty snack with ease, though the domesticated variety were gentle enough, and could gallop in a smooth fashion.

Atop the armored coach sat a round cylinder of menacing armaments; the famed Gatling gun, the greatest machine gun of the day. With a few turns of the crank, it could fend off a pack of angry Indians, or slaughter the most ruthless elven bandits. Additional backup lurked inside the coach, as a pair of well-armed men waited with rifles and pistols, prepared to defend the cargo with their lives.

None could stand against the combined strength of these defenses which sought to safeguard this special transport, or so the stockholders hoped.

The man smiled. He's seen it all before. Similar weapons had done no good last week for a band of disagreeable elves. The pointies really thought that a few hunks of metal and a few guns could stand up to his might, but he'd shown them. The rowdy claim-jumpers who'd wanted to hoard a mother load of antimony had tasted his wrath, and not one had lived to tell of it.

That had merely been a warm up. Today, the warlock in black would prove his true mettle.

Rubbing at his chin, the warlock felt the start of stubble growing there, and his thoughts momentarily shifted to his personal hygiene. He was never one for beards, and he'd be damned if he'd grow one like the old stuffed shirts at the academy. How careless he was being, forgetting to shave over the excitement of a heist. That could not be tolerated.

With a thought and a rolling of his eyes, the man activated the magic at his command, and a ripple of red rolled down his face, removing the tiny stubble growing on his cheeks and chin. The end result was a perfect shave, smoother than the best barber could provide. He stroked himself appreciatively, and decided he was ready.

Stretching out his arm, the man formulated a magic spell in his head, and directed it toward the charging sand mares. A scarcely visible streak of light flashed through the air and shot into each of the animals, disrupting their central nervous systems. Paralyzed, they stopped dead in their tracks, and began to tumble from their remaining inertia.

Under ordinary circumstances, a stagecoach would flip over, or even end-for-end after such an abrupt stop, but the added weight of the armor plates prevented the thing from toppling. Its back wheels lurched up in the air a couple of feet, then came back down with a great crash, bringing everything to a halt.

With the coach motionless, it would be such a simple task for any parlor magician to teleport the wealth inside, or so the man in black believed until he tried. Clearly, the brains behind this armored wagon's design had anticipated the possibility of mystic assault, and laced the exterior with a neutralizing ward. Your typical warlock or elvish bandit would find it impossible to extract anything from within the vehicle, though there was nothing typical about this darkly clothed gentleman. If he wished, he could defeat the magic wards, and take what he desired with a thought, though encountering resistance made him bold, and eager to face his foes in person.

"Time to say hello,"

If that piques your interest, be sure to get over to Hall Brothers Entertainment, and download the whole first Episode. Then, get the other 7 for free, and buy the book, which contains more of the story plus extras!

I'd Give Up Eternity (Minstrel Mondays)

2012-02-13T16:25:00.000-05:00

Here's a pretty personal poem that I wrote for my wife shortly after we first fell in love (wow, it's been over 10 years now). It was a time that certainly changed my life, and led me down a far different path that I had been on beforehand. So, after nearly 11 years in a drawer, here's a piece of poetry I hope anyone who has ever been in love can understand.

I love loving you

as I've never loved before.

So long I've been forgotten,

yet now thanks to you I'm found.

Please never let me go,

for I cannot imagine the pain.

It hurts to think you'll ever be gone,

for my once dead heart

has now been reborn

and only you can keep it alive.

Stay with me as long as you can.

Never betray me,

and stay forever true,

for we can never escape this

high we've fallen into.

I ask the powers that be

that time will not take us away

from one another again,

because life would be nothing

if I can't share it with you.

Everything I have,

it seems so little.

Compared to you,

it all is nothing.

Not long before we met

I held the universe in my hands,

I felt the very breadth of existence

lurking in my mind,

I knew such the answers,

tasted spiritual truth,

yet all it did was lead me to you.

The facts of heaven were

at my fingertips,

and fantastic figures waited

willing to tell them all.

But now that I have you,

it all faded into irrelevancy.

I've given up the secrets of eternity,

just so we may be together,

if only for our lifetimes.

True love is so wholly illogical,

but fun to an absolute.

Maybe I've been a spirit far too long,

and it's time I enjoyed my human fate.

My soul can wait,

we'll be one once again,

but for now I just want to live.

The future may be uncertain,

but with you it can't be too bad.

I'll share with you the secrets of me,

and together, perhaps later,

we can proceed as once I had planned.

But for now, I only want to be with you.

Eternity can wait,

forever, if necessary,

and I'll leave it up to you.

Shall we give the world the truth it needs,

or let it wait in blissful ignorance?

Only you and I can decide.

I'd rather be here

with you in my arms

than flying with the angels any day.

Maine GOP Disenfranchises Voters

2012-02-12T18:17:00.002-05:00

Last night, the Maine State Republican Committee & Chairman Charlie Webster decided to announce the "winner" of the Maine Republican Caucus Straw Poll, totally disregarding the fact that Washington County and much of Hancock County have not yet caucused & voted. Following their declaration of Mitt Romney's "victory," they affirmed that anybody who hadn't yet caucused wouldn't count, and their votes wouldn't be added to the Statewide totals; never mind that towns legally have until March 20 to caucus.

This is very questionable behavior, for the race was very tight, and Romney only has a 194 vote lead over Ron Paul. Washington and Hancock county caucuses will be held on February 18, and they could very well eat away or even eliminate that lead, giving Ron Paul a victory, but we can't have that, now can we? The Great and Powerful Chairman has spoken!

This disenfranchisement should be an insult to every voter, regardless of party or ideology. Basically, a few elites of the Republican Party are saying that those of us in Washington County "don't matter." It is a spit in the eye, and an insult to everything the Founding Fathers fought for... and it should never be tolerated in a free Republic!

Here's a draft copy of a letter I will be mailing to my fellow Republicans in Robbinston, hoping to inform them of the situation and fire them up for the caucus:

As you have no doubt heard by now, the Washington County "Super-Caucus" scheduled for this past Saturday had to be postponed due to the snowstorm. The rescheduled date for the caucus is February 18, 2012. As previously planned, it will be held at Washington Academy on Hill Street in East Machias, starting at 1:30PM. We'll have a candidate forum, where every Republican running for public office (from the Presidency, Congress, U.S. Senate, and the Maine Legislature) will be in attendance or have a spokesperson there to speak on their behalf. We'll also be electing delegates and alternates to the State Convention in May, and reform the town committee. Then, we'll be voting in a presidential straw-poll, which is perhaps the most important reason to attend the caucus this year.

As you may have heard, the State Republican Party decided to go ahead and announce a "winner" of the caucus straw-polls on Saturday night, even though most towns in Washington & Hancock County have yet to caucus. When some of us objected to our votes being disenfranchised, State Party Chairman Charlie Webster dismissed us entirely. He said there'll end up being fewer than 200 total votes cast in Washington County, so basically we don't matter, and he doesn't intend to add our votes to the statewide results!

This is an outrage, and we should all be upset. By State Law, Maine towns have until March 20 to caucus and vote in the straw poll. What Webster and the State GOP are doing is equivalent to closing the voting booths at noon on Election Day and telling us "tough luck, your votes don't count." This cannot be allowed to happen, and no American should tolerate this sort of behavior.

It is important that as many Republicans from Washington County show up as possible. We must send the State GOP a message, that we do matter out here, and that we have a right to vote! I implore you, if there's any way you can take the time on Saturday afternoon, make the drive down to East Machias and join your fellow Republicans in the caucus process. Together, we can make the entire country hear from us!

Hopefully, enough voters will show up to make Charlie Webster think twice about trying to cheat us out of our say!

A Busy Week

2012-02-10T03:46:00.002-05:00

Things have been hectic for me this past week, as evidenced by my lack of blog posts. In addition to getting the necessary signatures for my School Board run, I had a wisdom tooth extracted, and I've been working on several other important projects that have kept me busy and distracted. I'm still sitting on some interesting news that just can't go out yet; not until I'm sure it's the right time. Waiting really is a pain.

I'm pleased to say I'm putting the final pages down on The Six Gun Conjurer, and after my head stops hurting from the dental surgery I just had, I hope to finally get that completed. The continuing adventures of Ron Grimes and company is shaping up into an even longer series than I ever would have expected.

As the third volume in the Fantasy Western saga nears an end, I have plans for a fourth book in the series, though I may let things set for a few months before I start work on it. There are other stories I need to tell, and even more worlds to explore.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some work to do.

Standing for the School Board

2012-02-04T04:43:00.001-05:00

When it comes to elections, I'm something of a wildcard. Whenever I run for office, I find myself fighting my own nature, which is to hide behind a keyboard and write my thoughts. Public speaking will never be my forte, and going out to lobby for votes is always a stressful chore. In the past, I've found that I just can't be shameless, and that has cost me in the arena of "popularity contests" that we call elections.

Yet, despite myself, I find it impossible to abandon the call of duty.

Daring to venture once more into the fray, I've decided to run for the Robbinston School Board. The school board isn't always a "big" deal in my little town. It's basically a volunteer position you have to get elected to. Yet, while it isn't a position most people seek, it is very important for those of us who care about our children's future. We need to make sure our kids get the best education possible without bankrupting the taxpayers in the process. That is understandably a tenuous proposition, with restrictive funding guidelines and limited capital in these hard economic times.

Robbinston Grade School is one of the best schools out there, public or private. We have a good learning environment, with teachers who are caring and attentive to the students' needs. I want to keep it that way, but I can't do that from the sidelines. Therefore, I must step up, and hope the townspeople will give me their trust.

Last year, we had the big "closure" spectacle, where the current board threatened to shut the school down and tuition our kids to neighboring schools. The plan to shut it down would have actually cost $5,000 more than keeping our school open, but the threat was still made. One board member used it as political posturing, to wake up the voters to the reality of an unavoidable tax increase, but another member seemed genuinely interested in shutting the school down. He thought our kids would get a better education in a bigger, consolidated setting, and he's the one who's up for re-election this year.

I can't make any big, grandiose promises. I'm not going to cut everyone's taxes in half, nor am I going to magically double funding for the school. What I will do is fight to my last breath to keep the school open, and do everything possible to minimize the impact on property tax rates. It's the least any school board member should do.

This isn't my first race, and it won't be my last. I may hate the idea of another election, but there are times that a man must make a stand, and yet again here I am. The only question is, who will stand with me?

Fly Me to the Moon

2012-02-03T03:48:00.001-05:00

I've always been a big supporter of the space program. While dreaming of the future is a prerequisite for a writer of Science Fiction, I have also held very practical views on exploring and colonizing outer space. I feel it is mankind's ultimate purpose and destiny to travel to the stars, and the first step toward doing that is to get some colonies set up in our own metaphorical back yard. By that, I mean setting up shop on the celestial bodies in our own solar system.

Newt Gingrich said something unexpected last week. Now, I'm no fan of Newt, but he said we should establish a colony on the moon, and I feel that has merit. Of course, he was just pandering to voters in Florida (where NASA is located, duh!), but where he might say it as a cheap political maneuver, I actually believe in doing it. The United States needs to go back to our nearest celestial neighbor in a big way. It's time we picked up where Apollo 17 left off, and actually do everything our forefathers were dreaming of during the 1960's and before. It's time to build our moonbase.

A lot of people don't care about space these days, and even more would argue that this "isn't the right time." But when the hell is? The simple answer is it will never be the right time if you take that attitude. We're never going to "fix things" on Earth, and there's always going to be some crisis or war or stock market crash that's going to scare people away from "wasting" resources on such a venture. If we'd taken this attitude in the 60's (like Walter Mondale wanted), we'd never have gone into space at all, and the frontiers of science and technology would be far suppressed. Much of the fantastic tech we use today was subsidized and perfected by the space program—but if you prefer your slide rule and think the Commodore 64 was the best computer ever made, I'm sure you'd love the alternate reality without a space program.

I also firmly believe that our landing on the moon gave us a real shot in the arm toward winning the Cold War. We proved our superiority over the totalitarian Communist Russians, and that bit of psychological warfare did a lot to shape the future. If the Commies had landed, it would have told the world that collectivist authoritarianism is superior and can "get things done," and that could have given the Reds enough pride in their own accomplishment to advance even farther. I truly believe that without Neil Armstrong's historic step, the USSR would still be a dominant power today.

So, now, almost 42 years later, we have a new batch of authoritarians plotting a space race. The Communist Chinese have been saying for some time now that they intend to set up a lunar colony. This is not something those of us in the free world should take lightly, nor should we ignore the worth of setting up our own moonbase.

We are at a point in human history where building a base is perfectly viable. We have the technology, and the resources. All we really need is the national will to do it. The longer we wait to get back to colonizing space, the harder it will be, as more Earthly problems crop up. There is no telling what the future may hold, and all it would take is a few extremists to drop a few bombs and we'll be back to pre-industrial technology, or worse.

In case of terrestrial catastrophe, we need someplace to store the collective knowledge of the present era; a safe haven that will assure that everything we have written, everything we have uncovered, will not be obliterated by our own follies. There are countless stories throughout history that have been lost. What secrets could we have known, if the Library of Alexandria hadn't been burned by an illiterate despot? How many lost writings are we still uncovering in the deserts, and how many will never be found? This is something that should not come to pass again, but it likely will if we don't establish a secure storehouse off-world.

It is high time mankind build a base on the moon, and pretty soon somebody is going to do it. The question is, who do you want in charge of the base? Do you want it run by a fascist regime that views its people as little more than farm animals, a government that has murdered millions of innocents, and has no respect for civil rights or individual freedom? Or do you want a free democratic republic in the driver's seat, assuring that the people who go into space will be bringing the tenets of liberty and justice with them?

I say let it be free men and women who colonize space, and let it be now!

The Curse of Selwood (Peek 2)

2012-02-01T08:46:00.000-05:00

We're still several months away from the release of the second Fantasy Western novel, but while we're waiting for "The Curse of Selwood," I'd like to share another short snippet from Episode 1.

The creature crawled out of his cave, the thin, emaciated being in the rough form of a humanoid. While proportioned much like a human being, he was certainly not a man. Bony protrusions jutted out of every joint, forming a crusty exoskeleton over his slim body. The face was parched and flaking, akin to white sandstone, and the skin was sucked so tightly against the skull to appear ghastly. No hair could be found upon his scalp, but a few black tufts sat along his jaw line.

One might assume the creature to be native to the desert, and in recent years he had been, though that had not always been the case.

Hearing the train, the bony being moved to action, rushing across the dusty landscape like a jackrabbit. Speed increased with every lurching leap until the creature came to the top of a ridge and saw his quarry, the metal machine of man spewing black smoke from its stack, towing a dozen boxcars along the steel rails.

The train was picking up speed, going faster than any horse could run, though that did not deter the creature from continuing the pursuit. Racing down the hillside, the being rushed faster, darting along at remarkable velocity—soon matching, and then surpassing the rolling wheels of the locomotive. He was within striking distance of the caboose before long, and made his move onto the back deck, reaching it in one leap.

The moment was approaching at last; the time of retribution!

For those of you who haven't yet read West of the Warlock, be sure to get over to Hall Brothers Entertainment and read 75% of it for free, and if you really like it be sure to pick up a copy of the published book, which contains a lot of extra material that will tie into the forthcoming sequel!

An Inkling of You (Minstrel Mondays)

2012-01-30T04:35:00.002-05:00

Sometimes, a poem is best left without explanation. Read it and glean what you can from it.

Your graceless beauty

haunts me every day

Your saintless sultry

brings me a supple smile

When your train has left the station

I will still remain

committedly yours

There have been others

there will be others still

but everything I dream for

is waiting under your skin.

Elsewhere, I'll never find

that solitary look

you have in your eyes

For there are dreams we share

without even knowing

but we are worlds apart

beyond believing

and I'm never going to find

a single piece of mind

in all the days

that we are through

I can't look upon you

We have a heart to keep

locked up in our minds

trapped away from reality

timeless and unkind

We'll never know each other

so long as we're alive

but I know

we won't let go

To have an inkling of you

I know I'm a lucky man

yet you know only the shadow

I cast upon your plans

a caricature of compassion

lurking in plain sight

but never will we bring

ourselves to partake

of our inherent right

There will come a day

where nothing will be said

if we should stand

hand in hand

going forward forevermore

in broad daylight

Winter Fun at Jackson Park

2012-01-29T05:29:00.002-05:00

Here's a look back in time. These are a few old pictures from my Forthman collection, taken at Jackson Park in Chicago during the winter of 1915. Pictured is Anna Louise Littlefield Forthman (my great-grandmother) with her five older children (this was 4 years before my grandmother was born). The top photo is handily labeled, so you can tell who's who.

Those with a keen eye may notice a thumb print on the middle photo. I'm not sure who left their mark on the picture, but it was undoubtedly some relative of mine, and it occurred long before I ever saw the print, probably before I was even born.

While not the clearest or most pristine photos, they're a fascinating relic of the family's past. Have fun out in the snow!

Where Do I Go From Here?

2012-01-27T12:03:00.002-05:00

Lately, I've felt like my life is in limbo. Everything seems to have just plain stopped around me, and I am left wondering if I'll ever climb forward, or remain on this lonely plateau of existence.

A lot of this has to do with my writing career, and the state of my monetary prospects. There are several big things that might be happening in the next few months, but if they don't happen I'll be stuck in the same place I've always been, wanting and waiting. I can't express in words the torturous nature of my current predicament.

More than ever before, I know that now is the time; a make or break moment is coming, and it will forever determine the course of my life. The utter uncertainty can be absolutely frustrating, but at least I have hope. Without that glimmering inkling of possibility, there is no point to life, so as long as I can strive for the mark, and actually have some rational chance at success, I'll find the strength to carry on.

It is a lonely road, for certain, and in recent months I've felt very much alone in all things. The friends of my past are long gone, and the associates of recent years seem to have shirked away, either distracted or disinterested in me. I know there are those of you out there who really understand, and I thank you for your consideration. I just wish there were a lot more of you.

Art has its price, and I fear I have sacrificed so much in my personal life in the name of my own creations. I have lost face to some, and at times I feel that I've compromised my self-respect for the chance to keep writing. Every day, I must ask myself, "Will it be worth it?" knowing I have no alternative but to find out. This is a tough gamble I've made with my very life. I'll either succeed in the end, or I won't. Either way, there is no other path open to me at this point. I've gone too far to turn back, so I'll just have to stick to my guns.

I know that my big break is just around the corner, but whether I'll ever turn that corner is another question entirely. I yearn for the day where I'll be able to share the big news, something that will make everyone interested once again.

The Guns of Mars (Peek 2)

2012-01-25T16:33:00.001-05:00

So far, this week has been a lot of prep work. I've been writing a lot of pitch material, and crafting some more in-depth treatments for various projects I have in the pipeline. I managed to get a few paragraphs down on the Six-Gun Conjurer, and hope to finally settle in to finish it off in the next few weeks. Things are getting interesting.

Moving on to this week's Sneak Peek, we have another sample from The Guns of Mars (a book you should all consider buying, as it's one of my best). This snippet is part of an intense exchange among some of Villas Colony's more prominent citizens. Congress has just cut the space program budget, and the colonists of Mars must find a way to make ends meet to survive. When economist Petra Euchland proposes an elimination of all salaries and that the colony be run as a "moneyless" society, Police Chief Timothy Keene doesn't take it lying down.

“A lot of us aren’t going to take a cut in pay lightly,” Tim added. “We may not have anything to buy now, but come retirement age, this planet will be hopping. A nest egg would come in handy.”

“What do you plan to buy?” Petra asked, amused by Tim’s defiance. “We’ll always have everything we need and simple luxuries. In fact, if we put our salaries toward the needs of the colony, and the next Congress decides to restore our budget, we’ll have a healthy surplus to provide all kinds of extras.”

“Hey, now you’re just talking crazy,” Tim countered. “Putting our salaries toward necessities is one thing, but if we get our funding back, I expect my salary reinstated—along with all my back pay! You’re not confiscating my wealth to buy luxuries for everybody else. I earn that money. I decide how it’s spent.”

“Wouldn’t you rather everyone in the community benefit by pooling resources, rather than you alone wasting it frivolously?”

“Who says I want to be a part of this ‘community’ forever? What if, in another fifty years, I get tired of that little gray box I’m living in and want to buy myself a hunk of land and go prospecting? There’s a future in micro-dome housing, and plenty of Martian real-estate to purchase.”

Petra laughed rudely. “You’ve been reading too many fantasy novels, Tim. Real-estate on Mars? Really? This isn’t the wild west. You can’t go out and stake a claim. Private property is never going to be an option in this kind of environment.”

“That’ll change someday!” Timothy shouted.

Surrender? Never! (Minstrel Mondays)

2012-01-23T11:26:00.005-05:00

Today is the opening day for the Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award 2012 Contest! I've already gotten my submission safely delivered, and can now sit back and dread next month's first cut, where 4 out of 5 entries will be dropped because their "pitch" doesn't pique the curiosity of the anonymous judges. I feel I have a good shot this year, but I thought that last year when I failed to crack the first round threshold. It's all pretty random, and heavily based on personal tastes. I just have to hope that I receive the right judges, who'll like my sales pitch.

I'm still waiting to hear back from someone before I reveal some pretty exciting news. Stay tuned for that.

Now, back to Minstrel Mondays, with a general poem about the entertainment industry. Whether you're an aspiring writer, actor/actress, singer/songwriter, comedian, etc... you'll find something familiar in this piece, that I dedicate to everyone who has a dream and still strives to fulfill it.

Hope

it's what I need

it's what I'm seeking

each and every day.

Let me on

the stage again

so I can pull off

a miracle.

Never in my life

have I ever asked for more

but never have I ever asked for less.

It's nothing to receive

this immaterial thing

but we're all hoping.

Throw it out again

trying hard to win

at a game that has

no ultimate winner.

Losers still abound

and failures come around

to the realization that

no one ever knows.

You could be the hit

they've been waiting for

the superstar of tomorrow

waiting in the wings

but by chance you turn out

to be yesterday's star

you'll never know

how far you could go.

Giving it your all

is only thinking small.

You've got to get out

and give it someone

else's hundred and ten.

How can you do it alone

when you're competition is overgrown?

There's no comparing numbers

with the borg!

Step into the light

and keep fighting

for your moment.

There's nothing worse

than thinking "I could've tried."

If you try and fail again

even if you never win

at least you'll sleep soundly

knowing you did all you could.

When history is written

the worst of the losers

are those who never tried

and are left forgotten.

If you keep striving for the mark

even if you never reach it

somebody

somewhen

will at least know you were

alive.

Cousin Contact

2012-01-22T06:51:00.000-05:00

As I continue to uncover new data regarding my various family lines, I am hoping to find more living descendants. Those who have managed to contact me thus far have been helpful and a pleasure to correspond with, and I'm hoping that many more cousins will announce themselves in the future.

To that end, I'm going to go out on a limb so to speak, and give out a contact email. I know from personal experience that the blogger messaging system can be a pain to operate, and in many cases it doesn't work right. Some cousins have reached me via Facebook, but even that isn't always convenient or comfortable. Those relatives who find this blog and wish to contact me directly can do so at inghamediting (at) earthlink (dot) net.

I am always looking to expand my knowledge about divergent ancestral lines, and welcome your emails. Let's pool our resources and build a better tree.

Life Gets in Your Way

2012-01-20T11:49:00.002-05:00

It has been a hectic week for me, so I must apologize for not maintaining my regular posting schedule. I was sick for several days with a stomach flu, and that set me back a bit with various projects. There were several other pressing matters I had to deal with, but things should settle back to normalcy in short order.

That said, I should have some exciting news next week. It could be the beginning of something big if all goes well, so keep your fingers crossed, and check back for the full report.

I hope you're all enjoying yourselves out there, and stay in touch.

My Lee Cousins

2012-01-15T03:36:00.013-05:00

This week, I'd like to share another rare family photo, and introduce you to a few of my cousins, the Lees.

This photo was taken about 1897, and shows the 4 Lee children at bath time. Gertrude Beulah Lee is on the far left. Donald Willis Lee is in the tub, Robert Nelson Lee is standing straight, and Rowland Vance Lee is the one leaning over on the right.

The Lees are an interesting line of the tree. Their mother was Marie Elizabeth Nelson, aunt to my great-grandmother Mary Alice Nelson. Marie and her husband, Clarence Willis Lee, were stage actors, who moved out to Hollywood during the early days of film. Rowland became a successful director, and has his own star on Hollywood's Walk of Fame. You can read about his film history here.

Robert was a writer (mostly screenplays), and he was nominated for a Best Writing Oscar in 1931 for his work on the screen adaptation of "Little Caesar," starring Edward G. Robinson and Douglas Fairbanks, Jr.

Donald was also a screenplay writer, though he didn't garner as much success as his brother Robert. IMDB has him mistakenly listed as deceased in 1934. Perhaps his screenwriting career died at that time, but he lived until 1978.

Gertrude married Guy Oran Koepp in 1924, and they had several children.

My knowledge of their lives is pretty sparse, and I'd really like to know more about my Lee Cousins. Hopefully, some of their descendants will find this blog someday. Don't be afraid to say hello!

Pitches, Revisions, And A New Poll

2012-01-13T06:29:00.002-05:00

Happy Friday the 13th!

I've been coming out of the slump this week, taking on some little writing projects to help get me back into the swing of things. I started out working on a new promo for Virtual Domination, which I may enter into the 2012 Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award contest. Earlier this week, I wrote 2 different versions of the pitch. For those who aren't familiar with the contest, the "pitch" is the initial hook, much like a query letter. With the ABNA, the first round is judged purely on that 300 word blurb, and nothing else. I can't say I'm really satisfied with either pitch I wrote, so I might go a different route (depending on my instincts, and feedback from a couple of writer friends).

Bringing us to the "different route," yesterday I started looking at Prisoner of Time. I self-published it three years ago, and in that time I realized there was something missing from chapter 2. The first page was a dull narrative, used as a bridge to the previous volume, Virtual Wiles. Reading it through, a new idea came to mind about how I could rework this hunk of text, and incorporate any relevant data into later conversations. So, I made the first change to Prisoner of Time in years, and fixed what I believe was the book's only real flaw. It reads smoothly now from beginning to end.

With Prisoner of Time newly improved, that has got me thinking. Maybe I should enter it into the ABNA! The contest does accept self-published titles, and Prisoner of Time is something I've thought about submitting for years. I initially considered submitting it in 2009, but I instead went with The Guns of Mars, which subsequently became a semi-finalist. Perhaps it's time to put Prisoner in the spotlight, and see what happens?

Again, the pitch is the problem. I spent a couple of hours yesterday afternoon writing up the Prisoner of Time pitch, working with the blurb on the back cover. In retrospect, it isn't all it could be. To advance in the ABNA, you really need to impress the judges, as only 1 in 5 books make it through the first round. There are a lot of writers who fail to succeed, simply because they aren't the best at advertising. Yes, there's also the luck factor, since there's no telling the tastes of the 2 judges you'll get to read your pitch. If I can get through the first round, odds are I'll run straight to the semi-finals again, maybe even break through to the win, but that damn pitch needs to be perfect!

Okay, so that's what I'm doing right now.

Bringing us back to the blog, you might notice the new poll to the right. It asks what your favorite Martin T. Ingham novel is. It's a fun feature that'll stay there in perpetuity, allowing my readers to give a little bit of feedback. Don't be afraid to vote!

Well, back to the grind. Send me your hopes and prayers, and together we'll survive this experience.

Virtual Domination (Cut Scene)

2012-01-11T03:26:00.001-05:00

It's the previously-unreleased 4th volume in the Morgan Asher series, and the 3rd book in my "Virtual Saga." Virtual Domination is one of my personal favorites among my various works, even though I've yet to see it in print. I haven't put forth a rigorous submissions campaign for this book for various reasons, but in the coming months I hope to change that, and find someone interested in releasing it.

In the meantime, I'd like to introduce you to one of the supporting characters in the book. Selena Griswold is a new addition to the cast, appearing for the first time in this volume. My original introduction to her was a long narrative that comprised the first part of Chapter 3, but as it was something of an ungainly info-dump, I removed it; writing a new intro and interspersing any relevant data from it into future chapters.

Still, the original, rough draft introduction is interesting to some extent, and it'll help you glean some insight into this character long before the book ever comes out. Get ready to meet Selena Griswold!

Selena Griswold was a confident woman, in all aspects. She knew what she wanted, and went for it, and her desires were always predicated on the notion that she knew what was right, above and beyond what anyone else told her. This had gotten her into quite a bit of trouble as a child, as she'd been apt to correct her elders when their opinions disagreed with hers. Fortunately for her, such rebellious behavior was a trait her parents appreciated, or she might have found her spirits crushed.

Where her parents accepted her cavalier attitude in all things, college professors were another matter. They didn't always give her leeway when she challenged the establishment theorems, and after two year of butting heads she decided psychology wasn't for her, and instead sought out a more adventurous life, one inside a computer. She had enough saved in her college account to fund an indefinite stay in Fantasan, where her robust demeanor would prove to be an asset.

The occult had always piqued her curiosity as a child, so it was natural that she selected the life of a sorceress in the fantasy realm. Though, she soon learned that the ways of magic had nothing to do with real-world witchcraft. It did not involve demonic spirits, or reverence for Mother Nature. It was just another learned mental ability, like mathematics or pattern recognition. You figured out how to manipulate a new plain of existence that didn't exist in the real world, and it was quite easy for those with a knack for it.

Selena definitely had a "knack" for magic, as she spent years traveling the imagined realm, performing day-to-day activities to keep herself fed. There wasn't a lot of excitement at first, as she labored without the use of her hands. Tilling soil is quite simple when you can dig with invisible mental force, and hammering nails was just as simple, when you had nails. Of course, she also learned to manufacture the required building supplies from raw materials, to aid in her contracting tasks.

After a decade of honing her talents, she journeyed beyond her "native land," and ventured across the Pendelor Mountain Range, a daunting and dangerous task few inhabitants of Taloraz ever pursued. It was a rite of passage for daring tradesmen and wild adventurers, who sought to reach the western cities of the adjoining kingdom; the fair land of Rickard.

The trip took her three weeks, but only once did she have the chance to battle a nasty dragon. It was a silver sand-spinner, which had come up from the southern deserts to prey upon whatever wildlife it could find. The beast spit sulfuric acid, and would have been lethal to someone without mastery over magic. Selena's skills allowed her to neutralize the acid on contact, and she quickly did the same to the acid percolating in the lizard's veins, killing it.

Death hadn't been her intention, and seeing she had vanquished the dragon left her feeling sullen and remorseful, even though it had tried to eat her. A day she spent playing with her spells, seeing if she could somehow revive the beast, and when that proved futile she moved on, but not before cutting off one of the dragon's small claws, to forever remind herself to be cautious, even in the heat of battle.

Truly, she was a gentle soul, whose desire for adventure had borne more fruit than she'd intended.

Coming down out of the mountains, Selena found the bustling trading center of Candovar, on the shores of a crystal clear lake. This was the northwestern tip of Rickard, a land notorious for its prosperity and freedom. Rumors told of a gregarious monarch who ruled this vast expanse, and she decided to go see if there was any truth to the stories.

It took her nearly a year to gain an audience with the king, after which she regretted the wasted time. She didn't appreciate his romantic overtures, and ended their meeting in a huff, drawing the attention of the more mannerly Archmage of the realm. Her first impression of Alan Rome was far more favorable, and after a short talk she accepted the man's offer of invaluable tutelage. He'd lived almost a hundred years, most of that in Fantasan, and his understanding of magic made her realize how little she really knew. They worked closely together for three years, and then one day it all ended. Her austere instructor refused to teach her further, and ordered her from his sight. No rhyme or reason, just go, he commanded her, and with a teleportation spell she did as he asked.

Selena had no idea why she'd been sent away, and the rejection left her sorrowful. She'd grown attached to Alan in ways she was reluctant to admit.

The place she now called home was a small farm on the northern edge of the Vastuar Tableland, an aged farmhouse on the edge of the woods. A babbling brook trickled through the back yard, and a healthy orchard filled the front. It was a pleasing retreat, where she found herself wiling away day after day, enjoying the peace of it all.

She was sitting on the southern patio, rocking back and forth in a wicker chair, enjoying the rising sun with a cup of tea, when two men came walking up the driveway. She immediately recognized one of the men, but didn't move to greet him.

"Hello, Selena," Alan said as he walked onto the patio.

Out In The Cold (Minstrel Mondays)

2012-01-09T19:25:00.000-05:00

It's an off-beat love ballad, for those who have loved, left, and returned. It doesn't really apply to anything in my life, but I've had book characters undergo this sort of situation, and I'm certain some of you out there can relate to this. Ah, sad regrets...

I never meant to leave

I wanted to stay home

but the nagging voice

inside of me

had other things in store.

But the calling of the moment

will sadly slip away

when the tide of change

leave us wanting.

You might think this is the end

our day will never come again

and I can't say anything

that'll make you feel assured

but as I slip away

I'll be left dreaming of the day

your eyes will be once again in mine.

For the bitter winds of autumn

sing a tune of sorrow

even as the afternoon glows

iridescent blue

The lonely howls of winter wind

will chase me back to you again

and if you let me in I'm certain

we'll forget about our fallen fate

amidst the comfort of the night

Don't leave me out in the cold

dreaming of our yesteryears

when tomorrow could be our brighter day.

Take me in your waiting arms

and we'll make this life go far

even if we say farewell again

The bitter snow is falling

upon my naked soul

as your cold shoulder shows me

a sad refrain

The frost stings my lips

as I wait for your last kiss

wondering if you really mean it

For you didn't put me out

I chose this cold I know

but it wasn't cold that day

when last I saw you.

How quickly seasons change

and the pleasure turns to pain

when one bad choice comes to

a bitter end

No one would blame you

if you shut me out

left me to this fate my mind has chosen

but letting me back in

will surely warm your heart

as I rekindle the love you're

sorely lacking

I'll make it up everyday

when we're together

So don't leave me out in the cold

and I promise, we'll be here when we're old

even if I'm gone from time to time

for even when I go away

you know I'll come home straightaway

so long as you leave your light

shining my way

Know that I'm in your heart

always

Dear Deborah

2012-01-08T05:00:00.002-05:00

There are people in my life that have drifted away over the years. For various reasons, we've fallen out of touch, and at the moment I have more contact with some distant cousins than I do with relatives who are relatively close.

One of those people who is absent from my life is my half-sister, Deborah Ruth Perron. I haven't heard from her in years, and the cause of our estrangement is complicated. Our lives are far divergent on many fronts. She's ten years older than me, and had a very different upbringing. We were both essentially only children, even though we had the same mother.

One thing we both inherited was artistic aspiration. While mine has been focused on writing, Deborah always dreamed of becoming an actress, like our grandmother Nadine. Yet, much like the literary fields, acting is a career plagued with a critical supply and demand problem. There are too many people trying to do it, and not enough need for their services. For every actor who makes a living or becomes famous, there are a dozen others who never get the chance; not because they aren't qualified or suitable, but because they just aren't chosen. Call it fate, luck, God's will, whatever. It is a sad truth that so much talent goes to waste. Last I heard, Deborah had given up on her dream for the most part, as so many people tend to do.

I don't know if Deborah will ever discover this blog, or care to contact me again, though much like the Moody Blues song says, there are letters I've written never meaning to send. If the chance ever comes that we should meet again, online or in person, it would be a welcome experience.

Wherever she may be and whatever she may be doing, I wish her happiness.

Deborah Perron with Aaron Rogers
November 2000

Sad and Depressed

2012-01-06T04:12:00.002-05:00

I have a confession to make. I haven't written anything this past week. Well, no fiction, anyway. I've been taking some down-time, and doing nothing of consequence. It's a horrible waste of time, and I can't say it recharges my batteries, as I seem to feel more drained after fiddling around with non-writing activities than when I'm producing something.

I wrote a column years ago, explaining how our little distractions and wasted time really isn't a waste at all, and that still holds true for the most part. However, my current lack of productivity is troubling. It doesn't seem to be preparing me for bigger and better things. Instead, it's becoming a rut which I'm loathe to get out of. Maybe I've gotten one too many rejection letters, or seen my bank account drop precipitously, and I'm left saying "what's the point?" Doom and gloom set in, and nobody wants to read about that.

My unshakable foundation is cracked. It has been for years, though I often throw a coat of paint on it and pretend I'm fine. The scourge of depression isn't something that is conducive to book sales, and when nobody really gives a damn why say anything? Really, I'm sure most readers will run screaming from this post right now, uninterested in sharing such sad emotions.

I am a tortured artist who toils in obscurity, blessed with creative talent that should be the envy of the entertainment industry, but like so many others I'm marginalized. On occasion I've joked about being a Van Gogh of words with two ears and a sobriety complex, though fortunately I haven't the temperament to go the way Vincent did. I'm too stubborn and spiteful for suicide, so there's no need to call 911. But where I don't have nihilistic tendencies, I do have "screw it" days, where I just don't care to do much of anything. I lose the will to do what I should, for what's the point of writing when nobody's going to read it, or pay for it? When I get tired and cease to profit from the work either mentally, emotionally, spiritually, or monetarily, I give up, if only for a while.

Plenty of writers go through this sort of thing. It is one of the hazards of the freelance life, and it's the dark side of the curse that plagues those born to do what we do. Nobody in their right mind would choose this path; it has to be fated. Damn, I should've been a physicist!

So, here's to feeling better in the coming days, and maybe producing some literature again. If you'd like to help, maybe say something to let me know I'm not just talking to myself.

This seems appropriate.

The Guns of Mars (Peek 1)

2012-01-04T06:40:00.001-05:00

Certainly one of my better works, The Guns of Mars is a hard science fiction tale in the libertarian tradition of Heinlein. It hasn't taken off as one might expect, but it received some pretty stellar reviews in the US and Canada, and one lukewarm review from the UK. I think it just needs a few fresh readers to rekindle the fire and get sales moving again. It's the story that everyone who hasn't discovered me yet should pick up (either in print or for kindle), to get a taste of my writing at its best.

For those who haven't yet read this fantastic story, here's a brief snippet from Chapter Eight:

The marines marched across the frozen wasteland for hours, making good time with little strain, thanks to the lighter pull of Martian gravity. By sunrise, they were less than a mile away from their objective. A rocky hillside stood before them, showing no obvious signs of life or that man’s hand had ever touched this section of the planet.

“This is it, men,” Avery shouted. His voice carried through a closed circuit communications network built into their suits, permitting them to speak to one another and block external eavesdropping.

“I don’t see it,” Lieutenant Barton said, his deep voice turned into a growl by the communication system.

Colonel Avery tapped a few buttons on his sleeve, activating a complex sensor array inside his helmet. The readings superimposed themselves on his visor, and enhanced pictures of the landscape ahead revealed several anomalous energy signatures along the ridgeline. “It’s there,” he told the others. “Keep your eyes sharp for...”

Before Avery could finish, Barton’s head exploded. A bullet had zipped through the air and blasted a hole through his helmet. The shot killed the lieutenant instantly, but the sudden decompression increased the gore tenfold.

The dozen men hit the ground, seeking whatever cover they could locate. There were several boulders nearby, which protected them from the sniper in the hills.

“We’ve been made!” Captain Biggs shouted.

Those who are interested in reading more can check out The Guns of Mars Page.

The Dawn's Returning Light (Minstrel Mondays)

2012-01-02T08:20:00.000-05:00

Happy New Year, everyone! Here's a fresh piece of poetry for the coming days. Enjoy it, and relish in the newness of the season.

A new day is dawning

A new way is calling

and time is slowly

ticking down to a fall.

The end isn't nearing

but it's starting to look

like the beginning.

I hope I will be here

when the stars come shining through.

Break out now before it's too late

catch the wave and claim your fate

seize the moment that you know

is yours for the taking

and your life will be great.

But if you shirk from the light,

hide your eyes,

lurk amongst the shadows

that loom over your time,

you'll never know the

glory of tomorrow.

Stand up for what's right

for you and those that

really matter.

The little secret you hold

is that the light of the world

lies deep within you.

The tree grows tall

straight and narrow,

supported by his neighbors.

Cut down those around him

and he'll quickly bend and fall

under his own weight.

I have an axe to grind

and it's getting near harvest time.

Don't be the tree,

be the lumberjack

and give her a whack!

Winter 2012 Writing Contest: Sign Up!

2011-12-30T07:50:00.001-05:00

After the fantastic success of the Autumn "shootout" at the Pill Hill Press forum, I've been given the green light to run the next adventurous writing contest! The Wild Winter Shootout will begin January 28, 2012, and it'll be similar to the previous competition I hosted, with a few tweaks from participant comments and suggestions.

These contests are always fun, and they spur the creation of highly publishable works. Many shootout stories over the years have found homes in various anthologies and zines, and every participant receives valuable insights into their stories during the review process.

The shootout concept is simple. Participating writers are given a prompt and one week to write a short story based on that prompt. The subsequent week, the stories are reviewed by the participants. Story authors remain anonymous until the reviews are final, and the reviews are kept anonymous for fair and unbiased opinion.

Yet again, we'll be setting up a team system, where 2 or 3 groups of writers will be competing head to head. There won't be eliminations, so each writer will get the chance to write and review in 3 regular rounds. After those 3 rounds, the top scoring writers on each team will compete for a Grand Prize, which may involve free books and/or cash!

To sign up, post in this thread, saying you want to participate.

Contest Caveats:

Participation Requirement: If you sign up, please be sure you can handle the workload. You'll need to write a short story in one week and then review 5 to 8 stories the following week (number of stories reviewed will depend on the number of participants we end up having). This will happen 3 times in a row (write then review), so do your best.

Negative Feedback: While reviews are expected to be considerate and constructive, they're also supposed to be honest. It is possible someone may provide actual criticism of your story. Be prepared to receive a modicum of negative feedback.

Document Format: Your stories/comments will have to be sent via email in either a .doc or .rtf format. No .docx files! Please make sure you can submit in the stated formats.

Well, I think that covers everything major. Let's see some volunteers!

Hits, Flops, and What I Should Be Writing

2011-12-28T06:34:00.001-05:00

Things sure have been busy lately, but you can understand that with the holidays and everything. Though, the life of a writer is never lackadaisical. I have more stories to write than years to live, and I expect to be around a long time to come! There is only so much you can get down on the page, and ideas come to me on a daily basis. It's a curious process to balancing what should get written and what shouldn't get written, which is often sidelined for whatever I feel like writing (which can go either way).

Of course, there's no telling what will and won't work until after you put it down and start marketing it. Just look at some of the most successful works out there, and try to think like the writer beforehand, considering their potential. Who would ever buy a book about a boy sorcerer, or an evil clown who turns out to be an alien spider? Yet, Harry Potter and It are indisputable hits in the marketplace. The same can be said of any famous work of fiction. Nobody knows what will sell until after it does.

Over the last few weeks, I've managed to work on several different stories, and a few film scripts. Beyond the West of the Warlock television project, I'm also planning a few other series which I'll try to pitch, including one based on my Rogue Investigations stories, and a little something called The Last Patriot, which will be based in the feudal future world I created in this summer's Independence Day special, The Patriot Awakened. Any one of these shows could be a big hit, if they're picked up by a wise Hollywood producer.

So, moving to my sneak peek of the week (which dovetails with my comments about writing a hit), here's the start of a story that was recently accepted by Hall Brothers Entertainment for their forthcoming anthology, Untold Tales of the Past. It's a quirky story that I put together one summer afternoon, based on a tongue-in-cheek fantasy theme. One early reviewer mentioned it read like a Monty Python skit (whether that's good or bad is up to you). Either way, you'll have to get the HBE anthology to find out, but here's the setup to A Bridge Too Near:

Sir Chelmsford Chase knew he was the best. Everyone told him so. Whether it was the thrill of jousting, or the art of swordplay, he could win out every time, yet it was all fun and games. He was tired of being kissed by noble ladies and adorned with superficial ribbons after staged competitions. It was time he proved his mettle, and did something only "the best" could.

Touring the tournament circuit, he'd heard lots of rumors; tales of evil sorcerers, demonic knights, and even hobgoblin-infested forests, but one task appealed to him more than all others. The cursed bridge at Bannocksburg Crossing was said to be home to a troll, one notorious for eating the gentry. This was the best chance for Chase to show everyone he really was the greatest combatant in the land. To slay the troll, why, they'd sing songs about him until the end of time!

Merry Christmas, 1922

2011-12-25T05:00:00.007-05:00

I hope you're all having a wonderful day! As everyone's ripping open presents and getting ready to feast, here's a look back 89 years. On December 25, 1922, this is what my grandfather, John Julius Kirton, and his sister, Mary Alice Kirton, found when they woke up. John was almost 5, and Mary was a little over 18 month old at the time. It's a rare look at Christmas Past.

A Christmas Gift

2011-12-23T05:57:00.001-05:00

This Christmas will be really tight for a lot of people. With the economy still on the downturn (despite illusory media hype), money is something many of us don't have. While I'm not as bad off as some, I can't say I have a lot of disposable income at the moment. I'll get by, as always, and the kids will have some gifts under the tree, just nothing extravagant.

With that said, I know many of you are also feeling the pinch. But whether you're strapped for cash or swimming in riches, there is a Christmas gift you could bestow upon me; something that won't cost you a cent and will only take a short amount of your time.

West of the Warlock needs reviews! If you haven't read it yet, 75% of the book is available to read for free online, and it will entertain you. Once you've read the free portion, head over to its page at Amazon.com and post a review. Word of mouth advertising is the only way to sell books these days, and it doesn't cost you anything. It would mean so much to me if just a few of you would bestow such a blessing upon me this festive season.

Buying a single book and putting it on your shelf is always appreciated, but actually telling others about it does so much more. Don't be a Scrooge with your opinions, keeping it all to yourself. Spread the word about my stories. Telling others about my works is the best gift you could give! It would mean a lot more than some knickknack made in China or a fifty-cent Christmas card.

Yes, it really is the thought that counts!

While you're at the giving stage, perhaps you could bestow another special gift to me by pointing people toward my blog. I've noticed reader activity has dropped a bit over the last month, and this is likely due to the holiday season. People are so busy this time of year that little things like my weekly insights get sidelined. I hope to see increased traffic in the New Year, and I hope you'll help me with that. Again, don't feel that speaking up is a dangerous thing, or will somehow cost you anything. If I'm worth reading, tell others. It's all I ask.

Here's wishing all of my readers a very Merry Christmas! Be sure to drop by on December 25th for another rare family history photo.

Psycho Christmas Massacre

2011-12-19T08:35:00.002-05:00

In the grand tradition of farce, here's a cynical bit of poetry for the Christmas season. Something of a Bob Dylan meets Frank Zappa, with a little Spike Jones and Weird Al mixed in; it's wild, crazy, and mismatched to reflect the chaos of the season. Don't be offended by the mad rambling. Have a merry freakin' Christmas!

Get your shotgun ready

you know it's gonna snow

We've seen the last of

green, green grass

so the end is sure to come.

It's not another solstice,

it's the end of days.

Make sure you've got

your stocking full

before you kneel and pray.

Christmas time's a-coming

get ready to spend, spend, spend.

The world is made of money

so your credit card says.

But watch out when you go shopping

'cause granny's on the warpath.

She needs to buy those new designer jeans
for her grandson in the pen

and you know she's gonna hit you

with her psychedelic bat.

Keep your shotgun ready

to claim that final turkey.

An angry mob of mothers

will take the skin off your back

They'll bludgeon you for kicks

and use your blood

for decoration.

Ho, ho, ho,

You know that's a

hateful thing to say.

Don't you know

the prostitutes now have

a union of their own?

They ain't no hos anymore.

They're all legally licensed for resale.

Santa Claus,

more like Satan's Claws

They don't call 'em sleigh bells

for nothing.

The man in red

will have your head

on a pole to terrorize his elves.

Keep the greenies

sweating in the shop,

cranking out hunks of plastic

laced with lead and arsenic.

You know his workshop was

outsourced to China.

Now he's really red!

No more Rudolph,

they farmed him out

to the butcher's shop,

for no one really knows

if there's a reindeer in the stew.

Beware the store brand;

it may be you you're eating!

Shop 'til you drop

onto the icy pavement slop

and give up your soul and toil

to the man next door

with the mortgage a mile long.

He doesn't care if he sells out

his wife and kids' future to

afford that fifty inch wide screen

so long as he's fat and happy,

he can watch the football game.

Credit is free money

nobody has to pay!

Madmen climbing the wire

of their store-bought prisons.

You know Uncle Sam

would be ashamed

of the farce this world's turned into.

Cats are eating the flesh off

the fingers of the frozen

hobo on the street corner

all for lack of a restaurant.
Dogs are mating under

cardboard boxes in the

alley, beside the lonely

astronaut who's had his

shuttle grounded by the President.

There are cowards in the street

waving switchblades and firecrackers

wishing they were Jesse James

or O.J. Simpson.

There's blood in the air

and smoke in the water

and everyone's crying crocodile tears.

Does anyone really care?

This was Christ's season

once upon a time,

but that's all over now.

Don't forget to pray to your

pagan idols on the stage.

They might put Cocaine in your stocking!

Everyone knows it's the end times,

so make sure your shotgun's loaded

Zombie apocalypse may be

just around the corner.

Just ask the tabloid man.

When it comes down to it

you can never be too ready.

Buy ammo, and whatever comes,

you'll know the score.

Have a happy holiday.

A Merry Christmas to all,

and hope you survive!

Jenna's Father

2011-12-18T06:25:00.000-05:00

Branching out in my genealogical research, I've also been looking into my wife's bloodline. There is quite a bit there in some aspects, and a lot to be uncovered in others. The biggest hurdle in my research is the fact that Jenna was technically a bastard. Her parents were never married, and her father ran off before she was born. This makes for limited information on her paternal side. What little I do know has come from her mother, and I hope to someday find further leads.

Jenna's father was Wilford Lemke (b. 16 Mar 1953 /Died circa 1990) His parents were Robert Lemke and Anita Hildebrand from Frankfurt, Germany, but their names and city of origin are about all I have on them. My mother-in-law claims they are both deceased, but when and where is still another mystery. Wilford apparently had at least one sibling and some nieces and nephews, though yet again information is limited.

So, if anyone has any pertinent information about Wilford or his parents, let me know. I have found quite a bit on Jenna's mother's side, and will share some of that at a later date.

Jack Fir Misery (Minstrel Mondays)

2011-12-12T09:20:00.004-05:00

In today's Minstrel Monday selection, we have a philosophical poem I wrote when I was twenty-one. Take whatever you can from it.

It seems that everything

is coming down around me,

and nothing stops

the burning of my eyes,

or the harsh sting

of the wind-blown jack fir

as it tumbles down about me.

The smack and the crack

of a splintering timber,

forced to the ground

by nature's breath.

I stand beneath the behemoth trunk

and limbs of softwood that tumble

and remind me of the pains in my heart.

Life's not easy for me,

as I see our children

reeling with pain.

Yet death never comes,

for it pleases me so.

This life may be pain,

but better we go on

to make it a pleasure for others,

if we cannot partake of it ourselves.

Life never tastes bitter

to a fallen man.

And the trees still make sounds

even though no one's around,

because there's always air

to resonate vibrionic waves.

Only man could be

so arrogant to believe

that sound only exists

when he hears it.

Just as feelings only exist

if the memory persists

and he can feel them.

That is why children don't understand.

They've never felt the pain.

So is it so wrong

that I go on

protecting them now?

Should I stop to care?

Those who don't know pain,

don't know they're not feeling it.

If ignorance is bliss

let the idiots shine

if only for their fleeting moment

amongst the brilliant sky.

Another Forthman Photo

2011-12-11T05:30:00.003-05:00

Here's an interesting photo from the vault.

Taken about 1940, here we have my great-grandparents, William Edward Forthman, Sr., and his wife, Anna Louise Littlefield Forthman (left). The other ladies in the picture are two of their five daughters. The one standing behind them is my grandmother Nadine (about 20 at the time), and the one sitting is Aunt Anabell. I recently discovered that Anabell got married on January 10, 1945 to Martin L. Dawson. I don't know if they had any kids, but they were both in their early forties at the time of the marriage.

The West of The Warlock Television Project

2011-12-09T04:50:00.009-05:00

As I wrap up the first draft of "The Six-Gun Conjurer," I have begun work on my next writing endeavor. Over the next few months, in between other projects, I will be writing a series of scripts based on the world and characters in West of the Warlock and its precursor, the short story "A Dwarf at High Noon."

Formatting a script is far different than writing a novel, and it is quite a learning process. I'm using several authoritative resources to aid me, and it seems scriptwriting is much easier than crafting a book. It's like writing a detailed outline with dialog. Once I had the formula down, and got used to the new formatting, things moved right along.

I envision this to be a television series, though it could serve as a miniseries, or the first few episodes could be merged into a stand-alone movie, as well. There's no sense limiting my options, as it'll be difficult to break into Hollywood at any rate. I have high hopes but low expectations. Still, having a slim chance at getting this project optioned is better than no chance, which is what I'll have if I don't write a script.

This isn't something that has come out of nowhere, as I've thought about doing a script for many years with different stories. Too often over the years, I've sat down and watched television, only to think, "What crap! I can write better stuff than this!" So, it's high time that I did. The "Dwarf at High Noon/West of the Warlock" universe is one that I feel has the best potential for television or cinema.

I've already written the "Pilot" episode. We'll see what happens.

The first of many!

Prisoner of Time (Peek 2)

2011-12-07T06:27:00.000-05:00

Prisoner of Time, the second volume in my "Virtual Saga," is only 99 cents for Kindle at the moment (Tell Your Friends!). If you don't have a Kindle, the print edition is also affordable at my AuthorStore. Spread Christmas cheer by giving books, or be good to yourself and get my writings for your own reading pleasure!

Okay, enough with the sales pitch. Here's another free peek at Prisoner of Time. This is the start of Chapter 6:

One never forgets the memory of having their mind downloaded into a virtual system. The experience of being pure thought, then having your body reconstituted around your mind, and flying through the virtual ether toward a new reality seemingly as real as the one you just left; it was simply beyond anything imaginable.

Morgan found that the second time around it was no less amazing. If anything, the entire process was better, for he knew what to expect, and it didn't scare the heck out of him. He was able to enjoy the fantastic sensations all the way, until that sudden snap of reality hit him, and he found himself lying down on the floor of a mausoleum.

The first time he'd done this alone, but today he found a helpful hand reaching down to pick him up, though it caught him a little off-guard. The man staring down at him was hard to recognize in the regal wizard's robes, and his face was no longer as youthful as it had been a few hours before.

The young flesh of Alan Polansky was now replaced with more middle-aged features. The once charcoal hair was half gray, the bulbous forehead was more pronounced by a receding hairline, and there was extensive wrinkling at the temples.

"You sure got old quick," Morgan said, as Alan helped him to his feet.

"Oh, yes. I could never get used to being twenty five again, so I opted for fifty as a nice compromise. It beats being ninety, but still provides for some seniority."

Staring outside the mausoleum, Morgan saw a scene quite dissimilar from the one that had greeted him during his first visit to Fantasan. Instead of a sunny day with grassy hills, here there was a steady drizzle with ragged trees blocking distant views. It would be a wet walk to find shelter, but they couldn't linger in this access kiosk all day.

"All right!" a youthful cheer sounded.

Morgan turned around to see Baxter Redhawk dressed in glorious Ivanhoe armor. The medieval suit made the ranch hand hardly recognizable.

"Well, that's bound to be trouble," Alan said, examining the conspicuous youth.

"What do you mean? I'm a knight! Stand forth, knave, and deliver!" he said, drawing his long sword.

"Be careful with that thing, Baxter," Morgan warned, keeping his distance, fearful of losing an arm to the clumsy lad.

"I'll have you know I'm an expert swordsman," Baxter replied, waving his blade about to get the feel of it.

"That would be your first expertise," Morgan mentioned. "Come on, let's get out of here."

Stepping out into the rain, Morgan felt his leather boots sink half an inch into muck. The dirt surrounding the mausoleum was recently upturned, as if something had attempted to dig under the structure. Perhaps a wild animal seeking grubs, or some fortune-hunter dreaming of buried treasure.

Finding the chilly spring rain to be unpleasant, Alan decided to put a stop to it. Reaching up his arm and summoning the magic at his command, he attempted to activate a deflection screen over his body to prevent the moisture from touching his form. Strangely enough, a field did not appear, but there came a burst of flame that covered his body for a split second and set his hair on fire.

Morgan and Baxter stood in silent shock as Alan stomped around, smacking his hair with his damp palms, trying to snuff the flames. Before his flesh could be burned, the hair was extinguished, leaving black soot oozing down his forehead with the rain water.

"Why in God's name did you do that?" Morgan asked, trying to keep from laughing.

"I don't understand. That was a simple spell to deflect the rain. It should not have set me ablaze."

"Feeling a little rusty?" Morgan asked.

"Nonsense!" Alan snapped. "I am a master of the highest order. Such a mediocre spell is well within my abilities. Something is wrong here. Things do not feel right."

Also, if you've read Prisoner of Time already, be sure to post a review of it at Amazon.com. Thanks!

The Snail (Minstrel Mondays)

2011-12-05T08:23:00.001-05:00

The United States Postal Service has generally been good to me, but like any huge organization there have been instances where they fell short. There are times when you can get a media rate package from Maine to California in three days, and others where it takes two weeks to get the same size parcel to New Hampshire.

About ten years ago, there was a spate of really slow deliveries, packages and letters that came to me several weeks late. I had one first class letter take almost a month to reach me, and it irked me. During this slowdown, I wrote this little piece of poetry to vent my frustration.

They sit there laughing

as you try so hard

to get an answer.

Perched atop piles of

unanswered letters

they refuse to forward.

They shake your hand

take your money,

then spend it against your soul.

All the while smiling

a sickening pasty smile

white fangs waiting to dig in.

Prices go up, quality goes down,

the process speeds to a slow.

Yet nobody seems to care anymore,

for they've found something better.

A trick of technology,

or a slide outside of society.

Either way, they've no use

for the mediums of yesterday.

The quality of life,

does it ever get better?

Perhaps for those in the system.

They're set for life

living off your hard toil,

while you're stuck waiting

for undelivered correspondence,

they're supposed to handle.

The civil servants work so hard,

milling about in blue coats.

In lieu of their labor,

they light their cigarettes

from burning stacks of sedentary letters

we will never get.

Dear Mr. Postman,

Don't shred my mail in retaliation for this cynical poem! I only bring it up because I've had an Amazon package sitting in a Massachusetts processing depot for an entire week, untouched. Its "estimated" delivery was last Friday, and it's annoying to wait still longer for this particular item, so this poetry piece seemed appropriate. Yes, I know the holidays are a busy time of year, but the thing hasn't moved for 7 full days, and it's only a few hundred miles away. Could we get it on the truck sometime in the next couple of days, please?

Sincerely,

Martin T. Ingham

Edward Stebbins Ingham

2011-12-04T04:00:00.001-05:00

Over the past few days, I've had the chance to acquire a few fresh documents pertaining to my adopted great-grandfather. Being one of the few relatives I actually had the chance to meet and talk to (albeit when I was very young), I'm always interested to learn more about the man and add it to the growing pile of family data. I'll share a little of that knowledge here, and hopefully it will be of interest to some of you.

"Ned" was born on July 2, 1896, the son of John Albertson Ingham & Mary Bartlett Stebbins. His father was the pastor of the Irvington Presbyterian Church in Irvington, New York, and later at the Second Reformed Church in New Brunswick, New Jersey. Ned therefore came from a strong, Christian background. His ancestors were almost entirely of English origin, with a few Dutch genes thrown in for good measure.

Edward Stebbins Ingham
Circa 1917

Ned graduated from Rutgers College in 1916 with a Bachelor of Arts degree. From there, he worked as an insurance salesman for Connecticut Mutual, until WWI called him to action. Unable to qualify for the regular U.S. Army due to "poor eyesight," he signed up with the American Ambulance Corps, and later transferred into the French Army. Serving with the French was a defining moment of his life, and he made many pilgrimages back to France later on during his lifetime.

Moving ahead to 1926, Ned married my great-grandmother, Effie K. Robinson, in Hillsborough, Florida. They honeymooned in Cuba, which at the time was a prime tourist destination (and it still would be, if not for those dirty commies!). After their honeymoon, they settled into life on Charevloiy Avenue in Detroit, and in the following few years he officially adopted my grandfather Ray, giving him the Ingham name.

During the roaring twenties, Ned made a literal fortune, and on Black Friday he was worth two million dollars on paper. He lost ever cent of it in the crash, but that didn't make him give up or jump out a window, as some other hard-hit investors of the day did. Instead, he packed his bags on Monday morning and went out to get a new job. While never wealthy again, he always made a decent living after that. He was a very talented salesman, or as one relative once told me, "He could sell iceboxes to Eskimos."

Ned Ingham on his 92nd Birthday
July 2, 1988

I had the chance to meet Ned in 1985, when he came up to Maine with Grandpa Ray. During the trip we toured around Washington County and saw many of the sights. However, when it came time to go to Canada and see the Roosevelt Museum on Campobello Island, Ned would not go. He refused to visit the "Roosevelt Shrine," as he was a lifelong Republican and he abhorred Franklin Delano Roosevelt. However, his dislike was not purely political, as he'd actually known the man. During World War II, Ned served on the Rubber Production Board, and attended regular meetings with the President to discuss wartime matters. During these meetings, he gained a general dislike for Roosevelt on a personal level, which stuck with him for the rest of his life.

Of course, Grandpa Ray was a lifelong Democrat (as were my parents at the time), so we went along to visit Campobello without Ned, though today I would much rather have spent a few more hours with a remarkable man, to hear an old story or two. FDR's vacation home is still there to visit, and will be in perpetuity, but the same cannot be said for Ned, who passed away on July 5, 1991. He celebrated his 95th birthday, and toward the end of the party he excused himself, saying he was feeling a bit tired. He went to lie down, and passed away quietly with class. He was still fit and able up until the end, without the major infirmities that often plague people of advancing years.

So, here's to Ned Ingham, a red blooded American who truly exemplified the spirit of his generation. He understood the rights and responsibilities of a free man, and also knew how to enjoy himself in moderation.

Before I go, let me leave you with a mildly amusing story of my own research into Ned's life. The other day, as I was picking through online documents, I found his 1917 Passport Application, and along with it was a photograph that I quickly realized was not his. I looked at the thing and said, "Who's this? That's not Ned. It looks more like John Panozzo of Styx!" As it turns out, the photographs of the passports are stuck on the back side of the applications, so Ned's picture was actually with the subsequent application on the following page. Remember this if you're ever picking through passport applications on Ancestry's site. Your ancestor might not look like the attached photo for good reason.

Photo of "Ruth Joslin"
incorrectly paired with
Edward Stebbins Ingham's 1917
passport application.

John Panozzo
Drummer for "Styx"

'Tis The Season... To Spend!

2011-12-02T07:31:00.001-05:00

A lot of people think of Christmas as a time to spend, and for ages we've heard the other people decry the commercialization of the season. I'm somewhere in-between. While there's nothing wrong with the mad shopping sprees and the spirit of giving, there are some aspects of the practice that get out of hand and go beyond common sense.

Too many people spend what they don't have. You see them scrimping and saving all year, so they can buy everything all at once, or worse, they max out their credit cards and spend the next eleven months paying them off (or not). All this, just so they can say they bought a gift for every last person they can think of. This isn't something I would ever do, but that's just me.

In my household, we buy what we can afford when we can afford it, and we don't wait until a special time of year to get our stuff. If it's something we can use and we have the money, we get it. If that happens to be July, we don't stuff the thing in a box and hide it away until December 25. That may mean the tree doesn't have as many presents, but we feel its worth having the months of enjoyment of things, rather than the thrill of a massive pile of stuff at the end of the year. There are always some gifts under the tree, but it's not a huge mountain of gifts. Those are already in-use.

In these hard economic times, a lot of people are considering a more frugal spending policy this year, but others will no doubt enjoy their Christmas shopping as usual. Feel free to buy what you want, but do try to be sensible. If you need to mortgage your house for that new big-screen, it might be time to seek therapy... But before you do, make sure you buy every one of my books from Amazon.com or my AuthorStore! (Yeah, that's shameless, but if they're going to spend the money anyway, they should at least have the courtesy to send some my way. Forget the white; make mine a green Christmas!)

The Time Traveler's Illegal Harem (Peek 1)

2011-11-30T05:00:00.008-05:00

As NaNoWriMo 2011 comes to a close, I'd like to take a moment to look back at last year, to the novel I was writing at that time. I won the NaNoWriMo 2010 with a convoluted hard science fiction piece called "The Time Traveler's Illegal Harem," which is currently waiting for a thorough revision before I place it on the market. I expect to get around to polishing it sometime this winter, but in the meantime I'll share this opening scene that doesn't need too much work. I expect it will pique your interest!

The market was closing early these days, as the chills of autumn drove shoppers away. The lingering light of dusk grew closer, as Winona Snapwick stowed her wares inside the travel trailer she used as a shop. The aging box on wheels was all she owned, since her father had passed away during the last flu pandemic. Of course, he'd never been very healthy, not since catching polio at sixteen. He'd always walked with a limp, but never complained.

Before closing the last cabinet, Winona paused to look at her wares. The ticking timepieces held in cheap cases were beautiful in her eyes. Some of these modern marvels she'd built herself, and others were her father's work from before his death. All held hours of careful craftsmanship in their design, though few people could afford such extravagance. These days, people were relying more on the municipal clocks to tell time, if they cared at all. Those in the country kept schedules by the sun, and had no need for fancy watches. It all left Winona's pocketbook light.

Stowing the final case in the back of the trailer, Winona closed the shutters and clipped the locks, ready to haul her goods back to her place of residence. "Home" was currently a little nook in the wall downtown, which doubled as her workshop. There was running water, and city gas, so she could keep clean and warm, and it was affordable. Still, it wasn't much, and food could be sparse.

With everything secured for transport, Winona walked over to the livery stable, to pick up her aging mare. Digging into her purse on the walk over, she picked out the last few coins she had, ready to pay the horse's daily boarding fee. That money should have been for her own dinner, and she knew if things didn't improve soon she'd have to say goodbye to her equine companion. How would she haul her wares to market after that?

'What a damnable existence this modern world has become!' she thought, stepping up to the open stable doors. Before she could look inside, she found herself restrained by strong arms around the waist. She inhaled to scream, only to find a heavy cloth shoved over her face, muffling her pleas.

"Sweet little thing like you ought not be wanderin' alone at night," a gruff man's voice said.

A second man giggled awkwardly at his companion's statement.

The cloth covering Winona's mouth was yanked tight, pulling her face up to the stars. The final rays of dusk were fading, and the twinkling specks were poking out of the night sky. It had gotten so dark, so fast!

Winona was used to being the last one out of the marketplace. There was usually a straggler or two who wanted to gawk at her watches, and that sometimes proved profitable, though not lately. Her proclivity to linger into the evening was now proving to be her undoing.

Was there anyone around who could save her? She doubted it. Fate hadn't been kind lately, and there was no reason for her to think her luck would change.

But God had not forsaken her yet.

As Winona kicked and thrashed in a vain attempt to dislodge her kidnappers, another voice halted their movements. "Is that any way to treat a lady?"

"This ain't none of your business, strangey," one of the kidnappers replied with a nasally voice.

Winona felt the arms around her chest slide away, allowing her face to turn down from the sky. Looking forward over the gag that covered her cheeks and nose, she saw a dark figure silhouetted in the pale moonlight.

"I'm making it my business," the stranger said, standing his ground. "That woman's coming with me."

The last sentence dashed Winona's optimism. From the sound of it, her would-be savior was just competing for the chance to rape her, too. Still, a little voice in her head said he'd be a better companion than the two thugs carrying her.

"You ain't takin' nothing, dude," the nasally man answered. He reached under his jacket and drew a revolver from its holster.

Before the man could aim his weapon, the stranger shot first. In the blink of an eye, a sliver of light streaked from the weapon in his hand. The beam soaked into the chest of the thug, and the would-be rapist collapsed without a sound, leaving his companion on his own.

"What in the Hell?" the gruff thug mumbled, glancing over at his comrade.

Seeing an opportunity, Winona struck back. Placing an elbow into her kidnapper's gut, followed with a swift kick to the groin, she managed to loosen his grasp and break free. She didn't wait to get her bearings before running across the darkened pavement of the marketplace. She had to get away, and it didn't matter where. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw the thug gripping his crotch, as the stranger stepped forward and shot him with his silent weapon.

Even as she continued to run, Winona thought about her would-be savior, and that strange weapon he employed. She'd never seen anything like it. No only was its shot silent, but the entire mechanism was mute. No cylinder or slide clicking or clacking, no hammer cocking, yet it killed like lightning. What kind of magic was that?

Positively Negative (Minstrel Mondays)

2011-11-28T05:42:00.002-05:00

Here's a poem with a lot of subtext, and everyone will take away a different meaning from it. I won't go explaining it too deeply, for it would really ruin it. You need to see your own message in this, whether it's one we share or completely opposite ends of the spectrum. Truth is in the eye of the beholder.

Truth is in the dark

What you seek

Lies hidden from view

For you don't want to see it

You don't want it to be true

When the truth of the matter

Is contrary to your fairytales

You choose to believe the lie

A positive fabrication

Is what you want to believe

So you spend all your time

Lying to yourself

And everyone you see

Do not accept rational thought

Say it is wrong and it'll go away

Say those who don't follow

Along with your fantasies

Are simply full of hate

They want to main and murder

All the unsuspecting souls

Funny, all the while

You practice what you accuse

If truth is negative,

Call me what I am

The heretic

The hatemonger

The expletives you spew!

It's easier to lie

Than to accept the truth

Even when it means being mean

To prove a fallacious point

Look in the mirror

Positive one

And you'll see that your charge

Is not nearly as noble

As you believed at the start

Take heed of the truth

Seek to seek it

Even when it's ugly

And people will call you

The negative philosopher

New Discoveries Forthcoming

2011-11-27T05:40:00.001-05:00

On Friday, I won National Novel Writing Month with a little over 50,000 words written in "The Six-Gun Conjurer." After 25 days of solid writing, it was time I took a little break. I still have a few scenes to write, and the big finale to complete, and I'll get to that in a few days, but it's sometimes good to sit back and take a breather. Creativity takes time.

Anyway, yesterday morning I finally got around to activating my subscription to Ancestry.com. A few months ago, I purchased a copy of their Family Tree Maker 2011 software, and it came with 3 free months of full access to their site. There are a lot of things they have in their database that you can't find elsewhere, and it is helping me to uncover more bits of information about my various family lines.

Here are just a few highlights of what I've uncovered so far.

New information has already cropped up concerning my Robinson line. It turns out that William V. Robinson was a Civil War Veteran. He signed up as a Private with the New Jersey 6^th Infantry Regiment, and ended up as a Sergeant with the 8^th. I also found his death record, stating he died on 28 July 1910.

Joseph B. Robinson, as it turns out, was a house painter in Camden, New Jersey, until his untimely death on 18 March 1918. He died of Tuberculosis. I'd been unaware of this information, as Joseph ran off on his wife and daughter about 20 years earlier. Joseph's older sister, Mary J. Robinson, also died of TB on 10 December 1904.

John Julius Kirton

I found WWI army enlistment cards for two of my grandmother's uncles, Hugh Wiley Counts and Milton Counts. I'm sure there are some interesting stories to be had there, though I haven't had the chance to hear too much from my Counts cousins recently.

In addition to these discoveries, I am finding more data that substantiates my earlier findings. I've also found a few photographs of interest, including my father's parents' yearbook photos from the University of Michigan, and a picture of my mother's father with the Glee Club from his freshman year at East Orange High School in 1933.

There is much more to uncover, so I'll get back to it. I expect to resume work on my writing projects in a few days, after I've dug up enough family data to satisfy my curiosity and compose a few more posts.

The Finish Line

2011-11-25T06:21:00.000-05:00

I hope all of my fellow Americans had a wonderful Thanksgiving yesterday, and that my non-American fans had a good day all the same.

Today, I expect to cross the 50,000 word mark with "The Six-Gun Conjurer," which means I will have officially won the National Novel Writing Month challenge. Though, the story will not end there. I expect the rough draft will run another 5k, possibly even 10. After that, I'll spend a little time revising and perfecting the manuscript before moving on to another exciting project. I have something in mind for my next work, and I'll share more about it in December.

The Stars Beyond Tomorrow (Peek 1)

2011-11-23T06:44:00.000-05:00

Here's a project that remains unfinished. "The Stars Beyond Tomorrow," is my attempt at writing a Space Opera, and it is based in a universe I created with a short story I wrote called "Last Strike For Tomorrow." In this book, we would see the American Space Force sending a new exploratory mission out into space following a violent and bloody interstellar war. Events in Last Strike set the stage for the book, and one of these days I might get around to completing it. As it stands now, I have about 10,000 words and a solid plot waiting, but it remains low priority at the moment.

So, here it is, the introductory scene to the yet unfinished book:

Commander Owen York staggered down the hallway of the derelict starship. Gravity shifted under him, as the vessel surged and sputtered in the throws of death. The USS Windsor, which had once been the pride of the United States Space Force, was now little more than a burned-out wreck, a hunk of hot metal smoldering in the depths of space. Another casualty of war.

This battle cruiser had seemed to be the pinnacle of modern technology to the folks back on Earth, but it was little more than target practice for the ruthless Kradoran warships. It was a dead hulk now, along with a hundred others just like it. There was no hope for the ship, but a few of the crew were determined to survive.

Commander York knew the odds. Even if he managed to reach a life boat, he'd probably be blown away by a Kradoran fighter, or captured to face untold torture, but if the Kradorans didn't catch him who would? Who was left to rescue him out here, three light years from Earth? This final wave of human resistance had seen utter destruction, and there were no more space-faring vessels he could consider to make a rescue attempt.

Maybe it would be best if he returned to his post, and awaited death with dignity. No, Owen could never do that. He was a survivor, one who had to keep fighting, regardless of the odds. If death awaited him, he'd face it, but he was damned if he'd sit down and wait for the inevitable.

It was getting hard to breathe, as the atmosphere grew thin. There were gaping holes blown through the Windsor, and no power left in the air circulators. The nearest life-pod was a hundred feet away, though it felt like a mile as he trudged through the dying vessel.

The lights went out when the massive fusion drive grew cold from lack of fuel. It was so dark in the hallway; no windows to shine even faint starlight. There was still limited gravity, however, which didn't surprise Owen in the least. He knew the engineering layout, and understood that the gravity generators had a separate backup. The auxiliary battery would last a few minutes more.

He moved forward, searching for the frame to the lifeboat's access hatch. He found it before long, and moved his hands around to locate the opening mechanism. The flat touch-plate gave no response to his fingers, as the power had been cut. The manual release was directly under the panel, hidden by a sheet of metal that cut Owen's fingertips as he pried it open. Inside, he felt the round handle and turned it clockwise several times to release the seal and grant him access to his one means of escape.

A breath of fresh air greeted him as the hatch slid open. As soon as the hand crank widened the gap enough, he slid his thin body through, and found himself weightless inside the small, open airlock. He pushed off the ship's hatch and floated into the large padded chamber beyond, and as he entered the life-pod's lights kicked on automatically. The escape craft was charged and ready to go.

So much space for one man.

Owen felt very alone at this point. So many of his fellow crewmen had died, and here he was, the last man out. Captain Alvarez would have most likely stayed, had a falling support beam not incapacitated him at the start of the battle. It had only taken a few minutes for the Kradoran warships to lay waste to the Windsor, and to every other ship in the strike force. When defeat was certain, Commander York had ordered the evacuation, and sent his captain out with the first wave. Had those lifeboats survived? Owen had no way of knowing, for the external sensors had been knocked out before they'd launched.

Sitting down beside the control panel, Owen programmed the lifeboat to disengage from the Windsor, and hoped his trajectory would be clear of debris. He didn't plan to go far. It was safer to hide amongst the debris for the time being, wait for the Kradorans to leave. Then he could scout around, and see if there was anything worth seeing before drifting back in the direction of Earth. With the lifeboat's ion drive, he might get there in a few thousand years.

The Struggle Continues

2011-11-18T03:59:00.002-05:00

Day 18 of National Novel Writing Month, and today I expect to surpass the 35,000 word mark with "The Six-Gun Conjurer." Progress slowed down a little earlier this week, as I had to work out some important character developing elements, but I'm speeding up again, as we get back into more action.

This is shaping up to be a lot more complex than the first two books in the way of inter-personal relationships and world building. Without giving away too much, I will say we're going to see a lot more of elf society in this volume, an expansion upon different elements already seen in West of the Warlock, and a continuation of certain things we'll see in the forthcoming Curse of Selwood (tentative publication date May-June 2012).

In other news, Christmas is coming up, so now would be an excellent time to invest in one of my novels. They make great gifts for friends and family, or get them just for yourself. Get them from Amazon.com, or order them from my AuthorStore! You will not be disappointed.

Rise of the Rogue Fighters (Peek 1)

2011-11-16T07:05:00.001-05:00

Here's a sequel that a few of my most loyal fans are still waiting for. The follow-up to "The Rogue Investigations" that will continue the paranormal investigations of Zachary McCain and his associates. Much like the first volume in the series, Rise of the Rogue Fighters is largely based on stories I wrote as a teenager, wild fantasies derived from a steady diet of pulp sci-fi and comic books. In this sequel, there will be a lot more magical and superhero stuff, but the underlying uniqueness of the first set of stories will still dominate.

So, here is your first sneak peek at the yet-unfinished project:

(Excerpt From Chapter 5: The Legendary Mind)

"Christ, what a mess," Nathan remarked, flicking a gum wrapper into the debris. "I hope he's got good insurance."

"Not a cent," a raspy voice replied.

Turning from the wreckage, Nathan saw the approaching voice belonged to the local police chief, a grizzled veteran years beyond retirement with a cigarette dangling from his lips. He was accompanied by Zachary McCain.

"Nathan Bradford, meet Rodney Curtis," Zachary announced.

"You can call me Rod," the officer said. "So you're McCain's new bodyguard, eh? Must be fun, getting paid to follow him around while he dreams up his little fantasies."

"They're anything but fantasies," Zachary said. "But I don't expect someone of your years to ever change. You're set in your limited view of things."

"It's called sanity, Zachary. You should try it sometime. You'll live longer," Rod said, as a young police officer approached him from the side. "Give me a minute."

As Rod stepped aside to talk with his fellow officer, Zachary took the opportunity to peruse the charred wreckage. He and Nathan slipped around behind the sizeable pile, obscured from Curtis' view.

"What exactly are we looking for?" Nathan asked.

"I'm not sure," Zachary replied. "Julie said this was going to happen in Ellsworth."

"You said she was pretty scatterbrained at the time," Nathan said. "Think she just got confused?"

"Maybe. Truth be told, I'm have no idea why we're here."

"Chasing fantasies?"

"Something like that," Zachary answered.

If you haven't picked up a copy of The Rogue Investigations, consider doing so today. It's my most affordable work on the market today.

What Does It Mean? (Minstrel Mondays)

2011-11-14T07:58:00.001-05:00

The world is a pain in the ass too often, and for those of us who live outside of the mainstream it can be very trying at times. That is why so many good people seem to give up; shut off their minds and go with the flow, because it's easy. Following trends and being "cool" is simple, but thinking for yourself is hard... and for the record "counter-culture" is the new normal, the antithesis of its namesake. Revel in the irony!

Here's a poem for everyone who isn't "hip," or on the cutting edge of pop culture.

What does it mean

when you see a scene on a picture screen

that reminds you of time you've lost?

Why does it hurt

when you're heart's burnt
and it's blood does spurt

all over the remnants of life?

All I see, I know it well.

I've experienced some and it was swell.

But truth be told, it's all gone to hell

and I don't want to see it any longer.

I want to vanish from the reality of pain

the misery of fame or forgetfulness.

I don't want it to be at all,

I just want to live away.

Never do I want to see

the filthy city streets,

that infamous urban beat.

The sum of things and people

that make me sick, head to feet.

Hide away from human sight

where few can find me, it just seems right.

It just feels so good to be

with only those who care for me.

Leave me alone, world of blunder,

to my peace of mind, because I know it,

and I must not be bothered with pathetic games

that seek to propagate lust and murder.

Let me give you a taste of mind,

the light of truth that anyone can find

if they bother to take the time

to use their brains once in a while.

What does it mean

these things I see, the times I dream?

Is all to be mine eventually,

or will nothing ever come to me at all?

Veterans Day Remembrance

2011-11-11T04:00:00.001-05:00

It's Veterans Day in the United States (or as the old-timers would call it, Armistice Day), and it is Remembrance Day for our neighbors to the north. As such, I'd like to take a moment to honor the brave men and women who have served so proudly in the armed forces. It is often a thankless job to serve your country, and it's not something you do for money or praise. You do it because it's right.

I, myself, have not served. My health and temperament were never up to the task, though I have great respect for those who have sacrificed for the safety and security of America over the years. While I didn't take up the charge, many in my family have over the years, so I feel obliged to mention them.

Going back to the American Revolution, several direct ancestors served to found this nation, including Conrad Hoyer (7x great grandfather), and John Hubbell (6x great grandfather).

Only known photograph
of Sylvester T. Counts

In the Civil War, my 3x great grandfather Sylvester Tobias Counts was a Corporal with the 1^st Company, 42^nd Regiment of the Ohio Infantry, while my 2x great grandfather Charles W. Bailey fought for Wisconsin. Charles' father, William Sullivan Bailey, may have also fought in the war. Charles Bailey took a bullet in the leg at Gettysburg while repelling Pickett's charge, and Sylvester Counts caught encephalitis, all to preserve the Union and stomp out slavery. No doubt, I'll get some ribbing from the Rebs for my Yankee Republican ancestors.

Moving on to World War I, my adopted Great Grandfather, Edward S. "Ned" Ingham, took up the charge to stop the Kaiser. He was rejected by the U.S. Army for having "poor eyesight," so he hopped a ship and volunteered to drive ambulances, and eventually wrangled himself a position with the French Army. Despite his allegedly bad eyes, he could hit a man-sized target at a mile with his issued rifle (or so the story goes).

The Mighty Eighth!

In World War II, my grandfather, Raymond W. Ingham, served with the 8^th Army Air Force, and helped to flatten most of Europe in order to stop Hitler. My grandmother (Ray's wife) Esther Counts Ingham, served as clerical staff on the Manhattan project, thereby helping to create the first atomic bomb. And a while back I told you about my cousin, Ned Nelson, Jr., who gave his life as a bomber pilot during WWII. My wife's grandfather, Harry Roll Short, fought for Canada during the war.

To all the men and women who have served and continue to serve, I salute you!

The Indomitable American (Peek 1)

2011-11-09T03:21:00.004-05:00

This is a novella I wrote when I was 18. Originally entitled "The Green Haired Lady," the 45,000 words were thrown together in two weeks, and while it is an interesting little story, I can't say it's anything special. This is another one of those works that probably won't see the light of day unless I make it big. My pre-existing fans would probably enjoy reading it, but people unfamiliar with my work might not.

Anyway, here's the opening scene to the story.

They'd been chasing me for about an hour, since the cold, unforgiving winter sun had broken through the clouds. The frigid air stung my lungs as I ran through the thickets of spruce and fir. Powdery snow shook loose from the branches and slid down the back of my coat, freezing my shoulder blades, for I couldn't keep the coat's hood on during the chase. It obstructed my vision too greatly, and it liked to get hooked on the snowy branches.

I paused for a minute after plowing through a stand of pines, but before I could catch my breath I heard their raucous voices; the boisterous and rowdy shouts of these bandits on my tail. The lowlife vermin that had plagued this countryside for half a decade, since the onset of The Greater Depression. It was scum like them that had forced me out into this frigid wilderness in the middle of January.

They'd raided my homestead over a week ago, murdered my family, stolen our meager supplies, and torched the buildings. I'd watched the flames burn all night from the hillside two miles away, and could only imagine the added horrors those savages had bestowed upon my kin.

Of course, we'd had it coming to us. We were farmers, who knew how to survive, and had spent the last five years feeding ourselves, while millions of others starved. Those who couldn't or wouldn't support themselves were starting to band together in these rural lands, and growing gangs were pillaging the countryside, taking whatever they wanted, and killing anyone who stood in their way.

The federal government wasn't going to save us. They had their hands full, fending off the hordes of invading barbarians, and putting down the city dwellers. Those in the country were on their own, and neighbors were often too far away to provide aid in the thick of it.

So much for the glories of anarchy.

The chase continued. I charged forward, down a steep slope through two feet of snow. I tripped on a fallen tree limb under the powder and went flying downhill. The snow in my face was another insult upon my existence. I'd been screwed over so much already. Did I really deserve to stumble on this final chase?

I scrambled to my feet as quickly as possible, yet I felt my run was nearing its end. The killers behind me were almost in sight, and once they spotted me it would be all over. A single shot, maybe two if I got lucky, and I'd be another nameless corpse left to feed the crows.

At the base of the hill was a clearing, and looking at the snow I saw the fresh snowmobile tracks these bandits had left on their journey here. The packed track led down the path that I had trekked last evening, prior to setting up camp within the thickets. If it hadn't been for the noise of their machines, I probably wouldn't have awoken in time to flee. These bandits were arrogant and sloppy. I suppose it only enhanced their hunt to give their prey fair warning.

My legs were too tired from fighting the cold and the snow. I could barely stand now, so my time was up. I could see the tree branches shake halfway up the hill as they came down after me. In a few minutes, we'd spot one another and it would be my end.

I wasn't about to go without a fight.

Reaching for the rifle slung over my shoulder, that's when everything changed.

A loud crack of thunder echoed across the landscape, accompanied by a blinding flash of light. I'd been too slow, I thought. It must have been the bandit's shot ringing out loud and clear. That was my conclusion, as I felt my life essence suspended outside the physical world, beyond the painfully cold wilderness and harsh world I'd watched crumble to dust during my short lifetime.

But life was not done with me yet.

After floating in limbo for what seemed like a century, my senses returned to me. Yet nothing was the same. Everything I'd been experiencing was gone. The frigid air of January was replaced by a warm wind that brushed against my stubble of a beard, and the cold snow against my ankles was replaced by short grass. The blinding winter sun was absent, and the dim light of the moon provided me with minimal vision to look out upon the forested hillsides before me.

I stared at my frosty knuckles, and witnessed my hands illuminated by the moon's luminescence. Turning up at the light source, I saw a curious orange tint on its cold, battered face. Something of this moon told me I was nowhere I had ever been before.

What Love Has Done (Minstrel Mondays)

2011-11-07T06:24:00.000-05:00

I've hit NaNoWirMo running this year, and on this seventh day of the exercise I expect to surpass 16,000 words on The Six-Gun Conjurer. This puts me several days ahead of the minimum word count, so barring any severe trajedy I expect to surpass the 50k mark well ahead of schedule.

Here's a short bit of poetry I wrote ten years ago, to tide you over while I continue with the book.

I'm afraid I cannot work today.

My luck is just so bad.

If I were to get in a car,

it would be a wreck.

If I were to get in a boat,

I'm afraid it would sink.

Were I to patch masonry,

I'd become cemented to the wall.

Were I to fix a window,

my body would fall through the flimsy pane.

That's what your love has done to me.

Bloodlines: Father & Son

2011-11-06T05:00:00.002-05:00

With NaNoWriMo in full-swing, my Family Sunday columns are going to be a little sparse. So, this week, I'm going to do a couple of photos.

This week, school pictures came in, and this is my son's first year. He's in Kindergarten, attending the same school I attended in our small Maine town. It's interesting how some things parallel in life, and when it comes to Wyatt there are many unmistakable similarities.

Here are two pictures. On the left is Wyatt as he appears now. On the right is my own Kindergarten picture from 1985. We're essentially the same age in these pictures, and you can certainly see the resemblance.


Wyatt Ingham, Age 5	Martin Ingham, Age 5

Sneak Peek: The Six-Gun Conjurer

2011-11-02T09:26:00.001-04:00

It's day two of National Novel Writing Month, and right now I'm well ahead of schedule, with nearly 4,300 words written in my latest book, the third volume of the Fantasy Western saga! The Six-Gun Conjurer is coming together nicely, with some all new characters and old favorites. As things progress, I'll share a snippet or two of the work here, but only a few short passages. Keep in mind, this is raw text, unedited and fresh off my keyboard.

In this piece from the book's opening sequence, we get to see a new member of the cast meeting a very special guest!

There was something familiar about the man sitting beside him. The sandy-haired fellow had a stern, serious look on his face, and didn't seem the kind to crack a smile often. The relatively youthful look of his body placed him somewhere around thirty, and the smooth hands revealed he wasn't one for manual labor. That, and the quality suit he wore revealed him to be something of a businessman or educated professional.

Clarence let his curiosity get the better of him, and he felt the urge to introduce himself. With a slight adjustment of his body, he managed to present a hand for the other man to shake, which he did with a strong grip, but no words.

"So, what brings you out to Selwood?" Clarence asked, hoping to get some information out of the silent man.

"Business, and an old friend," the man said.

"What a coincidence. It happens I'm traveling to see an old friend, myself," Clarence said.

"Really?" the man said.

"Well, more than a friend, actually. The man practically raised me after my mother died. It'll be good to be back."

"Not your first trip to Selwood, then?" the man asked.

"No, I've been here a few times," Clarence replied. "Though, I mostly grew up in Kansas. We didn't move out to Nevada until seventy-six. I only spent a year in Selwood before going back east to college, and haven't been back since."

"College? You wouldn't happen to be wrangling for a job offer, would you?" the man asked suspiciously.

"No," Clarence said. "Why ever would you think that?"

The mustached man sitting across from him cleared his throat and caught his attention. "Hey, buddy, don't you know who this guy is?"

"No, who is he?" Clarence asked, adding a questioning look.

"That's Thomas Edison."

There you have it, the first sneak peek at "The Six Gun Conjurer." Get ready for more might and mysticism in the Wild West, coming soon!

If you'd like to keep track of my writing progress, be sure to visit my NaNoWriMo page!

Evil Unseen (Minstrel Mondays)

2011-10-31T03:41:00.002-04:00

It's Halloween, and what would this spooky day be without a bit of macabre poetry? While not in the league of Edgar Allen Poe, here's a creepy little bit I threw together for just such an occasion.

They watch you as you work,

as you enjoy a day,

or simply play.

The dark things which seem

as human as can be

to those who know nothing

of ethereal ways.

Every word echoes cavernously,

and even sunbeams bend around

their demonic forms,

when seen in the light

of spiritual sight.

My skin crawls in their presence

for I know the depth

of their twisted souls.

Be warned, physical souls,

these beings of whom I speak,

they'll get you,

and you'll never see it coming.

For nice they will seem,

as many fools around.

Yet death is in their hearts

the deep rivers of existence

stained dark with their lethal might.

The evil that lurks inside,

is more than mere words can describe.

These things among man

lurk in plain daylight.

I cannot yet tell how deep it goes,

or how powerful they may be

out of my sight.

Friends of the devil, indeed.

Yet their evil goes much deeper

than that old religious foe.

The depths of Hell hath no place

for fiends as foul as

the forgotten purveyors

lurking in the night.

Tomorrow is the kick-off for National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo), so for the month of November my posts are likely to be scarce. I'll endeavor to post something each week, but four posts might be stretching it a bit. Bear with me as I produce the next volume in the Fantasy Western saga!

Vacation Destinations

2011-10-30T03:46:00.009-04:00

Yes, it is Sunday, and yes this is a Family Sunday posting. In my continuing ancestral research, numerous locations pop up, places where different branches of my family originally settled, or called home in the past centuries. It is my hope to visit a few of these someday, but at the moment it is fairly impossible for me to get away. Perhaps future years and fortune will give me the opportunity.

Today, I'll share a few of the places I'd like to visit at some point. Mind you, these aren't liable to be hot tourist destinations, and are only interesting to me because of my familial ties.

Bridgeton, New Jersey: Really, all of Cumberland County would be on the tour, but Bridgeton is the center of it all. Hendersons, Ballingers, Robinsons, and other assorted ancestors came from this area, and it would be interesting to have a look around.

Baldwin City, Kansas: Home of the Counts family. My great grandfather, George Sylvester Counts, was born and raised with three brothers and two sisters on a farm outside of town, and it would be interesting to drop by for a visit. I know there have been a few "cousin reunions" held at the old homestead, though I've never had the pleasure of an invitation. Maybe someday I'll get out there, reunion or otherwise.

Old Saybrook, Connecticut: It was here that Joseph Ingham the weaver first settled in America around 1640.

Cato, New York: Another site of Ingham interest, this is where William Ingham set up shop around 1814, and he made a fortune running a general store. Later on, his sons overextended themselves and lost pretty much everything. William's youngest son, Albert, was the grandfather of my adopted great-grandfather.

Hagerstown, Maryland: It was here that the Forthmans first settled in America before the Civil War. My great-grandfather, William Edward Forthman, was born here in 1863. His mother, Ann Creager, was also from Hagerstown, and her ancestors settled there before the Revolution.

There are plenty of other locations of note in my family, though these are a few that stand out the most. It may be little more than a daydream to think of visiting these distant towns and cities, though perhaps I'll go one day. Only, what ever will I find when I get there?

Blast from The Past: Stop Taxing Books!

2011-10-28T07:36:00.002-04:00

I've had a lot of letters published in various newspapers over the years, and once in a while I'll share one here. While some of my letters address matters of limited interest that become antiquated with time, there are quite a few that remain relevant. Here's one issue I still feel strongly about, and it isn't being remedied. I wrote this letter when I was 18, and I'll still feel the same about the issue when I'm 80!

June 25, 1998 Thursday

I went to the book store the other day and was disturbed to find out that there is now a tax on books. It had been a while since I purchased a book, due to the high price of new books these days, but I hardly expected this.

I can't speak for anyone else, but I believe that taxing reading material of any kind is wrong. It's bad enough that the price of paperbacks has doubled in the past five years. We don't need to be charged an extra six percent.

Taxing books is like penalizing people for reading. You wouldn't want to be taxed for speaking, would you?

This tax is imposed with total disrespect for the first amendment. I hope that our state officials realize this and choose to do the right thing by removing this tax.

[This tax is still imposed on the people of Maine.]