Monthly Archives: August 2015

My Writing: 1990-1994

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I remember I once commented on the fact that a man had to register for the draft at 19, he could drive a car when he was 16, could vote when he was 18, and had to wait until he was 21 to drink.  “Just when is a man, a man?” I wondered.  My aunt filled me in on the answer.  “When he has a mortgage.”

In 1989 I bought a house, had a mortgage.  I also had a new baby, and started back to college– and was working full time. I didn’t have time to do much writing. By 1992, I had a second baby and had decided that I wanted to be a teacher. I graduated from UNLV in 1994.

About the only writing I did in this entire period was to add a few chapters to Princess of Amathar.

His Robot Wife – Chapter 4 Excerpt

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His Robot WifeAt precisely 11:59 Mike pulled into the driveway of Harriet and Jack’s house. It was a nice house, both larger and newer than his, nestled in a cul-de-sac several blocks away from the freeway exit. Harriet had planted hundreds of perennials around her home and though they were not blossoming at that time, they were thriving thanks to the large blue UV umbrella that covered the entire neighborhood. Harriet was waiting as they walked up the path to the front door. Mike grabbed one of his signs from the trunk while Patience retrieved the Jell-o mold.

“Hi Daddy. Hi Patience.”

“Hi, Harriet,” said Patience. “Thank you for having us over.”

“Of course.” Harriet and her robot step-mother exchanged kisses on the cheek.

“Hi Honey,” said Mike. “You look gigantic.”

“Thanks a lot, Dad.” Harriet ran a hand over her protruding baby bump. “I am gigantic.”

“Where’s Jack?”

“He’s in the garage shampooing the car interior,” she answered but looked quizzically at the sign he held in his hand.

“Oh, I brought you a present for your yard.” He showed it to her and then pressed it into the earth in the small garden beside Harriet’s door.

Mike’s daughter guided them into the house and closed the door.

“So why’s he shampooing the car seats now?” asked Mike as he plopped onto the couch.

“It’s quite a story,” answered Harriet. “Renee Holmes—she lives down the street, well she asked Jack to drive her to the pharmacy. She has two kids and they had to go with her because she didn’t have a baby sitter. Anyway, she got her prescription, but on the way back she started coughing so much that she threw up right in the back seat. Well, her oldest—that’s Mikey—he got a whiff of the smell and threw up too. Then Mikey’s little sister Marie vomited right in Jack’s lap and that set him off. So the entire car was practically filled with vomit and I told Jack that there was no way I could ride to my obstetrician’s appointment this week with the car smelling like that.”

“It’s just like that movie Stand By Me,” said Mike with a smile.

“I… oh, I don’t think I’ve seen it.”

“It was based on a story by Stephen King,” said Patience. “Originally published in King’s 1982 collection Different Seasons, it tells the story of three adolescents who set out on a journey to see the body of a dead boy.”

“Um, Okay,” said Harriet, putting a protective hand on her belly. “Patience, why don’t we set the table? Daddy, why don’t you go out to the garage and talk to Jack? Maybe you could even help him.”

My Writing: 1983-1989

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I continued to write (mostly bad) poetry all through the 80s as I wandered through life without much focus. I had a few interesting jobs, most notably Ambulance driver, but nothing that I thought worthwhile in the long run.

I started writing what would be called “fan fiction” during these years. I didn’t call them that, having not heard of that term at the time, and I didn’t show the stories to anyone. I wrote Star Trek, Tarzan, Pellucidar, and John Carter stories. They were episodic and I didn’t finish any of them– just wrote a few chapters of each.

I also wrote a few chapters of original stories– a couple of time traveling, alternate dimension stories, and a very early version of the first few chapters of Princess of Amathar.

I married my lovely wife in 1985 and my daughter Becky was born in 1989.

His Robot Wife – Chapter 3 Excerpt

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His Robot WifeThe next morning after breakfast, Mike was just thinking about making a run to the store when the doorbell rang. Opening the front door he found two teen-aged boys. He immediately recognized their faces as those of former students though only one of their names swam to the surface of his brain.

“Hey guys.”

“Mr. Smith, I thought you lived here.”

“I do. I have since before either of you were born. Come on in.”

He led them inside and gestured for them to have a seat in the living room. The teen whose name he remembered as Curtis was a tall thin African-American with close-buzzed hair. His friend was just as tall, though not quite so thin, with long blond hair and a very red face. Both were obviously hot.

“Patience, would you bring these young men something cool to drink please?” he called, and then turned back to them. “What would you like?”

“Just water,” said Curtis.

“Yeah,” said the other one.

Both stared at Patience when she brought them their drinks. Curtis had to elbow his friend to remind him to take the glass. It wasn’t that she was dressed provocatively, in a shorts combo and a pair of pump sandals, but it was just impossible it seemed for her not to be attractive. They both kept staring at the spot where she exited the room long after she was gone.

“So what can I do for you guys today?” asked Mike.

“Francis is doing a paper for his junior History class and he has to have an interview as one of his references. So I told him to come and ask you.”

“It’s August.”

“We’re taking summer school so we can get a credit ahead. He’s taking History and I’ve got Pre-Calc.”

Mike looked and noticed for the first time that the other boy, Francis, had a small wriTee tucked under his arm.

“Francis,” he said, more to reinforce the name in his memory than to address him. “What is your paper on?”

“The 1950s. Do you remember what it was like?”

“Well first of all boys, I was born in 1982. In fact, my father wasn’t born until 1963.”

“Oh. Well, do you know anything about the fifties?”

“I’m a teacher. I know everything about the fifties. I don’t worry about the bomb, I’d rather be dead than red, and I like Ike.”

“Who’s Ike?” wondered Francis.

“Eisenhower. Dwight D. Eisenhower. That was his nickname—Ike.”

“How do you get Ike out of Eisenhower? There’s no K in it.”

“I don’t know. That’s just what they called him.”

“They should have called him Ice,” offered Curtis, “like Ice-enhower, or Ice-double H.”

“Yeah,” agreed Francis. “That’s edge. Wait a second. I thought he was that World War II guy. That was the forties, not the fifties.”

“He was a general during World War II and he was President during the fifties.”

“See. I told you he knows it,” said Curtis to his friend. “Turn on your Dictathing.”

Curtis unfolded his wriTee on the coffee table and with a swipe of his finger the screen came to life.

“So what was life like in the fifties?”

My Writing: 1976-1982

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In high school, I had an inspirational English teacher named Mrs. Reisman (I may be mispelling her name). In her class I learned to love writing poetry. I wrote tons of poetry over the next five or six years– most of it pretty bad. I wrote a few stories, but nothing that I really remember.

One of the highlights of Mrs. Reisman’s class was putting together a Student Arts Magazine, which was a big deal back in the 70s, because print on demand hadn’t been invented yet, and even copy machines were relatively rare at school (although they were firmly entrenched in the business world). We had to use mimeograph machines– the ones that smelled really good.

I graduated High School in 78 and tried a couple of semesters at UNLV before dropping out. I really didn’t know what I wanted out of life yet.

His Robot Wife – Chapter 2 Excerpt

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His Robot WifeThe next morning after breakfast, Mike was just thinking about making a run to the store when the doorbell rang. Opening the front door he found two teen-aged boys. He immediately recognized their faces as those of former students though only one of their names swam to the surface of his brain.

“Hey guys.”

“Mr. Smith, I thought you lived here.”

“I do. I have since before either of you were born. Come on in.”

He led them inside and gestured for them to have a seat in the living room. The teen whose name he remembered as Curtis was a tall thin African-American with close-buzzed hair. His friend was just as tall, though not quite so thin, with long blond hair and a very red face. Both were obviously hot.

“Patience, would you bring these young men something cool to drink please?” he called, and then turned back to them. “What would you like?”

“Just water,” said Curtis.

“Yeah,” said the other one.

Both stared at Patience when she brought them their drinks. Curtis had to elbow his friend to remind him to take the glass. It wasn’t that she was dressed provocatively, in a shorts combo and a pair of pump sandals, but it was just impossible it seemed for her not to be attractive. They both kept staring at the spot where she exited the room long after she was gone.

“So what can I do for you guys today?” asked Mike.

“Francis is doing a paper for his junior History class and he has to have an interview as one of his references. So I told him to come and ask you.”

“It’s August.”

“We’re taking summer school so we can get a credit ahead. He’s taking History and I’ve got Pre-Calc.”

Mike looked and noticed for the first time that the other boy, Francis, had a small wriTee tucked under his arm.

“Francis,” he said, more to reinforce the name in his memory than to address him. “What is your paper on?”

“The 1950s. Do you remember what it was like?”

“Well first of all boys, I was born in 1982. In fact, my father wasn’t born until 1963.”

“Oh. Well, do you know anything about the fifties?”

“I’m a teacher. I know everything about the fifties. I don’t worry about the bomb, I’d rather be dead than red, and I like Ike.”

“Who’s Ike?” wondered Francis.

“Eisenhower. Dwight D. Eisenhower. That was his nickname—Ike.”

“How do you get Ike out of Eisenhower? There’s no K in it.”

“I don’t know. That’s just what they called him.”

“They should have called him Ice,” offered Curtis, “like Ice-enhower, or Ice-double H.”

“Yeah,” agreed Francis. “That’s edge. Wait a second. I thought he was that World War II guy. That was the forties, not the fifties.”

“He was a general during World War II and he was President during the fifties.”

“See. I told you he knows it,” said Curtis to his friend. “Turn on your Dictathing.”

Curtis unfolded his wriTee on the coffee table and with a swipe of his finger the screen came to life.

“So what was life like in the fifties?”

“There was a sort of dichotomy. There was the good and the bad. On the one hand, average Americans were richer in the 1950s than they had ever been before or have been since. On the other hand people were in a constant state of fear that thermo-nuclear war was right around the corner. The cold war between the United States and the Soviet Union threatened to erupt into World War III at any moment.”

“I thought people didn’t make much money in the old days,” said Curtis.

“Money had a different value then. You might only make five or six hundred dollars a month, but that was enough to support a family. You could buy a big, new house for $15,000 and you could buy a brand new Cadillac for $5,000. A loaf of bread was twenty cents. A comic book was a dime. Gas was less than… you guys know that cars ran on gasoline then, right? Gas was ten to twenty cents a gallon.”

“Wow. How much was a vueTee then, fifteen bucks?”

“Um, no. A vueTee, they called them TVs, only a fifth as big as this one,” Mike pointed to the vueTee above the fireplace, “was $500. And those TVs had no interactivity, no threed, no inscope, no Infinet… they didn’t even have color.”

“Man, I wouldn’t even bother,” said Francis.

“Sure you would. Everybody wanted one. It was the cool new thing. Remember, nobody had anything else—no texTees, no tPods.”

“So how come it was so expensive?” asked Francis.

“That’s just how technology is. TVs got cheaper as manufacturers geared up to keep up with demand and competed against other companies for business, and then cheaper still as they found ways to make them with fewer and less expensive parts. When real vueTees came out, it was the same thing. They were thousands of dollars, but got cheaper even as manufacturers added more features.

“The same thing happened with robots. When the first humanoid robots came out they cost a butt-load of money—millions. Now they’re under three thousand.”

“Going up though,” said Curtis. “The new Daffodils are more expensive.”

“That’s because Daffodil is the biggest corporation in the world now,” said Francis. “They can do whatever they want.”

My Writing: 1972-1975

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Some people have asked for it, so here it is– my story as a writer.

I was in 7th grade when I first realized that I could write something. That year I won the Nevada State Poetry Contest and I began writing and drawing my own science fiction comic strip– I’m a horrible artist. In the summer, my cousin and I collaborated on creating comics– he’s a much better artist. I continued to write my comics through ninth grade, when I started Senior High, got a job, and discovered girls.

His Robot Wife – Chapter 1 Excerpt

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His Robot WifeMike Smith first noticed the bright blue sign on his sixth circuit around the indoor jogging track. It was Thursday and he came every Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday morning to jog twenty-five laps. Twenty-five laps equaled two miles. The sign was in somebody’s yard. That’s why he noticed it. It wasn’t an advertisement like the ones on businesses you could see from the other side of the track. It was bright blue and it had yellow writing and some kind of picture. The seventh lap around, he tried to make out the three large words at the top. It looked like they said “stop the perverts.” The next lap, he looked again. Now he was sure that it said “stop the perverts,” but what did it say below that? He strained his eyes but after three more laps, he couldn’t make out the smaller words below.

He put it out of his mind and instead watched the people on the track with him as he ran. There were two girls in their late teens or early twenties who both looked too chubby to be jogging. Never the less, they lapped him about every fourth circuit. There were eight or ten people walking, mostly in pairs. But one little old man was walking quite fast, about half as fast as Mike was jogging, and he constantly leaned to the left. Mike was sure he was going to just fall right over sooner or later. Twenty-four. Twenty-five. Mike hit the finish line and immediately dropped his speed, walking over to get a towel and a bottle of water. Remembering the sign, he walked to the back wall of the running track and looked down over the neighborhood. There was the sign. He pressed his forehead against the hot glass and squinted. “Stop the perverts. Vote yes on 22.” Or was that thirty three?

Wiping his face and finishing his water, Mike walked back to the cubbyhole and picked up his texTee. “What is California proposition twenty-two?” The screen immediately came to life and began playing a news story. “Just let me read it.” The video dissolved into a page of text. “Blah blah blah. Supporters include blah blah blah. The proposition will amend the state constitution to define a person as a biological entity, preventing robots seeking redress for blah blah blah. Blah blah blah essentially an anti-robot marriage proposal. What? If this amendment is passed it will prohibit the state of California from acknowledging the marriages between humans and robots currently being performed in four states.

“Son of a bitch.”

Hopping down the stairs with much more energy than he usually had after jogging, Mike crossed the blistering parking lot and climbed into his Chevy, letting the cool air wash over him before he turned on the ignition. He counted it as a blessing that all cars now had auto-cooled interiors. He wouldn’t want to have to wait for the cool air. He pulled out of the parking lot and drove up the street, turning left into the neighboring block so that he could get a better look at the blue sign. But it took him several minutes to find the correct house. Finally he stopped in from of the one featuring the placard. “Stop the perverts. Vote yes on 22.” Beneath the words was a stick figure diagram, the kind used on street signs, of what looked like a man trying to have sex with a toaster. Mike thought about getting out of his car and ripping the sign out of the ground, but he saw the face of a little old lady looking out at him through the blinds.

“Assholes,” he said, and slammed his foot on the gas pedal. The car sped away, but failed to make the screeching tire noise that he was hoping for.

Princess of Amathar – $1.99

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Princess of AmatharPrincess of Amathar is now just $1.99 for the multiformat ebook.  Look for it at Smashwords, iBooks, or the Kindle store.  It will remain $1.99 till the end of the year, when it will revert to its normal $2.99.

On a separate note, I wrote this post earlier, because as this arrives on the blog, I am having an operation on my achilles tendon.  I’ll let you know how that goes.

The Drache Girl – Chapter 19 Excerpt

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The Drache Girl (New Cover)Senta finished washing her face and brushing her teeth. She walked back to her bed and examined the dress that lay there. Even though Zurfina had not returned, clothing continued to appear each morning. Sometimes Senta ignored it and wore one of the dresses that she had purchased for herself at Mrs. Bratihn’s, but more often she simply slipped into whatever strange accouterments appeared. She had already put on her underclothes, including her bustle, when she lifted up the dress by the shoulders to examine it. This one was actually not too bad. It was black with puffy white sleeves and white lace trim around the neckline and the bottom. The only problem was that the bottom was just below her knees.

Senta rolled her eyes then slipped on the dress. She reached behind her and easily fastened the row of tiny buttons that ran up the back. Opening her top dresser drawer, she rummaged around and found her knee-high socks with one inch horizontal black and white stripes. She sat down on the bed and pulled them on, and then put on her black patent leather high heels. Looking in the cheval glass, she decided that it didn’t look too bad.

Once downstairs, she thought for a brief moment about preparing some breakfast, but decided she’d rather walk to Mrs. Finkler’s. It was a new month and her pockets were once again filled with her stipend. The desire not to have to clean the kitchen and the fact of her newfound wealth had both conspired to disincline Senta to cook since Zurfina had left. And as Bessemer didn’t seem to mind, preferring to catch and eat wild prey anyway, she scarcely took the time to prepare any meals at home anymore. She looked at the steel dragon’s empty corner and then headed out the front door.

Senta had almost completely crossed the yard before she noticed Graham standing at the gate. His brown hair was neatly combed and his freckled face had been recently scrubbed. He wore a tan and white horizontally striped shirt that made him look chubbier than he actually was and a new pair of dungarees cut extra long and rolled up into cuffs over his work boots. In his right hand, he clasped a handful of small white flowers.

“You look kind of ridiculous,” she said.

“You should talk. I mean… you look nice. Here, these are for you.” He shoved the handful of flowers in her direction.

“Thanks. I didn’t think there were any flowers in bloom yet.”

“These are the only ones. They grow in the dinosaur poo.”

“Pretty. So what made you decide to come around here?”

“I don’t know.”

“You must have some idea. I haven’t seen you in a whole month.”

Graham mumbled something.

“What?”

“I said I guess I missed you or something.”

Senta smiled and stepping over to him wrapped her arms around his left arm.

“I was on my way to Mrs. Finkler’s for breakfast. Come with me.”

“I’ve already eaten,” said Graham. He didn’t say this to decline her invitation and she didn’t take it that way. It was understood between them that for him two meals in a row was no problem. “I’m buying though.”

“Then it will be a real date,” said Senta.

“No, not really.”

Graham turned and headed toward town, Senta still holding onto his left arm.

“I think you’ve grown since I saw you last,” said Senta, who was several inches taller than Graham.

“Yep. Da says I’m in a spurt. Look. If we’re going to be friends…”

“We are friends,” she corrected.

“Okay. Yes, we are friends. But you can’t go fighting my fights for me. You have to let me take care of myself. I’m a man.”

“Nope. That’s not how it works. You are my friend and if anyone messes with you, I will crush them.”

Graham stopped and pulled his arm from her grasp so that he could put both of his hands on his hips.

“And,” she continued. “If anyone messes with me, you can do the same, just like you did with that Freedonian wanker Streck.”

The boy thought for a moment. “Well, that seems fair.”

They walked the rest of the way to town square and easily found a seat inside the bakery café. Graham surprised Senta by pulling out her chair for her.

“Well, well, well. Look what we have here.” Gaylene Dokkins wiped the table with a cloth, and then crossed her legs at the ankles, leaning with her elbow atop Graham’s head. “My little brother must have finally got up the nerve to go see his girlfriend. Did he tell you he’s been moping around the house for weeks, mooning over you?”

“Shut up Gaylene,” whined Graham.

“I think he’s just sweet,” said Senta.

“Well, as my Da always says, ‘to each his own’. What can I get you?”