tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22188622966856371512024-02-07T20:44:09.124-08:00Jeffrey Aaron Miller - The BlogJeffrey Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01084230741410525661noreply@blogger.comBlogger180125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2218862296685637151.post-63893760777206268632022-08-12T09:32:00.001-07:002022-08-12T09:32:53.807-07:00Sadly Neglected Forever<span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Between 2009 and 2018, I was on a mad tear, writing books and short stories like a man with nothing better to do. I churned out a whole bunch of novels, some of which were published by indie publishers and others self-published. I put out seventeen novels in total, but only a few of them received any real marketing or attention.</span><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">How many copies of my books did people ultimately acquire? When factoring in Amazon and other online booksellers, indie bookstores, school libraries, personal sales, and social media giveaways, ultimately slightly less than 10,000 copies. However, most of those were from just a handful of my books, namely: <i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07C295G24" target="_blank">Mary of the Aether</a>, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B00Y01PF9Q" target="_blank">Children of the Mechanism</a>, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B00O4QXK9Y" target="_blank">Shadows of Tockland</a>, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B00Z85FBQA" target="_blank">The Vale of Ghosts</a>, </i>and <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B00ME4SJBW" style="font-style: italic;" target="_blank">Garden of Dust and Thorns</a>. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">In retrospect, I wrote too many books. I should have written fewer books and put more of my effort toward marketing them. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">Anyway, in 2017, I began a ghostwriting career, which has proved lucrative and took all of my focus off my own novels. Over the last few years, I've done a lot of writing for other people, including some pseudonymous fiction writing for a UK publisher. Ironically, some of the novels I've written under a pen name have sold very well, much better than my own books.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">In recent months, I've begun digging up my own novels, when I can find the time, and trying to reread them with an eye toward making something meaningful out of them. Most of them are just sitting in various online stores, making very sporadic sales. I don't know if there's anything I can do with them at this point, really, and I certainly don't need the sales. Ghostwriting pays the bills.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">If I had to pick just a few to focus renewed energy on, I think I would go with the following:</span></div><div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07C295G24" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2697" data-original-width="1609" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTBb-H59jDHDIWOrPR0r7uFCpfY7ACZ1MoMROuwwEhSvyAX14UABqFaN2eL41PnsKqTN6QM3Oau3DLfpyvMBp_LFNmbKZgsOiiYo-ZxPogls3yAZA6a-TLPdC-0f6K2xMfp9z2HV1qdQ/s320/maryof+the+aether+NEW+COVER+2022.jpg" width="191" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B00Y01PF9Q" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="702" data-original-width="440" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgABzAj5YxjIXR1DpGX3wW83-le3_-XAejKk-BNommwEDmGkGkDqfppK0NbmMsBzVscYGjgBojEErpFp1PZmujbgjXjTIesKj0P2hrLv9SSRPpgZZYgIaBM2QChxEJFuIiLdeiuepXiOGZteAz797mCFAsXEb_HIZutd156ssc-dse0g3Hn9ydNdg/s320/Children%20of%20the%20Mechanism%20Bright%20Cover%20MED.jpg" width="201" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B00O4QXK9Y" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="6750" data-original-width="4500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYdjLjIyey202m4MhhT3VcSflN-vlyyMhAcn7wveX1t_FDG7cVia-R09y83cNVa_uHTr6JKHhIVXwQQ5v161bd_h6ouFN0ldn9Aqf_BNDJTzes17oNfiAfJ_tq2JiOOBbn8G5PcgG9b6FCM-89lsK5WCMtrh7WnwQ6ay9zb-hrxrGumFcwtYG6mQ/s320/Big%20Cover.jpg" width="213" /></span></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">And if I had a lot of free time, I might give some time, consideration, additional editing, and attention to:</span></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B00ME4SJBW" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2250" data-original-width="1410" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigGff8fD7qi4LiyEniw_Xk0S4BCU4wP43bGtotOvXxKULHunVl3gSkzriw3X2KXZ7mcx3D35UVv6T2_wFLtuQPs1sFam92iSWwqMLbEEzciVZ7gog0a3Z2lCP0NXCZ00Ifu6cEGQRBmsbzxyfuaUTRi2gLcPKLLabSmi1tl26JsUkDydxL8awIAA/s320/Dust%20and%20Thorns%20Paperback%20Cover.jpg" width="201" /></span></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0716VT5KQ" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2250" data-original-width="1410" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXUpb8i7fM4rVWTETNEjFKhGAWlBlTpABABtlzwhVaM8kpW7ksCFHDsWY6RtxGeTtlsR1JEQjaTbN5GFpVJyY5h74tqgfLzlvO9diku_HkSnFcM5YPaqtsYlIn64HULmwEcDh8MhSsvwAEUowRi3NqKGoFyqKhWJgN_BcgRxjgtwps1anXTYLQ9A/s320/The%20Ribbon%20Tree%20Cover%20D.jpg" width="201" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B00Z85FBQA" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2250" data-original-width="1410" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZqEztC3ZNd_ZUcIR4KFm7mATUXpgcKWg1Mg1qUAw_K-mm_3-8XFz-KXi1pnnxudrWdFX-l9a25kbAFb7pnBbWyp9-X-IYBK6sn27wZvKwyQVqUtax5fVQhUIm4NAt6u_iHLVZMlq40sMV6KGSOmOw05oFe7ltLuW2Gr-TS1YzGARx3i-FUzxHAg/s320/New%20Vale%20of%20Ghosts%20Cover.jpg" width="201" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet; font-size: medium;">So, what do you think, Dear Reader? Have you read any of these novels, and are there any that I should stop sadly neglecting forever? </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div>Jeffrey Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01084230741410525661noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2218862296685637151.post-20625903659467009442018-12-10T21:56:00.003-08:002018-12-10T21:58:47.165-08:00There's a Lot More Creepiness BelowHave you read <i>Children of the Mechanism</i>? It seems to be one of my more consistently read and appreciated novels. When I created the weird, dark factory world of the novel, there was a lot I thought about but didn't have a reason to delve into during the story. There's some very strange stuff going on throughout that mysterious factory.<br />
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Well, I'm slowly working my way through the sequel. It doesn't even have a title yet. It's just called <i>Children of the Mechanism 2</i>, and I'm going rather slow because I have another full-time job that gets in the way. However, I've churned out five solid chapters. Maybe you'd like to read the rough opening paragraphs? Okay, why not? Here you go:</div>
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<i><span style="color: #cfe2f3; font-size: x-large;">Children of the Mechanism 2</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #cfe2f3; font-size: large;">Chapter One: The Bones Under the Bed</span></i></div>
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<span style="color: #cfe2f3; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">“Never open that door,” the old father said, tipped to one side on his chair, the loose skin of his jowls quivering as he struggled to sit up. “Never open that door, Gis, not for any reason, not for anything in the world.”</span></div>
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<span style="color: #cfe2f3; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">The incessant, rhythmic tapping from the end of the hall continued unabated, every metallic clank climbing Gis’s spine and settling at the base of his skull until he could scarcely stand it. The sound had begun in the middle of lunch and continued now long after he’d tossed the residue of the old father’s food into the Refuse Hole. Would it never end?</span></div>
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<span style="color: #cfe2f3; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">“But, Father, who is doing this?” Gis asked. “Who is making the terrible sound?”</span></div>
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<span style="color: #cfe2f3; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">The old father finally managed to sit up, flopping back against the high headrest of the chair. With a shaky hand, he pushed his wispy white hair back against his skull. His robe hung loosely these days, like a big blanket draped over his shoulders. Gis was tempted to believe the old father changed clothes at night while the children slept, gradually putting on bigger and bigger robes, but he knew this wasn’t the case. The ancient food stains on the front of the robe were the same as ever, years of dribbled meat juice soaking into the gray fabric.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #cfe2f3; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">“Listen to me carefully, Gis,” the old father said, dragging his bent fingers through the wild spray of his white beard. “There is something very dangerous on the other side of that door. That’s why we never open it. That’s why we never even touch it.”</span></div>
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<span style="color: #cfe2f3; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">“But, Father, you told me the door can’t open,” Gis said, lingering in the entryway of the old father’s bedroom, idly dragging his heel against the smooth carpet. “You said it’s not a real door. You said it many times.”</span></div>
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<span style="color: #cfe2f3; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">“I’m just trying to keep you away from it, Gis. I will say whatever I must say to keep you away from it.”</span></div>
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<span style="color: #cfe2f3; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">The tapping stopped for a moment, and Gis breathed a sigh of relief. It was like the sudden end of a long nightmare. But then it started up a moment later, and all of his nerves were immediately on edge. He wanted to claw at something, to dig into his own skin, to bite the carpet, or break one of the old father’s dainties on the shelves. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #cfe2f3; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><i>Tap</i>-<i>tap</i>-<i>tap</i>, like metal against metal. Gis couldn’t stand it. He hated it more than he’d hated anything since the Many Deaths.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #cfe2f3; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">“But what if this sound never stops?” he said. “How will we…?” <i>How will I not go crazy? How will I not pull the rest of my teeth out and throw myself into the Refuse Hole?</i></span></div>
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There you go. One of these days, the sequel will be ready. In the meantime, if you haven't read the original, check it out by clicking the image: </div>
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<a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B00Y01PF9Q"><img border="0" data-original-height="518" data-original-width="370" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsthNWFrRocqtm8X6p6xMmp4ZqDu0O46Qh8aNwfl3hyphenhyphenKNJPremunNNgl1voGKJmREAfJSADCr3Dwf__QJrnblCn-T2JcW7C6KrfbEwnaY4rAf7ZNL0eV5gwLCA9Bla-Mk2HqBle4GNjg/s320/Bik.jpg" width="228" /></a></div>
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Jeffrey Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01084230741410525661noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2218862296685637151.post-6678524788528661412018-08-28T23:51:00.000-07:002018-08-28T23:51:24.821-07:00Before Mary Was NovelizedBefore I wrote my first novel <i>Mary of the Aether</i>, I wrote a short story version of it. That short story was purchased for a Young Adult anthology, but the anthology never made it to print. I'm not sure what went wrong, but the short story just languished in limbo, and eventually, the idea evolved and became my first novel.<div>
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You can read that original short story on Futurism. If you've read the novel, you'll notice some distinct differences. </div>
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<a href="https://futurism.media/mindy-of-the-light">Check it out here.</a></div>
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There is one line in the short story that I wish I'd included in the novel series somewhere. It's something Mary says to her bullying friend:</div>
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<i>“Someday, when you’re no longer a child, you’ll understand what you’re saying,” Mindy said. “Someday you’ll understand who you’re talking to. Someday. For now, it’s alright. I understand, and I don’t hold it against you.”</i></div>
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<a href="https://www.jeffreyaaronmiller.com/jeffrey-aaron-miller-novels/mary-of-the-aether-series/">More on the Mary of the Aether series here.</a></div>
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<a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07C295G24"><img border="0" data-original-height="570" data-original-width="522" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCrMVPZ03mswg_ZMdPPkwm8SE5IEOC_RJog_emaaqrroZjIACQ-8u5dcvWRwR9BQOPlpY1tleMNmyQVQ_dLemHy2DV6OHRsFjm5_K8rskyVsyKI6ZELOhAWqXWj0IoKZwY_eb9am4rTw/s320/MaryWalks.jpg" width="293" /></a></div>
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Jeffrey Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01084230741410525661noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2218862296685637151.post-36806040439972748452018-06-13T01:31:00.001-07:002018-06-13T01:31:03.979-07:00Mary Is Back Again for the First TimeMy four-book <i>Mary of the Aether </i>series has had such a <b>long, strange publication history</b>, it's amazing that anyone has been able to find and read it. I wrote the first draft of the first book way back in 2009. In fact, I wrote it so long ago that it was actually technologically outdated. The characters were using flip phones. I mean, other than drug dealers, who uses a flip phone in 2018?<br />
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I sold the first book to an indie publisher called Whiskey Creek Press in 2011 and it hit the market in July 2012. Getting that first big box of books was a great feeling, even if I was concerned about the low-quality paper that caused the paperbacks to <b>crumble into oblivion </b>after the very first reading. In the summer if 2013, <i>Mary of the Aether </i>was included on a recommended reading list for Arkansas teachers and received a bunch of free publicity at a regional common core workshop. This resulted in me doing a bunch of creative writing workshops and book readings at schools and libraries.<br />
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<a href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B07CZ27BD7"><img border="0" data-original-height="540" data-original-width="720" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhofPIkVUVFSQbpQcfa_sBXjbBXEbreC-2DjZf6Q06QiomziLjkFfJmO5mpCQrQsknWsEXZ5Rb2U3dMSmDNGNcijN2awfjhJuHDO3nxAVKUxAckaCEChJnv_NUAygNvhXpkgXt2FUI4wQ/s320/531728_10150966664860418_1142837986_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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In the meantime, I churned my way through the entire series, writing three sequels and bringing the series to a dramatic conclusion with <i>Mary of Cosmos</i>. Just as the fourth book reached its publication date, Whiskey Creek Press announced that they were folding up shop and selling their catalog to a company called Start Media. Only select authors were offered contracts by Start, myself included. I made a whopping $200 on the deal. Fortunately, I invested that $200 in an exciting multilevel marketing opportunity and it paid for <b>my fleet of tricked-out Honda Accords</b>.<br />
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Just kidding. I did take the $200, as did many (but not all) authors from Whiskey Creek Press. Then the awful silence of God descended upon the earth. Start Media acquired the catalog of books, put out their own versions, and that was it. They didn't do much in the way of publicity. Oddly, they actually introduced some formatting problems to <i>Mary of the Aether</i>, which already had a few typos and formatting problems from Whiskey Creek Press.<br />
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Fun times.<br />
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<a href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B07CZ27BD7"><img border="0" data-original-height="437" data-original-width="906" height="192" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7O3aN0D5WktAkf2CMfXkIlMSMQHA9zsmIMmIFhTXoztYwkX62J5enKqGxzSEnHA16UR1PAE-FhjzaDbOMamgazDRWbaXuT54oXDVESdfoOw9Fakbdh1hU367-hokxRzX-W205zZPlAA/s400/BookBar.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Eventually, things got a little bit exciting. Simon & Schuster, the big-time publishing house, bought Start Publishing, which meant my <i>Mary of the Aether </i>series was available on the Simon & Schuster website (ebook only). This should have been a big deal, but sales were as close to negligible as possible without being nil. Also, there was this weird thing that happened where the first three books of my series were listed on one webpage (out of order) while the fourth book was listed on a different webpage. Despite numerous emails, I was never able to get anyone at Simon & Schuster to fix this problem.<br />
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Funner times.<br />
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This year, I finally reacquired the rights to the whole darn series and decided to self-publish. This gave me a chance to go back through the manuscripts and tidy things up a bit. I corrected the typos and formatting problems introduced back in the day. I streamlined some clunky prose in a few places, added a few small scenes that I felt were lacking, and turned those outdated flip phones into modern smartphones.<br />
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Ironically, self-publishing is probably <b>the best thing that has ever happened</b> to the series. Sales for the new and improved self-published version of <i>Mary of Aether</i> are better than they have been in years. The first volume, in particular, is on its way to becoming my second most consistent seller, after <i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B00Y01PF9Q">Children of the Mechanism</a></i>.<br />
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Things are looking up for good ol' Mary Lanham and her buddies the Devourers.<br />
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After finishing her work on <i>Mary of Cosmos</i>, my first editor raved about the series. In one of her final emails to me, she wrote the following:<br />
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<i><span style="color: #fff2cc;">I have to tell you, I have LOVED working on this series. It is one of my absolute favorites! I could definitely see this series doing well if it just catches on like it should!</span></i></div>
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Other than the initial interest back in the summer of 2013, maybe it finally has a real chance. People are reading it. If you haven't given the series a chance, let me entice you to do so now with the following review comments for the series:</div>
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<span style="color: #fff2cc;">"<i>Jeffery Aaron Miller once again uses his unique knack for writing about other worlds to draw you in and to have you totally engaged in the story. Jeffery is a wonderful writer who can take you to a fantasy world yet still keep you in touch with the real world and its own conflicts. Mr. Miller just has the knack or ability to create these other worlds that are mixed with our own world, and yet the issues of growing up in this world, poverty, and unpopularity, are intertwined with the lofty goals of the other world. There is so much in his storytelling to admire and to recognize for the youth of today. I find his writing and storytelling abilities to be fascinating.</i>" </span> </div>
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--<a href="https://readersfavorite.com/book-review/mary-of-the-aether">Readers' Favorite</a>.</div>
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<span style="color: #fff2cc;">"<i>I found this book to be absolutely brilliant! After the first couple of pages it really picked up, and I could hardly put the book down as I felt like I, myself, was in the book alongside Mary!</i>" </span></div>
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--<a href="http://flamingnet.blogspot.com/2012/08/mary-of-aether-ebook-by-jeffrey-aaron.html">Flamingnet Teen Book Reviews</a></div>
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<span style="color: #fff2cc;">"<i>The story was fresh, the plot nicely paced, and the characters unforgettable!</i>" </span></div>
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--<a href="https://issuu.com/btsemag/docs/july-aug-2014">BTS Book Reviews</a></div>
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Okay, ladies and gentlemen, now's your chance to check out the series. <b>Will it be among the best experiences you've ever had in your entire life?</b> I can't say for sure, but why don't we find out? <a href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B07CZ27BD7">Here is everything you've been waiting for.</a> </div>
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<a href="https://www.jeffreyaaronmiller.com/jeffrey-aaron-miller-novels/mary-of-the-aether-series/"><img border="0" data-original-height="601" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEtcgsYu7MT_qmIfUFWB58_4nGGbmFZ5OgprTd5LfQ-w7Bcukm7Mas2dRZOdZgF4peQJ3phAoGR4q_bQW9twdTWqBmpUTPJworzE5tg5Z22EsVPirMniJz5_7bJUvHo4wjXB7YUe-Ppw/s640/Mary+of+the+Aether+Series+Complete+MED.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<br />Jeffrey Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01084230741410525661noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2218862296685637151.post-4583983927357042572018-02-02T22:29:00.002-08:002018-02-02T22:29:52.083-08:00A Sequel to Shadows of TocklandYes, I am slowly creating the sequel to <a href="http://www.jeffreyaaronmiller.com/jeffrey-aaron-miller-novels/shadows-of-tockland/">Shadows of Tockland</a>. I say <i>slowly </i>because I am super busy at my real job, but occasionally I find time to whittle away at the story. I've written roughly 127 pages of the first draft. I shouldn't give anything away at this point. Suffice it to say, the story finds our intrepid Klown Kroo getting up to some dangerous shenanigans, thanks in large part to the ridiculous behavior of two specific members of the troupe.<br />
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Is that vague enough? Perhaps the opening paragraph will wet your whistle. Here it is:<br />
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<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;">David Morr brushed aside the tiniest curtains in the world, gazed through a window covered in muddy handprints, and saw a naked, pink monster writhing on an orange wool rug. He watched as the nameless animal clawed at its own belly and chest, a glistening tongue poking out from between generous lips to lap at the air. David grunted in disgust and let the curtains fall back into place, but still he saw it in his mind’s eye, all that yardage of hairless skin, the great heaps and mounds of it, distorted into abstract shapes like melting mountains.</span><span style="text-indent: 0px;"> </span><br />
<span style="text-indent: 0px;"><br /></span> <span style="text-indent: 0px;">There you go. I'll keep plugging away at the novel. In the meantime, if you haven't read the first book, make it happen. If you <i>have </i>read the first book, read something else, like <a href="http://www.jeffreyaaronmiller.com/jeffrey-aaron-miller-novels/scavengers-of-tockland/">THIS</a> or <a href="http://www.jeffreyaaronmiller.com/jeffrey-aaron-miller-novels/the-ribbon-tree/">THIS</a> or <a href="http://www.jeffreyaaronmiller.com/jeffrey-aaron-miller-novels/garden-of-dust-and-thorns/">THIS</a>.</span><br />
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<span style="text-indent: 0px;">Thanks!</span><br />
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<span style="text-indent: 0px;">Jeff</span><br />
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<a href="http://www.jeffreyaaronmiller.com/jeffrey-aaron-miller-novels/shadows-of-tockland/"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6UFTHDmH8o2YEPwwpuO4bNfCKVeet2sOU4Dg8j_NpkPkXAJKRToeXUPnzEhaus90_QgeIoxbVH3_COqiEuaDeW9W0c5keJCH6Ct4kuG-Wdj14taWC4ZhySrg3mgYcB-6uRhwb42mIRA/s320/BK00012915SKWAR.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Jeffrey Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01084230741410525661noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2218862296685637151.post-57196105085391385102017-06-24T23:25:00.000-07:002017-06-24T23:25:03.199-07:00Having Too Much Fun with ClownsI've mentioned before that I <a href="http://jeffreyaaronmiller.blogspot.com/2015/12/the-joy-of-chapter-titles.html">enjoy creating chapter titles</a>. I see them as opportunities to pique the interest of readers. My latest project is going to have some of the weirdest and most interesting chapter titles I've ever written. What is that new project?<br />
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A sequel to <i>Shadows of Tockland</i>, of course.<br />
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Now, if you've never read <i>Shadows of Tockland</i>, I highly recommend you give it a chance. It's hard to think of another book or movie that bears similarity to it. Let's summarize: in a post-apocalyptic version of Arkansas, a young man runs away from home to join a traveling clown troupe. Along the way, they encounter a city full of plague-ridden maniacs and a rampaging army from an empire called Tockland. It's brutal and strange, and the response has been mostly very positive.<br />
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Anyway, I've finally gotten around to writing the sequel, which is tentatively titled <i>The Dust-Lords of Tockland</i>. It takes place on the northern border of Nebraska and the future nation of Lakota. Lots of strange and terrible things happen, building to some interesting revelations. Is that vague enough? Well, let's just say Cakey the Jacked-Up Clown and Disturby Dave get up to some dangerous shenanigans while touring a new town.<br />
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On to the chapter titles. I've written the first four chapters, and here are the titles:<br />
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Chapter One: The One and Only
Tiny Barrel-Shaped Lady</div>
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Chapter Two: Motel Memories</div>
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Chapter Three: Let’s Please Ruin Our Careers</div>
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Chapter Four: Everybody Loves a Clown with a Knife</div>
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See what I mean? I'm enjoying writing the novel very much, but I'm really looking forward to creating the chapter titles. This story is going in some weird, weird places, friends.</div>
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In the meantime, read the original right now, if you haven't already!</div>
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Jeffrey Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01084230741410525661noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2218862296685637151.post-63991104043609927162017-05-31T22:31:00.000-07:002017-05-31T22:38:11.765-07:00Terrorizing Real Places with Clowns and MayhemI have a tendency to take real-life locations, particularly places I've lived in or visited, and insert them into my works of fiction. I usually take substantial liberties with these locations, playing with the geography and timeline. I enjoy this perhaps more than I should. Let's take a look at a few real-life locations that I've inserted into my novels and discover the terrible things I've done to them.<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B00O4QXK9Y">Shadows of Tockland</a></b></span></div>
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This novel contains three real cities (all of them located in Northwest Arkansas) but moves them into a post-apocalyptic world and fills them with danger, violence, clowns, and plague. Isn't that nice?<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Mountainburg</b></span></div>
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This small town has inspired locations in two of my novels: <i>Shadows of Tockland</i> and <i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01E9DDKWS">Mary of the Aether</a></i>. In <i>Shadows</i>, it becomes a steam-powered, gas-lighted town on the edge of civilization. When the novel opens, a small traveling circus has come to town, and that's where our protagonist first meets our clown heroes.<br />
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In reality, it's a small, quiet town with a strange dinosaur park. It's also home to the Dairy Dream, which inspired the Dinky Dairy in <i>Mary of the Aether</i>.<br />
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<a href="https://www.facebook.com/places/Things-to-do-in-Mountainburg-Arkansas/108403129184632/"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="400" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxmnvHFSWyxFtupA1QMz1Vw93601vyL4cxj0VoVVphReBBCPUcLE2ovemehvlj1jhfp9_PdBNGUnRTlCJN1vVVy_eNEPS1nO6rf7-AKyfqFoNj1PgZG-YTBwL_i7XmoqtEDEMtPFheWw/s320/100_6453.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://www.facebook.com/places/Things-to-do-in-Mountainburg-Arkansas/108403129184632/"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="400" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSN0GGSqtlwvSxSiG0qOwELp9dnFBAk_mRlEyUS9Nr90BwGLt2sSBrHRpYZTvAZMOT7MKsZ0LaReJvhgVCNCFyW0LsrP4Dtc5fbpjlKAp5FTDkrXOQflXOcqcb22tisqL77N1F0ndO-g/s320/100_6458.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://www.facebook.com/Dairy-Dream-107858065905323/"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB9GWEHh6vZ74jVbOFs4B3xAXYOoU0J7tbRR1zXbsr7bTae9xumth9Hlmz5didB8ahJKbTkjLP1GJk3wyy8-QzbNgAo0ebrjls_S6kZ8nRS4Tbk6_MBxdkRhfUsOCGL8HyPP_VcG5bBQ/s320/img_4834rr.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">West Fork</span></b></div>
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In <i>Shadows of Tockland</i>, West Fork is a city of strange hat-wearing, plague-ridden hillbillies. In real life, it a town of about 2,000 people that is chiefly known for Riverside Park, where you can dive off bluffs and splash around in the White River.<br />
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<a href="http://westforkar.com/"><img border="0" data-original-height="292" data-original-width="414" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXNPZEdBwvpo-MldDgWAPjV3mzUY0Ps2B36r0JTJOD77kcv4oov19vNEiataBIwMuh7jY80rqnrfqP4qOvZxjPi3nj-4nKXssA8xQ4zERMIou3m6SF29nXyxXChMBK-JwYmgt_fnzCgA/s320/slideshow.gif" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="http://westforkar.com/"><img border="0" data-original-height="333" data-original-width="500" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjkl8PORgxMrmYsODKSF3e3TZcgS0udd_8ok0Y9SOeapoistE290kcJRzrr4okxjaRK8BwcdwVU9QJ8sAEayMig0gxPNG_NEsJ5UyLzKIkf643pOKlcTCqPBKG8GjXzYXuM8HbM3_fQw/s320/riverside-bluff.png" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Fayetteville</b></span></div>
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In <i>Shadows of Tockland</i>, Fayetteville has been transformed by plague and war into a walled fortress city trying desperately to keep the sickness of the world at bay. The name has been reduced to Fayette, and the people have become hostile to everyone. In real life, Fayetteville is almost certainly the greatest city in Arkansas and is the <a href="https://www.fayettevilleflyer.com/2017/02/07/fayetteville-remains-in-top-5-list-of-best-places-to-live-in-u-s-in-2017/">fifth-best place to live in the U.S.</a> Much of the action in the novel takes place in and around Dickson Street, so when the plague hits, watch out for <a href="http://www.dicksonst.com/">Dickson Street</a>, people. It's doomed!<br />
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<a href="https://www.fayettevilleflyer.com/2017/02/07/fayetteville-remains-in-top-5-list-of-best-places-to-live-in-u-s-in-2017/"><img border="0" data-original-height="683" data-original-width="1024" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_E2UQYGjt87UsEPRJix531jQD0SeB0RVUhqRYPEi1oX3hIZCitz_Ne43c8ky1ivYml6DbgdG9vRfVw0Wt9riqtwEkjnmrb56nFW_lTh1CVwV4Ks9DVJ7_LFOW5XfRq2hPjvIF0itPaw/s400/courthouse+%25281%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://www.fayettevilleflyer.com/2017/02/07/fayetteville-remains-in-top-5-list-of-best-places-to-live-in-u-s-in-2017/"><img border="0" data-original-height="151" data-original-width="586" height="102" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMnmWIxQ5olZy6hpMRUTv15nmt4xnMIoBPibQmrO0YPfP5aOLKE_MdfeuyDzAqiSF3sryMrF4F0n4fvHKvA9sIKhdQ8O80fInfc3OhtFeSq5UXvZsyS6iLwzQVS1y9sx1e2AV8-w8syA/s400/DicksonMainBanner.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0716VT5KQ">The Ribbon Tree</a></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Bartlesville, Oklahoma</b></span></div>
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This small Oklahoma town is where I grew up and went to high school. I have strong memories of this place in the years 1987-1991. It has changed a bit since then, with new roads being built and some old businesses disappearing from the face of the earth. The version of it in the novel has had its geography messed with. Tuxedo Trailer Park, the setting of the story, is a fiction. It doesn't really exist, though it is based on a much smaller trailer park where a friend of mine lived. I've also placed a strange alien power in its midst and set it loose to ruin lives, so that's fun.<br />
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<a href="http://www.bartlesville.com/"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMgH42iFUBku61GiehAbf5qLOmwZB3nEzTM4cvrpvtoQfy3b3GG2htZJc2AkMBMdzNFfQWkIKdrfk8dgB9SMA3-oL4t7wcYuu9Ryg-D58ChhLnkzH7C695y0TaeG4NEWp9hZ6x1rblMA/s640/poster.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B00Z85FBQA">The Vale of Ghosts</a></b></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">Siliven</span></b></div>
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Since this is a fantasy novel set in a completely different world, you might be surprised to discover that one of the primary locations in the story is based on a real place that I once visited. Siliven is a smallish town designed and built in a grid, where the north-to-south streets are numbered neatly from One to Ten. In the very center of the town, there's a large open plaza that serves as a meeting place. It's where a lot of significant events occur in the book series, and the dominant building there is the local church.<br />
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Believe it or not, Siliven is based on the city of La Plata, Argentina. Although La Plata is vastly larger than Siliven, it's layout is the same general idea. As you can see in the photo below, the streets of La Plata were designed and built in a grid. At the heart of the city, there's a large plaza which is dominated by the Cathedral of La Plata. If you took La Plata and shrunk it down significantly and moved it into a vague fantasy setting, you'd get Siliven.<br />
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<a href="http://wander-argentina.com/la-plata-buenos-aires%E2%80%99-second-city/"><img border="0" data-original-height="586" data-original-width="386" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2R4tp6x78hSnGOLGUDpYefFpF9rAQANPUCBApZ7uG08fvzhRhJ55-MHj4yStxnM0rUIIhRC10he7IXo5KU19w8G0M1zP8jmfhNfxqNmvx3q1NWCR0TvByvxq_-wGgZA_ePPJArkL31Q/s400/Buenos_Aires_-_La_Plata1.jpg" width="262" /></a></div>
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<a href="http://wander-argentina.com/la-plata-buenos-aires%E2%80%99-second-city/"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFoV7Qw4Uo_Zsv1lf7DOQfuhH3ybHQi4Mhh9hEaOAtrZB6oiNyDn_QjWalUK0TlvRS_CWaV8d8okvdySDHBOmOY95jZKn_1s6xnirbPJFXUt5InlZZzWkDKXq-ODf7AHLFJMtBSBxHWw/s400/La-Plata-Buenos-Aires-Province-Argentina-1024x1024.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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West Fork is the scene is a brutal struggle with plague-ridden hillbillies. Fayetteville (Fayette) is the sight of a fierce gun battle involving a clown troupe, an army, another army, and a mob of maniacs. Bartlesville is invaded by weird ribbon-like creatures that stir up all kinds of evil, grief, and hatred. Siliven (La Plata) is haunted by ghosts and eventually terrorized by a weird cave-dwelling monster.<br />
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See how fun it is?<br />
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<a href="http://www.jeffreyaaronmiller.com/"><img border="0" data-original-height="452" data-original-width="1000" height="288" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKc-nKzpI1Ljyjj_q9HuPHt-MynHZg6h2u1JpZKbYQnhF2E6v9_uG3NGxeZB45Ge48QniIXVBttzfB7jga1Tn_Xs4XgrNzeffo-Hs1QxWLxAcLVO_l6x5ETDbRlrOmZ1IPilRmGJAPlQ/s640/CosmosSignature.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<br />Jeffrey Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01084230741410525661noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2218862296685637151.post-73728341503105196832017-05-15T17:23:00.000-07:002018-01-04T22:11:52.387-08:00The Nineties Are Calling YouThe summer of 1991 in Bartlesville, Oklahoma was a hot and humid one. Nothing unusual about that. Oklahoma gets its share of hot, humid summers, but this particular year was different.<br />
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It all started when a young man by the name of Navin Noe hopped over the fence at the back of Tuxedo Trailer Park and made his way into the overgrown wooded area beyond. He only intended to retrieve his prized baseball, the one he caught during a local high school baseball game.<br />
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Unfortunately, the woods were overrun with stray dogs and worse. Something was hidden deep in the hollow of a tree, something waiting to be roused. Once awakened, it's power threatened the whole city.<br />
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Who are the young people responsible for stirring up all of this trouble? Let's meet them.<br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">Navin Noe</span></b><br />
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Navin lives in Tuxedo Trailer Park, in the third trailer from the end, in fact. His mother works the graveyard shift for a janitorial service at the local hospital, so Navin's aunt spends nights with him. During the day, Navin's mother spends most of her time sleeping on the couch in the living room, so he's left to roam with little supervision. Unfortunately, there's not much to do in his immediate vicinity.<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Hao</b></span><br />
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Navin's best friend, Hao, actually lives across the street in a real house. His father owns a small restaurant on the east side of town, though it doesn't have the best reputation. Hao has a game room with multiple video game systems, including an old Atari 2600, an NES, a Sega Master System, and a brand-new Super Nintendo. In the eyes of most trailer park residents, Hao's family is rich.<br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">Jane</span></b><br />
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The newest resident of Tuxedo Trailer Park, Jane arrives with a strong sense of disgruntlement. She had no desire to move into a trailer park and tried to convince her dad to rent an apartment instead. He didn't listen, and she's not at all pleased. Her old hometown, Plano, was far more exciting, and she's not afraid to make comparisons.<br />
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Now, meet our fine city. Bartlesville, the City of Lights! Actually, that's Paris, but for those unfamiliar with Bartlesville, here's a glimpse of downtown:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4-O_0YW4A-S6QWSu-lWcriripDugKqv-UD9mS5oMBgu7XLK-_fyjU92q6fPYvOzcIDhzHv5GvtGZx4YAG8Q4D4vnEzDzvBZFYtenkB6KGeBOC-AJre-ZvkHP2u2UvNuR9hABaqEN3mg/s1600/1200px-Downtown_Bartlesville%252C_OK.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4-O_0YW4A-S6QWSu-lWcriripDugKqv-UD9mS5oMBgu7XLK-_fyjU92q6fPYvOzcIDhzHv5GvtGZx4YAG8Q4D4vnEzDzvBZFYtenkB6KGeBOC-AJre-ZvkHP2u2UvNuR9hABaqEN3mg/s400/1200px-Downtown_Bartlesville%252C_OK.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Cool places the kids like to hang out? Well, there's the Eastland Four. That's the "nice" movie theater in town.<br />
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There's also the Penn Twin. It's got an interesting retro vibe. Navin doesn't like it when the movies play off-center and out of focus, though.<br />
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There's Washington Park Mall, of course. The old folks prefer Luby's. Navin and Hao make the occasional trip to Aladdin's Castle to play video games. Hao is pretty good at <i>Smash TV</i>. There's also Time Warp Comics, but Navin doesn't really have extra money to spend on comics. He borrows <i>X-Force </i>or <i>Wolverine</i> from Hao sometimes.<br />
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So, as you can see, Bartlesville is one of the most exciting towns that 1991 has to offer. Unfortunately, it's all about to come crashing down.<br />
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Enjoy the catastrophic adventure!<br />
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The Ribbon Tree is available in <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/1521290814">paperback </a>and on <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0716VT5KQ">Kindle</a>. Click the book cover and check it out.<br />
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<a href="http://www.jeffreyaaronmiller.com/jeffrey-aaron-miller-novels/the-ribbon-tree/"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMtY4sDsSeunHYTnC1J6wDJBfodBnH-2zJCPGJS8bzZfjjylZTqZYxNxFirCVffsX09q6f4hEn0h7hfP1D3cfqJLSMHiqXo6gPRPGLQrT5CVByF09Sb6rHWoRO4urbS2s7zKqkh2pA9w/s640/The+Ribbon+Tree+Cover+D.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<br />Jeffrey Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01084230741410525661noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2218862296685637151.post-53563790422500546002017-04-23T21:43:00.001-07:002017-04-23T21:46:32.116-07:00Everyone Loves a Nice Mechanism<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B00Y01PF9Q"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXernW2Jo73sNeeTxzHz8mTg21g7AG4AALPg2gEAwZrpdRZOsPX1vnqgy6JlhSEtscVhnRZm8eMA-WSNAYlP39VlMX5mk3bZUTNP-zyK7R5MAQj4olCBtcPlmlFV63-szYJ_3nEV7zsw/s400/Children+of+the+Mechanism+Bright+Cover+MED.jpg" width="250" /></a></div>
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Of all my novels, this particular bleak little tale has been selling most consistently the last couple of weeks. I'm not sure why, but I figured I'd talk about it a little bit.<br />
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It's one of the bleakest things I've written, set in one of the more evocative settings--a sprawling, windowless factory filled with massive oily machines. Picture it. Smell the grease and the warm metal and the mysterious grimy filth. Within the factory, there are hundreds, possibly thousands, of rooms, most of them sealed behind locked doors. And within these rooms, you'll find the saddest child slaves you've ever imagined, rag-draped Dickensian wretches doing endless menial tasks day after day. </div>
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Cruel robots called Watchers guard them, punish them when they fail to work, and feed them hideous gray food bricks once a day. Doesn't that sound uplifting? I actually think it is one of the more uplifting things I've written.</div>
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The book introduces us to four main characters.</div>
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<b>Bik</b>, a mostly hairless, tiny thing in the filthiest scrap of a robe you've ever seen. He spends his days polishing mysterious purple rocks using a harsh chemical polish.</div>
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<b>Hen</b>, an emotionally disconnected girl who does her best to avoid personal interaction, she spends her days climbing up and down a towering contraption called the Mechanism, like a little bug.</div>
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<b>Ekir</b>, a bent-backed boy, much abused by an older supervisor named Ous, he spends his days preparing and serving meals on a nice table in a lush dining room and then cleaning up afterward when nobody eats the food. Nobody ever eats the food.</div>
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<b>Kuo</b>, a damaged and possibly disturbed young man who spends his days climbing up and own the enormous fat folds of a headless monster called the Grong, feeding it meat paste from a bucket. He might be losing his mind.</div>
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These four eventually cross paths and descend into the bowels of the factory, uncovering secrets and horrors beyond description.</div>
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If you've never read the book, let me encourage you to do so. </div>
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For a deeper look at the meaning behind the story, <a href="http://www.scifiideas.com/writing-2/interviews/dealing-harsh-realities-genre-fiction/">check out this luscious article!</a></div>
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To check out the book, click on the book cover above.</div>
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<a href="http://www.jeffreyaaronmiller.com/jeffrey-aaron-miller-novels/children-of-the-mechanism/"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjezmdrLPEclDoOC7ZzHQMd275UkiVCyTYnN1DGFaYZiUfg_4XDduL1Cs0t83pNqZFJ07VXKCBnWbm79aMjzN9VstFRJmzZ5uMZj8jYvdlZ9kxzlHAJ6D6xIiFIZQh3Lc34UGp7g6Zwjw/s640/CosmosSignature.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Jeffrey Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01084230741410525661noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2218862296685637151.post-51797596366679075842017-04-09T22:17:00.001-07:002017-04-09T22:19:14.290-07:00Embrace the SadnessI am of the opinion that the best and most effective stories need a few truly sad moments. I don't mean the dainty kind of sadness with a sigh and a single tear. What I'm talking about is a soul-crushing moment of hopeless despair, where we peer into the void. Work a few of those into your story, and people won't soon forget the experience of reading it.<br />
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For example, there's the testimony of the ghost from <a href="http://www.jeffreyaaronmiller.com/jeffrey-aaron-miller-novels/the-archaust-saga/"><i>The Vale of Ghosts</i></a>:<br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>“It happens to all of us. As time passes, everything we ever knew or saw or heard, every person we ever touched or loved, they all drop away, leaving us with nothing but the vague and choking need to escape.”</b></span><br />
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That's not nearly the saddest moment in the book. Of course, what affects the writer deepest might not affect readers in the same way. For me personally, as I wrote the thing, the saddest moment comes in the basement of a cathedral in Tilieth. Not to give too much away, but it involves our protagonist making an emotional confession.<br />
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The bleakest thing I ever wrote is <a href="http://www.jeffreyaaronmiller.com/jeffrey-aaron-miller-novels/children-of-the-mechanism/"><i>Children of the Mechanism</i></a>. It's got a few of those horrible, hopeless moments, along with some truly wretched, miserable little characters who suffer far more than they deserve to.<br />
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The sad moments start early on. I'd be curious to know which bleak moment of despair hits readers the hardest. For me as the writer, it involved the character of Hen and her tragic interactions with a girl named Tag. And this thought:<br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b><i><span id="goog_329467348"></span>I told you to wait</i>, one thought resounding over and over. <i>I told you to wait</i>.</b><span id="goog_329467349"></span></span><br />
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Actually, there's possibly a sadder moment, and it involves a character saying this:<br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>“You were so brave and so strong. I have to do something now, Bik, and don’t you follow me.”</b></span><br />
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So what is your opinion on sad scenes? Do you enjoy a story with some truly heart-rending bleak moments? What are some scenes from various novels that have deeply affected you?<br />
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<a href="http://www.jeffreyaaronmiller.com/"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1qlEEdG6hVVxW6EOCwtV91qWaw1YENT13jFFjVj509lMYtNeAGxIP_dOpC_SRfaOOOfPZ1ITXHMgofBxId2-xk8jH68j3kNEWCDc2CH6ly05gMOda8VdRT92QhOi_7OD9cqgb4z9sSQ/s320/BikSquare.jpg" width="302" /></a></div>
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By the way, the paperback giveaway is still going on! Check out the <a href="http://jeffreyaaronmiller.blogspot.com/2017/04/one-million-beautiful-quotes-and.html">previous blog entry </a>for details.<br />
<br />Jeffrey Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01084230741410525661noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2218862296685637151.post-31100419986028975842017-04-02T20:51:00.001-07:002017-04-02T21:05:47.987-07:00One Million Beautiful Quotes (and Giveaway)<div style="text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I love reading individual, isolated quotes from novels, especially when it's a good, strange, or thought-provoking quote that piques my interest. I like to try to imagine how it fits into the overall story. I guess that's why I keep doing these quote posts from my novels. Maybe nobody finds it as interesting at me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Anyway, I've done enough of these that I thought it might be interesting to collate them all into one mega-post. Also, click on the pictures for more info about the books.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>GIVEAWAY</b>: I've got a few paperback copies of my books to give away. Respond with your favorite quote from this list, and I'll put you in the drawing. You can respond on the blog, on Facebook, LinkedIn or Twitter. If you'd prefer a Kindle copy instead of paperback, let me know. Books will be given away in a couple of weeks (4/15/17).</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: x-large;"><b>Mary of the Aether Series<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="text-align: left;">"I don’t want a boring old world where all anyone ever does is grow up and work some awful job for no money and spend Friday evenings watching high school football games and recalling the so-called glory days until they die."</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">"Nobody really believes in anything. My parents don’t believe in anything. They just breathe and eat and work."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">"I don’t want sympathy. Sympathy only makes me mad."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">"Maybe if I practice a lot, if I order my thoughts, I can learn to imagine better things. Maybe in time I could imagine anything. What if nothing is impossible?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">"The world just got a whole lot more dangerous tonight. Maybe it always was dangerous, but I didn’t know it."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">"I know who I want to be. I want to help and heal, and I won’t let you or anyone else try to change me. I saw what I can become, I saw it, right there by the side of the road."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">"I don’t care if anyone likes me, as long as I’m not embarrassed ever again by my own feelings or my own behavior."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">“I never want an explanation for any of this. Never. I don’t know what you did. I don’t care what you did. The whole world has gone crazy, and I don’t want to know anything."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">"I’ve been selfish. I see that now. I wanted a happy little life, but I was entrusted with this power by people who loved me. I’ve wasted so much time whining when I should have been learning."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">"The world will burn out like a torch, but the light will shine brightly, and I will rise like the brightest ember into the stars at the end."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">"The world is sliding into oblivion, devoured by shadow, and you are its last light."</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: xx-small;"><a href="http://www.jeffreyaaronmiller.com/jeffrey-aaron-miller-novels/mary-of-the-aether-series/"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOesP3bSQGALMU8-uIQBu2yphS1bBV_na8TWtZFnr5c4WjtMJMT635i-oi9rObtxVu9zPfWKb02HBlq0YsWQp58mtrlm_bnyGDpZUsD87NJ3Ac5JTKKWX_26yUWicwOQ31BOVBDMFUXw/s640/Mary+of+the+Aether+Series+Backdrop.jpg" width="640" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: x-large;"><b>Shadows of Tockland<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">"Destiny, I want to lick your face for all your perfect ways.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">"Mark my words, the ever-night is coming, and when it does, you'll be glad you've got some wild nutters at your side."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">"Destiny has a funny way of making things irrelevant. Superior numbers, for example.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">"Far away, far away, blessed one. The ever-night is coming. It is coming forever."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">"Tonight is a night you’ll wish you had a gun.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">"Sometimes, rubes don’t think they got their money’s worth, and they try to take it out of us in blood."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">"Look, we’re committed to destiny now. From this point on, whatever happens, happens. That’s how destiny works."</span><br />
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<a href="http://www.jeffreyaaronmiller.com/jeffrey-aaron-miller-novels/shadows-of-tockland/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyIltmR9NGydwJUpd2O9N3O0FDo-LQcLY459vuU8qmcivDx0_hJmvU6Y0ZCSx2x5byTKbv4DATJbjL7rlIOIMHHpNXyLFHaCB7SnlqzzoBzXSD5EdyC5WUG0Tfu8jqbXF28vZqL6_xgA/s400/BK00012915.jpg" width="266" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: x-large;"><b>Children of the Mechanism<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">"Open doors are the best thing in the whole world. An open door means you can leave something bad and maybe find something good."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">"If you hold on, we will live. If you let go, we will go down, down, down. Do you understand how important it is for you to hold on?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">"I was born climbing the Mechanism. Nobody ever told me why.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">"Where I come from, the higher you go on the Mechanism, the more dangerous it gets. The circles get smaller, and the fall is farther. The world is like that, isn’t it? The higher we go, the stranger, the smaller, the uglier, the more dangerous."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">"I walked forever down a hundred different places and saw all kinds of different lights and Watchers with hands, and then I came to the end."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">"The world got worse and worse the more she understood about it."</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="http://www.jeffreyaaronmiller.com/jeffrey-aaron-miller-novels/children-of-the-mechanism/"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5tT2mtGoLQtm56VjyN-1aOghhGEzweP6xPoJoTPzXGsAgFiK6ZHti96-AxCw1DX5B6doAyicUGRZzFSXTo0zBNx3mqlMGxfQL-vtWcfQ9FstqLEG63s28-QGjjIxjJPZimNsONY7clQ/s400/Mechanism+New+Cover.jpg" width="250" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: x-large;"><b>Garden of Dust and Thorns<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">"The very thing that you took for granted will be your salvation. Never forget it."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">"You’ve lived in the shadow of this Garden all your life. And you had no idea what was here. None of you did, not even the caretakers. This will be to our everlasting shame. While we lived outside the wall in the dirt, we had everything we could ever need in here.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">"Persistence is not a virtue. It is a defect."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">“Stand on your island, in the shadow of your sacred tree, and watch me defile this ground. And weep, if you will, knowing that your thief-lord’s reign is at an end.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">"It’s a very strange thing to be deceived. A very strange thing."</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="http://www.jeffreyaaronmiller.com/jeffrey-aaron-miller-novels/garden-of-dust-and-thorns/"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjevxkedeAaH5UksbwE4ZxnAdDWt6_4ogOvxx_qp3JQ_srSJuo-phfZPAQFR1oC6e1uMnC3Fv0V2JpJIUL-IpCDlHYoFuY1XPr4Pl8iKBEIZPDkjQQ3wfSulusSe_C3F3Hg5WOQWAl_aA/s400/Dust+and+Thorns+Paperback+Cover.jpg" width="250" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: x-large;"><b>The Archaust Saga (The Vale of Ghosts)<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">"Why is it every decision I make seems right one second before I make it and then completely wrong and ridiculous one second after I’ve made it?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">"You crossed the relic wall. The ghosts can see you now, and they will—they will drag you down into the vale, sooner or later. They do not give up."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">"As time passes, everything we ever knew or saw or heard, every person we ever touched or loved, they all drop away, leaving us with nothing but the vague and choking need to escape."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">"Are we smarter than the generations that came before us? How can we expect to fix a problem that they could not?"<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">"Our worst mistakes can become the catalyst for our greatest accomplishments, if we are willing to make it so."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; text-align: left;">“There’s not a worse person in the world than someone who will abandon a friend or family member in their last days.”</span><br />
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: xx-small;"><a href="http://www.jeffreyaaronmiller.com/jeffrey-aaron-miller-novels/the-archaust-saga/"><img border="0" height="339" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbZYCwyiu9dexniZ_mQwpRQTGDJzESw7r9dZIuElnDORf1BM8lNGQB9Ana81mwniK7Lti3Yjx04YcPebnu2c-W39rsqy868qDm8CHZCdtraEmruKUmrZiIMFcTOkCA-F-yNIMMHWcSCw/s640/ArchaustSagabanner3.jpg" width="640" /></a></span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: x-large;"><b>Dreams in the Void<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">"Your comfortable life is paid for with the taxes of hard working villagers, so that one day, you might provide just leadership for them.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">"Until a few weeks ago, I thought the world was normal. Then it all came crashing down, and I learned everyone is sick—depraved and sick."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">"It’s a miserable thing to be helpful—to be needed, to be essential—and someone can’t see it."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">"There is a heaviness in me now, like something coiled around my intestines. I hope to make it go away. I don’t want to feel like this anymore. I don’t want to be the person I have become."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">"Sit and ponder, boy. Dream of killing kings."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">"And so it comes down to a simple question, young Dekembri. Are we the righteous, or are we the wicked?"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">“A storm is coming to sweep away everything. Find a secret place, bury yourselves inside and wait it out. Wait it out.”</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: xx-small;"><a href="http://www.jeffreyaaronmiller.com/jeffrey-aaron-miller-novels/dreams-in-the-void/"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijPmNPtXadCi2H4QkwfQS0jlZZ_WtVPPhkVKmW8MO3VP8k3nMSfDbIuL3cPHtDuoIFTUtRSD8ViavoZDEL0bsmoGMs63A6PdxOljomF3lsUZ058p3Z0_MDQhkT0u0_m3Q9cvoJ9TRQmw/s400/Dreams+in+the+Void+Cover.jpg" width="248" /></a></span> <span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: x-large;"><b>Fading Man</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">"You cannot bury sickness under the ground and expect it to stay there. It will make itself known eventually. It will climb up out of its hole and demand to be seen."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">"Nature or fate or destiny has selected us for suffering, and we are to endure it, accept it, take and gorge ourselves on misery like the dutiful sub-creatures that we are."</span></div>
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<a href="http://www.jeffreyaaronmiller.com/jeffrey-aaron-miller-novels/fading-man/" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFoi3_Thg062dpx2SYTHUEWjA5QlapQRea286r_uy-Hqq4tCiLsmlOiGjXYzPyG-Io_7MXy-d0cTA7flVNsyyODm65UtRC_ERNQU6PEc0ksw7o5DbZXxmDQ2grzESCjGVVTHqU6F-WxA/s400/Fading+Man+Finished+Front+Cover.jpg" width="262" /></a></div>
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Jeffrey Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01084230741410525661noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2218862296685637151.post-2145100804235098002017-02-28T01:00:00.001-08:002017-02-28T01:07:44.309-08:00But What Are The People Reading?Let me preface this by saying, I am by no means even a modestly successful author. However, having said that, the truth is I've churned out a ludicrous number of novels in the last four years. Just take a look at my <a href="http://www.jeffreyaaronmiller.com/"><b>website </b></a>to get an idea. As far as sales go, I'm not real good at promotion and marketing, so I could certainly be doing better.<br />
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Having said all that, a few of my novels have consistent sales. That is to say, they sell a few copies every week. My other novels have sort of faded into the wastes of time, even my first <a href="http://www.jeffreyaaronmiller.com/jeffrey-aaron-miller-novels/mary-of-the-aether-series/">YA </a>series, which did fairly well regionally back in the day.<br />
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So what are the novels that keep selling? Here they are, in no particular order. These are the novels that I continue to sell on a regular basis:<br />
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">Shadows of Tockland</span></b></div>
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<a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B00O4QXK9Y"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7v9WachXxvfs-_ujLFjLUce0x90b_eXN-kMBMveEogjUd-IPK0X6z6tRN5c0i9P3uWPOMSnoRcAaB5n0zB8VKcS6QGIayslTJAH1XefNhhUjN5TJFFNJu4_v_IxXzQqvBkb4W1oMZ1Q/s320/BK00012915.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
A novel about a kid running away from home to join a clown troupe in a post-apocalyptic version of Northwest Arkansas that is overrun by plague-ridden lunatics and being conquered by a tyrannical overlord. What more could you possibly want in a novel?<br />
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">Children of the Mechanism</span></b></div>
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<a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B00Y01PF9Q"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9ktX8Yg_EtCHawDqyHI-u_I65PidTBLUOygMvYkfcvyIZVopdv7F8hsOBwh2ogxvt_AEqYGr3THz32thlHxyY4EcjE7n0IextnlZf4gXjtLvTX20fGNJE8qSQCNbClCqYJSCUEiZneA/s320/Children+of+the+Mechanism+Bright+Cover.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
If you like your science fiction drenched in bleak despair and wretchedness, this is the one for you. Rag-draped child slaves live and work in a massive factory, tormented by cruel robots called Watchers. This one's a real "pick me up." Enjoy. Ultimately, I believe it's fairly uplifting.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>The Vale of Ghosts </b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>(and, to a lesser extent, its sequels)</b></span></div>
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<a href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B01LWIPHVH"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge4XkSKoDqIemXRP_1fL5eYToPsZktWmxyqtqvNctShEayzxqV1ORc6LOEU0Mh6G96Z_kFpq2kCxdmLScNf3heOAQarkc7k__86LrQJ2aoFe_kuJ5dacGAaOtLXyILfGcsdDoTPsRYFA/s320/Vale+of+Ghosts+Corrected+Cover.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
The first volume of a paranormal fantasy series that is alternately creepy, gross, and strange. I suppose that's a vague description. Let's just say, it involves ghosts, weird underground creatures, hideous surgeries, and powerful magic.<br />
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Every once in a while, I sell a copy of something else (say, <b><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B011W96XIU">Dreams in the Void</a></b>), but that's about it. So, if you're looking to read something I've written, I suppose one of the three listed above would be the place to start. At least until <b>The Figment Tree</b> comes out and takes over the world. See how I inject optimism into the conversation at the very end?Jeffrey Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01084230741410525661noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2218862296685637151.post-86471528448057781622017-02-23T00:13:00.000-08:002017-02-23T00:13:35.518-08:00The Figment Tree and Other DevelopmentsRecently, I finished the first draft of another novel. It's an attempt to return to the Young Adult genre. At the moment, the working title is <i>The Figment Tree</i>, but it's subject to change. I've mentioned it before because I actually started this novel a long time ago. In fact, I had to dig through my old blog posts to figure it out.<div>
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Turns out, my earliest reference to it is from a post on June 29, 2013, when I wrote the following:</div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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<i>"As a final bit of news, I have an idea for another YA urban fantasy series I want to write next. It will be set in a trailer park in Bartlesville, Oklahoma."</i></div>
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I also made the bold claim:</div>
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<i>"It will be the next thing I write."</i></div>
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Nothing could have been further from the truth. I managed a couple of chapters and gave it up for dead all those years ago. In fact, by October 9, 2013, I made the following confession:</div>
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<i>"Of all the projects I have going on, this is the one that is getting most neglected. Sorry, Figment Tree. Don't take it personally."</i></div>
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And indeed, it wallowed in darkness until sometime late last year, when new concepts for the story coalesced inside my brainpan. I've been working on it ever since, hampered significantly by a hectic work schedule that consumes every single day of the week.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
Anyway, <i>The Figment Tree</i> will soon see the light of day. As mentioned before, it is set in the town of Bartlesville, Oklahoma in the summer of 1991, the summer, by the way, after I graduated high school. The protagonist is a 13-year-old boy who lives in a trailer park just off Tuxedo Boulevard. It's an urban fantasy, so it involves some magic and mystical elements, but I do believe the concept behind the story is fairly unique. I won't spoil it at this time.</div>
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Setting the story in 1991 is somewhat of a challenge. How do I evoke that summer without being too obvious about it? How do I avoid anachronisms of speech? I do know that "Winds of Change" by Scorpions was playing entirely too often on 104.5, so I'm sure that detail will make it into the story during the revisions. </div>
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In the meantime, I've been uploading short stories to OMNI's new platform, so be sure to check them out. There's some truly weird stuff in there. You can find those <a href="https://omni.media/author/jeffrey-aaron">HERE</a>. </div>
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<a href="http://www.jeffreyaaronmiller.com/"><img border="0" height="202" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYtTzu4MRJR1mHev7xGjYvTzr5h9OsEwy7EG4fHFUdbDKM3ac1WZX6Ds74XbxD1cR8ugEBU2vWDYLriATbxBe_epemmA1sk2RRZua8FbxIpaKsveegyfzSuhDLw7h5QXB8MKFkQudfmA/s640/MainIcon.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Jeffrey Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01084230741410525661noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2218862296685637151.post-60946876520636647382017-02-16T23:24:00.000-08:002017-02-16T23:24:34.864-08:00The Uninterruptible Avalanche of Short StoriesSo I've been gradually uploading all of my old short stories from 2009-2010 onto OMNI's new writing platform. It gives me a chance to go back over the stories and make some minor changes. Anyway, they're all fairly weird. I encourage you to check them out. The ones that are currently available are:<br />
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<a href="https://omni.media/companion"><span style="font-size: large;">Companion</span></a> - One of my rare attempt at straight-up horror.<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://omni.media/heart-case">Heart Case</a> </span>- This fantasy story is clearly a comment about working a crappy job.<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://omni.media/planet-feast">Planet Feast</a> </span>- I have no idea what I was thinking when I wrote this one. A pulp sci-fi story.<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://omni.media/grandfather-s-house">Grandfather's House</a> </span>- This one has a sort of Twilight Zone vibe.<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://omni.media/profaning-the-leistra">Profaning the Leistra</a> </span>- This fantasy story is a strange meditation on the meaning of ritual.<br />
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<a href="https://omni.media/seeing-through-doors"><span style="font-size: large;">Seeing through Doors</span></a> - Another unusual science fiction story.<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://omni.media/robo-and-the-little-door">Robo and the Little Door</a> </span>- This one could also be a Twilight Zone episode. Who or what does Robo represent?<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://omni.media/eating-the-sickness">Eating the Sickness</a> </span>- A short story that inspired some of my later novels, specifically <a href="http://www.jeffreyaaronmiller.com/jeffrey-aaron-miller-novels/shadows-of-tockland/">Shadows of Tockland</a> and <a href="http://www.jeffreyaaronmiller.com/jeffrey-aaron-miller-novels/fading-man/">Fading Man</a>.<br />
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More to come. I've got a lot more of these buried in old hard drive folders.<br />
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<a href="http://www.jeffreyaaronmiller.com/"><img border="0" height="243" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwxdKfbl2tMYskaxV6Ek_54syVSnJVRqw3ORZrJ9fGRbcz3WL8oTeEwrtzX0ma54Ah6zhPDn9dIhZKuVsglf86IVkprtrlmCzHo2_DkpZP8RlhP1OHyqRrZ33O9RRd-SDtyrah9nJ5yw/s400/planet-fantasy-16.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />Jeffrey Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01084230741410525661noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2218862296685637151.post-2247416974748087192017-02-09T12:58:00.001-08:002017-02-09T12:58:38.475-08:00A New Platform for Long-Lost Short StoriesAs I've mentioned before, I went through a "crazy go nuts" short story writing phase back in 2009-2010, churning out 22 stories in six months. About half of them found publishers, but the rest have just been sitting around waiting for a purpose in life.<br />
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Well, recently, I got a message from <a href="https://twitter.com/OmniReboot">OMNI</a>. You know, the science magazine. They've created a new writing platform called Vocal, where writers can submit "fiction, short films, personal UFO encounters, advances in science and technology, conspiracy theories, artificial intelligence fears, all things DUNE, and anything else you think people in the OMNI community would be interested in."<br />
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It seems like a good platform for some of these old short stories of mine. I submitted the first one yesterday. It called "Eating the Sickness." It's a story that almost got published back in 2010. The editor of a post-apocalyptic science fiction anthology was interested in it, but he asked me to make some major changes. I made modest changes instead, and when he said they weren't enough, we parted ways. This particular short story served as one of the inspirations for two of my later novels: <i>Shadows of Tockland</i> and <i>Fading Man</i>. <a href="https://omni.media/eating-the-sickness">Check it out HERE</a>.<br />
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The second short story is called "Robo and the Little Door," and it's another one from that same period of time. It was one of the last short stories I wrote during that period of time before moving on to novels. I only tried submitting it to one place, and when it got rejected, I just tucked it away in a folder never to be seen by man nor beast. <a href="https://omni.media/robo-and-the-little-door">Check that one as well</a>.<br />
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There will be many more to come, so click the little robot below and keep checking in!<br />
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<br />Jeffrey Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01084230741410525661noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2218862296685637151.post-52384843861446683432017-02-08T11:18:00.000-08:002017-02-08T11:18:49.702-08:00The Reappearance of Long-Lost Short Stories: Seeing through Doors Here's another short story of mine that appeared in the now-defunct webzine called <i><a href="https://web.archive.org/web/20101227052013/http://absentwillowreview.com/archives/seeing-through-doors">Absent Willow Review</a></i>. Now, to be honest with you, I have no memory of writing this one, so I don't know why I wrote it or what it's all about. I do note a blatant thematic similarity with "Tinni and the Chain." It's weird stuff, friends. Enjoy!<br />
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<a href="https://web.archive.org/web/20101227052013/http://absentwillowreview.com/archives/seeing-through-doors"><img border="0" height="137" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUtMvhbIj2bBKAoL_h5DrTzWhdHuqaG1arHreau4NIdmV5m3DZnA4vMPohnW16ssjAmYYfdM5QP_YZqykgGE3nKEKG4As-WNNNYoBu_f4jzuNzlaPrizlqEMbSoYbNbsB_4pnosa257Q/s320/absent.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Seeing Through Doors<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">By<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Jeffrey Aaron Miller<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Sometimes when the door opened, it coincided with another door at the end of the hall opening. When that happened, if Desset pressed himself against the far wall, he could see outside. The glimpse never lasted more than a couple of seconds, but even the briefest image of yellow sunlight on white pavement and neatly trimmed green grass lingered in his mind for days. At night, when he was locked in place, he dreamed of wind in his hair and warmth on his face. He always woke from these dreams in tears, gnashing his teeth to keep from wailing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">That fateful morning, he was floating in the residue of a dream when the director stormed into the room, his suit jacket unbuttoned and his crimson tie flapping up over his shoulder like a devil tongue. Desset had tools in either hand, and he was bent low over the open panel of a hover chair, but his mind was elsewhere, sailing through clouds in a gold-tinged sky. The director slammed a plastic folder down on the table, and the clatter of data chips roused Desset. He looked up into the hard and haggard face of Director Thane.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“Complaints,” the director said, flashing his big crooked teeth. “Endless complaints.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Desset glanced down at the plastic folder, which had fallen open, gushing data chips onto the table like a disemboweled animal. He set his spanner down and picked up one of the chips.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“Oh, go ahead,” the director said. “Plug it in and see for yourself. Page after page.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">But Desset merely shook his head and set the data chip back on the table. It almost didn’t bother him. Almost. He knew he would think about it too much later, but his immediate reaction was only weariness. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“The quality of your work is plummeting,” Director Thane said, jabbing a fat finger in Desset’s face. “It is beginning to affect business. Customers are saying they won’t come back.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Desset retrieved the spanner and made as if to return to work, but he only stuck his hands inside the open panel and held them there.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“What happens if this company becomes financially unviable?” the director asked, leaning in so close that Desset smelled the coffee and bacon on his breath. “What happens to you? Is anyone going to spend to money to have you relocated?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“I shall work harder,” Desset said, but he said it too quietly and had to repeat himself to be heard.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Director Thane stared at him for a long uncomfortable moment. Desset didn’t return the look, but he could feel those big, bloodshot eyes boring into his skull.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“It might be too late,” the director said, at last. He picked up the folder and began scooping up the data chips, but then he seemed to change his mind and scattered the chips across the table. “You know what? I don’t even want to deal with them. If people come here to complain, I’m just going to send them to you. How does that sound?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Desset pretended to tighten a screw. “That sounds fair.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Director Thane nodded then gave a little snort and turned to leave. “A waste of money,” he said, with a broad sweep of his arm. “All of this. We should have sent you to prison.” And he stormed across of the room, the empty plastic folder clutched so tightly in his fist that it bent in half.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">The door swept open at Thane’s approach, and Desset consider flinging himself against the far wall to catch a glimpse of the outside, but he was too tired to attempt it. So very tired. It felt like all of the strength had drained out of his body into the network of tubes beneath him. All he wanted was to retract against the wall, turn off the power and sink back into his dreams of sunlight.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Prison. Yes, he had thought about it more times that he could count. If the director had come that morning, opened a portal into a dark cell and offered to detach him, he would have accepted. Better a cell than this endless decay. He had thought about it many times and felt ashamed. How thankful had he been when the offer had first been made to put him to work in the factory? With tears of relief and trembling hands he had embraced the director. Good food, real work, no threat of punishment, and the chance to do what he felt gifted to do: tinker with electronics.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">He hadn’t understood then that his freedom was only another prison. He had become a puppet on a stick instead of an animal in a cage, and which was worse? He took a deep breath, brushed the data chips to one side of the table and returned to work, but he felt as if a shadow hung over him. He had no other options if the factory went out of business. He was trapped. If some generous fool wanted to pay to have him detached from this place, shipped elsewhere and reattached, then maybe. But there were few generous fools left.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">He had trouble concentrating on his work, but, then, he always did after a browbeating. A little voice in his head wouldn’t stop whispering, “Your doom draws near.” But he did finish, closing up the panel and tossing the spare parts into a drawer on the wall beside him. He tested the hover chair, and it seemed to be working. The lights came on, the lift gave a little whine, and the whole thing rose about an inch from the tabletop. Surely that was good enough.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">He pressed the button that signaled he was done and swept across the room for a sip of water. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“Well, now, this is not what I expected.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Desset was bent over the water fountain when the voice spoke. High and soft. He hadn’t heard the door open over the tinkling of water. He turned back and saw a woman standing just inside the room, dark hair and fair skin, a wry and slightly disturbed look on her face.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“Can I help you?” Desset asked, rinsing his grease-stained hands in the water and drying them on a dangling, ragged towel.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“Actually, I was told to come and complain to you directly,” she said, stepping further into the room. Her eyes were fixed on his attachments, the metal shaft and cluster of tubes that began at his lower back and curved into the wall. “Are you…” She swallowed, as if struggling not to vomit. “Are you connected to that thing?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“I am,” Desset said with a sigh. This he did not need, to be gawked at like some kind of museum freak. “It’s standard practice for people like me.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">The woman crossed the room and leaned both hands against the edge of the table. “I guess I’ve read about it. I’ve just never seen it.” She shook her head and looked into his eyes, and the sickness melted into pity, which was worse.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“It’s better than being locked in a cell on a moon somewhere,” he replied. He was so tired, his words all ran together, but the woman seemed to understand him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“Is it?” she asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">No</span></i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">, Desset thought. <i>No, not at all</i>. But instead he nodded. “Here I can work. I’m never beaten. It’s well lit.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">The woman kept staring at him. She started to say something, but the words died on her lips. Finally, Desset turned away from her and began rooting through drawers, as if looking for something, hoping she would go away.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“What did you come to complain about?” he asked, finally, when he realized she was not leaving.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“My exercise platform,” she replied, sounding dazed. “It shorted out a few days after I brought it home.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“I apologize,” he replied, digging his hands into a drawer full of tiny screws and sifting them through his fingers like sand. “Bring it back in, and I’ll work on it for free. We’ll even refund what you’ve already paid.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“Okay, I will.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“Thank you,” he said, before she could continue speaking. “Now, I really must get back to work. Have a nice day and goodbye.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“Okay,” she said again and turned to leave. She took two steps, paused, and turned back to him. He could see her out of the corner of his eye, her fingers pressed to her cheeks. “Did they…Did they <i>remove</i> the rest of you?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“Yes, of course,” he said, waving her away. “You agree to take the job, and that’s the deal.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“For how long?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“Forever,” he said. “It stays like this forever.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“Would you leave if you could?” she asked, hesitantly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">He didn’t want to answer. It wasn’t a good idea to speak the truth to a customer, but when he tried to lie, the words stuck in his throat. “Yes,” he said, so quietly he didn’t know if she heard him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Thank you for being honest. My name is Neoma. What is your name?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“Desset. Now, please, leave.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“It was nice to meet you, Desset,” she said and walked out of the room. The door closed behind her with a soft <i>whoosh</i>. Desset slid the drawer shut and turned back to the table. And he wept, tears spilling down his cheeks like poison. He clasped his hands in front of his face, and they shook like the hands of a madman. In that moment, he would’ve given anything, done anything, suffered anything, to be able to walk out of the room. A prison cell on a moon, yes, he would’ve crawled into it, curled his fingers around the cold bars and cried out in exultation if it could’ve been.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">But no. This was the choice he had made, and he could never escape it. Never. He slammed his hands against his forehead until he saw stars, but the pain diminished the weeping, if only a little. Workers came in to pick up the repaired hover chair, and they glanced at him, frowning in disgust, but said nothing. As they left, one of them glanced over his shoulder and shook his head. By the time the lunch cart came through, he had mostly pulled himself together. He stared at his face in the mirror above the water fountain and saw red blotches around his eyes and on his cheeks.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“Time to eat,” the server said, pulling a segmented lunchbox out of the cart and setting it on his work table. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Desset wiped away the tracks of tears and glided back over to the work table. “Thank you,” he said, but the server was already wheeling the cart out of the room. He ate his lunch in silence, but the food had no taste. The sandwich might as well have been a stack of cardboard, the peas dust, but he choked it all down and sat staring at the empty lunchbox, feeling miserable. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">The door opened again, and Director Thane strode in, scowling darkly. “I hope you enjoyed the complaints. That’s what I get to put up with a hundred times a week, thanks to you.” The door closed behind him, and he came to stop. “And this is why.” He gave the hover chair a push, and it sailed off the table, bounced on the floor and scraped its way across the room. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">It came to a stop near the bend of Desset’s metal support rod. “I’ll take another look at it,” he said, pushing his empty lunchbox away from him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“Willful incompetence,” Director Thane shouted. “I just got done screaming at you for ruining the company, and you have the nerve to send this shoddy piece of work back out?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“It hovers,” Desset said. He felt the old weariness stealing over him, but a hard knot had developed in his gut. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“It scrapes the floor like a damned <i>plow</i>,” Thane said, shaking a fist at him. “That’s not fixed, you worthless half-man! That’s another complaint and refund waiting to happen.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Desset could no longer stand the sound of the director’s voice. He deserved the scolding, perhaps, but it didn’t make him care. He didn’t care if the complaints flowed like a river through the front door and swept everything in the building away. He moved over to the wall beside the water fountain, but only because it was the farthest he could go. The hinge in the metal shaft gave him about a hundred and seventy-degree arc in which to move, the work table at one extreme, the water fountain at the other.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“You’ve ruined this company,” Thane said. “More than that, you’ve ruined yourself. If this place closes down, I can find other work, but you, you have nothing. You’ll be here when the wrecking ball knocks down the walls. Maybe that’s what you want?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“No,” Desset said, bending over the water fountain, as if to take a drink. The little knot in his stomach was growing, like some furious worm feasting on his despair. “No, that is not what I want.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“It has to be intentional,” Thane said. “This level of incompetence has to be intentional.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Desset turned to the director. He spoke without thinking. “It is.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Thane had one hand in the pocket of his jacket. He pulled it out now, clutching a fistful of data chips. “It is? It is intentional?” he shouted. “Did you just admit it?” He threw the data chips at Desset with a cry of rage. They hit his chest, his arms, his stomach, made high tinkling sounds as they bounced off the metal shaft, but they were as light as fingernails. He scarcely felt them. Desset watched them fall to the floor and wished he had feet to stamp on them. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“Financial reports,” the director said, still shouting. “The testimony of your failures, and you’re telling me you did it on <i>purpose</i>?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Desset felt heat filling his chest, making his heart race. He gazed into the director’s wide, wild eyes and felt like he was looking into a void. “Yes, I did,” he said again. “Disconnect me and throw me outside.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Director Thane shook his head, gnashed his teeth, and took a step toward Desset. “Don’t you tempt me. I did you a favor letting you work here.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“You did not,” Desset replied, gliding back over to the work table. “You have a contract with the government, and they pay you well. If my services are not acceptable, disconnect me and throw me outside.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“Believe me, if I could get away with it, I would,” Thane said, taking another step toward him. “I will see better work from you, half-man. I will see better work.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Desset grunted and reached for the lunchbox. “Better work,” he said. He flung the empty lunchbox at the director. It hit him on the chest, spattering his blue shirt with the residue of peas and meat paste, and fell to the floor. “There’s some better work for you, sir.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Thane stared at the lunchbox for a long, tense moment, then reached up, very slowly, and brushed the crumbs off his shirt. “That’s how it’s going to be, then.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Director Thane rushed at Desset, head low, hands reaching. Desset saw him coming and shifted away, but Thane altered course, trapping him against the water fountain. He grabbed the collar of Desset’s shirt and slammed him into the water fountain, causing a great rush of agony at the place where the shaft attached to his spine. Desset cried out, and Thane clapped a hand over his mouth.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“Shut up,” he screamed. “You shut up!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Desset screamed through his fingers. The agony sent a wave of nausea through him, and made his head spin. He screamed until his voice broke, and then he let out a last defiant hiss until he ran out of breath. Thane sneered at him and slapped him across the face so hard his vision dimmed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“I will not be treated with disrespect by the likes of you,” he said. He slapped him again, this time so hard his head bounced off the wall. “Do you hear me, Desset?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Desset felt blood running from his nose. His first instinct was to retract into his nook in the wall, as if that were an escape, but the fire still burned in him. The worm was restless and angry. He licked the blood dripping from his upper lip and spat it into Thane’s face. Thane made a grunt of disgust, and Desset, catching him off guard, punched him in the neck.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“I don’t want to fight, sir!” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">The director staggered backward, clutching his throat and gagging. Desset didn’t wait for him to recover but rushed over to the work table, opened a drawer, and pulled out a small hammer. When Thane came for him again, a crazed light in his eyes, he threw the hammer at him. Thane tried to deflect it, but the head of the hammer caught him on the forearm with a loud and satisfying crack.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“I don’t want to fight,” Desset said again. “Disconnect me and throw me outside.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Thane, his face distorted in pain, grabbed his injured forearm. “I’ll do worse than that,” he said, his voice hoarse. “I’ll do much worse.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">He rushed at him again. Desset turned back to the open drawer, fishing around for another suitable weapon, but the director was upon him. He grabbed his upper arm, fingers clamping down until it hurt, and jerked him away from the drawer, flinging Desset across the room. The hinge of his support rod gave a squeal of protest at the forced movement. Thane drew a screwdriver out of the drawer and came for him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“If I hadn’t been worried about losing the contract, I would have dumped your half-self in the dumpster a long time ago,” he said, hunched over, the screwdriver held in front of his face.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Workers came to the door then, no doubt drawn by the screams. Thane rounded on them, red-faced, and yelled, “Get out! This is none of your concern. Go back to work!” And the workers fled.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Desset, seizing the opportunity when his back was turned, glided up behind him and grabbed the hand wielding the screwdriver.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“Let go,” the director said, in a voice like the snarl of a rabid dog. “I’ll carve your heart out.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">They struggled over the screwdriver, shifting back and forth in a kind of violent dance. When it became clear that neither would win, Thane drew his other hand back, balled up a fist, and punched Desset in the face. Darkness descended, and it felt like the world broke loose around him and drew back. As everything shrank into the distance, Desset thought, though surely it was only the old familiar dream, that he saw a flash of sunlight through the door.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“What in God’s name are you doing?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">The voice roused him. His head had tipped forward onto his chest, but he lifted it. The sudden movement almost made him pass out again. His whole face felt numb, but his back was a sea of agony. Thane was stumbling away, a look of open-mouthed horror on his face.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">The woman with the dark hair, Neoma, stood in the doorway. She had a purse in her hands, holding it up in front of her like a shield.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“I said, what in God’s name are you doing? Are you <i>hitting</i> him?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“He attacked me,” Thane said, adjusting his tie and pulling his jacket back into place. “Things got out of hand, ma’am. Could you please wait outside?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“He’s bleeding,” she said. She remained in the doorway, so the door wouldn’t close. Workers had gathered in the hallway outside. One of the workers had a large flat piece of black plastic held in his arms, which Desset recognized as the woman’s exercise platform, the very one he had failed to repair.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“He means to kills me,” Desset said, but the words were a mess. His lips felt a hundred sizes too big, and blood was running into his mouth.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“Foolishness,” Director Thane said. “Things got out of hand. I’ll send for a nurse to tend his wounds.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“No, you don’t go anywhere,” Neoma said, rounding on the director but drawing her purse against her chest, as if she feared he might try to take it. “Don’t come near me. Don’t even move. What sort of an animal are you?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Thane frowned and shook his head, clearly feeling that he had been grossly misunderstood. He started to speak, but the woman interrupted him. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“Desset,” she said, her voice softening. “I don’t know what you did to wind up here, but I won’t leave you like this.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Desset gave her a brief smile, though it was forced and made his lips hurt all the more. Of course, she would leave him like this. She had no choice. He turned to the water fountain and began washing the blood from his face. Let the woman feel sorry for him, if she must, but she couldn’t help him. She was only going to make it worse between Desset and the director later, that he knew all too well.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“Ma’am,” Thane said, trying to sound patient though Desset heard the threat in his voice. “There is nothing you can do for him. He is a convicted felon under a government contract. If you want to detach and relocate him, you’ll have to buy out his contract and pay for the relocation, and, trust me, it’s more than you can afford.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“Don’t you pretend to know me,” the woman said, her voice rising. “You don’t know what I can and can’t afford. You keep your mouth shut.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“Ma’am,” he said again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“I said shut your mouth!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“Very well,” Director Thane said in a sigh.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Desset finished washing his face and hands and turned back to her. She was still in the doorway, still holding her purse against her chest. Thane stood in the corner, his head bowed, his brows knitted. He looked worried, not the enraged sort of worry that Desset was so used to but genuinely afraid.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“Desset,” the woman said, lowering the purse. “You were honest with me, and I want to help you. What can I do?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Desset shrugged. He knew he should feel hopeful, even if the woman was out of her mind, but he felt only weariness and pain. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“Him,” she said, pointing at Director Thane. “Despite what he thinks of me, I could buy this company and fire him. He’s not worth much. If you ask me to, I will.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“Now, please, let’s calm down,” the director said with an uncomfortable laugh.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“I could also call the police,” she continued. “Surely he’s not allowed to beat you.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“That’s not necessary,” Thane said, clasping his hands. “I know I got carried away, but it won’t happen again. Ma’am, listen to me.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">She ignored him and took a step into the room. The door started to close behind her, but the gathering crowd of workers pressed in behind her and kept it open.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“Tell me what you want me to do with him,” the woman said. “And I will do it.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Desset looked into her eyes as long as he dared. Misty eyes filled with pity, he could only manage it for a couple of seconds before he dropped his gaze. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Was it possible? Was this woman for real? Desset glanced at Director Thane, at that big cinder block of a head, the sharp lines of his face, the hard glint in his eyes. Not a nice man, not a pleasant man, never a happy man. And Desset considered what, in fact, he really did want to do to him, the one who had contributed so much to his ongoing misery. Pick up the screwdriver and jam it into his eye socket? Seize the hammer and shatter his skull like an eggshell? Perhaps.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">He considered, and Thane kept his anxious gaze fixed on the floor.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“I don’t want you to do anything to him,” Desset said. “It’s not his fault that I’m here. It’s my fault. I chose this, and, even though I didn’t understand the stupidity of the choice when I made it, I still can’t blame anyone else for it.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">The director swallowed hard and looked up at Desset, daring to smile. “Oh, Desset, thank you. I’m so sorry I lost my temper. It won’t happen again.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Thane was so busy apologizing--it sounded abnormal on his tongue, like a language that he hadn’t yet mastered--that he didn’t notice the woman’s approach. She walked up to him, raised a hand, and slapped him across the face. Thane grunted, stumbled back into the wall and grabbed his cheek. Danger flashed in his eyes, and Desset fully expected him to charge the woman, but he didn’t. The workers in the hallway gasped and grumbled.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“That’s from me,” she said. She turned back to Desset and approached him. He found himself trembling as she drew near, and he almost retracted into the wall. “I can have you relocated, if you want. I will do whatever you ask of me. What do you want, Desset?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">He met her gaze and felt the room swimming around him. He was all too aware of what he looked like, pasty and thin, nearly bald, sickly, yet she reached out and took his hand and held it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“What do you want?” she asked again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">And what did he want? He had dreamed many times of relocation, but now that it was being offered to him, he felt no real excitement at the prospect. He would always be a half-man attached to a metal rod, kept alive artificially by tubes. He would always be confined to a single room, always under contract, always working for unfriendly people as a convict. What difference did it make if it was Director Thane abusing him or some other bully, it all came to the same thing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“There is one thing I would like,” he said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“Tell me,” Neoma said. “Anything.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Desset slipped his hand out of hers and leaned against the wall beside the water fountain. “Sometimes the door to the room will open just as the door at the end of the hallway opens. When that happens, if I’m standing here, I catch a glimpse of the outside. Maybe you could have the workers prop both doors open for me. Not all the time, of course, that’s unreasonable, but perhaps once a day, in the morning when the sun is brightest, have them prop the doors open for an hour or so. That would be enough, and I’ll work harder. I promise.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">She looked at him for a long moment, glanced over her shoulder at the door, then looked back at him. And she burst into tears.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">* * *<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">The feel of wind in his hair and the warmth of sunlight on his upturned face. Even now, after a month, he still found himself sitting on the porch behind the guest house, eyes closed, just basking in it. When he wasn’t sitting on the porch, he was usually at work, though neither Neoma nor her husband required it of him. He owed her so much, the sense of gratitude was overwhelming, but he did what he could for them, repairing appliances that broke down or working on little projects around the house, hoping that in some small way, he could improve her life as much as she had utterly transformed his.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">He heard the sound of her feet on the walkway and turned. A small concrete path led from the back door of her house to the porch of the guest house. She had a wicker basket in her hands, and as she approached, she held it up, smiling. He returned the smile and reached for the control stick of his hover chair. The irony of his situation, that he owed his new mobility to a hover chair, hadn’t escaped him, for it had been another hover chair, poorly repaired, that had almost cost him his life at the hands of Director Thane. Of course, designing attachments for the hover chair to suit his needs had been more expensive than he could bear to think about, but he meant to make every penny of it count.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“Lunch,” Neoma said, setting the wicker basket on a table near the door. She opened the lid, and the smell of baked chicken wafted out. Real meat, lab-grown, not that awful pink paste.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“You do too much for me,” Desset said. “I should be bringing lunch for you and your family.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“Oh, stop,” Neoma said. “You’ve done work for us every single day that you’ve been here, and it’s not necessary.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">He glided over to the table and peeked into the basket. Chicken, peas in a small dish, bread, a bottle of wine. He shook his head.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">She turned to leave but lingered. “No more seeing through doors.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“Thank you, yes,” he said. “I mean to take a look at the thermostat on the pool this afternoon. I know it’s not been working right lately.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">She smiled at him over her shoulder and left. Desset’s gaze turned to neatly trimmed grass beside the walkway, swaying in the warm noon breeze, and then to the billowing clouds in the eastern sky.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“No more seeing through doors,” he echoed, and reached into the wicker basket for his lunch.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br />Jeffrey Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01084230741410525661noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2218862296685637151.post-56727612833134124012017-02-07T10:30:00.000-08:002017-02-07T16:11:51.374-08:00The Reappearance of Long-Lost Short Stories: Tinni and the Chain<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">"Tinni and the Chain" was the first short story I published when I began my writing spree toward the end of November 2009. It appeared in an online magazine called <a href="https://duotrope.com/listing/3230">Absent Willow Review</a> (Which, sadly, <a href="https://silverstairs.wordpress.com/2011/10/15/farewell-absent-willow/">no longer exists</a>). </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh22rlqEXYNRSz_bBCeBRP6sbp8meoq9SeKU8IgRceXeh3EfFtUJ2zCDZzbEA5E9F26Jgn_ZVg5JbjKJU_k0nKMtZZq2tHWdAxXDiXhdAb9n2bD_q-QGHWBQOEXHSgMBU14cxVgjKpyng/s1600/absent-willow-review-logo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="196" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh22rlqEXYNRSz_bBCeBRP6sbp8meoq9SeKU8IgRceXeh3EfFtUJ2zCDZzbEA5E9F26Jgn_ZVg5JbjKJU_k0nKMtZZq2tHWdAxXDiXhdAb9n2bD_q-QGHWBQOEXHSgMBU14cxVgjKpyng/s200/absent-willow-review-logo.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gone Too Soon!</td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"><br /></span> <span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">Anyway, without further ado, here is that story.</span><br />
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Tinni and the Chain<o:p></o:p></div>
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by<o:p></o:p></div>
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Jeff Miller<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Tinni, bring me my tea,” the old man said, one hand poised over the leather-bound tome on the desk before him. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Tinni rose from his place in the corner, grunting as a great thundering pain pierced his back. The chain hurt more than usual. Some days it felt like little more than a finger nagging at his spine, but today it burned like fire. He pressed a gnarled hand to the place where the iron links poked out of his flesh and struggled to cross the room. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“What’s the matter with you?” the old man asked, though his eyes didn’t leave the page he was reading. “Are you stalling for sympathy?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“No,” Tinni replied, his voice a thick whisper spilling from mangled lips. <o:p></o:p></div>
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As he hobbled across the dark study, the chain dragged loudly on the wood floor. Tinni reached behind himself to pull up the slack, but a sickening stab of pain brought him up short. He paused, clamping his eyes shut to fight back the tears, and waited for it to abate. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Finally, with a lurch, he resumed his passage to the kitchen. The kitchen in the study was as far as he could go. The chain pulled taut at the far end of the room. This was not the real kitchen, of course. Tinni had heard of a dining room and kitchen in the lower part of the house, and, from what he could gather, it was a much more lavish place. There, apparently, the old scholar kept a long, fancy table and many, many shelves stocked with food items too exquisite to describe. He had been told these few things by some of the other servants, though they rarely dared speak to him. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“The water is already hot,” the old man said, turning a page in his book. “Just steep the tea and bring it here.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Tinni attempted a “Yes, sir,” but it came out as a groan. The chain was off the ground, dangling between the post in the far corner and the anchor in his back. For a moment, he thought the pain might make him vomit, and he struggled to stave off the sickness. He dared not make a mess in the old man’s presence. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“What did you say?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Tinni rested his arm against the edge of the stove, comforted by the warmth bleeding through the metal. He breathed slowly, deeply, and large drops of sweat ran down his forehead and cheeks. Gradually, the pain became bearable, and he reached for a rag to lift the steaming kettle.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Tinni, did you hear me? I asked you a question.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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Tinni heard the scrape of the old man’s chair on the wood floor. If the old man was distracted enough to get out of his chair—well, Tinni did not care to speculate on what he might do. He hadn’t the strength to contemplate punishment.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Yes, yes, yes,” Tinni replied, cringing against the stove. “I heard you. I am bringing the tea.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Very well,” the old man grumbled. “Answer me when I address you. I have little patience for your foolishness today. I am studying. This is an important day for me. My new pupil will arrive this afternoon.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Yes, yes.” Tinni slid the dirty bit of rag around the kettle’s shiny handle and lifted. It was a thin piece of cloth, not enough to hold back the heat, but Tinni’s palms were such a patchwork of scars and calluses, he barely felt anything. “Tea is coming.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Steep it.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Yes.” Tinni poured the steaming water into a large ceramic cup, then retrieved a silver tea bulb and dropped it in. Immediately, the water discolored, rivulets of brown streaming out of the silver bulb. There was something familiar and beautiful about the changing of the water, and Tinni stood frozen, transfixed by the sight. He had an image in his mind, a vague image, but one that returned to him often, of a large body of water, like glass stretched between green hills, and something else, a terrible darkness falling, disrupting the calm water like a knife piercing an eye.<o:p></o:p></div>
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He was roused by an explosive thud, the sound of the old man’s book slamming shut. He stumbled, crying out in pain.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“What are you doing?” The old man yelled. “It doesn’t take that long to steep. Get over here.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Tinni slipped the dripping bulb from the cup and set it on a pile of rags. “Coming, sir.” He took the cup in both hands, balancing it clumsily between crooked fingers. As he turned, his elbow caught on the chain, causing it to tug at his back. Tinni’s vision dimmed, and he stumbled, dropping the cup. It turned over, spilling its contents before hitting the floor and shattering into a thousand pieces.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“You stupid, stupid <i>animal</i>! You <i>creature</i>! What have you done?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Tinni stared numbly at the mess of tea and ceramic at his feet. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“What have you done?”<br />
Tinni’s gaze rose reluctantly to find the old man towering over the desk, his palms pressed against the closed book. His dark hood had fallen back, revealing a pale face, wisps of white hair, and cold eyes.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“I’ll clean it,” Tinni said, wincing as he reached for a rag.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Hold out your hand,” the old man hissed.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Tinni froze, swallowing a sudden lump in his throat.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Hold out your hand, Tinni.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“No, no, please…” Tinni drew his hands to his chest, tucking them under his armpits.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The old man bared his teeth. “You do as you’re told.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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Tinni drew a shaky breath and held one trembling hand in front of him. The anticipation was the worst part of it, sticking in his belly like a hot coal. “I didn’t mean to. I didn’t mean to, sir.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Stretch out your arm.” The old man demonstrated, thrusting one withered, white arm in front of him.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Tinni did as he was told, but he couldn’t keep the arm from trembling, the bent fingers from clutching at the air. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“You are clumsy, and you don’t pay attention to what you’re doing,” the old man said, his voice flat, calm. “And this will serve to remind you to do better.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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The old man’s wrinkled hand clenched. As it did, the air crackled between them, and Tinni’s hand erupted in red flame. He cried out, but he dared not move. He could feel the flesh of his hand peeling away, fingers crisping, until his knees buckled, and he collapsed on his side. He writhed on the floor, grinding against the spilled tea and broken ceramic.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Enough,” the old man sighed, and, with a wave of his hands, the fire disappeared.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Tinni blinked tears and tucked his injured hand against his chest. He felt a black hatred for the old man, but it was a hatred tempered by pain. He hadn’t the strength to move, and, for a while, the old man let him lie on the floor, the tea soaking into his clothes, jagged bits of ceramic digging into his side.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“When you’ve recovered, get up and make another cup of tea.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Tinni grunted and sat up. He examined the pink ruin of his hand, fresh tears spilling down his cheeks. He hadn’t meant to spill the tea. He hadn’t meant to. Why did that count for nothing?<o:p></o:p></div>
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Distantly, from some place in the house that Tinni had never seen, a bell rang. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“Ah, my new pupil has arrived,” the old man said, sliding his chair back and rounding the table. He hopped over Tinni’s chain and hurried for the door, pausing only a moment to glance down at his crumpled slave. “Clean up the mess, Tinni, or you’ll have more of the same. Understood?” Before Tinni could answer, the old man rushed out of the room, his footsteps fading down the hallway.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Tinni picked himself up, favoring his wounded hand. He leaned against the stove, staring at the smeared mess on the floor. He had made it worse by rolling in it, and the thought of cleaning it up made him dizzy. His burned hand was beginning to throb, and he knew it would be useless to him.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Tinni sighed and scraped bits of ceramic out of his tattered robe. It was just another day, really. Every day had its punishments of one sort or another. He told himself this, but it gave little relief. He snatched up a handful of rags in his good hand and dropped them to the floor. As he stooped to his work, he felt a tug on the chain.<o:p></o:p></div>
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He drew in a sharp breath, his good hand grasping protectively for the small of his back.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Well, look at you.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Tinni stumbled out of the kitchen to find a small boy in the old man’s study. The boy was holding the chain in his hands, rubbing the dark metal with tiny fingers. Dark curls of hair framed his face, accentuating an angular jaw, narrow eyes.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Don’t, don’t touch that,” Tinni said, waving him away from the chain. “The Master wouldn’t like you to bother me. I am his servant.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Oh, his <i>servant</i>? Is that what you are?” The boy gave him a puzzled frown and let go of the chain. He was dressed in many layers of fine cloth, robes that flowed one over the other. As he spoke, he ducked under the chain and glided over to the old man’s desk. “A servant doesn’t get chained to an iron post. A dangerous animal does.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Tinni stumbled toward the desk, panic clenching his throat. “You…you mustn’t touch the Master’s things.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Ignoring him, the boy hopped up on the Master’s chair and dragged the book toward him. “I can touch the Master’s things if I want to. He’s out of the room.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Tinni approached the edge of the desk, careful to shield his burned hand. “Who are you?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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The boy glanced at him, and Tinni noted a peculiar intelligence in his eyes. “Why, I am the Master’s new pupil, of course,” he said with a smile, casually flipping open the old man’s enormous book. “And right about now, he is throwing open the front door to greet me.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“You tricked him?” Tinni gasped. “But why?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Because I wanted to,” the boy replied, feigning interest in the intricate lines of prose scribbled on the pages the book. “And because I can. That’s a gift of mine--I can move about undetected.” As he said this last word, he waved a hand in front of his face and winked at Tinni. “But enough about me. Tell me about you.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Confused by the boy’s request, Tinni said nothing. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“Have you nothing to say for yourself?” the boy asked, drumming his fingers against the open book. “Doesn’t the master teach you to be polite when you’re asked a question? He’s going to make me as great as he is, you know.” Something about the boy’s tone of voice struck Tinni as odd, but he wasn’t sure what to make of it. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“Sorry, sorry,” Tinni muttered, backing away. His hand was hurting so badly, it was becoming harder to concentrate on anything else. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The boy rose suddenly, sweeping his robes back. “My name is Yurei. What is your name?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Tinni.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Tinni? That’s an odd name.” The boy pursed his lips. “Are you sure that’s your name?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Tinni nodded as he backed toward his corner. He gathered up the chain with his uninjured hand and carefully piled it around the iron post, safely out of the way.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Tinni,” the boy mouthed. “Tinni. How did you come to be in the Master’s service? Do you recall?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Tinni shrugged. “I’ve always been in the Master’s service.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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The boy came around the table, his robes swishing with each step. “Always? Don’t be silly. Do you think you just blinked into existence with that chain stuck in your spine?” The boy shook his head.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Tinni cowered against the cold iron post. “Yes, yes.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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The boy leaned in close. “Can I tell you a secret? Will you keep it to yourself?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“If the Master asks me--”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Oh, I doubt he’ll even know I was here.” The boy winked again, his voice falling to a whisper. “Here’s the secret: I’m not really his pupil. He doesn’t have a new pupil.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Then…why…?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Why did I come here if I’m not his pupil? Very good question, Tinni, though awkwardly delivered. Mostly I came to implore you to escape. As soon as you have the opportunity, get out. Until then, don’t tell your Master about me. Normally, I would trust you not to say anything, but I’m afraid he’s stolen your memory. Do you remember the lake?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“The-the lake?” Tinni eyed the boy, confused. “What is that?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Don’t worry. It will come to you.” The boy glanced over his shoulder. “Your Master will be back soon, so I’d better go. When you have the chance, pull that damned chain out of your back. I would do it myself, but I’d hate to wind up like you. That wouldn’t do either of us any good, would it? No. So you’ll have to do it yourself.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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The idea of pulling the chain out, a thing he had never dared to consider, much less attempt, made Tinni’s head spin. “No, no, I couldn’t. The Master would be unhappy.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Well, of course he would be unhappy,” the boy said with a laugh. “He put the thing there, didn’t he? I don’t think it will kill you to pull it out, though it might feel that way. Just keep pulling no matter how much it hurts. It should slide out.” He backed toward the door. “Don’t worry, it will all come back to you when you get that thing out of you. It’s his black magic, you see?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Tinni shook his head, appalled at the idea of doing what the boy suggested. Was the boy testing him, hoping to plant thoughts in his mind that the Master could later read? “I can’t do that.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“You can. You must.” The boy glanced over his shoulder again. Faintly, there arose the sound of footsteps in the lower hall. “That’s my sign, Tinni. Remember, come to us soon. Don’t let that old devil have his way with you.” He nodded and waved his hands in front of his face. “Until I see you…” And with that, a mist enveloped the boy, swirling around him like a captured breeze. Before Tinni’s eyes, he faded from sight, leaving a faint grayness that lingered for a time.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Tinni groaned and pressed his forehead to the floor. He tried to block the boy’s words from his mind, but they pounded at him. Could he really just pull the chain from his back? It didn’t seem possible, and even if it were, what price would he pay for doing so? The Master who burned his hand for spilling a cup of tea surely had much greater and more horrible punishments in store for the servant who removed his chain.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Tinni.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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He glanced up to find the old man standing in the open doorway, his pale stick arms crossed over his chest. The corners of his mouth were turned down, a hateful glint in his eyes. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“What are you doing there in the corner?” the old man said, his voice low and contained. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“I was…I was…” But he could think of nothing to say. He swallowed heavily and crawled toward the kitchen.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Did something happen in here?” The old man took a menacing step into the room. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“No, no.” Tinni scrambled into the kitchen and picked up the rags from the floor. “I’m cleaning up the mess, sir. I’m cleaning up the mess.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Damn you, look at me.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Tinni dared not resist the coldness of the words. He clutched the damp rags to his chest and turned. The old man beckoned him close with one thin finger. Tinni approached, cowering.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Look at me and answer,” the old man said, crouching so that his face was level with Tinni’s. “Did something happen in here while I was gone?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Tinni whimpered but didn’t avert his gaze. “Yes, yes, there was a boy. There was a boy in the room. I told him to leave, sir. I told him.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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The old man nodded, his eyes slipping shut. “So, that’s what they’re up to, is it?” Suddenly, he clenched his fists. An invisible force slammed Tinni in the chest, lifting him off the ground and tossing him onto his back. He slid, the chain grinding against his backbone, and came to rest in his corner, howling in pain. “And why did you lie to me the first time I asked?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Tinni groaned and rolled into his side, blinded by the pain. He held up his good hand to shield his face. The old man’s booted feet echoed like hammer blows on the floor, closing the distance between them.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Did the boy say something to you? Tinni, did he say something to you? Did he tell you to lie to me?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Tinni tried to respond, but his voice failed him. The words came out as strangled cries.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“I will ask one more time, and then you will be made to suffer. Did the boy say something to you?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“He…he…” Tinni tried to speak, but a fit of coughing overcame him. He curled up on his side, tucking his head against his knees.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .3in;">
“He did say something, didn’t he? And it has made you disobedient. Well, they shall not have you. I will tear you to pieces before I let them have you.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .3in;">
The old man stepped on Tinni’s injured hand, crushing it against the floor. Tinni opened his mouth to scream but managed only a thin hiss, as sickening needles of pain tore up his arm.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .3in;">
“I will tear you to pieces before I let them have you. Do you hear me?” And with that, the old man relented, turning with a whoosh of his robe and moving to his desk.<o:p></o:p></div>
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In the silence that followed, Tinni lay motionless on the floor, fearing he would pass out. Hoping, perhaps. But he didn’t, and the minutes slipped by, as the Master resumed his study, unmindful of his suffering servant. After what might have been an hour, two or three, even, Tinni roused himself and started for the kitchen, pulling himself across the room with his good arm.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .3in;">
“Finish cleaning the mess,” the old man said. “Afterward, we will talk.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .3in;">
“Yes, sir,” Tinni replied, blinking sweat and tears out of his eyes.<o:p></o:p></div>
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By now, much of the spilled tea had evaporated or soaked into the wood, but Tinni mopped dutifully at the boards with a fistful of rags. The broken bits of ceramic he piled to one side. He worked slowly, wanting to put off the talk with the Master. What, after all, would he tell the Master if asked again about the boy? He couldn’t tell him what the boy had said. Surely, that would be the end of him.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Nevertheless, working slowly bought him only a few extra minutes. When he was done, he stared at the damp rags in his hand and waited, hoping the Master would forget about him.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Tinni, set those rags on the counter and come to me.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Tinni whimpered but did as he was told. He set the rags on the counter and stumbled toward the old man’s desk. The Master regarded him calmly, fingers steepled on the table before him. Tinni knelt near his feet.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“I was angry with you,” the old man said. “I was angry, but I am calm. Now is your best opportunity to tell me the thing that I desire to know. I want to know what the boy told you.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Tinni pressed his good hand to his forehead, wiping away a layer of sweat and grime. “He said he was playing a trick.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .3in;">
“Playing a trick? What kind of trick.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Making you think he was your pupil,” Tinni said, his gaze dropping to the floor. He was reminded of something the boy had mentioned--a <i>lake</i>. Tinni didn’t know what the word meant, but it sounded so familiar. Why did he feel as if some thought, some memory, had been placed just out of reach? “He said he wasn’t really your pupil. I told him, sir. I told him to leave your things alone.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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The old man hummed thoughtfully. “Tinni, this boy, he is very wicked. He belongs to an order of people who wish to destroy all that I have tried to build here, and if they succeed, they will destroy you, as well. Your only chance for life is here, as my servant, safe from their hands. You must trust me. You must obey me.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Yes, yes, sir,” Tinni said with an eager nod. “I will.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“And what else did the boy say to you? What did he tell you to do?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Tinni bowed his head and considered the boy’s words. For the first time in his life, really, he found he was not at all willing to tell the old man what he knew. There had been something terrifying about the boy’s words, and yet…and yet…it was as if the boy had shared some beautiful, secret thing with him, something that belonged only to them. To share it with the old man was to profane it. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“He said…he said I was stupid,” Tinni replied, relishing the taste of the lie. He met the old man’s gaze, expecting instant animosity, but the old man continued to regard him with a bland expression. “He said I was stupid and ugly. He made fun of me, and he messed with your things. I told him to stop, and he kicked me.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Did he?” The old man arched one eyebrow.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Yes, yes, and then he heard you coming, so he went like this.” Tinni waved a hand in front of his face. “And he went away. I told him, sir. I told him to leave everything alone. I hated him.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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The old man considered this, one finger tapping his lower lip, then nodded. “I believe you, Tinni. I believe you because I know you wouldn’t look me in the eye and lie to me. From now on, be quick to obey and answer. Now, go back to your cleaning, and bring me my tea. This time, don’t drop the cup, and you will be spared further suffering.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Tinni nodded and scampered back into the kitchen, careful not to trip over his chain. Dutifully, he stoked the fire in the stove and began reheating the kettle of water, but his mind was not on his work. The boy had told him to remove the chain, a thought that would never have crossed Tinni’s mind in a thousand years. Remove the chain! How could it even be possible? Just bumping the chain sent spikes of unbearable agony through his body. Perhaps the boy had been playing a joke on him, and perhaps the Master was right about him, that the boy was indeed wicked. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Still, the ideas, the possibilities that the boy had hinted at were too powerful for Tinni to drive from his mind. As he stooped to work, he reached behind himself, hoping to appear casual, and felt the chain, felt the harsh knot of skin around the first link protruding from his flesh. For a brief moment, as long as he dared, he grasped the first link of the chain in his hand, as though he were going to tug it free. Just doing that, holding it like that and imagining, made his heart race. What would it be like?<o:p></o:p></div>
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He smiled guiltily and prepared the Master’s tea. As he was bringing a fresh, steaming cup from the kitchen, he heard again the distant sound of a bell ringing. The old man muttered a curse and rose.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“What do these people think they are doing?” he said, slamming a fist upon the leather cover of his book. “They must know they can’t undo the spell. Fools!” As he crossed to the door, he pointed at Tinni. “Don’t you give me a reason to hurt you. If the boy comes back, kill him. Wrap that chain around his neck and pull it taut. Do you hear me? I want to see a blue-faced corpse when I get back!”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Yes, sir.” Tinni whimpered, hunkering down in the kitchen door, the hot teacup still clutched in his hand.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Let’s see this <i>boy</i> try his little tricks again. I will destroy somebody today.” And with that, the old man glided out of the room.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Tinni waited quietly, listening to the old man’s footsteps fade down the hall. When he was again in silence, he cast his gaze around the room expectantly. After a few tense minutes, he cleared his throat.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Are you coming?” he whispered into the stillness.<o:p></o:p></div>
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There was no response. Tinni set the teacup on the floor beside him and grabbed hold of his chain, rattling it. It echoed in the hallway beyond the room.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Boy, are you coming?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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With a sigh, Tinni retrieved the teacup. He stared at it, at the dark liquid, seeing again the image of the still water, the falling darkness. Tinni swallowed a sudden lump in his throat and flung the cup across the room. He regretted it as soon as the cup left his hand, but part of him felt a thrill of satisfaction as the cup shattered on the far wall, sending a spray of tea and ceramic shards in all directions. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Then the weight of what he had just done sank into his belly. Tinni’s jaw fell slack. The old man would kill him for this!<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Stupid, stupid,” he said, snatching up a rag and racing across the room.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Somehow, the chain got tangled around one of his feet, and he fell, knocking his head on the floor hard enough to see stars. Dazed, Tinni rolled onto his side. As he lay there, he realized he didn’t want to clean up the mess he had made. He had enjoyed making it. He picked himself up and flung the rag away. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“Boy, where are you?” he asked, peering anxiously at the pieces of the second cup. “I need to talk to you. Hurry, before the Master comes back.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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But the boy didn’t come. As the minutes slipped by, Tinni felt such disappointment, he started to cry. He wiped the tears from his cheeks and listened for the Master’s footsteps. It occurred to him that he could lie to the old man when he returned, tell him that the boy had been there, that the boy had flung the teacup across the room. Why shouldn’t the Master believe it? Tinni nodded and took a seat in the middle of the room.<o:p></o:p></div>
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As he sat in the silence, he reached once again for the chain at his back. He grasped the cold metal of the first link, gripping it as best he could with his crooked fingers. He wanted to pull it out. At that moment, he had both the desire and the will to do it. Tinni grunted, amazed at his sudden ability to disobey, but he paused. What if the boy had lied, and pulling out the chain would kill him? After all, hadn’t the Master told him, time and time again, that his only chance for life was here?<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Then I don’t want to live,” Tinni muttered.<o:p></o:p></div>
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He seized the chain firmly in his hand and gave it a sharp tug. The pain made his head spin, sent a shock of sickness into his guts, but the chain didn’t budge. He got on his knees and pressed his face to the ground to steady himself, then tugged again. This time, he thought he felt the chain give a little, but his vision dimmed. With a cry, Tinni pulled harder, sweat dripping from his face, pooling on the floor. The pain radiated out from his back, burning through his flesh and into his extremities, tingling in his fingertips. Yet slowly he felt the chain moving, sliding from his back with a moist gurgle. He screamed, his body clenching as if every nerve ending had been exposed. <o:p></o:p></div>
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And then, like a candle flame being snuffed, the pain dissipated. Tinni blinked and sat up, his body flooding with a strange warmth. In his hand, he held the chain, dark iron links that ended in a long, curved piece of blood-spattered glass. Tinni stared at it numbly. The glass hook felt strangely cold in his hand and much heavier than its appearance would suggest.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Black magic,” he whispered. <o:p></o:p></div>
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And, with that, he slammed the glass hook on the floor, shattering it. A faint mist rose from the pile of bloody pieces like an escaping spirit.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Tinni took a deep breath and let his eyes slip shut. Warmth filled his chest, moving through his body like water, filling the empty spaces where pain had been, working through tissues and bones. It spread to his heart, and his thundering heartbeat gentled. It climbed up his spine, driving out the agony, and up into his skull. And then, like a veil tearing, memories returned to him. He saw the still water, saw it rushing up to meet him, saw his broken body sinking, bright blood discoloring the lake. He saw everything that had been taken from him.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Tinni rose effortlessly, for his body felt now as if it weighed nothing. When he opened his eyes, he saw his own arms stretched out before him, skin a translucent blue. The scars, the disfigurements, all of them gone. He gasped and gazed down at his body. Though he was still wearing the tattered robe of his enslavement, his body had changed. He was…he was beautiful, tall and straight-backed, radiating a faint inner light.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“What am I?” he asked, wading through the sudden inundation of returning memory.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Tinni…” The old man’s voice choked on his name.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Tinni turned to the door. The old man stood there, frozen in mid-stride, one hand pressed to the side of his face. His mouth was open, working wordlessly.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Welcome back, old man,” Tinni said, amazed at the strength of his own voice.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“He <i>told</i> you,” the old man said with a sneer, his countenance darkening. “He came back here, and he told you, and somehow he talked you into it despite all my threats.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“No, he didn’t come back.” Tinni took a step toward the old man. Who, after all, was this fragile creature that had so terrified him? “He told me everything the first time. When you asked me what happened, I lied. I lied to you. When you punished me and asked again, I lied all the more.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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The old man stumbled back against the doorframe, baring his teeth. “Damn you. I will return you to your rightful place.” He raised his hands, waving them in the air. Traces of light followed his fingertips as the magic swelled.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Tinni hesitated, uncertain. He had no plan for dealing with the old man’s magic. <o:p></o:p></div>
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But the old man ceased suddenly, cursing, and dropped his hands to his sides.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Why did you stop?” Tinni asked, taking another step toward him. “Your magic won’t hurt me, will it?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Indeed, it will,” the old man spat, backing into the hallway. “But I’ve no wish to destroy you. I will let you live, if you get back on your chain.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Tinni laughed. “I would rather die, so do your worst, old man. Kill me now, or I am going to crush your throat with my hands and leave your body here in this room, this cell which you fashioned for me.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“No, no,” the old man said, turning to flee. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Tinni lunged forward, seizing the old man by one sleeve, and jerked him back into the room. The old man fell in a heap, flailing his arms.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Look at me,” Tinni said, pinning him to the floor with his knee. “Look at my face.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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The old man squirmed on the floor, trying in vain to twist out from under Tinni’s weight. Tinni grabbed him by the chin and forced eye contact. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“You took me by surprise out there,” Tinni said, gesturing vaguely beyond the confines of the house. “That’s the only reason you were able to shoot me out of the sky. You took me by surprise with your magic. That’s true, isn’t it?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Yes, yes,” the old man whimpered, his eyes widening until it seemed they would pop out of their sockets. “I put a spell on an arrow and shot you from hiding. It took me six years to perfect that spell, six years and half my wealth. But listen to me, it was needful. I didn’t mean to harm you, and I regret your suffering, Tinni. I regret it, I swear to you.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Tinni nodded, his grasp on the old man’s jaw tightening. “And my name is not Tinni. Tinni is a slave’s name, isn’t it?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Yes, I made it up, yes.” The old man grew suddenly still, his limbs going slack. “I was a fool. I captured you because I…I thought I could use you to perfect my magic. I learned so much, how to control a body, how to control a…a mind. It was all so terribly complex. I never meant to hurt you.” His voice quavered. “I could have killed you, but I didn’t. You owe me mercy!”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“I owe you nothing. I don’t think you can kill me,” Tinni replied. “You never could, so you imprisoned me in my own fear.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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“I swear I intended to release you when I finished my studies. I swear it!” <o:p></o:p></div>
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Tinni felt his anger give way to an unusual calm. He stared at his former Master now as one stares at a sick animal. “And now that you are finished, old man, I am going to release you.” With that, he wrapped his hands around the old man’s throat. “And may your soul go where it belongs.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“No, no, wait, wait! I will help you return to your people if you spare me. The boy who came here, he was one of your people, a being of magic, one of the immortal Anulem like yourself. I will take you to him! I will take you to him!”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“No,” Tinni replied simply, clenching his fingers. When he heard the bones break, he released his hold and rose. He stared down at the broken body for a long time, numb. He didn’t relish the death, as he had imagined he would. It had been, in the end, a sad necessity. <o:p></o:p></div>
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He turned and stepped out into the hallway. As he did, his name returned to him. His name was Yaserelim. He said the name, enjoying the sound of it on his lips. Yaserelim, Son of Starlight.<o:p></o:p></div>
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He moved down the hallway, robed servants scurrying out of sight before him, ducking into shadows and doorways.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“You are free,” he called, loud enough that his voice shook the walls. “Your master, the father of your pain, is dead. You are free.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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A small window at the end of the hallway was open, letting in a breeze that stirred crimson curtains. Yaserelim strode to the window and leaned outside, breathing in the night air. There he saw the boy, suspended in the air and bathed in a nimbus of light, his multi-layered robes swirling about him like a million wings. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“Good to see you, brother,” the boy said, grinning. “Sorry I didn’t find you sooner, and sorry I left you to free yourself. But really, you had to do it yourself, you know that.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Yes, I do, Yurei.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Shall we go home, then?”</div>
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Yaserelim nodded and pushed himself out of the window, his arms catching the night air and propelling him upward. He turned his eyes to the moon, a brilliant silver sphere shining in the night like an eye wide and watching. And he ascended from the earth with a cry of boundless joy.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Jeffrey Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01084230741410525661noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2218862296685637151.post-36907201002981799952017-02-06T14:26:00.001-08:002017-02-06T14:26:09.496-08:00The Reappearance of Long-Lost Short Stories: Planet FeastOne of the more unusual stories I wrote back in 2009-2010 was a little thing called "Planet Feast." It appeared for a while on the website BigPulp.com, but it's no longer there. I have no idea what I was thinking when I wrote this one. Brace yourself!<br />
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Planet Feast<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">by</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Jeffrey Aaron Miller</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.3in;">With his axe</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 0.3in;">, Thoma hacked off another slab of planet-flesh, caught it in his free hand as it fell, and tossed it into the plastic bin in his lap.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“Quit with the fancy tricks,” Carlo said, scowling from his platform atop the pit. “If you drop a piece down there, you’re gonna have to climb down and get it. But maybe that’s what you want, eh? Is that what you want?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Thoma shook his head and resumed hacking away at the edge of the pit. The surface of the planet was hard and crumbly, rather like a pie shell made of grit, but just beneath the crust was the flesh, yards and yards of orange-red flesh, moist and pungent. It separated under the blade with a satisfying wet <i>thunk</i>, like a heavy fruit rind parting. Thoma kept hacking off slabs and tossing them into his basket until the basket was overfull, then he slid the axe into the loop on his belt, grabbed the handle of the basket, and rose to his feet. Beneath him, on broad steps carved into the pit, two dozen others worked feverishly to fill their baskets. Down and down the pit went, forty feet and more, and always there was more flesh to carve out.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Thoma approached the viewing platform and tilted his basket. Carlo, leaning his heavy frame on the metal railing, stooped down to inspect.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“That’s good enough,” he said, his craggy face and bad teeth all too close. “Store it and take a break.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Thoma hurried past the platform toward the cool of the storage tent. His aunt, Mari, met him just inside. She watched over the shelves while others in the back cut slabs of planet-flesh into edible portions. Mari was old, stooped, hair like a long silver rope pulled over one shoulder.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“First to finish,” she noted, as Thoma set his basket on the lowest shelf. “I don’t suppose he noticed.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“He didn’t say anything about it,” Thoma replied, rinsing his hands in a trough of water and drying them on a bit of rag.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“Of course not,” Mari said. “Don’t let it get to you. He’s still upset about his brother, but it wasn’t your fault, and he’ll realize that sooner or later.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“I don’t think so,” Thoma said. “He’s made everyone hate me.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Mari patted him on the shoulder as he headed out of the tent. She meant well, and she tried to make him feel better, but it didn’t help. Thoma slipped the axe out of its belt loop and dropped it in the toolbox beside the tent. He meant to head back to his room to change clothes and wash up before dinner--the moist flesh left a sticky film on everything it touched--but he only managed a couple of steps before he came to a stop.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">The sun had risen above the distant horizon, burning like a band of super-heated gold in the thin atmosphere of Crassos. The light dipped into the flesh pit, filling the translucent pulp along the rim with a deep crimson glow. Thoma thought it made the pit look like an open sore. It was a shame, really, the great ugly divot carved into the planet’s surface, but he mostly kept his thoughts on the matter to himself these days. He had done what he could to encourage exploration, and what had it gotten him?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">His gaze turned northward, to the perimeter fence made of welded tent poles that ran along the rim of Fool’s Canyon (as they had taken to calling it). The fence wasn’t for security, Carlo had made that clear. It was more of a mission statement: we exist to dig in the pit and eat, not to roam the world.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Other workers had filled their morning quota of food and clambered out of the pit. They now trudged toward the storage tent bearing heavy baskets. Thoma slipped away before any of them got close enough to speak to him and hurried to his room.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">The klaxon above the administration tent announced meal time. Pilgrims poured out of tents all over the city and made their way to the dining hall, where many long tables had been set up and covered with platters of prepared planet-flesh. Thoma took his seat at the far end of the last table, nearest the corner, and waited for the meal to begin.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Carlo, flanked by his servants, entered the dining hall with great flourish, sweeping his cloak out on either side of him, and made his way to the dais in the center of the room, where his elevated seat and private table awaited. The servants pulled his chair back, so he could sit, but before he did, he raised his hands, patted the air and said, “This world, our new home, once again is life to us. Eat.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">At that, the feasting began. Thoma reached for the nearest bowl and scooped cubes of planet-flesh onto his plate. He liked it best in small portions. The flesh had a savory but bitter taste, somewhat like sweetened vinegar, and Thoma found it a bit overwhelming in large bites.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“Not hungry?” Mari sat across from him. She was the only one left who dared to talk to him in front of Carlo.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“I’m plenty hungry,” Thoma said. “Just tired of eating this flesh from the pit.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Mari frowned. “You shouldn’t say things like that,” she said, ladling thick flesh-steaks onto her plate. “Of all the planets we might have landed on, we find ourselves on a world with an endless supply of food. We are very fortunate and very blessed. I know you’re upset with Carlo and the others, and you have a right to be. The expedition’s failure was not your fault, but you shouldn’t speak ill of our good fortune.” She nodded, gave him a half-hearted smile, and turned her attention to the heap of steaks on her plate.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“It’s just a shame.” Thoma stabbed a cube of flesh with his fork, started to put it in his mouth, then set it back on the plate. “We have no idea what’s out there. We’re chopping away at the planet and making a big mess of it, but what if there’s other food out there somewhere. What if there are forests or fields where we could plant the seeds we brought?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“It’s a fungus,” Mari said. “That’s what the scientists tell us. Like a giant mushroom. It is likely that it covers the entire surface of the world.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“Sure, that’s what they say,” Thoma replied. “They say whatever Carlo wants them to say, and you believe whatever he wants you to believe.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Mari shook her head and continued to eat, and Thoma knew he had said too much. Even his beloved aunt had her limits. He sighed and picked at his food. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Everyone ate and kept eating until Carlo was finished. When, at last, he pushed his chair back, handed his dirty plate to one of his servants, and rose, every fork, every spoon dropped, every voice stilled.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“Afternoon shift at the pit in half an hour,” he said. “We work to eat, we eat to live.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">And with that, he swept his cloak off his shoulders and headed out of the tent.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">* * *<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">The discovery happened during the afternoon shift. Thoma had resumed his position at the top of the pit, basket in his lap, while others worked on the levels beneath him. Carlo was on his platform, pacing, when two men at the bottom of the pit began shouting. It took Thoma a moment to figure out what they were saying.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“We broke through,” they said, echoing each other. “We broke through!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Thoma set his axe in his basket and leaned over the edge of the pit. The workers at the bottom of the pit were dancing, waving their arms over their heads. On the ground between them, they had carved a space into the planet-flesh and revealed some kind of a whitish surface beneath.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Thoma felt a hand on his shoulder, fingers grinding into his collarbone. “Go down there and see what it is,” Carlo said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Thoma set his basket aside and clambered down into the pit, careful not to lose his balance on all the moist flesh. Clusters of workers parted to let him pass. At the bottom of the pit, where the orange-pink sides rose up like great spongy walls, and the low-lying sun was obscured, he felt a terrible sense of claustrophobia. The two workers waved him over and led him to the center of the pit, where their latest excavation had, at last, sliced through the bottom of the planet-flesh. The surface beneath was coarse and pitted, and when Thoma stooped down to touch it, it felt warm against his fingers. It reminded him of an eggshell.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“Well, I guess we finally found the actual surface of the planet,” he said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“We did it,” one of the workers said, as if they had managed some great achievement. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“Yes, you did,” Thoma replied with a sigh. “I’d better go tell Carlo.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">He climbed back up the pit, every eye on him, some whispering as he passed, “What is it?” He didn’t respond but kept climbing all the way to the top, then waited a moment to catch his breath as Carlo loomed over him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“Well?” Carlo said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“They’ve dug through the flesh and found another layer,” Thoma said. “Some kind of a hard surface, like rock, maybe the actual surface of the planet.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Carlo nudged him out of the way and leaned over the edge. “I want everyone at the bottom,” he shouted. “Clear a space with your axes and chop through the layer of rock. We’ll see what lies beneath.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">All over the pit, workers traded glances, then began descending into the pit.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Carlo cuffed Thoma on the back of the head. “That means you, too,” he said. “Get down there and help them break through.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“What’s the point?” Thoma said. “It’s a layer of rock. Do we have to make this big ugly scar of a pit even uglier?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Carlo rounded on him slowly, teeth bared and bushy eyebrows drawn down. Thoma started to back away, but before he could move, Carlo lashed out, caught a fold of his shirt in one big meaty fist and drew him in close. “I will not have my authority challenged by you. Least of all, by you.” And with that he shoved Thoma away.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Thoma stumbled, flailing his arms, and fell. Carlo drew a foot back, as if he meant to kick him, then caught himself.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“This <i>big ugly scar of a pit</i>, as you call it, is how we live,” he said. “Now, get down there and help the others.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Thoma picked himself up, backed a safe distance away from Carlo and shook his head. “It’s not my fault what happened to your brother, you know. He climbed down into the canyon before I had secured the safety rope.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Carlo clenched his fists and came after him. “Don’t you speak about him.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Thoma backed away but bumped up against the edge of the viewing platform. “He was right, though. We can’t just keep digging into this pit. We have to go see what’s out there.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Carlo swung at him, but Thoma ducked and lurched to one side, and Carlo’s fist hit the metal rail. He swore loudly and grabbed his hand.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“Get out of my sight,” he cried. “Go back to your tent. I don’t want to see you the rest of the day. Not here, not at meal time.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Thoma turned and strode away, his heart hammering in his chest. He heard Carlo, still cursing under his breath, step back to the edge of the pit and resume shouting at the workers.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Thoma made his way to the storage tent and dropped his axe in the tool box. Mari saw him and stepped outside.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“What did you do?” she asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“Nothing.” He refused to look at her. “Told him the truth.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“Thoma,” she said with a gasp. “You mustn’t speak disrespectfully to Carlo. It will only make things worse for you.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“So I shouldn’t be honest? Mari, they’ve found another layer beneath the fungus, a layer of rock, and they mean to hack through it.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Mari considered this, then shrugged. “Well, it might be worth seeing what lies beneath.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“It’s all about that stupid pit,” Thoma said. “This whole stupid colony is a great big pit. <i>Work to eat, eat to live</i>. If that’s what you want, you can have it. All of you, you can have it. I want to see what’s out there.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Mari started to speak, but he waved her off and turned away. Instead of walking back to his tent, however, he retrieved his axe, slid it into the loop on his belt, and turned northward.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“Thoma, what are you doing?” she asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“Enjoy your pit,” he said. “Keep digging down until the whole stupid colony falls right into it.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">And with that, he walked away from her, away from the storage tent, away from the whole colony. Mari called after him, but he ignored her and kept walking. In the distance, he heard Carlo shouting at the workers, “Clear a larger space, so you can see more of the rock! Now, dig. Dig!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">The perimeter fence on the northern edge of the colony was comprised of tent poles set at irregular intervals along the edge of Fool’s Canyon. It had been built in haste, poles lashed together in X’s and set far enough apart that they were largely useless, a symbolic gesture and nothing more. As he approached the fence, Thoma spared a glance over his shoulder at the sad array of tents that comprised the pilgrim colony. Their ship, broken and impaled in the planet’s surface, rose behind it all like a gray bone protruding from a broken limb. The only pilgrim in sight was Carlo, gesturing wildly at the edge of the pit. Everyone else was working either inside a tent or inside the pit, and even Mari had retreated, unwilling to watch him return to his folly. Nobody saw Thoma walk right up to the perimeter fence and slip through.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">The wind in the canyon was gusting. It was wind that had been the problem, the strange gusts that came spilling over the northern lip of Fool’s Canyon and curled back up the southern face, forming a kind of sideways vortex. Carlo’s brother and two others in the expedition had begun their descent, using their work axes to dig into the spongy flesh, while the wind was gentle. Halfway down, a violent gust had come at them from below and picked up all three, sucking their axes out of the planet-flesh and flinging them up and out. Thoma had been tying the safety line to its poles when he heard the cries and crawled to the edge of the canyon in time to the see the three of them falling the remaining fifty feet to the canyon floor. He had then spent three agonizing hours retrieving the bodies, only to face a sea of blame and derision back in the colony.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Now, walking between the perimeter fence and the edge of the canyon, he was shocked to see the safety apparatus still in place, two long poles driven deep into the fleshy ground, a length of red nylon rope tied to both poles and dangling over the side. Nobody had bothered to remove it. Nobody had bothered to pull up the rope. Even when they had laid the perimeter fence, they had ignored the safety poles. Strange. He could only assume it had been left intentionally, perhaps by direct order of Carlo, as a permanent reminder of Thoma’s failure.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">He walked over to the poles and tested the knots. They were still tight. He grabbed the rope, wrapped a couple of loops around his forearm, and leaned over the edge of the canyon. Down and down it went, a hundred feet, the sheer face dizzying. He was shocked to see blood stains at the bottom, three great splatters, now turned brown, on the canyon floor. But, of course, they were still there. Who would have cleaned them up?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Behind him, distantly, even over the howling of the wind, he heard Carlo shouting at the workers, though he could no longer make out the words. The real fool was not in Fool’s Canyon. The real fool was the craggy-faced madman leaning over that vast ugly pit.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Thoma grabbed the rope in both hands, sat down near the edge of the canyon, and lowered himself over the side. When his feet were dangling, he wrapped one leg around the rope and pinched it between his feet. Then it was a fairly simple matter of letting gravity do its work.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Ten feet down, a gust of wind pulled him away from the canyon wall and spun him in mid-air. He shut his eyes and held on for dear life, as the wind shrieked, pulling up his shirt and whipping his hair around his face. Then the wind died down, and he slammed into the side of the canyon so hard it knocked his feet free of the rope. He kicked wildly, felt the bands of nylon, made sweaty by his hands, slipping through his grasp, and he cried out, but his voice was lost in the wind.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">He managed, after a frantic moment, to get one foot against the rope, snagging it between his toes. Then he wrapped his other leg around it and resumed his descent. And if he had fallen, if he had splattered himself on the canyon floor, would anyone have come looking for him? He doubted it. Would anyone have missed him? Mari perhaps, but no one else. Carlo might even have celebrated with an extra feast and speech.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Another gust of wind caught him near the bottom, but he heard it coming and braced himself. Again it pulled him away from the canyon wall and spun him in midair, but this time he didn’t close his eyes, though the blur of canyon, floor, and sky twisting around him made him sick to his stomach. When the wind died down, he saw the canyon wall coming toward him and managed to maintain his hold through the impact. From there, it was a short trip the rest of the way to the bottom. He slid onto the canyon floor and stepped away from the rope.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">The sound of the wind had a peculiar thunderous quality at the bottom of the canyon, like being inside a giant bass drum in a storm. And still he thought he could hear, however faintly, Carlo’s damned voice shouting into the pit, like a memory that wouldn’t be forgotten.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">He hurried across the canyon floor, careful to avoid the large blood stains, and made his way to the far side. Now, of course, he had no safety rope, only the axe in his belt, and after his trouble with the gusts of wind, he had no desire to attempt the climb. He stood for long minutes, undecided, wondering if he should go back. Only Mari would know that he had snuck through the perimeter fence, and she wouldn’t tell the others. It would be an easy thing, he knew, to sneak back into the colony, slip into his room inside the workers’ tent and pretend like none of this had happened.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">But then what? Back to work tomorrow in the pit, hacking away at rock and flesh under the ever-hateful glare of Carlo? No, he couldn’t go back to that. He had walked away from it, and he meant to keep walking away from it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">He looked left and right, gazing down the length of the canyon. On either side, it curved gradually to the north, out of sight. He chose a direction at random and resumed walking, following the course of the canyon to the east. He stumbled occasionally when the wind picked up, even falling once and landing painfully on the handle of his axe. After that, he pulled the axe out and carried it as he walked. On and on he went, as the canyon took a gentle curve to the north, and after what might have been an hour, he perceived that the ground was sloping upward, rising to meet the top of the canyon walls.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">He was well beyond the perimeter fence and quite a distance from the colony when he came out of the end of the canyon and found himself standing on a vast plain, the thin crust of the planet’s surface stretching out in all directions. As he scanned the horizon, he spied two low hills back to the northwest and headed toward them, hoping to get a better view from on top. He expected another long walk, but the first of the hills proved to be much closer than he had guessed. It was maybe fifty feet across, a strangely symmetrical bump on the otherwise flat landscape, as tall as it was wide, and on its surface, there was no crust, only the smooth, orange-red planet-flesh, as if it had been swept clean.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">He climbed to the top of the hill with considerable effort, struggling for purchase on the moist flesh. Though he considered using the axe to chop handholds for himself, he decided against it; it reminded too much of working in the pit. Once at the top, he turned back in the direction of Fool’s Canyon and thought he could see a hint of the perimeter fence, gleaming in the low sunlight, and perhaps even the tops of colony tents beyond, though it might have been a trick of the light. Thoma marveled at how happy he felt to be away from it all, to be away from the pit which had become everything, to be so far from the incessant hoarse shouting of Carlo. He had a vision of building a place for himself here atop this hill, though he wasn’t sure what he would build it from, and maybe, in time, other pilgrims would leave the colony, disgusted by the pointless grind of life there, and they would come to live with him. Theirs would be a colony devoted to discovery, to knowing the world, not carving it like meat from bones. And he saw himself, a benevolent and brave leader, never shouting, guiding his new colony into a better future.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">Yes, he could see it clearly. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">And then the ground shifted beneath him, and his feet were pulled out from under him. He fell on his side, dropping his axe in the process, which slid out of reach. He grabbed at the slick ground, but his fumbling fingers couldn’t take hold, and the ground moving beneath him dragged him down.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">He looked to the top of the hill and saw that it had split open from end to end, drawing back on both sides to reveal a black and shiny surface beneath, like some giant, polished stone. And a sound came to him then, carried on the wind, the sound of voices, not just Carlo this time, but many voices, dozens or hundreds, perhaps every pilgrim on Crassos, all screaming.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">He turned toward the village and saw a geyser of dark crimson gushing hundreds of feet into the air, like blood from a rent artery. At last the workers had chopped their way through the eggshell surface beneath the soft flesh, hacking away with ruthless determination as Carlo urged them on.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">“It’s not a planet,” Thoma whispered.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">The eye, the great black eye, wet and shining, rolled in its socket above him, as blood from the pit gushed three hundred, four hundred feet into the air. And the world--not a planet but a living creature--shuddered beneath him, as the fountain of blood swept over the colony, washing it all away like fleas from a dog’s back.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%;">And the wind in the canyon, like a voice, howled and howled.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Jeffrey Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01084230741410525661noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2218862296685637151.post-26412836365825570962017-02-05T20:34:00.000-08:002017-02-05T20:37:28.218-08:00The Reappearance of Long-Lost Short Stories: Cakey and the RubesOne of my more well-reviewed novels is a post-apocalyptic circus story called <i><a href="http://www.jeffreyaaronmiller.com/jeffrey-aaron-miller-novels/shadows-of-tockland/">Shadows of Tockland</a></i>. Before it was a novel, however, it was a short story I wrote in 2009. Now, the sad thing about this particular short story is that it was slated to appear in a circus-themed magazine called <i>Sideshow Fables</i>, but the magazine went defunct shortly before the issue with this story appeared. Consequently, although I sold it, nobody ever read it. However, a modified version of this story appears as an incident in the novel.<br />
<br />
So without further ado, here is the original short story:<br />
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Cakey and the Rubes<o:p></o:p></div>
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By <o:p></o:p></div>
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Jeffrey Aaron Miller<o:p></o:p></div>
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The knife wobbled as it spun, and Cakey the Clown knew he was going to miss the catch. He fought the instinct to reach for the straying blade. He had three others in the air and couldn’t afford to catch one at the expense of the others. And if it did fall, the crowd would love it. Nothing the rubes liked better than danger. He let it go. The handle of the knife brushed the tip of his middle finger and headed for the ground.<o:p></o:p></div>
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It was a one in a million shot. With the sound of Telly tumbling head over heels behind him, and Karl making rude noises at the women in the front row, Cakey felt the blade of the throwing knife pierce the thick leather of his oversized shoe and impale itself in his foot. It felt like an electrical jolt running up his leg. Then came a burst of agony, as if he had plunged his foot into ice cold water. He lost all of the knives. They bounced and clattered on the stage.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Ladies and gentlemen,” Telly said, finishing a backward somersault and landing on one foot. He was as yet unaware of the tragedy unfolding beside him. “The All-American Clown Crew Revue!”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Cakey bit back a scream. His first concern was for the rubes. He glanced up at the crowd to gauge their reaction. A sea of scabby faces, and all eyes on him. Some gaped, wide-eyed, in shock, but quite a few shook with excitement, thumping their knees with their fists. One young boy laughed so hard, he fell out of his chair. All of them had patchy hair, missing teeth, dirty faces, threadbare clothes, but they had paid their pennies. That was all that mattered.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Cakey saw the new kid, Daniel, standing in the back corner, covering his mouth with both hands. Baptism by fire. And then Cakey’s leg crumbled, and he went down. His vision dimmed, but he saw a puddle of blood on the stage, and Annabelle rushing to his side. Telly strode to the edge of the stage, raised himself up straight and tall, all four feet of him, and waved his top hat in the air.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“That will have to conclude tonight’s performance, ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “We hope you have been duly entertained.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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And the last sound Cakey heard before he passed out was a symphony of boos and hisses.<o:p></o:p></div>
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* * *<o:p></o:p></div>
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Daniel tried to keep out of the way. He took the chair in the back corner of the trailer behind the sink. Cakey had his foot up on the table, a mug of some frothy brew in his hand, while Annabelle tended to his foot. The knife had pierced right between his first and second toe, but she kept saying it looked worse than it was as she washed and cleaned it.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Well, kid, that’s your first taste of circus life,” Telly said. He sat at the dressing table, removing the grease paint from his face with a rough hunk of a sponge. “What do you think?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“I don’t know,” Daniel said. “Is it always like that?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“I had to call it off early,” Telly said. He slipped the rainbow-colored wig off his head and set it on a wooden stand beside the mirror. “Other than that, yeah, that’s pretty much how it goes.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Karl, who stood near the door of the trailer folding up his costume, let out a great guffaw. “The rubes love it when we get hurt.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Daniel didn’t like the look of Karl, a great big barrel of a man with a thick moustache and a broad face, and he liked his act even less. Karl performed as Touches the Clown, and his whole shtick consisted of making inappropriate comments and rude noises at the audience. His makeup was a mess, and he had done a sloppy job of removing it. He still had streaks of white by each ear and along his neck.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“The danger is part of the act, kid,” Cakey said, wincing as Annabelle wound a makeshift bandage around his foot. “They eat it up.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Of all the clowns in the show, Cakey impressed Daniel the most. He carried himself with authority, and the makeup on his face, which he had not yet bothered to remove, looked as smooth as a layer of acrylic paint.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“What did you expect it to be like?” Telly asked, rising from the makeup table and patting down his face with a washcloth.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“I don’t know,” Daniel said. “More like I read about in the history books, I guess. Circus clowns are supposed to be silly and have fun and make people laugh.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“This ain’t a history book,” Cakey said. He waved his hands at Daniel and turned to Telly. “Where’d you pick up this kid?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Back in Winslow,” Telly said, unbuttoning his coat. “Don’t worry about it, Cakey. Go easy on him.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“<i>History books</i>, he says,” Cakey replied with a look of disgust.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Daniel, feeling a flush creeping up his cheeks, averted his gaze.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“He’ll be fine,” Telly said, tossing his coat onto a stool and flopping down on a couch. “I got his shtick all worked out. Disturby the Clown, we’ll call him, and his whole thing will be that he’s cuckoo. That way, he can be the butt of the gags, and if the audience ain’t having a good time, he can really ham it up, make ‘em worry, see?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Daniel didn’t like the sound of any of that. He could juggle a bit and do some acrobatics, but being the butt of gags didn’t sound like fun. He envisioned being slapped and kicked and knocked around while all the diseased townsfolk laughed and clapped. No, that was not what he had signed up for, not at all.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“They’re sick,” he said. He was only thinking out loud and didn’t mean to be overheard. “They’re all sick.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Who, us or the rubes?” Cakey asked.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“The rubes,” Daniel replied, with the briefest of hesitations. “They’re sick, and they’re entertained by sickness.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Karl laughed and slapped his enormous belly with both hands. Annabelle, done wrapping Cakey’s foot, rose and turned to Daniel, smiling sympathetically. She performed as Bubbles the Clown and was the straight man. She knocked the other clowns around, threw pies in their faces and berated them. Offstage, however, she was soft-spoken and withdrawn, and beneath the makeup she had a pretty, apple-cheeked face.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Every town’s got its sickness,” she said, reaching over and patting Daniel on the knee. “That’s how the world is these days. Lots of diseases.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“You mean, like, <i>real</i> diseases?” Daniel said. “I was speaking sort of metaphorical.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Annabelle nodded. “Didn’t you see all the sores on the people? Lots of places are like that.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Don’t any of you ever get sick?” Daniel asked. “Going from town to town with all these diseased people?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“The risk goes with the job,” Cakey said. “You ask a lot of stupid questions, kid.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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The comment stung, and Daniel swallowed a sudden lump in his throat. “But, ain’t any of you ever died from catching something?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Cakey waved his hand in a great big circle over his head. “Nobody in here has ever died,” he said. “Look, you got any other questions? Ask them now and then shut up for a while, would you?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Go easy on him,” Telly said. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Cakey ignored Telly. He carefully set his bandaged foot on the floor and leaned forward, resting both arms on the tabletop. “Any more questions, kid?” he said, leaning forward and glaring at Daniel. “Get them all out of your system.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Daniel shrugged, but Cakey kept right on staring. “Er…I did sorta wonder a few things, I guess.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Cakey made a rolling gesturing with the one of his hands.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Well, I did sort of wonder why they all keep calling you by your stage name,” Daniel said. “Touches is Karl offstage, and Bubbles is Annabelle, but they all keep on calling you Cakey.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Karl laughed again and stamped one foot. “Kid, Cakey don’t go offstage. He’s a clown day and night, on stage, in the trailer, or takin’ a crap in a ditch by the side of the road.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Cakey smiled at this and grabbed the lapels of his clown costume. “That’s right. Part of my shtick used to be juggling these little birthday cakes. I could keep ‘em all in the air without the candles going out. That’s where the name comes from. But the rubes don’t go in for that sort of cute stuff anymore.” He shrugged. “Anyway, I kept right on being Cakey because that’s who I am. What’s the point of being two people?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Is that why you haven’t taken off your makeup?” Daniel asked.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Cakey’s smile died. “It ain’t makeup,” he replied, running a gloved finger down the side of his face from temple to chin. None of the colors smeared. Smooth as acrylic paint, his white face, the great blood-red smile, and the big blue eyebrows.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“It’s all a tattoo?” Daniel asked. His awe for Cakey had grown so much, he felt dizzy with it.<o:p></o:p></div>
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But Cakey sneered at him and turned away. “This kid ain’t gonna make it in the Clown Crew,” he said out of the side of his mouth.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“I think he’ll be just fine,” Annabelle said, patting Daniel on top of the head. “Give him some time, and he’ll toughen up.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“He won’t,” Cakey said, taking a big swig from his mug. “He’s a soft little boy. Telly, send him home to Mama.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“The kid stays for now,” Telly said. He had picked up a couple of small wood blocks from a table near at hand and idly juggled them as he spoke. “He needs time to prove himself. If he turns out to be a wash, we’ll toss him. No big deal.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“I won’t turn out to be a wash,” Daniel said. “I swear.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“The rubes like danger,” Cakey said, finishing off his drink and slamming the mug down on the table. “They like it when we get hurt. They like it when we act crazy. They want deranged stuff. That’s what they want these days. It don’t matter what you read in a history book. Times have changed. Can you handle that, kid?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Daniel took a deep breath. The honest answer was that he didn’t think so. He wanted to be silly and fun, not deranged and dangerous. But he couldn’t bring himself to disappoint Cakey, so he shrugged and said, “I guess so. Sure.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“<i>Sure</i>, he says,” Cakey replied with a shake of his head. Karl laughed. “You’ll disappoint. I can tell.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“He won’t,” Annabelle disagreed, giving Daniel another pat on the head.<o:p></o:p></div>
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A noise arose from outside. Voices and the sound of bodies shuffling through high grass. Telly lurched to his feet, losing the blocks, which bounced off his shoulders onto the couch. Karl fell into a defensive posture, fists raised, as if he thought invisible people had entered the room to attack them. Annabelle rushed over to the trailer’s single window. Cakey, however, didn’t move, a strange little smile on his face.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“What’s that?” Daniel asked. Angry voices, drunken voices. His heart pounded in his chest, and he had to fight an urge to dive under the table.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Rubes,” Telly said, as he ran over to a prop trunk in the corner and started rooting around. “Karl, where’s my shillelagh?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“It’s in there,” Karl said. “Keep looking.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Telly dug down to the bottom of the trunk and, being so short, nearly fell in. He caught himself on the metal lip and came up with a shout of joy, wielding what appeared to be a walking stick. The shillelagh was covered in knots and tapered to a point on one end. Telly took a few practice swings with it and turned to Karl.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“If they come to the door,” he said, “let ‘em in.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Karl grinned. “Sure thing, boss. I’ll even give you the first crack.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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The rubes outside were close enough now to make out what they were saying. One particularly loud individual, his deep voice booming but his words slurred, shouted, “We never got our money’s worth!”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Yeah, we’s ripped off,” cried another.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Send them clowns out here and give us our money’s worth,” a third said. “We paid for an hour of clownin’, and we only got twenty minutes.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“What’s happening?” Daniel asked, hating the tremor in his voice. He had hunkered down in his chair as low as he could go and drawn his knees up to his chest.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Sometimes the rubes don’t pay us enough, and we gotta bust heads,” Telly said, taking another swing with his shillelagh. “Other times, they don’t think we entertained ‘em enough, and they try to bust ours.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“It’s another part of the job, kid,” Cakey said. He had yet to get up from his seat. “Let me guess, you don’t like this part either?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“No, not really,” Daniel said.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Annabelle pulled back the curtain and peeked outside. She turned back around, eyes wide, and said, “Whole bunch of them surrounding the trailer. Drunk or sick or both.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Does it look like they mean to attack?” Telly asked.<o:p></o:p></div>
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As if in answer, they heard a cry go up from the crowd, and something thumped against the trailer’s single door.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Give us what we paid for,” someone shouted. “Or give us our money back!”<o:p></o:p></div>
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More pounding on the door. Shouts and laughter came from all sides. Telly took his place in front of the door and raised the shillelagh high up over his head.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Open the door and let the rubes in,” Telly said.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Karl smiled, nodded, and opened the door. A grizzled-looking drunk with a long black beard stood on the step, a long oozing sore on his forehead and a rheumy look in his eyes. He had a rock clutched in one meaty fist, and he drew his arm back to throw it.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Clowns,” he spat.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Telly brought the shillelagh down with a deep and satisfied cry, and it smacked the drunk right on the mouth. A loud crack, a burst of blood, and the drunk, eyes crossing, fell backward.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Nice to meet you,” Telly said.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The drunk landed on the grass with a groan, and an immediate cry of outrage went up from the crowd. Karl slammed the door shut and turned to Telly, laughing.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Beautiful,” he said, clapping the much smaller man on the shoulder.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“But, of course,” Telly said with a bow. “One rube down, 99 to go.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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The outcry of the rubes became the sound of all of them rushing the trailer. Annabelle reached over to the dresser and picked up a jar of cold cream and held it in her hands. Telly raised his weapon for another blow. And, now, at last, Cakey rose, favoring his wounded foot, and turned toward the window, his empty mug dangling from one hand. Daniel, wanting nothing more in all the world than to sink into the ground and out of sight, nevertheless made himself stand up. He intended to find a weapon and join the others, but it took all his effort just to stay on his feet, and his hands clutched desperately at the rim of the nearby sink.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Brace yourselves,” Telly said.<o:p></o:p></div>
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On all sides, bodies smacked into the walls, and the whole trailer rocked. Daniel almost went down, but his iron grip on the sink kept him up. Cakey winced as he was forced to put weight on his bandaged foot.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Kill the clowns,” one of the rubes screamed. “They got Reginald! Knocked his teeth out! Kill the clowns!”<o:p></o:p></div>
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The crowd began rocking the trailer, and the axles squealed in protest. Annabelle stumbled into the dresser. A coat rack fell with a clatter.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Open it,” Telly said.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Karl opened the door, and a sea of leering, diseased faces peered in. Bodies were pressed up against the side of the trailer in a heap. Dirty faces, stained clothing, toothless mouths. Arms reached through the open door, fingers clawing along the frame. Telly took a step back to avoid the grasping hands and began swinging away. The shillelagh thumped off arms, chests, necks, faces, and with each blow, the crowd’s frenzy intensified.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Karl, help,” Telly said.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Karl had ducked behind the door to avoid the hands, but he stepped out into the open now and raised both fists. He had big hands, rough knuckles.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Come get your money’s worth, rubes,” he said, and began punching wildly into the crowd.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Telly and Karl timed their blows to avoid each other, moving like some kind of strange clockwork machine. First shillelagh, then fist, then shillelagh, then fist. Bodies thrashed, voices cried out.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“You need more help?” Cakey asked from his place beside the table.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Wait your turn,” Telly said.<o:p></o:p></div>
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And then one of the rubes had Karl. His caught the collar of his shirt in his hand and drew him to the door. Other hands reached for him, grabbing hair, moustache, grabbing flesh. Annabelle cocked her arm back to throw the jar of cold cream, but Karl was blocking her view. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The trailer’s single window shattered, and glass rained down onto the couch. Annabelle screamed.<o:p></o:p></div>
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A body lunged through the broken window, a long, lanky old man with wild eyes and scabby lips. Annabelle was closest to him, and she heaved the jar at his head. It struck him on the forehead and bounced away, but he scarcely noticed. He reached for her with both hands.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Want our money back,” he said in a voice as thick as sand.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Annabelle fell back against the dresser to avoid him. And now Cakey made his move. He spun on his good foot, and, in one graceful pirouette, brought the empty mug up and around, smacking the old man across the nose. Blood burst from one nostril, but the old man only grinned, showing three crooked teeth.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Karl, meanwhile, despite his considerable bulk, was being pulled into the crowd. He kept punching with one hand, but his other hand was caught. Telly spun his shillelagh around, pointed end first, and began jabbing it through the narrow space between Karl’s legs. Rubes cried out in pain, and some fell back, but always more moved up to replace them.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“They’re gonna take me,” Karl said. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“Nah, they ain’t,” Telly said, speaking through clenched teeth. The end of his shillelagh sank into a foot with a wet <i>thunk</i>.<o:p></o:p></div>
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And Daniel, still clutching the sink with both hands, kept trying to get his feet to move. He had no weapon, and the only thing near at hand was a dirty ceramic bowl floating in murky water. The old man in the window grabbed a handful of Cakey’s orange hair and gave it an almighty tug. It was not a wig. Cakey snarled in pain and drove the mug into the old man’s face again and again.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“They got me,” Karl cried again. He was in among them now, one leg and one arm poking out of the sea of rubes. They slapped at him, clawed at him, screamed in his face, and, all the while, Telly jabbed away.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Cakey smashed his mug into the old man’s face until it broke into pieces, but the old man had a firm hold of his air and was trying to drag him to the window. Annabelle picked up a wooden wig stand and threw it at the attacker, but it bounced away without effect. The old man’s free hand shot up and snagged her wrist and drew it toward his mouth.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Money back,” he said in a voice filled with blood and sickness. He drew her hand into his mouth and bit down, and she howled in pain.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Damned rubes,” Cakey said.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Daniel felt something wet in his hands and glanced down. The bowl. He had grabbed the bowl out of the sink without realizing it. Dirty water dripped onto the dusty floor of the trailer. The fear worming in his gut melted into a strange and steely cold.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Karl had disappeared into the crowd. Daniel heard him yelling, heard rubes crying out in pain, but he was gone. Telly was standing in the open doorway now, swinging the shillelagh for all he was worth. Rubes fell left and right with smashed teeth, busted lips, broken noses.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Back, you rubes, back,” Telly said. And then one of them reached out and snatched the shillelagh and pulled it from his grasp.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Meanwhile at the window, the old man, surprisingly strong for one so thin, managed to pull Cakey off his feet. He still had Annabelle’s hand in his mouth, shaking his head back and forth like a rabid dog trying to rend flesh.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Daniel took a deep breath, held it a moment, and unleashed it in a howl of fear and anger. He leaped away from the sink, kicked a chair out of his way, and dove for the old man. At the last second, the old man released Annabelle’s hand and turned to him, a look of almost-concern on his face. Then Daniel brought the edge of the ceramic bowl down against his face with his full weight behind it.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The wet and nasty sound of the impact made a strange harmony with the almost musical shattering of the bowl, and the old man went limp. Daniel fell against him, then slid off onto the arm of the couch.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“That’s for you, rube,” he said, landing in a heap among shards of glass.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Cakey picked himself up, grunting in pain. The bandage on his foot was soaked with blood, but he grabbed the old man by the hair and pushed him out of the window into the waiting crowd.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“There’s your money back,” he cried, shaking a fist at them.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Daniel turned to the door. Telly was picking up whatever was near at hand and flinging it at the rubes. His top hat, shoes, a makeup brush, a small pillow, a stool. One of the rubes had his shillelagh and swung it at him but missed. Others reached for him. Daniel examined the bowl in his hands. It had shattered right down the middle, leaving a jagged edge. Good enough. He ran for the door.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Telly, move,” he said.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Telly glanced over his shoulder, saw him coming, and tumbled out of the way. Daniel grabbed the bowl in both hands, thrust it out in front of him, and charged the crowd. Half a dozen bodies were crushed together in the open doorway. They saw him coming and seemed taken aback. The one with the shillelagh lifted it, then seemed to reconsider and stepped back. Daniel charged right into their midst and drove the jagged edge of the bowl into the mass of diseased faces.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Howls of pain, and the shillelagh fell to the ground. The bowl broke into fragments, and blood spurted. Rubes fell back from the door, one of them clutching his neck.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Kill the rubes,” Daniel screamed. He threw the pieces of the bowl into the crowd, then stooped and picked up the shillelagh. “Kill every dirty rube!”<o:p></o:p></div>
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He unleashed his full fury on the few still standing in the doorway, bringing the shillelagh down again and again, aiming for eyes, noses, smashing someone’s fingers against the doorjamb.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Here’s your money back,” he cried, echoing Cakey. “Here’s your money back, your filthy rubes!”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Something in his demeanor broke through the fog of sickness and alcohol. The rubes drew back from the door, clutching bruised faces and bleeding noses. The crowd parted right down the middle. But Daniel kept on swinging, hitting the door, the frame, the floor, hitting nothing at all.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“That one’s insane,” one of the rubes said. “Get away from him.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Dirty rubes,” Daniel howl. “Come get what you paid for!”<o:p></o:p></div>
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He took a last great swing, hit the door, and snapped the shillelagh in two. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The rubes didn’t seem to notice that the weapon was broken. Many of them were already fleeing, others backing away, some crawling around on the ground and moaning. Karl reappeared, bloody lip and black eye, and stumbled into the trailer. Daniel moved out of his way, but his whole body felt electric. He spun wildly, swinging his hands, looking for someone to hit. Cakey and Annabelle gaped at him from their place beside the broken window.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“They’re leaving, kid,” Telly said, picking up the broken pieces of his shillelagh. “Hey, kid, the rubes are leaving.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Karl finally stepped over to him and grabbed his wrists.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Kid, it’s over,” he said. “We scared ‘em off.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Daniel gave a last great cry then broke into a sob, but he fought back the tears. He didn’t want to cry. He wanted to smash someone in the face. Karl tried to draw him into an embrace, but Daniel slipped out of his grasp and stumbled across the room, collapsing into his seat beside the sink.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Karl, get the engine started and get us out of here,” Telly said, pushing the door closed with his shoulder. “Let’s head up the road a piece before we stop for the night. I don’t think those rubes will come back, but it’s better not to risk it.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Karl nodded and crossed the room, stepping around Cakey and Annabelle, over the toppled chair and coat rack, pausing beside Daniel long enough to give him a worried look. Then he passed through a heavy curtain. The trailer was one of three, all connected in a line to the hitch of an old modified Hummer. As Annabelle picked up bits of broken glass, and Telly stuffed the pieces of his shillelagh back into the trunk, Daniel sat and trembled. After a moment, the engine of the Hummer roared to life. A few rubes remained. Daniel heard them moaning in pain outside, but the crowd had gone.<o:p></o:p></div>
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A shadow fell over him. He glanced up. Cakey was standing there, grinning broadly. Daniel returned the look.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“You did good, kid,” he said. <o:p></o:p></div>
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He thrust his hand out, and Daniel grasped it.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“I’m real proud of you,” Cakey said.<o:p></o:p></div>
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And Daniel, despite his trembling limbs and racing heart, despite the little knot of molten lead in his belly, burst out laughing. He wanted to leap up and hug Cakey and hug Annabelle, lift Telly onto his shoulders and dance around the room.</div>
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“Welcome to the circus,” Cakey said, and laughed along with him.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br />Jeffrey Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01084230741410525661noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2218862296685637151.post-49823363065037222972017-02-05T01:42:00.003-08:002017-02-05T02:17:15.227-08:00The Reappearance of Long-Lost Short Stories: Grandfather's RoomBack in 2009, a few years before I published my first novel (<a href="http://www.simonandschuster.com/search/books/Author-Jeffrey-Aaron-Miller/Category-Fiction/Available-For-Sale-Now/_/N-1z111g2Zg1hZpgz/Ne-pgt">Mary of the Aether, available from Simon & Schuster</a>), I sat down to relearn how to write. Over the course of about six months, I churned out 22 short stories. Many of them wound up getting published in various places, but some of the magazines and websites that published my stories have since gone under. I thought it might be interesting to post a few of those stories here on my blog just for toots and giggles. We'll start with this weird little tale. Enjoy.<br />
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Grandfather’s Room<o:p></o:p></div>
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By<o:p></o:p></div>
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Jeffrey Aaron Miller<o:p></o:p><br />
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Billy’s fingers crept like spider’s legs over the coarse, pitted surface of the door, tracing the cracks and crevices of many chipped layers of paint, inching toward the big brass knob. The clatter of dishes in the kitchen sink echoed down the hall.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Grandpa,” he whispered, pressing his ear to the door. “Can you hear me?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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At first, silence. Then he heard the creak of bed springs, the thud of feet on the hardwood floor.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“I can hear you,” his grandfather said, voice muffled by the heavy door “You be careful you don’t get in trouble.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“I won’t get in trouble,” Billy said, even as one finger brushed the edge of the knob. “How are you feeling today?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Not so hot.” He heard his grandfather fumbling around on his nightstand, then the click of a lamp, and a hint of light shone around the edges of the door. “Head’s all fuzzy. Throat feels like it’s full of sand.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“I’m sorry you’re still sick, Grandpa,” Billy said.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“It’s not your fault.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Can I get you anything?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“No, you sure can’t,” Grandpa said before dissolving into a fit of coughing. “Billy, did you know I fought in the war?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Yes,” Billy replied.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Helluva way for a veteran to wind up, isn’t it?” Grandpa sighed. “But what can you do? Wish I could see your face, kiddo.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Billy had hold of the doorknob now. It felt ice cold against his palm. “Maybe you can.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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A shadow fell over him then, and he became aware of the unpleasant, musty smell of his mother’s perfume. He let go of the doorknob and lurched backward, but she descended upon him like a mountain of wrath.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“I was only talking,” Billy protested, as she snagged his wrist.<o:p></o:p></div>
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She was an imposing woman, pale, obese, hair pulled into a tight bun on the back of the head. Her eyes, perpetually bloodshot, rested in the shadow of a high forehead, beneath unkempt eyebrows.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“You lie,” she said in a voice as tight as a coiled spring. “I saw you.” Her grip on his wrist tightened. “How many times have I told you, you cannot go into grandfather’s room? How many?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“I don’t know,” Billy squeaked.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“No, you don’t know, because you’ve lost count,” she said, grinding his wrist bones together. “So let it me say it again. You cannot go into grandfather’s room. He is very sick. Do you want to get sick, too?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“No, ma’am,” Billy said.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Then stay away from the door.” She had bright patches of red high on her cheeks and forehead. Her free hand came up, and he expected a slap. Instead, she merely cuffed him on the shoulder. “Go and watch your TV show, and don’t let me catch you trying to open that door again.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Yes, ma’am.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
She released her grip on his wrist, and he slunk past her. When he was a few feet away, thinking he was safe, he stood up, but she delivered a last surprise kick to his tailbone. Billy yelped, grabbed his backside, and stumbled into the living room.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
“That’ll help you remember,” she said.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
In the living room, the television was on, gray light dancing on the walls, but the volume had been turned down. Billy squatted in front of the screen, sulking. His mother stepped up behind him, and he braced himself for another kick. Instead, she patted him on top of the head and mussed his hair.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
“I’m not trying to be mean,” she said. “I’m only trying to keep you safe. Your grandfather is very, very sick, and you could catch what he has if you go around him.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
“I know, Mom,” Billy said. “You already told me that a whole bunch of times.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
“Alright, then.” She patted his head one more time, ungently. “You stay out of that room. Next time, there will be real consequences. Do you understand me?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
“Yes.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
She sighed, turned, and strode back into the kitchen, her fat, slippered feet thumping loudly on the floor. Billy waited until he heard the clank of dishes again, then reached forward and turned up the volume on the television.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
It was all so unfair. He couldn’t even look at his own grandfather, and the poor old man was cooped up in his room day and night like some kind of criminal. Billy could barely stand thinking about it, and TV didn’t make him feel any better. An old black-and-white sitcom was on. A father in his armchair, newspaper in hand, dispensing sage advice to his two rascally children. Billy had seen the show before, this very episode, in fact, many times, so he knew what the next scene would be before the camera cut away. Suddenly, there was grandpa, sitting in a gray room in a gray rocking chair. He had a white beard, a black pipe between his teeth, and a gray porkpie hat on his head, and the children stood beside him, a boy and a girl. Yes, stood beside him in the very same room, looking right at him as he told them a story. That was the way it worked in normal families. Normal families did not imprison sick relatives in their bedrooms.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
Watching the show made Billy burn with the indignity of it all. And all the while, his mother hummed a little song to herself as she finished washing the dishes, like a woman who hadn’t a care in the world. He decided it was better not to think about it, so he changed the channel, from the gray grandfather to a gray cartoon rabbit prancing in a forest, and found a more comfortable position on the floor. The clank of dishes in the kitchen had become the whisking sound of the broom. As for the cartoon, Billy had seen it, as well. It seemed like there was nothing new on TV these days, only things he had already seen.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
“Mom,” he called. “Can I have a soda pop?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
Her broom stilled. “No, if you want a drink, you can have a glass of water.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
“I don’t want a glass of water,” Billy said. “I don’t like water. It tastes bad.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
“Oh, it does not.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
He heard her feet stomping across the kitchen, the cupboard door banging against the wall, the sound of water from the faucet, and wished he had kept his mouth shut. Why couldn’t he for once have the thing he wanted? Indignity on top of indignity. Mother came into the living room, a tall glass of tap water in her hand.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
“Take it,” she said.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
“I don’t like tap water,” he said. “It tastes dirty.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
“There is nothing wrong with it,” she said. “You don’t need to be guzzling soda pop all the time. The sugar is only going to make you crazy. Take it.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
She grabbed his hand and pressed the glass against his palm, and he, reluctant but not wanting to get smacked, curled his fingers around it. He held it, waiting for her to leave the room, but she lingered, her arms crossed beneath her vast bosom. Billy sighed and took a sip of the water. It tasted sour, like someone had melted an onion in it, if such a thing were possible. The one sip seemed to satisfy his mother, however, and she returned to the kitchen and to her sweeping. As soon as she was out of sight, Billy set the glass of water on the floor and turned his attention back to the cartoon.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
“You drink that water,” his mother said, as if somehow she had seen him set it down. “I expect to find an empty glass when I come back in there.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
Billy sighed and picked up the glass, holding it in front of his face, hating that his desire for a soda pop had turned into another ordeal. Cloudy water in a spotless glass. No, he couldn’t bring himself to drink it, but mother would get upset if he didn’t. He had to dispose of it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
He left the volume up on the TV, hoping the sounds of the wise-cracking gray bunny would mask his own, and rose. He had his shoes on, but he slipped them off one at a time and headed for the hallway. The bathroom door was at the end, past grandfather’s room, past his own room, and he made his way toward it in a crouch, casting furtive glances over his shoulder, like a mouse evading the ever-hungry house cat. As he went, he cradled the glass against his chest, so she wouldn’t see it if she happened to step into the living room to check on him. But the water sloshed and spilled, some onto his shirt, some onto his socks, and a few fat drops fell right in the middle of the hallway. He wiped up the drops with his heel and kept going. As he neared grandfather’s bedroom door, he gave it a wide berth.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
“Billy!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
He nearly dropped the glass of water, and his socks slipped, but he caught himself before he fell. Grandfather sounded close, as if he were just on the other side of the door. Still, Billy almost kept walking, the pain in his wrist and tailbone an all-too-present reminder of what would happen if he got caught, but he couldn’t do it. He listened for a moment, heard the broom still sweeping the kitchen floor, then set the glass of water down and crept to the door.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
“Grandpa,” he whispered. “Are you okay?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
“No,” his grandfather said, sounding hoarse. “Billy, what is that you’ve got there beside you?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
Billy glanced down at the glass. How could grandfather know about that? Could he see it somehow? Maybe he had heard it, the soft clunk when Billy set it on the floor. “Just a glass of water. Gross water from the sink. Grandpa, are you getting worse? What’s happening?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
“Billy.” The door creaked, as if the old man leaned his weight against it. “You shouldn’t drink water from the faucet. Never ever.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
Billy felt a little shiver of fear. He glanced toward the living room and saw a shadow moving in the open archway into the kitchen. The sound of the broom had stilled. Billy gasped, stumbled away from grandfather’s bedroom door and raced down the hallway. Without looking back, he flung himself into the bathroom and kicked the door shut, slamming it so hard that the mirror above the bathroom sink rattled in its frame.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
“Billy!” his Mother shouted, her voice echoing down the hallway. “Don’t you slam doors in this house! What are you doing?” He heard her feet pounding across the living room.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
“Just using the bathroom, Mom,” he called. “Sorry, I had to go real bad.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
Feet thundered down the hall. “That is no excuse.” She stopped, made an annoyed grunt. “Oh, for crying out loud, you left your glass of water sitting right here on the floor. What is the matter with you?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
Billy swallowed hard, tasting something bitter in the back of his throat. “Yeah, I guess I did.” He stepped up to the bathroom door and leaned his shoulder against it. It was a purely symbolic gesture. He had no hope of stopping her if she wanted to force her way in. “I didn’t want to bring it in the bathroom with me. Sorry.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
She was quiet for a moment. Maybe crouching down, getting ready to make a bull charge toward the bathroom and smash down the door? He could see that. But no, she merely said, “I’m going back to the kitchen. When you get out, you drink this water. And no more slamming doors. Got it?” and retreated back down the hall.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
“Got it, Mom,” he called after her.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
He pressed his ear to the door and waited until he heard the whisking of the broom. Then he opened the bathroom door, peeked around the edge to make sure the hallway was clear, and stepped out. She had moved the glass, sliding it away from grandfather’s bedroom door and closer to the bathroom. Billy eased into the hallway, moving as quietly as possible, always listening for the sound of the broom. He stooped down and grabbed the water glass in passing, then started back to the living room, intent on immersing himself back into the world of the cartoon bunny, thereby avoiding trouble the rest of the day.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
But that voice. Grandfather said his name again as he passed the bedroom door, and again Billy almost kept going. It would have been the smart thing to do, but his mother had never accused him of being smart. Billy stopped in his tracks and set the glass of water down beside him.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
He listened for the broom, heard it, and leaned in close to the door. “Grandpa, I’m here.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
“Billy, I can’t take it anymore,” he replied, his voice quaking with either fear or sickness, or both. “I can’t stand being in this room. I’m going out of my mind.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
“I know,” Billy said. “What do I do?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
But his grandfather merely groaned. Billy heard the creak of bedsprings, the rustling of blankets, as if the old man were tossing and turning. Something fell from the nightstand and shattered on the floor.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
“It’s not right,” Grandpa moaned. “I shouldn’t be treated this way. I fought in the war. It’s not right.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
“Grandpa, I would open the door and let you out, but Mom will smack me if I do.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
The pace of sweeping in the kitchen became more frantic. She had to be sweeping a spotless floor by now, but still she kept on with the broom, as if she meant to brush away the linoleum itself and work her way into the concrete foundation.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
“I know she hits you,” Grandpa said. He got quiet for a moment, and the rustling of blankets stilled. Billy didn’t know what to say, so he reached for his glass, intending to leave, but then the old man spoke again. “If I was with you, I wouldn’t let her hit you like that. You tell her I said leave you alone.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
“O-okay.” He had no intention of saying any such thing. That was a recipe for getting killed.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
But then he had an idea, brilliant and foolish. It would prove to be his downfall, sadly, but the moment he thought of it, it seemed perfect, the most perfect idea he’d ever had in his whole short life. Grandpa couldn’t come outside the bedroom to protect him, not as sick as he sounded, but what if Billy went in there with him? Up until then, his plan had always been to open the door just enough to see his grandfather and no more, but what if he actually went into the room? What if he even crossed to the far side? Mother might not go in after him. In fact, Billy had never seen her enter grandfather’s room, not once. Surely she wouldn’t hit him in front of the old man, not inside the room while he was lying in bed.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
Could he catch whatever sickness his grandfather had? Perhaps. Was it worth the risk? He decided it was.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
“Grandpa, I’m coming in there.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
“Well, now, I’m not sure you want to do that, kiddo,” Grandpa said.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
“I do want to,” Billy replied. “I’m gonna open the door now, but you gotta keep Mom from hitting me.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
“I’ll do what I can.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
Billy steeled himself, trying to work up the courage, as the broom continued its endless, mad rhythm. He turned the knob and pushed the door, wincing at the loud creak of the little-used hinges. A cold and almost violent swoosh of air surged into the hallway, and a dim and hazy light spilled through the opening. Billy took a deep breath and stepped into the bedroom.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
It took time for his eyes to adjust to the strange light. The air seemed heavy with dust and had a rotten smell, like old, damp wood.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
“Grandpa?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
The window was the first thing he noticed, a single pane of murky, yellow glass framed by ragged curtains so dirty their original color could not be discerned. From there, his gaze dropped to the hardwood floor, a floor so coated with dust it seemed to have sprouted some new form of translucent plant life. The dust was untouched, no footprints, no tracks, no evidence that it had ever been disturbed. As for furniture, Billy saw none. No bed, no nightstand, no lamp. The room was completely empty. In the far corner, a closet door stood ajar, the tiny space beyond filled only with gloom and shadows, nothing else. Nobody was in the room, and nobody, from the look of it, had ever been in the room.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
Billy’s heart raced, and his breath came shallow and fast. How could this be? How could the room be empty?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
“Grandfather?” His voice, barely a squeak, sounded vast in the empty shell of a bedroom.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
Steeping further into the room, he looked behind the door, peered into the shadowy closet, tapped on the walls, but all of his efforts only succeeded in kicking up a vile cloud of dust that sent him into a fit of coughing. He coughed until his lungs burned, doubled-over, his hands pressed to his thighs.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
When the coughing passed, he rose, opened his eyes, and found himself face-to-face with his mother. He gasped and stumbled away from her, kicking up more dust, but she made no move toward him. She had a slight frown on her fleshy face, but her eyebrows were raised, and her hands were clasped primly in front of her.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
“Well?” she said in a flat, emotionless voice. “You finally did it. Despite all of my warnings and all of my threats, you went into grandfather’s room. I hope you’re pleased with yourself.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
When Billy tried to speak, his voice broke, and he found himself close to tears. He paused to collect himself. “He sounded like he was in trouble, Mom. I only wanted to help him. I’m sorry.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
“You’re sorry?” Same deadness of voice, but she chewed on the words for a moment then nodded and said, “Not half as sorry as you will be.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
“No, no, wait.” He held up his hands, expecting her to rush at him, but she didn’t move from the doorway. “Mom, where is he? Where is Grandpa?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
“He’s nowhere,” she replied, and did he detect a hint of laughter in her voice? “I tried to shield you from the truth, but you wanted in here so bad, now you get to hear it. You don’t have a grandfather. You never did. He doesn’t exist.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
“Lie,” Billy shouted, then choked on the word and clapped a hand over his mouth.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
Still his mother did not come for him. She shook her head and sighed. “There was never a sick grandfather in here. Never. The only sick person in this house is you, Billy.” She tapped her forehead with one sausage-thick finger. “Sick right here.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
“No, that’s not true,” Billy said, tears clouding his vision. “I talked to him. I heard his voice. He’s real. Where is he?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
“You heard nothing,” she said. “You were talking to yourself. I coddled you, I tried to protect you, but now you’ve gone and messed it all up, haven’t you?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
“You’re <i>lying</i>,” Billy said, and this time he didn’t cover his mouth. Tears streamed down his face, and the whole room felt like it was spinning around him. “I know I heard him. Where is he? <i>Where</i>?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
“We’re going to have to fix this, Billy,” his mother said. The little spots of red had returned to her cheeks and forehead. “And the fixing won’t be pleasant, but you brought it on yourself by not listening to me.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
And now she did come for him. He tried to duck out of the way, but her arm lunged forward, quick as a striking snake, and her hand clamped down on his shoulder. He squirmed and almost slipped out of her grasp, but her other hand shot up and snagged his wrist.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
“Don’t fight me, or this will be worse,” she said through clenched teeth.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
But he did fight, thrashing wildly, until she grabbed a handful of his hair and yanked. He squealed in pain and slumped down in resignation. His insides felt all crumbled and broken, and, as she led him out of the room, he wept loudly.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
“I didn’t want this for you,” she said. “I never wanted it to come to this. Like I said, I tried to shield you from it.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
His feet slipped out from under him, but she never slowed, now dragging him like dead weight down the hallway and into the living room. The cartoon bunny kept right on cracking wise and prancing, as Billy slid past the television and into the kitchen.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
In the kitchen, the broom was propped against the table, and everything gleamed. The linoleum floor had a crystalline sheen, and light glistened like white fire on the countertops. Mother led Billy over to the sink. When she stopped, he was able to get his feet under him. He stood up, wiping the tears from his cheeks.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
“I know I have a grandfather,” he said. “I talked to him. I heard his voice.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
Mother grunted, gave him an appraising look, then pinned him against the edge of the sink with her forearm. “Your grandfather never existed,” she said, her voice a low growl. “Say it.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
“He did. He does.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
“Okay, fine,” she replied. “That’s how it’s going to be. I’m going to fix this the hard way, Billy. I should never have let it go on so long.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
He kicked her in the shin, but she didn’t react. With her free hand, she reached to the drawer beside the sink and drew it open. Silverware rattled.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
“Your grandfather never existed. Say it.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
“No.” He grabbed her forearm in both of his hands and pushed with all his might, but it was like trying to bend an iron bar.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
“He never existed. Say it.” Her fingers fumbled around in the neat rows of spoons, forks and knives.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
“He does exist!” Billy screamed at the top of his lungs.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
Her hand came out of the drawer, clutching the black plastic handle of a serrated steak knife. Billy’s heart leapt in his chest. She turned the blade so that it caught the sunlight and shined in his eyes.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
“I will fix this, Billy,” she said again. “So help me, I will fix it.” She raised the knife high over her head, the muscles in her forearm tightening, but her face remained emotionless, eyes like cold bits of marble. “You have one more chance to say it. Your grandfather does not exist, and he never did exist. Now, you say it. You say it right <i>now</i>!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
Billy thrashed and kicked, but she had him, her forearm like a vice against his ribs.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
“Say it! He never--”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
“You don’t exist,” Billy shrieked. “<i>You</i> don’t exist! You <i>never</i> existed!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
The blade of the knife flashed, and he tensed for the strike. But the light shuddered and, with a sudden loud pop, the blade burst into a million glittering fragments that sizzled like embers in a fire. He closed his eyes and turned away, expecting the fragments to land on his face and burn him. Instead, a tightness descended over his skull, as if Mother had wrapped her hands around his head and squeezed, and a cold mildew-tainted air settled over him.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .3in;">
Billy opened his eyes, and she was gone. Mother was gone. Utterly gone, as if she had sunk into the earth, and the ground had closed up behind her. More than that, a darkness had seeped into the room, darkness and dankness. Gone the shining linoleum floor, replaced with bare, black concrete. Gone the gleaming countertops and cupboards, replaced with moldy, broken wood frames. Gone the silver sink, in its place a rusted bowl full of filthy, yellow water. Two cracked glasses floated in the water like debris from a shipwreck. The walls in the kitchen had turned a dingy brown, the wallpaper peeled away to nothing. Cobwebs hung from the ceiling and from exposed rafters. The table was gone, the broom gone, curtains over the window reduced to a few shreds of cloth dangling from a bent rod.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Billy examined the floor, heavy with dust, and noted one set of tracks only, heavy boots moving about the room. No sign of Mother’s slippered feet. No sign of anyone else. Only the boots. He was alarmed to find that the boots were his own. Heavy black boots with thick rubber soles.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“What--?” He started to ask a question but realized he had no one to ask.<o:p></o:p></div>
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He stumbled across the kitchen and found that his legs were weak and wobbly. He tried to brace himself on one of the rotting countertops, but it crumbled under his weight, taking a bit of the wall down with it. He kicked through the pile of splinters and damp sheetrock and made his way into the living room. It, too, had become a dark and dirty wreck. Cobwebs as thick as blankets filled the corners, and the television set was gone. As in the kitchen, dust coated the concrete floor, disturbed only by the tracks of his boots.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Mom?” Did his voice sound wrong to him? It did. Deep, coarse, a man’s voice. <o:p></o:p></div>
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He grabbed his forehead and staggered toward the hallway. Again, darkness and dust, the shattered remnants of the attic door hanging from its hinges. Insulation spilled down from holes in the ceiling like the guts of a long-dead animal.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Mom?” He said it louder this time, and the word echoed in the great rotting house, but he got no reply.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Then a glint of light, very faint, caught his eye. Something sitting in the middle of the hallway, a small object. It took a moment to comprehend what he was seeing. A drinking glass, small and dirty and chipped, filled with cloudy water. He reached for it, but bending over made his head hurt all the more, so he left the glass and kept going, heading for his bedroom. It was all he could think to do, retreat to his bedroom and collapse onto the bed and shut his eyes until everything made sense again.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Bill?” A familiar voice, but it startled him. He stumbled backward, kicking over the glass and spilling water all over the concrete floor. And he could smell it. He could smell the water. Sour and rank as rotting vegetables. <o:p></o:p></div>
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He saw movement out of the corner of his eye and turned in the direction of grandfather’s room. The door was open. Actually, the door didn’t exist, nor the doorframe, only a jagged hole of crumbling timbers in the middle of a bare wall. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“Bill, is that you?” Movement on the far side of the room. He entered, stepping lightly over the pile of broken pieces that might once have been the door. Faint light seeped through a dirty window pane, but it was enough to see the shape on the floor, a body sprawled on its back.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Who’s there?” he asked.<o:p></o:p></div>
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As he drew near, he saw that it was an old man, white beard and dark eyes, dressed in military fatigues, heavy boots on his feet. He was trying in vain to sit up, so Billy squatted down, despite the agony in his skull, and helped him. Did he know this face? He thought he did, but only when he said it did the reality of it sink it.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Grandpa?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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The old man looked up at him and smiled. A line of cloudy drool ran out of the corner of his mouth and into his beard. “It’s the water,” he said. “They put something in the water.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“The water, yes.” Billy glanced back at the empty glass, the dark puddle of foul water beside it. “I only had a sip.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“No, not even a sip,” the old man said, reaching up and touching his face. “It messes with your mind. Don’t even touch it. Nothing from the tap, not even a drop. They poisoned it all. It’s in everything. Oh, I’ve been seeing things, terrible things, and hearing voices.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Billy sat down next to the old man, leaning against him, waiting for the pain to abate. He wasn’t quite sure what the old man what talking about, but something told him he should. Something beneath the level of memory told him he knew quite well.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“We won the war, didn’t we?” Grandfather said. “Didn’t we win the war?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“I…” War? Yes, Billy thought maybe he knew what that word meant. “I don’t know. Did we?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Yes,” the old man said, wiping the drool away with his sleeve. “But they got us back, oh yes they did. One last dirty trick.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Mom said…” Billy caught himself. No, there was no Mom here. His real mother was long gone. “My mind…I can’t…”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“You can’t remember anything,” the old man said. “Yes, it messes with your memories. It’s a nasty chemical. Don’t worry. It’ll all come back to you eventually.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Okay,” Billy said, uncertainly. Did he want it all to come back? He wasn’t sure. “Where are we?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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The old man glanced around and snorted. “You brought me here when I come down sick. Just an old abandoned house, I guess. You don’t remember where we are, where we’re going?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Billy thought for a moment, but his only real memory was of the huge fleshy woman with the knife in her hand. “No, I can’t recall.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“You’ve been going around this house for hours, ranting and raving. I told you not to drink the water. I told you.” Grandpa slid an arm around his shoulders and gave him an affectionate pat. “You’ll be okay. Give it time. It’ll all come back.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“So…where are we going?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Why, we’re going home, of course.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Home.”</div>
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<span style="text-indent: 0.3in;">Billy took a deep breath, felt the pain in his skull abate, if only a little, and leaned his head back against the soft wood beneath the window. He felt like a ghost floating between two worlds, neither of them fully real, and only one thing certain, that his grandfather existed. Yes, he thought he would be okay in time. He returned the affectionate pat and closed his eyes to sleep.</span></div>
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Jeffrey Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01084230741410525661noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2218862296685637151.post-67212676521125412972017-01-19T01:35:00.000-08:002017-01-19T01:35:01.623-08:00The Latest Happenings and Figments and SuchJust a quick update about things that are happening. To be honest, there's not much to report these days. In September, I took a job as a social media editor, and it keeps me pretty busy, on top of everything else. I am still waiting to hear back from a publisher about my last novel, <a href="http://www.jeffreyaaronmiller.com/jeffrey-aaron-miller-novels/teth-of-the-city/"><b>Teth of the City</b></a>. If it gets turned down, I'll just self-publish the darn thing. In fact, I've already designed a cover, which I can use if it comes down to that:<br />
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<a href="http://www.jeffreyaaronmiller.com/jeffrey-aaron-miller-novels/teth-of-the-city/"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio5KdSWVHj-qqBxMPaTLVJMp4h1kIPxevChOeHhYJ966NtRriUcVpPQe14rDcqoLXTOpytbssY91-H2U_YZRsPgjGf0MfZOrx6v_BT1VyjzQbIYxn8lXAZ1_EfRDdp4on-nVsZWCjCdA/s320/Teth+of+the+City+MED.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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Click on the cover to learn a bit more about it.<br />
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Despite my busy work schedule, I do find time to work on my own stuff. Currently, I am writing a YA novel called <b>The Figment Tree</b>. I started this one way back in <a href="http://jeffreyaaronmiller.blogspot.com/2013/06/mary-of-cosmos.html">2013</a>, but I didn't get far. In fact, the idea was perhaps too bizarre for me then, and I didn't quite know what to do with it. A few months ago, the solution came to me, and I have returned to that story.<br />
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For the record, it is set in a trailer park in Bartlesville, Oklahoma in 1991. It's either a science fiction novel or urban fantasy, depending on how you look at it. I think it's turning out pretty good. Parts of it are incredibly sad, but the characters are interesting, the idea is odd, and hopefully the time period is evocative. We shall see! Anyway, it's nice returning to the Young Adult genre. It constrains some of my worst tendencies, which is good.<br />
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Also, the title is almost certainly going to change at some point. <b>The Figment Tree</b> title is based on early concepts of the story. It doesn't fit anymore. I'm thinking about <b>The Ribbon Tree</b> or something along those lines. When you read it, you'll understand why that is an ominous title.<br />
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<br />Jeffrey Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01084230741410525661noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2218862296685637151.post-43535908009892580752017-01-13T14:22:00.000-08:002017-01-13T14:22:20.089-08:00My Trouble with GenresSo I tend to write things that are not easily categorized into specific genres. I meld elements of fantasy and science fiction, various sub-genres, with my own peculiarities. It's possible that this has sometimes served as a hindrance to my success since publishers prefer easy categories. In fact, one of my better novels (Shadows of Tockland) was once rejected by a major publisher for not having enough science in the science fiction. Just take a look at how the various genres factor into my novels.<br />
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">Shadows of Tockland</span></b><br />
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Post-apocalyptic science fiction with very little actual science. It also deals quite a bit with the history of clowning. It's also got zombies, in a manner of speaking. Hard to categorize.<br />
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">Garden of Dust and Thorns</span></b><br />
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Technically, it's a fantasy novel because it involves magic, but it has almost none of the trappings of the fantasy genre. It's also got some elements that smack of science fiction.<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>The Vale of Ghosts</b></span><br />
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The biggest mishmash of genres I've ever written. At times, it almost feels like a young adult novel, with its young, alienated female protagonist and her various misadventures, but it's clearly not written for a young audience. It involves magic, so that makes it a fantasy novel. I sometimes classify it as paranormal, because it involves, in a way, the spirits of dead people, but it's not an easy fit with your typical paranormal novel. There are numerous elements of horror throughout, but it also has a few science fiction concepts.<br />
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<a href="http://www.jeffreyaaronmiller.com/jeffrey-aaron-miller-novels/the-archaust-saga/"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8DGofN1hpnscV8bPsY-RF7zoFNlf9oVREg5JPYQcIuBhfB0hvrQzEkp-p5xs5IYnDz5sqVWLVxhD0DZIFDnXhF8eLEJvkKN49h_TMx411nKxOHevhZYbjz5bCQRzpaTy56nB9X_eZ1A/s200/Vale+of+Ghosts+Corrected+Cover.jpg" width="125" /></a></div>
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You see what I'm talking about. The same goes for most of the novels I've written. Even when I do limit myself to a specific genre, I tend to avoid the trappings of that genre. Maybe it's been a hindrance at times, but I can't help myself.<br />
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Jeffrey Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01084230741410525661noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2218862296685637151.post-52819551809955214412016-10-27T10:28:00.000-07:002017-01-13T14:25:26.912-08:00Context Free Quotes<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">So I've been attempting to do a Quote of the Day on Twitter. Basically, I find one interesting or unusual quote from one of my many novels and post it each day. I thought it might be interesting to see what those quotes look like stripped of their context and source. Without knowing anything else, what do these quotes make you think of?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span> <span style="background-color: color: #292f33; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">"One dumb act made in ignorance is all it takes to ruin your life forever."</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: color: #292f33; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span> <span style="background-color: color: #292f33; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">"Look, we’re committed to destiny now. From this point on, whatever happens, happens. That’s how destiny works."</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: color: #292f33; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span> <span style="background-color: color: #292f33; letter-spacing: 0.26px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">"The world got worse and worse the more she understood about it."</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: color: #292f33; letter-spacing: 0.26px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span> <span style="background-color: color: #292f33; letter-spacing: 0.26px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">"It’s a very strange thing to be deceived. A very strange thing." </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: color: #292f33; letter-spacing: 0.26px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span> <span style="background-color: color: #292f33; letter-spacing: 0.26px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">"I thought the world was normal. Then it all came crashing down, and I learned everyone is depraved and sick."</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: color: #292f33; letter-spacing: 0.26px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span> <span style="background-color: color: #292f33; letter-spacing: 0.26px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">"The world is sliding into oblivion, devoured by shadow, and you are its last light." </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: color: #292f33; letter-spacing: 0.26px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span> <span style="background-color: color: #292f33; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">"Our worst mistakes can become the catalyst for our greatest accomplishments, if we are willing to make it so."</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: color: #292f33; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span> <span style="background-color: color: #292f33; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">"Are we smarter than the generations that came before us? How can we expect to fix a problem that they could not?"</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: color: #292f33; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span> <span style="background-color: color: #1d2129;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">"I walked forever down a hundred different places and saw all kinds of different lights and Watchers with hands, and then I came to the end."</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: color: #1d2129;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span> <span style="background-color: color: #1d2129;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">"As she became a part of every single living thing, she realized that every single thing was, in some strange way, reaching out to her, crying to her for purpose, for life, for breath."</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: color: #1d2129;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span> <span style="background-color: color: #1d2129;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">"Nature or fate or destiny has selected us for suffering, and we are to endure it, accept it, take and gorge ourselves on misery like the dutiful sub-creatures that we are."</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: color: #1d2129;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span> <span style="background-color: color: #292f33; letter-spacing: 0.26px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">"Nobody really believes in anything. My parents don’t believe in anything. They just breathe and eat and work." </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: color: #292f33; letter-spacing: 0.26px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: color: #292f33; letter-spacing: 0.26px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia, times new roman, serif; letter-spacing: 0.26px; white-space: pre-wrap;">"Tonight is a night you’ll wish you had a gun.”</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: color: #292f33; letter-spacing: 0.26px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia, times new roman, serif; letter-spacing: 0.26px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: color: #292f33; letter-spacing: 0.26px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia, times new roman, serif; letter-spacing: 0.26px; white-space: pre-wrap;">"My father used to talk about water dreams when I was a little girl, but he said they were rare, and when you had one, it meant someone close to you was going to die."</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: color: #292f33; letter-spacing: 0.26px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia, times new roman, serif; letter-spacing: 0.26px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: color: #292f33; letter-spacing: 0.26px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia, times new roman, serif; letter-spacing: 0.26px; white-space: pre-wrap;">“This is not death. What new thing is this moving through my body?”</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: color: #292f33; letter-spacing: 0.26px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia, times new roman, serif; letter-spacing: 0.26px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: color: #292f33; letter-spacing: 0.26px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia, times new roman, serif; letter-spacing: 0.26px; white-space: pre-wrap;">“A storm is coming to sweep away everything. Find a secret place, bury yourselves inside and wait it out. Wait it out.”</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: color: #292f33; letter-spacing: 0.26px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: georgia, times new roman, serif; letter-spacing: 0.26px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif; letter-spacing: 0.26px; white-space: pre-wrap;">"As time passes, everything we ever knew or saw or heard, every person we ever touched or loved, they all drop away, leaving us with nothing but the vague and choking need to escape."</span><br />
<span style="background-color: color: #292f33; letter-spacing: 0.26px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span> <span style="background-color: color: #292f33; letter-spacing: 0.26px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Which of these quotes stands on its own?</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: color: #292f33; letter-spacing: 0.26px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></span> <span style="background-color: color: #292f33; letter-spacing: 0.26px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">To follow the Quote of the Day, head over to my Twitter account: </span></span><span style="color: #292f33; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0.26px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><a href="https://twitter.com/jeffaaronmiller">https://twitter.com/jeffaaronmiller</a></span></span>Jeffrey Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01084230741410525661noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2218862296685637151.post-76449029300340451592016-08-25T23:34:00.002-07:002016-08-25T23:45:07.502-07:00The Meaning of MonologuesLet's talk about character monologues. In any story of significant length, there will be moments in which characters pause in the middle of the action in order to present a lengthy discourse, aka wall of text, to the reader. What possible reason could a writer have in unloading a paragraph of uninterrupted speech? Often it's a way to disguise exposition or to present back story. Other times, it's a moment to simply state the theme of the story in a way that won't take readers out of the scene.<br />
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We all do it. Even in an action-packed story, a character will pause at some point to speak at length about thematically significant things. Can I give you a few examples from my own books?<br />
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<a href="http://www.jeffreyaaronmiller.com/jeffrey-aaron-miller-novels/mary-of-the-aether-series/" target="_blank"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5Wbjn80MOwlnRqnkCElIIciDBermrQcxC7jleKLjjvCLG9mvp-3LZNgVVd3f484ZY_fjATGQRocVM4ylgyU3v1869AyJXNBYGgEl_cWOxHeaGxNgDVfJu-vYKWkShuYlKu1PSnsfW9A/s320/maryof+the+aether+COVER+SMALLISH.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
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How about the time Aiden Tennant speaks in massive blocks of text about his life and his hopes and dreams? Mary responds now and again in order to break it up into digestible pieces, but it's basically Aiden downloading all of the thematic elements related to his character, in paragraphs such as the following (which proceeds after his confession about loving comic books and fantasy novels):<br />
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<i>“So here’s the thing,” he said. “It’s gonna sound really weird, but the truth is I want all of that stuff to be real. Maybe it isn’t, but I want to believe in it, all of it. Nobody really believes in anything. My parents don’t believe in anything. They just breathe and eat and work. People like Kristen Grossman don’t believe in anything. Most of the people in Chesset go to church on Sunday and hear all of these wild, weird stories, but I don’t think they really believe a word of it. Some guy raised a staff and parted the ocean in two?” Aiden raised both hands over his head and waved them around, miming the old story and drawing more laughs from Kristen and the twins. He did not seem to notice them. “They don’t really believe that happened. They wouldn’t even want to live in a world where that kind of stuff was possible. They all want bland, they like bland. Not me. I don’t want a boring old world where all anyone ever does is grow up and work some awful job for no money and spend Friday evenings watching high school football games and recalling the so-called glory days until they die. They can keep that kind of life. Even if there aren’t any real aliens or wizards or magic or whatever, I want to read about them and pretend. It’s better than nothing.”</i><br />
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<a href="http://www.jeffreyaaronmiller.com/jeffrey-aaron-miller-novels/the-archaust-saga/" target="_blank"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhveQ3CShm05zXMeGesLNntMyHbrlLtFgUObYr9Ab6FlHW-Fx5Tn7dtlROrm1S7OCovYBWYEI85Ocxq9W4w8vAdBVPXWQbRZ2JEg1aTAbDT22_X7Ni6YaqK6ImLg_fS92bYEeOxRo9-Zw/s320/Vale+of+Ghosts+Corrected+Cover.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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Or how about the time in <b>The Vale of Ghosts </b>when the mayor speaks for eight hundred minutes during a public meeting? What a perfect opportunity to clarify the nature of the conflict that will drive the rest of the novel. Here is the second paragraph out of six in which the mayor speaks:<br />
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<i>“None of us can stand here and pretend we do not know,” the mayor continued. “What unfolded here two days ago is no mystery. Haven’t our ancestors passed down to us a thousand warnings about the vale beneath the ridge? The east, the west, and the south are closed to us. Only the land to the north is open. And not only did they warn us, but they left the ten relics of the prophet to protect us. Those who came before did all they could to keep us safe. Only deliberate disobedience, only mischief and defiance, bring trouble here.”</i><br />
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<a href="http://www.jeffreyaaronmiller.com/jeffrey-aaron-miller-novels/shadows-of-tockland/" target="_blank"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvOWAGis2VsUQ7QrTgLupyYIz4YrTsQmb6GQyeKdr_5TZj_8yFphdKPSV5osg29bZJXck_2jSv2a6dheml__L0rx3uPjGetJAnFc-T1exSgp31dUiONDfy5YFOrDjTES6F4NOO7mh0Dw/s320/BK00012915.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
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Then there's that time in <b>Shadows of Tockland</b> when David Morr gets a little speech from the ringleader of the circus about the nature of clowning and the different types of clowns, but really it's all foreshadowing the character conflicts that are to come. This long discourse is split up into reasonable chunks by David's brief responses, but otherwise it's just a huge thematic presentation of the novel itself:<br />
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<i>“Onstage, whiteface clown is the boss. He’s the smart one, the bully, orders around the others. In our troupe, Cakey is the whiteface....</i><i>whiteface clown is at the top. At the bottom, you’ve got the auguste,” Telly said. “The auguste clown is typically the dimwit character, the goofball, the idiot. Whiteface likes to slap him around, harass and threaten him, maybe toss a pie in his face. Karl is our auguste clown. He plays a character called Touches. Onstage, Touches takes a lot of crap from Cakey. That’s how it goes.” </i><br />
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<i>“Karl is pretty huge,” David said. “He doesn’t have to take crap from anyone, I wouldn’t think.”</i><br />
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<i>“Onstage and offstage, kid,” Telly said, waving him off. “I told you, don’t get confused. Now, in between the auguste and the whiteface, you’ve got the contra-auguste. Contra-auguste is typically trying to win the whiteface clown’s approval, caught in the middle, you might say. Annabelle is our contra-auguste, performing as Bubbles.” </i><br />
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<i>“Got it.” </i><br />
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<i>“As for me, I’m the ringmaster,” Telly said. “The ringmaster’s job is to keep the other clowns bouncing off each other. A manipulator but never a victim. That’s me. And that ends lesson one. Now, did you write all of that down?”</i><br />
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<a href="http://www.jeffreyaaronmiller.com/jeffrey-aaron-miller-novels/garden-of-dust-and-thorns/" target="_blank"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheLR5avKZrz4IVlCn83mkqvlgWyKupUBV5EOmnwh2UqWojcGftNlmvfjpZd5LXlQYkgtiNec4mFfefqh1o9mWML120OVGmI9fASHKEhOc14TAbQ21OHT657OByNHvYZXsYzSQrWoDsfA/s320/Dust+and+Thorns+New+Cover+MED.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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Or how about that one time in <b>Garden of Dust and Thorns</b> where the protagonist screams the central theme of the entire book at another character for an extended length of time?<br />
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<i>“You wanted to see the Garden in ashes, you’ll get your wish,” she said. “Revel in the death of the world, Sindaya. Revel in it. I tried to tell you. I pleaded with you, with you and with the others, pleaded with you to look around you, look at what you are destroying, and you would not hear it. Celebrate as your Lord of Dust and Sand and Misery eats into the Garden, celebrate and laugh as you pierce the bodies of innocent people who did nothing to offend you, whose only sin was living in the shadow of the wall. Wretches and pigs, all of you. Vile monsters!”</i><br />
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And that, folks, is what a nice monologue is all about. It's a chance for a character to just spell it all out without it feeling like a wall of dull exposition. Done right, readers won't even think outside of the character. They'll just be swept up in the scene.<br />
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<a href="http://www.jeffreyaaronmiller.com/jeffrey-aaron-miller-novels/dreams-in-the-void/" target="_blank"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7DtMbrZUGwz6pmnIglr5agejk-4I3j4w2Hrb1ySDuia-PGU0YbVhTxzH6z2Y1g4ZVGMxmIMrDquBe41k2Sh2Ei0bgWMry7Grd_lQzPalpEM5uAr27_DXr8LT1WelfV3rxf1u0TMLnIg/s320/Dreams+in+the+Void+Cover+MED.jpg" width="199" /></a></div>
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To be fair, it doesn't always take a long paragraph to pull this off. It can happen in a sentence or two, such as the time in <b>Dreams in the Void</b> where the villain reveals the theme and plot in one short little statement:<br />
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<i>“You’re…you’re already becoming like me,” he said. “Everyone is. There is only one mind now…only…”</i><br />
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Right to the point. Thank you, monologues.Jeffrey Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01084230741410525661noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2218862296685637151.post-1294155257735189532016-08-04T20:29:00.000-07:002016-08-04T20:39:50.299-07:00Cakey's Love Letter to RubesHello, rubes.<br />
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And you say, "Wait. Rube? What is a rube? To whom are you referring?"<br />
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Why, I'm referring to you, friend.<br />
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And you say, "How can you call me a rube?"<br />
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Well, do you work for the circus? Are you circus people? Are you a clown? A trapeze artist? A big old burly roustabout? Heck, are you a regular old carny, smelling of corn dog grease and body odor? No? Well, then you are a rube. A common folk. Are we clear? I hope you can live with it, my dearest sweethearts, because I intend to call you a rube until the end of time.<br />
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Now that we've worked that out, let's move on.<br />
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My name is Cakey the Jacked-Up Clown. You heard that right. I'll say it again, slowly. Cakey. The. Jacked-Up. Clown. My specialty is knife juggling, but I'm also fairly skilled at acrobatics and street fighting.<br />
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You might not know this, but every clown has a unique "face." That's right. No true clown would ever copy the face of another. My face looks as follows: A big blue unibrow that covers half my forehead, a little green dot on the end of my nose, a blood red mouth that is smiling on the left and frowning on the right, a big puff of orange hair. By the way, it's not a wig, and it's not makeup. It's my actual face.<br />
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As for the costume, it changes. Sometimes I wear the big poofy yellow one. Sometimes I wear the big poofy patchwork one. It depends on my mood. There's a blue one, a pink one, a clear cellophane one, and a plastic trash bag I wear on holidays.<br />
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For the last few years, I've worked for a traveling circus called The Klown Kroo. The terrible spelling in the title is the fault of a big cinder block fellow named Karl. It's a long story. Anywho, when we come to your town--and we will, rubelings, we will--I highly recommend you plop down your centavos and come see us. It'll be two hours of the most intense and troubling entertainment you've ever witnessed. Knives will be thrown, plates will spin, a tiny little man in a top hat will prance about, a big guy will harass some rubes in the front row. It'll be all-around good family fun with minimal suffering. I promise.<br />
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Oh, I know what you're thinking, "Cakey, we can't come and see the show. It's not safe to congregate in public places these days! Too many people with brain-sickness wandering about! We might get bitten or stabbed!" Fair point. And you're right, as far as the biting and stabbing goes. However, I swear to you this solemn oath, my rubes: The Klown Kroo will do all in its power to fend off any errant sicklies who wander into the tent. We want our rubes to be relatively safe while they enjoy the show, and I promise you will be as relatively safe as you can possibly be!<br />
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At least until the end of the world. When the end of the world comes, we're all doomed, and no one will be able to help you. But until then, come and enjoy the show.<br />
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By the way, if you have a brain worm infestation, please don't come. In that case, you're better off wandering into the forest never to return. In fact, two out of every two doctors say the best medicine for brain sickness is being lost forever far from civilization, clothing optional. That's science, folks, and who are you to question science?<br />
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Alright, that's about all I've got to say to a rube. To be honest, it's hard to relate to rubes. Mostly, I just want your pennies and dimes and your rapt attention. But I like you as much as I am capable of liking you. When the ever-night comes, I will remember that you came to my show, and I will not hunt you down like a hoot owl in the night. Fair enough?<br />
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Good.<br />
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Sincerely,<br />
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Cakey the Jacked-Up Clown, Esq.<br />
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P.S. -- They wrote a book about my adventures. Read it. Just click the stupid picture below. *Ugh* There, I pitched it. Can I go now?<br />
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<a href="http://www.jeffreyaaronmiller.com/jeffrey-aaron-miller-novels/shadows-of-tockland/" target="_blank"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzMXq_L5YW5uIgvZamrX6uKozkSQDIx05MpSv4-TK6zsQOm9rI5F1_TdvS3Bn7Wi-h7UBxqoaYOXDeCIuIjVjyK3R8pIfjQdS9u6MHrnkY58pCK7VGsanPpMvEke5oGMzQfvTsflw-HQ/s640/BK00012915.jpg" width="425" /></a></div>
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<br />Jeffrey Millerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01084230741410525661noreply@blogger.com0