The Short Of It

The Great Blog Story Event

2005-06-14T20:59:00.000-06:00

OK. Here's a list of the sites where you can find the stories in the Second Great Blog Story Event. The names are in no particular order (actually they are in the order Quertermous listed them in an email, so blame him), so start at the top, or bottom, or middle, and read them all. Have fun!

Bryon Quertermous-
Dave White-
Dave Zeltserman-
Ray Banks-
Duane Swierczynski-
David J Montgomery-
John Rickards-
Bill Crider-
Gwenda Bond-
Scott Neumyer-
Paul Guyot-
Stuart MacBride-
Gerald So-
Sarah Weinman-
Christin Kuretich-
Bob Mueller-
Megan Powell-
Pat Lambe-
Steven Torres-
Graham Powell-
Jennifer Jordan-
Jon Jordan-
Aldo Calcagno-
Rochelle Krich-
Alina Adams-

Familiars

2005-06-14T20:47:00.000-06:00

FAMILIARS
By
Robert W. Tinsley

Three men had been killed over the last two weeks. The young Kikuyu man standing in front of Inspector Thomas Donnegan's desk at the British East Africa Police headquarters in Nairobi was afraid he was going to be next.

"You are a man," said Inspector Donnegan in KiSwahili gesturing to the young warrior's shield and spear. "Why don't you protect yourself?"

All this was being translated for me by Suleiman, Inspector Donnegan's askari corporal, as I had not been in the country long enough to become familiar with the lingua franca of this part of Africa.

Suleiman, a member of the WaSwahili tribe, stood as tall as I, and was splendidly turned out in the red fez, blue shirt and khaki shorts of his office. Many of the askaris I had seen thus far had been rather slovenly in their dress, but King Edward himself could have found no fault with Suleiman.

"If it were a man I had to fight," said the Kikuyu whose name was Lanana, "I would do so and win. But these are not the deeds of a man. This is the work of a witch."

"What?" I said, unable to keep quiet in the face of this nonsense. "Is this man serious? Witchcraft?"

Inspector Donnegan fixed me with a look that made me wish I hadn't spoken. "Quite serious," he said. "Don't forget, you are no longer strolling the Thames embankment. To these people witchcraft is as real as London fog is to you. I've seen men and women in the prime of life curl up and die because some witch put a curse on them. Now, be quiet, and let's see what else we can learn."

"Why do you believe this to be witchcraft?" asked the Inspector switching back to KiSwahili.

"The men disappeared at night without a sound. On those nights that a man disappeared, we heard hyenas outside the village. We found each man the next morning just outside the boma, half eaten by hyenas."

"You must hear hyenas around your village quite often," said Inspector Donnegan.

"N'dio, Bwana," said the young man. "That is so. Fisi often comes to our village, but always in packs. Those nights there were only two. That is not the way of fisi. These are the warriors of a witch."

After a few more questions and a promise to follow the man back to his village, a two-day walk apparently, Inspector Donnegan had Suleiman show the young Kikuyu out.

I could not hold my tongue any longer. "Surely you don't credit that nonsense."

Inspector Donnegan leaned back in his chair and regarded me over his tented fingers. "Do I appear, in any way, to be an idiot? If so, please tell me."

My heart jumped into my throat. I was certainly making a dog's dinner out of this session. Here I was, fresh from England, and already well on my way to confirming my immediate superior's apparently low opinion of me. My father always said that my tendency to speak without appropriate thought beforehand would be my downfall.

"Er, no sir. Not at all, sir. I was merely trying to ascertain why, in the face of such arrant absurdity, you would agree to investigate these so-called crimes. Likely these unfortunate fellows simply chose the wrong time and place to answer the call of nature."

Inspector Donnegan rose from his chair and stalked around his desk to stand in front of me so closely that I could count the number of threads in the weave of his shirt. I am not a short man by any means, standing a full six feet without my shoes, but Inspector Donnegan topped me by half a head. I could feel his breath ruffling my eyebrows, a nice accompaniment to the butterflies in my stomach.

"The natives in these parts often leave their dead outside the village to be eaten by hyenas, and hyenas, being opportunists of the first water, will eat murdered corpses with as much gusto as a corpse that died of natural causes. Thus hyena attacks are often used as cover for more nefarious deeds.

"I seem to remember," continued Donnegan, "that the alleged purpose of your posting here, boyo, was that I might train you to become a useful member of His Majesty's British East Africa Police. Does my understanding of your orders coincide with yours?"

I realized that sometime between when the Inspector rose from his desk and now I had come to full military attention. I couldn't for the life of me remember having done so. "Yes, sir. Absolutely, sir."

"Good. Then perhaps you will be so good as to remove your sorry carcass from my sight."

"Yes, sir." I executed a smart about-turn and marched toward the door.

"One other thing," said Donnegan. "Be certain to retire early tonight. We'll be leaving at dawn tomorrow. I don't want you collapsing of exhaustion along the way. Should you do so, I'll leave you for the lions. Now, be off with you."

I went.

* * *

I am not a morning person, thus my anxiety over sleeping late overcame my anxiety over being left for the lions, and I got almost no sleep at all. I arrived at headquarters a full half hour before the inspector. This allowed me to watch the preparations for our safari, that being the KiSwahili word for journey.

Suleiman and three of his askaris arrived about the same time I did, each carrying his service rifle, a Martini-Henry .500-.450 single-shot.

The porters arrived next, five WaSwahili clad in the ubiquitous kanzu, a white cotton garment similar to a nightshirt. They were carrying packs that would have driven me to the ground after five steps. These packs contained all we would need on our safari, tents, camp beds and chairs, cooking utensils, non-perishable foods such as rice, grain and biltong, a spicy dried meat that is a positive danger to the integrity of one's dental work. In addition each porter carried a jerry can of water as our trip would send us to the northwest, away from the rivers and streams that surround Nairobi on every other side.

Just as false dawn began to lighten the Eastern sky Inspector Donnegan came striding up to BEAP headquarters. A small Swahili man with a perpetual grin followed him. This worthy, as Suleiman informed me, was the Inspector's gun bearer and cook who went by the name of Tasty.

The Inspector walked right up and ran a dubious eye over me from sun helmet to boots. I had checked myself four times in the mirror before leaving my quarters and knew I was as well turned out as anyone in the country. Why, then, did I begin wondering if I had left some important piece of clothing undone?

"Didn't anyone tell you," said the Inspector, "that in this country starch in one's clothing is not a good idea?"

"No, sir," I said.

The ends of the Inspector's mouth turned up in what I suspect was a smile. I was more than half amazed that the lower portion of his face didn't crack and fall off.

"Never mind," said the Inspector. "Occupational hazard of the new boy, I suppose. Come along then."

With that Donnegan turned and strode off through the dirt of Government Street, puffs of dust exploding into the first golden rays of the sun at every step. Tasty, carrying the Inspector's service rifle paced him at his right elbow. I followed, carrying my own rifle, with the others stringing along behind.

We were just out of site of the town when we came upon a curious figure standing beside our line of march. From a distance he looked like an enormous stork, standing on his left leg with his right foot resting on his left knee.

This extraordinary figure became even more so as we approached. Drawing even with the stork-man the Inspector stopped. They greeted each other with some familiarity.

Their greeting allowed me to examine this curious creature. The man was as much taller than the Inspector as the Inspector was of me. He was lean and well muscled. I could tell due to the fact that his only clothing was a red bolt of cloth draped under his left arm and knotted above his right shoulder. His hair was plaited into narrow rows and plastered against his skull with red clay. He carried a spear almost eight feet long, just under half of which was a head of narrow double-edged steel that flashed in the sun like a diamond, so well polished was it. In addition he carried a long knife or short sword hung on a cord draped around his neck.

"This is Uliagurma," said the Inspector, "though I call him Deadly. He is Maasai and will serve as our guide."

"Why do you call him Deadly?" I asked.

The Inspector fixed me with his gimlet eye and replied. "Because he is."

We then resumed our trek with Deadly in the van. I had, of course, read of the Maasai, an exceedingly warlike tribe until just recently, though they are still not a people to take lightly. To become a moran or warrior, the only males eligible to marry and own cattle, a man has to kill a lion single handed with nothing more than his spear and shield. Yes, I should think twice about giving such a man offense.

Throughout the day we were never out of sight of one great herd or another. The sheer number and variety of wildlife here is incredible. We saw wildebeest, hartebeest, impala, Grant’s and Thompson’s gazelles and eland. We even saw a pride of nine lions gathered about a kill they had made last night. The male was a huge specimen with a bushy black mane. We passed them at a distance of no more than two hundred yards. I must admit my heart was in my throat the entire time, expecting a charge at any minute. The lions merely watched us until we were out of sight. No one else in our little caravan gave them more than a passing glance.

We made camp about an hour before sunset. As soon as the tents were up, Tasty began preparing dinner. This was to be my first taste of impala as the Inspector had shot one just before we reached our campsite.

This deed elicited some excitement among our askaris and porters as fresh meat is apparently a treat for them. So much so in fact that during the butchering each of them could not resist slicing off a bloody handful of the flesh and eating it then and there without benefit of cooking.

After witnessing that I wasn't sure I was going to have much of an appetite for dinner. However the aromas wafting over from Tasty's cooking fire soon had my stomach growling like a hungry lion. I discovered that Tasty had been well named.

After dinner I settled into one of the folding camp chairs before the fire. The Inspector ducked into his tent and emerged with a bottle of Bushmill’s Irish whiskey and two glasses.

"Would you care to join me in a wee dram?" he asked.

"Yes, thank you, Inspector."

It was full dark now and the moon was not yet up. We sipped our whiskey in silence. Then there came a sudden cacophony that could have originated in Bedlam itself. Such a concatenation of snorts, hoots, giggles, guffaws, and shrieks I had never heard before. It made the hair on the back of my neck rise and chills run down my spine.

"It sounds as though the hyenas have had a good hunt tonight," said the Inspector.

"Hunt?" I asked. "I thought the hyena was a cowardly scavenger."

The Inspector grunted in amusement while splashing another "wee dram" of whiskey into his glass and then mine. "Don't believe everything you read, boyo, especially about Africa." He paused for a moment listening to the calls of the hyena pack. "If you were to come upon a ten-pound note lying on the ground, would you pass it by?"

"Certainly not."

"A rotting corpse is no different to a hyena than a ten-pound note is to you. It's a meal she didn't have to work for. The fact that they scavenge doesn't mean they are averse to working for their tucker. Hyenas are quite skillful hunters. And brave as well. It is quite common for a pack of hyenas to drive a pride of lions away from their kill."

I sipped from my glass. "I had no idea."

"Most people don't. And, by the way, boyo, has anyone told you about puff adders?”

“No, sir,” I said.

“One of the deadliest vipers in Africa, so I shouldn't move just now if I were you." The Inspector pointed, moving nothing more than his index finger, at the ground by my right side.

I looked down and my heart fairly stopped in my chest. There on the ground illuminated in the flickering firelight was the largest snake I had ever seen. The details seared themselves into my mind. The snake was a yellowish color, not much different from the dust along the game paths we had been following all day, and as thick as my forearm. It's head swung back and forth, it's tongue questing out.

The glass was quivering in my hand as though I had the palsy. "What should I do?" I croaked. Just then Deadly's spear flashed out of nowhere and pierced the snake's head, pinning it to the ground.

"What you should do, boyo, is finish what's in your glass, then let me pour you another," said the Inspector without any sign of quaver in his voice.

It was advice that I followed with some haste.

Deadly retrieved his spear with the snake still dangling from its point. He flipped the spear with a short twist of his hands, flinging the snake's corpse out into the night, then returned to his fellows without a word.

"My God," I said. "Does this happen often?"

"Not much more than once or twice a trip," said the Inspector, grinning. "You're lucky Deadly hates snakes rather than simply fearing them as do most natives. Our other lads over there, fatalists all, wouldn’t have stirred a stump, letting the gods decide what would happen."

The Inspector stood and stretched. "Well, you should finish your drink and get to bed. Breakfast is before dawn. We'll be moving at first light."

With that pronouncement he ducked into his tent. It wasn't five minutes before the sound of snoring reached my ears. I, meanwhile, with the adrenaline still rushing through my veins, was wondering if I would ever sleep again.

* * *

We resumed our march as soon as the sun lightened the eastern sky enough for us to see our path. We traveled on through the heat of the day and finally reached the village about mid-afternoon. There must have been close to a hundred thatched huts surrounded by a fence of cut thorn trees called a boma.

Most Europeans have no concept of what an African thorn tree is really like. The thorns of holly and roses are children's playthings next to this beastly bush. The thorns themselves are three to four inches long and sharp as a seamstress' needle. The branches grow in such a manner that the thorns often interlock.

Natives cut branches from these trees and pile them in a fence around their villages to keep out wild animals. During the day one or two openings are left to allow comings and goings. At night these openings are closed with more thorn tree branches. It forms a very formidable barrier.

We left our porters and two of the askaris to set up our camp outside of the village while Inspector Donnegan and I, accompanied by Deadly, Suleiman and the remaining askari, a fellow named Jomo, paid a visit to the village chief.

We found that worthy seated on the ground in front of his hut. An older man, his hair was sprinkled with white. Four mature women, presumably his wives, and numerous children ranging in age from infants to late adolescence wandered about engaging in either work or play.

Inspector Donnegan asked Chege, which was the old man's name, about Lanana.

"That one has gone on," said Chege in KiSwahili.

"Where has he gone?" I asked after Suleiman translated for me.

The Inspector spared me a withering glare before returning to his conversation with the chief.

"This means that the man is dead," said Suleiman.

"When did this happen?" asked the Inspector in KiSwahili.

"Last night. Hyenas took him. His hut was empty this morning. We searched for him and found him there." Chege pointed off to the North.

"Where is his body now?" asked the Inspector.

Chege merely pointed in the same direction as before. Apparently the old chief was going to let the hyenas and jackals finish what they started.

"Hyenas have been bad around here. Isn't this the fourth young warrior your village has lost to them?"

The old man shrugged. "It happens," he said.

"How can the man be so uncaring?" I said.

Donnegan glared at me. "Be quiet and listen," he said.

"Since we are here, Chief, perhaps we will kill these hyenas for you. There are only two after all."

The chief shrugged again. "There are two, and you may try to kill them if you wish. But I think you will not succeed."

"Why not?"

"These two are not just hyenas. They are devils, witches' warriors. They cannot be killed."

After Suleiman told me this, I was about to let my mouth run again, but the Inspector anticipated me and raised his hand for silence.

"I wish to see the body," said the inspector.

"My son will show you," said Chege indicating a boy no older than 12 or 13.

The Inspector turned to us. "You and Jomo will come along," he said to me. "Suleiman, you and Deadly will stay here and see what you can find out." With that he gestured to the boy and we followed him out through the gap in the boma.

We found the scene of carnage no more than a 20-minute walk from the village. On coming upon this horrible sight my gorge rose immediately, and it was only by quick action that I did not vomit on my own shoes. I was quite mortified, but the Inspector didn't seem to notice.

Parts of the man's body were scattered everywhere. There was little flesh left, and many of the bones had been chewed and broken in the hyenas' powerful jaws. The head had been completely detached from the spine. It stood upright, and the profile toward me looked untouched. It was only as I moved around that the rest of the horror was revealed. The hyenas had eaten away all of the flesh on one side of the head.

I glanced over at the boy. He was gazing at the scene with an aplomb that I could only envy. "Should the boy be seeing this?" I asked.

"I'm sure he's seen worse," said the Inspector. "You must remember that Africans do not have the reverence for life that is found in the London drawing rooms you so recently left behind. Life here is ugly, bloody and short. These people have learned to deal with that in their own way."

The Inspector surveyed the scene once more, and then dismissed the boy. "It's time we returned to camp. I'm sure Suleiman and Deadly have news. Africans will talk to other Africans before they'll talk to a white man."

* * *

"There is a very pretty girl in the village coming of age to marry very soon," said Suleiman. "There are many suitors. The old men say one of the young warriors hired a witch to eliminate the competition."

"Do they know who the witch is?" I asked.

"They know," said Suleiman, "but they will not say. They are not civilized like we are. They are afraid."

"What about the man that hired the witch?" said Donnegan.

Suleiman shrugged. "Each one we talked to believed it was someone different."

"You're not giving any credence to this witchcraft nonsense, are you, sir?" I asked.

"As I said before, hyena attacks are often cover ups for wicked deeds. But since any evidence we might have had has been eaten, all we can do is sort out these rogue hyenas."

Accordingly we ate our dinner and made preparations to return to the kill site. Our party consisted of the Inspector and myself, Deadly, Suleiman and Jomo.

We arrived an hour after a spectacular blood-red sunset and spread out in a line 30 yards downwind from the site. The Inspector had brought a large electric torch that he set on the ground close to hand.

We waited in silence for over two hours before hearing the giggles and whoops that heralded the approach of our quarry. Standing, we checked our weapons by feel, as the moon had not yet risen.

I couldn't see my hand before my face. My heart was thumping so loudly I feared the hyenas would hear me and take flight.

Finally I could hear the sound of bones breaking, and I knew the brutes had resumed their grizzly meal.

"Be ready," whispered the Inspector.

I raised my rifle and pointed it in the direction of the feeding sounds even though I could not see my front sight.

The Inspector flipped the torch on, revealing the dreadful scene before us. Both of the huge brutes lay on the ground gnawing bones that not 24 hours before supported a living man as he went about his business. At that point events stopped progressing as expected.

Normally when one shines a sudden light on an animal at night, that animal will freeze for several seconds allowing the hunter to fire a telling shot. Not so these devilish beasts.

As soon as the light hit them, they were up and charging us in that half-crippled gait of theirs. As odd as it looked, their progress was remarkably quick.

After a moment of stunned inaction, we all fired. The ground erupted all around the charging brutes, but not one bullet struck home. As the Inspector and I were the only ones armed with repeating firearms, it was up to us to stop them. By the time we were ready to fire again, the beasts were only 15 yards from us. I seemed to be unable to take a breath, and it was becoming imperative that I do so.

The Inspector and I fired almost as one. The Inspector’s quarry stopped as though it had run into a wall and fell over quivering. My target merely ducked its head and continued on undeterred. I began to believe I would never take another breath except to scream when Deadly’s spear saved my life a second time within as many days.

I finished jacking a fresh round up the spout and discovered that I could breathe again.

“Close thing, that,” said the Inspector.

“Asante, Deadly,” I said to the red-painted giant. He nodded his head with all the presence of royalty.

Examining the dead beasts we discovered that they were both females, the larger of the two sexes. My hyena, or rather Deadly’s, had a bloody crease down the top of its head bisecting the distance between its ears. That must have been my bullet causing the brute to duck its head. I had overshot though I had been sighting at the base of the hyena’s neck. I checked my rifle and discovered that my 200-yard rear sight was up. No wonder I had overshot.

The Inspector noticed me changing the sight. “In future,” he said, “I suggest that you use the long distance sight for long distances.”

Since that statement required no response, I resumed examining the dead hyena. Deadly’s spear had severed the hyena’s spinal cord. As I was looking at the wound I noticed a flash of reflected light amongst the stiff bristles of hair along the beast’s withers. Looking closer I found four glass beads woven into the animal’s coat, red, blue, yellow and red again.

I drew the Inspector’s attention to this, and we examined the other hyena. The same types of glass beads in the same sequence were woven into this beast’s hair as well.
“How in the world could that have happened?” I asked.

At just that time an apparition appeared from the dark to the considerable consternation of our little party. The apparition resolved itself into a wizened old black man naked except for a tiny loincloth. His body was painted all over with white spots. He immediately launched into a long tirade in KiSwahili.

He and the Inspector went back and forth for some time. At the first appearance of this man all our civilized natives faded into the dark, so I had lost the translation services normally provided by Suleiman.

After a lengthy discussion in which voices were raised on both sides, it seemed that negotiations were finally concluded. From his dejected mien it appeared that the old man came out the worse for it.

“Corporal,” called the Inspector.

Suleiman materialized out of the dark with Jomo at his side. “Sah!”

“Corporal, accompany this man back to the village and cut out ten head of his best cattle. We will be taking them back to Nairobi with us. The money from the auction will serve to pay his fine.”

“Sah,” barked Suleiman saluting. He and Jomo gathered up the little man and disappeared into the darkness.

“Sir,” I said. “If you don’t mind me asking, what the devil was that all about?”

“That man is the witch that started this whole donnybrook.”

“A witch? Him?”

“Indeed,” said the Inspector. “He saw us kill the hyenas, and came in here demanding payment for the loss of his property. I asked him if he could prove they were his. He said, of course he could prove it and proceeded to describe the beads woven into their coats. For a moment, I was at a loss over what to do. I couldn’t arrest him for murder, no evidence, and I certainly couldn’t arrest him for practicing witchcraft. I realized, however, that I could punish him financially, so I fined him 10 head of cattle and told him that the next time the fine would be double.”

“You fined him? For what?”

“Keeping vicious animals.”

THE END

Money, Money, Money

2005-05-21T10:23:00.000-06:00

I’m baaaack! I’ve taken a couple of weeks off from writing virtually anything outside of the day job, so I’m feeling up to posting something here. I was going to review a story, but yesterday I ran across a couple of things that took precedence, at least in my mind.

You are all familiar with how excited I am about the potential of audio on the web. I’ve even reviewed a couple of podcasts called “Earthcore” and “The Seanachai,” both excellent continuing podcasts. Now there is “Escape Pod.” This is an ezine that publishes an audio file of one short story a week, generally coming out sometime on Thursday. This was their second week in operation.

The publisher bills Escape Pod as “The world’s first science fiction podcast magazine.” There is another first for Escape Pod: they pay $20 per story. You submit a text file of your story according to their guidelines, and if they accept it, they record the story and publish the audio file on their site for free download. They prefer previously published stories (cuts down on the selection/editing timeline) but will accept original manuscripts. Science fiction manuscripts.

I listened to the first story they published called “Imperial” by Jonathan Sullivan. While the story itself wasn’t bad (it had a very nice science-fictioney twist), it could have profited from some judicious cuts. The production values were pretty good. There were some nice intro and outro sweepers, and the reader was pretty smooth though I think he could use a little work on his female voices. He could also use one of those mesh disks that they put in front of mics to keep the plosives from blowing out the listener’s eardrums.

All in all, this is a pretty exciting site for audio fans. If they can keep it up. My first question was, “If they don’t charge for the stories, where does the money come from to pay the writers?” Some time ago I discussed the three current models for bringing in money from a website: subscriptions, advertising and begging (also called the PBS model). Escape Pod is following the PBS model by soliciting donations through a PayPal button on the site. They faithfully promise that all the money they collect will go toward paying the writers. Way to go, guys! This is a ground-breaking site. They have a few things they need to work on, but I really hope they make it. We’ll have to wait and see how it evolves.

Part of the issue of Escape Pod’s survival will be promotion, another frequently heard rant on this site. The podcasting community does this much better than do the text sites. There are four sites on the internet frequented by virtually every podcast fan out there: iPodder, Podcast Alley, Podcasting News, and Podcast Pickle. When someone starts a new podcast, they submit their information to these sites, which then adds them to a master list and assigns them to a category. You can go to one of these sites and check out the newest additions in all the categories, or a specific category. That’s how I found Escape Pod.

In addition, Podcast Alley, Podcasting News and Podcast Pickle rate the popularity of each podcast by listener vote. Most podcasts will have a vote button for one or more of these sites on their home page. These votes get sent back to the appropriate compendium site and tallied. Each of these compendium sites produces a list of the most popular podcasts and posts that list in a prominent place. This, of course, increases the traffic to those sites. Naturally there are quibbles and complaints about how the votes are tallied and whether some votes are qualified and the like, but the compendium sites are trying to address those issues. But whatever way they go, these compendium sites are promoting podcasts to the listeners, a very valuable service with, as near as I can tell, no cost to the podcast producer.

A short note to those who still have doubts about the power of audio on the net. I mentioned Earthcore above. This is a book by Scott Sigler. Earthcore was on track to be published by AOL/Time-Warner. During the internal upheavals a couple of years ago, the publication of the book was canceled. Scott was unable to find any other interested takers, so he decided to take matters into his own hands. He started recording the book himself and is currently issuing it as a series of podcasts, one or two chapters released each week. He was hoping to attract enough listeners to show publishers that he could deliver enough of an audience to make his book viable. Currently Earthcore is rated #6 on Podcast Alley and #5 on Podcast Pickle. Scott is seeing 5,000 to 6,000 downloads of each of his podcasts every week. In addition he has gotten a lot of press, both print and internet. So I’d say Scott did the right thing.

The second thing I saw this week was a couple of new services (oriented toward podcasting, but I don’t see any reason why they couldn’t be adapted for text) that could make the subscription business model pay off for small publishers. I’ll talk about that next time.

Times, They Are A Changing

2005-05-08T11:11:00.000-06:00

I am no longer going to post daily reviews.

There. In good journalistic fashion I have placed the most important sentence in the story at the top. Now for the explanation.

There are two major reasons for this. The first is burnout, I guess. When I first started this reviewing gig it was fun. I enjoyed dissecting the stories and discovering why I enjoyed them and, especially, why I didn’t. I thought that it might give me more insight into my own writing. More on that later.

Since December 3, 2004, I have written over 140 postings, the vast majority of which are reviews. Lately writing reviews has seemed more like work than play, more so this last week than ever. I kept thinking, “Just get through this week, then think it over.” Finally, as Candace noted, I couldn’t even get through the week.

Also lately I’ve felt that my reviews haven’t been quite up to snuff, at least in my own eyes. I think I’ve overdone it, and I need to recharge my batteries.

The second reason for this course of action is the fact that my fiction writing has practically halted during this time. More than one person whose opinion I respect has told me that they believe my fiction writing has suffered because of the blog. My aim is to become a well-known writer of fiction, not a well-known critic. I have to recognize my priorities.

In the year prior to starting “the short of it” I finished twelve short stories. Since December of last year I have finished one, “Moby Dick In A Can.” A pretty good one, if I do say so myself, but still. As I mentioned above, one of the reasons I started reviewing was to strengthen my own writing. Since I haven’t written much of anything other than reviews I can’t say if that goal has been achieved.

I do know that when I go back and read my published stories I cringe. I do know that I have been trying to revise one of the stories I wrote last year for three months without feeling that it’s yet good enough to submit. I’ve about come to the conclusion that it’s time to let it go and let the cards fall where they may. I’ve got to give my internal critic a good kick in the ass and tell him to lighten up. I don’t think I can do that while writing daily reviews.

Reading for reviews takes more time and intellectual effort than simply reading for pleasure. Often I will read a story two or three times, think about it for a while, then write the review. When I’m done, I’m tired. It’s time to get back to reading for pleasure for a while.

This doesn’t mean that I’m not going to do any more reviews, but I’m only going to review stories that I think are particularly good or exceptionally bad. That means that the appearance of those reviews will be erratic, on no particular schedule.

I also intend to do the occasional author interview, the operative word being “occasional”. I wanted to do more of those before now, but it seemed that the pressure (completely self-imposed, I now realize) to churn out the reviews kept me from taking the time to do the proper research I felt needed to be done before I contacted the author.

I’m also hoping that this lack of pressure will allow me to post more of my musings on the short story form. But again, on a very occasional basis.

I want to thank, from the bottom of my heart, all the people who have been regular, or even erratic, readers of this blog. You have made it a success beyond my wildest dreams. Thank you all, more than I can say.

I would appreciate it if you would keep my RSS feed in your aggregator so that you don’t miss the times when I post in the future. I promise to try to make it worth your while.

In short, this blog is not going away, it’s just going to get more irregular. Thanks again.

Blood Ties by Tim Wohlforth

2005-05-05T06:31:00.000-06:00

“Blood Ties” by Tim Wohlforth, Mysterical-e, March 2005

Ah, motherhood! Loving, nurturing, caring mother. A perfect story to read just before Mother’s Day. Or it would be if the mother involved had any of the characteristics listed above.

Our Hero (hereinafter designated OH), an unnamed PI, goes into his favorite watering hole and is told his mother is waiting for him. Not the mother who raised, loved and nurtured him since he was three years old. His birth mother.

OH is not anxious to renew a relationship after forty years of no contact, but he can’t resist, first the urgings of a good friend, then his own curiosity. She proves her identity with her hospital admittance form and his birth certificate. Then she tells her tale of woe.

Mom’s been busy lately. She went to work as a bookkeeper for a Cuban patriot in Miami collecting money for the next Bay of Pigs, some 10 million dollars in an offshore account. Suddenly her boss is gone, the office cleaned out, all the money withdrawn from the account. Next a couple of goons show up accusing her of stealing that money from the Cuban people. She takes it on the lam, driving all the way across the country to Oakland in her yellow BMW to see her son, the PI. She wants him to protect her.

He’s not anxious to take on the job. Why should he? Was she interested in protecting him when he was a child? He asks her why she gave him up for adoption. She responds with frustration and anger and stabs herself in the hand with a pair of nail scissors. Not the most stable of personalities. OH tries to follow her, but she gets away.

As he goes home to the marina where he lives on his boat, OH is accosted by two gorillas – or is it guerrillas? Mom’s erstwhile boss and his brother. They want to know where the money is. It seems Mom told them that OH, her son, has it. Whatta gal!

In order to impress him with the seriousness of their query, the two hardmen dump OH into the Bay and won’t let him out until he comes clean – or dies. The water is very cold, and OH is somewhat the worse for alcoholic wear. He could easily die from hypothermia. What happens next could prove the dominant strength of maternal love or self-preservation.

In spite of my light-toned review, this story is anything but light. Mr. Wohlforth does a good job of showing the confusion and frustration of a man abandoned by his birth mother. Why did she do it? Does he hate her as much as he thinks he does? Was he unworthy in some way? Was he unlovable? Did he force her away? OH is filled with warring emotions, curiosity versus rage. What is the true worth of Blood Ties?

In short, I enjoyed it, and the final twist makes the perfect cherry on top.

Lady Chesterliegh and the King of Swords by Susan Brassfield Cogan

2005-05-04T06:15:00.000-06:00

“Lady Chesterleigh and the King of Swords” by Susan Brassfield Cogan, Mysterical-e, March 2005

This story takes place in 1935 San Francisco. Lacy Chesterleigh is kidnapped by a couple of toughs and taken to see a local crime lord called the King of Swords. He is called that due to his propensity for using a sword to relieve his enemies of their heads.

Lady Chesterleigh is not a hothouse flower. She is tough, hardy and not easily intimidated. She has worked closely with the police in the past.

The King of Swords wants Lady Chesterleigh to use her influence with one Inspector Monahan to get his son released from custody. In a raid the night before the police found the King’s son unconscious with his pockets full of opium. He has her write a note to Monahan on pain of beheading. Once she has finished, the King sends one of his henchmen to deliver the note to Monahan.

Now that he has seen to the release of his son, he thinks, he turns his mind to finding the identity of the person or persons who framed his son. He does this by consulting an old crone who reads the Tarot cards. Apparently this isn’t the first time he has utilized her services.

The crone reads the cards and implicates two young men who are part of a triumvirate of friends. The King interprets this to mean his son’s two constant companions.

Lady Chesterliegh has some knowledge of Tarot, enough to see that the old crone is telling a story of her own making and not reading the cards she lays down. Questioning her about the cards, she leads into a question about the crone’s children. It seems she had a grandson that was murdered. She says that his murderer is in prison and will not long survive.

Along with the questions about the cards this tale of woe leads the King to conclude that his son’s betrayer stands before him. Can Lady Chesterleigh save the crone and herself as well?

I enjoyed this story more than I thought I would. It isn’t quite a cozy (there is some graphic violence), but it isn’t hardboiled either. I liked the main character and wouldn’t mind reading more of her adventures.

The tone of the story, the voice, is very much like what you would expect for the time period, and therein lie my two quibbles. One was the use of the phrase “good buddies”. That seemed anachronistic for 1935. Maybe it was just my exposure to the CB culture, but probably not.

The other was the reaction of one of the characters to being shot in the arm. I can’t go into much detail without giving away the ending, but that reaction may have been consistent with a Golden Age story, however in this day and age it just won’t fly. It put a bad ending on a good story. If Ms. Cogan insists on depicting violence, she must become familiar with the effects of violence.

In short, closer attention to detail might make Lady Chesterliegh one of my more favored characters.

Dress Blues by Michael A. Black

2005-05-03T06:25:00.000-06:00

“Dress Blues” by Michael A. Black, Hardluck Stories, Spring 2005

PI Ron Shade is looking for a runaway boy. The boy, Manuel, had a behavior problem, he was getting into trouble and trying to get into a local gang, the Spanish Tigers. His mother, with the help of a family friend, got him enrolled in the Woodsen Academy, a military school. Manuel had disappeared from the school.

The people at the school were unhelpful, but sent him to Dr. Odin, a psychologist who counsels the school’s more problematic students. Odin also used the “didn’t have time to get to know him” excuse, suggesting that Manuel had gone back to the gang. Ron learns that Manuel’s street name is El Mariposito, Little Butterfly, because of his affinity for Filipino butterfly knives. (BTW, Dave, you got the spelling right on the third try!)

Ron tries to talk to his friend, George, at the police department but is brushed off because of the murder of a big-shot named Horkin. Later, with the heat off because of the kiddie porn they found in Horkin’s safety deposit box, George offers to help Ron talk to some Spanish Tigers. They don’t know where he is. George sends him to a priest who helps kids in trouble. That also turns out to be a dead end.

Ron goes back to see George who had promised to check Manuel’s juvenile file. When he arrives George is going through Rolodex cards from the murdered big-shot pervert’s office. One of the cards attracts Ron’s attention, Dr. Herman P. Odin. When Ron finds out that Horkin was knifed, he goes back to see Odin.

I enjoy Mr. Black’s Ron Shade stories, and this one is no exception. Shade is well drawn, and I like the fact that he can take care of himself. PIs like John Lutz’s Nudger make me nuts. Becoming a professional snooper, at least in fiction, almost guarantees that sooner or later someone is going to take violent exception to your actions. Anyone that doesn’t realize this and take appropriate steps is less than bright.

I also liked the way Mr. Black led Shade to build his case step by step, many of them false, letting us feel his frustration build, then blowing off a little steam with the hulk at the halfway house. That relief then let him build suspense more effectively to the end.

In short, good, solid PI fare.

Death of an Aztec Princess by Martin Limon

2005-05-02T06:22:00.000-06:00

“Death of an Aztec Princess” by Martin Limon, Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine, June 2005

A young woman, a high-school senior, is missing. Her mother calls Gonzo Gonzales, a private eye in East L.A. Gonzo is the mother’s cousin, but the girl is like a daughter to him. The girl, Juanita, is pretty and smart. She’s a member of a folk-dance troupe and a Chicano activist. She’s late coming home from a rehearsal, and her mother is worried.

Gonzo finds her by following the police presence in El Cinco de Mayo Park, a place that is a haven for drug dealers. Now Gonzo is no longer looking for her, he’s looking for her murderer.

Gonzo searches Juanita’s room and finds about $500 in small bills along with a small notebook with cryptic entries of initials and dollar amounts. Juanita’s mother tells him that Juanita has been dating a drug dealer.

The police arrest Henry Carranza, an ex-boyfriend and leader of Los Diablitos, an East L.A. gang, on the testimony of a witness. The witness, Chuy the Squirrel, is a hanger-on, not a gang member but someone the gangs find useful to run errands.

Gonzo suspects that Henry is telling the truth when he says he didn’t kill Juanita. Gonzo finds Chuy and questions him. But Chuy is afraid of something. Gonzo gets knocked out and wakes up the center of attention for a number of the vatos of Los Diablitos. They tell him to meet Chuy alone and unarmed in the park and warn him to stay away from El Cinco after that. Then they make sure Gonzo knows they are serious.

During the meeting Chuy is killed by an unknown shooter who then chases Gonzo through the sewer system. Gonzo gets away.

While having breakfast the next morning, Gonzo figures out what the notebook and money mean. They are contributions to Juanita’s dance troupe from local businesses. This discovery leads him to Juanita’s murderer.

This story is well-written and well plotted with a big twist at the end. The atmosphere of East L.A. is so vivid that you can smell the albondigas cooking. This isn’t just a mystery story, this is Chicano literature. Mr. Limon immerses the reader so thoroughly in the East L.A. culture that returning to my gringo world on finishing the story was something of a shock.

In short, read this story.

Nothing But Jerks by Dave Zeltserman, art by Jean-Pierre Jacquet

2005-04-29T06:27:00.000-06:00

“Nothing But Jerks”, written by Dave Zeltserman, illustrated by Jean-Pierre Jacquet, Hardluck Stories, Spring 2005

Lou Johnston got shot in the abdomen during a bank robbery. He survived with the help of a shady doctor, but after three weeks he still hurts. Not a nice man to begin with, the pain is making him worse. His girlfriend, Norma, who takes the brunt of his ill temper, is caring for him.

Not only is he in physical pain, Lou has some emotional pain to deal with as well. First is the fact that he is embarrassed. He tried to be a nice guy and not hurt the bank guard, and after all that consideration, the damn guard shot him anyway. Then there’s the fact that none of the guys in the gang who robbed the bank with him have come to see how he’s doing. That bothers him more than the wound.

Then Harry comes by to see him. So at least one of the gang isn’t a jerk. Maybe. After a few minutes of visiting, Harry brings up the reason he really came to see Lou. Harry’s afraid he’s in trouble with Manny, one of the local mob bosses. It seems Harry’s been skimming the money he’s been collecting for Manny. He wants Lou to talk to Manny, see what he knows, maybe smooth things out.

Lou says, sure, he’ll talk to Manny, straighten things out. Only thing is, Lou’s a little miffed. Harry didn’t come by to see how Lou was doing, he just wanted Lou to do him a favor. How should Lou handle this?

Serial art. That’s what the late Will Eisner called comics. A series of drawings that help tell a story. I’ve always felt that art can enhance the written word, and that’s what’s happened with this story. You could tell Lou Johnston is a bastard just from the writing, but the art brings the impression home. Navigation through the story is easy, but I wish it had been easier to download and print.

In short, a nice addition to the Zeltserman/Jacquet cannon. Do another one.

The Inside Job by J. Mark Bertrand

2005-04-28T06:23:00.000-06:00

“The Inside Job” by J. Mark Bertrand, Hardluck Stories, Spring 2005

Tanner spent eight years in prison for a liquor store robbery gone wrong – at least from his viewpoint. Maybe he found religion inside or at least a moral compass. He doesn’t know, but he doesn’t want to go back. All he wants is a normal life. He met a woman, Joan, and fell in love. She doesn’t care about his background. He has a job, he has a woman, it looks like his dream of a normal life is within reach.

Then Gravel shows up. Gravel is his best friend from childhood. He was Tanner’s partner in the liquor store robbery. Gravel didn’t try to go straight when he got out. Now he’s in trouble. He owes seventy grand to some very bad people. He wants Tanner to help him make a score big enough to clear him.

If Tanner had the seventy grand he’d give it to Gravel, but he doesn’t. And he doesn’t want to go back to crime. They argue, and Tanner sends him away. Joan, who knows how close he and Gravel are, wants to know what the argument was about. Tanner tells her, and suddenly this woman of Tanner’s dreams, this 14-year employee of a bank, this citizen comes up with a plan to rob the bank where she works.

Tanner doesn’t want to do it. Joan arranges a meeting with Gravel. He and Joan try to convince Tanner to do the job. Joan even says she has the guns they will need. She tells them the routine of the bank, how many guards, the best time to hit. She also comes up with a way to force the manager to open the vault – by holding the man’s wife hostage. Finally, reluctantly Tanner agrees to do the job while Gravel holds the bank manager’s wife hostage.

But when Tanner gets to the bank, nothing is like Joan said it would be. The vault is open. There are two guards instead of one. Tanner gets away with one bag of money but not without shooting one guard and pistol-whipping another. Things get worse from there. Is there redemption waiting for him, or jail or even death?

This story reads easily and quickly. Mr. Bertrand does a good job of showing how a man with good intentions can be dragged into bad ways through relationships that make him feel obligated. And let’s not forget the femme fatale. This story could have fit right in the Dangerous Women anthology.

I have one small quibble with the sudden appearance of the prison chaplain at the end. It almost feels like deus ex machina, though there is a quick explanation of his presence. But I would have felt better if he had made a physical appearance earlier in the story.

In short, an excellent object lesson about the influence of bad company.

Venus in Transit by Chick Lang

2005-04-27T06:27:00.000-06:00

“Venus in Transit” by Chick Lang, Hardluck Stories, Spring 2005

A young man meets a woman in a bar. They are total opposites, but he can’t get enough of her. Leah is the dominant one, leading him around by his dick. The night they meet she picks the pocket of practically every man in the place. When they wake up the next morning, he discovers that she has picked his pocket as well. She hands him his wallet with $2,000 in it. His share of the night’s proceeds, she says.

Even though the two of them constantly fight, he can’t bring himself to break away. They stayed together for months, robbing, conning, thieving every easy mark that came along, and some not so easy. He keeps thinking he should leave her, but she dominates him totally.

Suddenly she decides she wants to rob a bank. Even though he has grown increasingly uncomfortable with their way of life, he goes along as she knew he would. She has what sounds like a good plan. He bought a disposable car that they will use for the robbery and to get them back to a place to switch to their normal car. She leaves him an envelope just before he drops her off in front of the bank. She says it is her last will and testament, just in case something goes wrong. He isn’t supposed to open it unless she doesn’t show up at the appointed time and place.

As he waits for her he has to fend off anxiety, a couple of passing vagrants and the temptation to open the envelope. Finally the time comes, and she is nowhere to be seen. He follows the plan, and heads back to switch cars. What he finds there and in the envelope Leah left him make the end consistent with what has gone before.

To be honest I almost didn’t get past the first sentence, and the next three paragraphs were a real struggle. Much too “literary” for my taste. It felt like dressing in a paper tuxedo to attend a frat party.

Aside from that, it was a pretty good story. The main character, unnamed, was consistent throughout, as was Leah. The contents of her note struck exactly the right tone for her, and the viewpoint character’s reaction to that note was inevitable.

In short, if you can get through the first four paragraphs without throwing up, it’s a decent story.

Amends by Walker Eugene Dollahon

2005-04-26T06:15:00.000-06:00

“Amends” by Walker Eugene Dollahon, Hardluck Stories, Spring 2005

The story begins in a bar deep in the piney woods of East Texas during the 1940s. At this time in most of Texas you couldn’t legally by an alcoholic drink, so places like Mack ‘N Jacks sprang up in out of the way places to cater to the thirsty crowd. That crowd tended to be a bit on the rough side.

Jimmy is the swamper and general dogsbody at Mack ‘N Jacks. Jimmy’s family has fallen on hard times. Two of his brothers are in the military, one having been killed in the Pacific Theater. This affected his family deeply. His father drank himself to death, and his mother has withdrawn into herself. Because no one is working it, their farm is in danger of foreclosure. Jimmy does what he can, but he can’t do it by himself. Jimmy’s father’s one extravagance was a car. His mother hates it, but Jimmy won’t give it up.

One day Cap Pressler walks into the bar and starts ordering Jimmy around. Jimmy’s about to lay a whuppin’ on Pressler when suddenly he finds himself on the other end of that whuppin’. Now that he has established his place in the pecking order, Pressler starts treating Jimmy better, even being friendly.

Pressler meets two other men in the bar, one of whom is Jimmy’s cousin. They huddle and drink together for hours several days in a row. Finally they ask Jimmy to join their gang. They are going to rob a bank, and they need a getaway driver. Pressler says no one will get hurt, so Jimmy agrees.

The job is well planned. Each of the members of the gang knows what he is going to do and when to do it. Nonetheless, the job goes sour. Only Pressler and Jimmy get away. But a bad day only gets worse for one of them.

For a first published story, Mr. Dollahon has made one hell of a debut. The story is well told and well plotted. Cap Pressler is smooth and cosmopolitan, at least for a back-woods place like Nacagdoches in the 1940s. Mr. Dollahon also makes a good job of quiet, long-suffering Jimmy. His description of Jimmy’s anxiety while waiting outside during the bank robbery is spot on. And the ending brings home a common warning about a certain kind of person.

In short, welcome to the fold, Mr. Dollahon.

The Last Act by Barry Baldwin

2005-04-25T06:29:00.000-06:00

“The Last Act” by Barry Baldwin, Hardluck Stories, Spring 2005

A man named Harry walks into a bar just before closing to use the restroom and make a call. Myra, the bartender and only other person in the place, offers him a cup of coffee.

Harry needs a taxi, but Myra tells him that taxis won’t come to this neighborhood this time of night. She offers to give him a ride to a bar she frequents to wind down after her shift. That bar has a taxi stand nearby.

Myra invites Harry in for a drink. She tells him her history. She’s an aspiring actress. Her sister Fay was killed in a robbery of that bar she works in. She says she works there as a way to keep Fay alive in her mind a little longer.

Harry is a car thief, at least that night he was. He had boosted an expensive car that gave out just before he walked into Myra’s bar. She had him nailed. Myra spotted the car as she was driving away from her place of employment.

Myra has a plan. She wants to rob a bank and make a score big enough to allow her to move on from aspiring actress to working actress. She wants to be smart about it, and Harry is smart enough to know a good plan when he hears it.

Harry finds a couple of guys for muscle, and they pull their job. Afterwards Harry and Myra meet at another bar. Harry reveals that the two guys he hired are now sleeping with the fishes. What happens next is a big surprise for Harry.

This story has a good plot, and Mr. Baldwin fleshes it out well. Unfortunately that intangible voice didn’t feel right. It felt like Mr. Baldwin was going for hardboiled noir but couldn’t quite pull it off. His voice felt forced.

I like colorful language probably more than most people, but “Wariness danced its silent two-step between them” is just trying too hard. The same for the two opening sentences. Either one would have been enough. Both were too much.

Worst of all, there was no emotion, no feeling. Hardboiled noir has a hard surface that on a casual reading seems emotionless, but that surface conceals a turbulent undercurrent of raw feeling. Myra felt nothing for Fay or her murderer other than what her cultural tradition demanded. That balancing act between showing the emotionless mask and allowing the reader to feel what’s beneath is a tough thing to pull off.

In short, try again, Mr. Baldwin. You’re a good enough writer that you might pull it off with practice.

What's in a Name by Robert Wm. Wagner

2005-04-22T06:12:00.000-06:00

“What’s in a Name” by Robert Wm. Wagner, Hardluck Stories, Spring 2005

The story begins with Angela assessing her body and reflecting on her romantic prospects – or lack of them.

Angela is a loan officer in a bank frequented by a man the ladies call Gallahad. Angela lusts after him, but hasn’t the courage to make contact. Today is the day Gallahad comes in to deposit his check. In a conversation with Clara, one of the tellers, Charlie Gallahan reveals that he is attracted to Angela but is reluctant to approach her.

As Gallahan is leaving, two robbers enter the bank and kill the guard. Gallahan pulls a pistol and shoots one of the robbers. Gallahan is a cop, but we aren’t told that. It is a conclusion we draw because of a couple of short phrases buried in the story. A nice touch.

Before Gallahan can shift his aim to the other robber, he pulls out a sawed-off shotgun and shoots Gallahan taking out a good portion of his thigh and nicking the femoral artery.

What Angela does next takes her well beyond the normal role of loan officer.

Mr. Wagner does an outstanding job of writing female characters. Not once did I get kicked out of the story by a false note. Angela is, of course, particularly well drawn, but so was Clara, the teller.

I was also pleased by the way Mr. Wagner built my empathy with Angela so that the end of the story there was an emotional connection.

In short, good storytelling.

The Inside Man by Gary Lovisi

2005-04-21T06:07:00.000-06:00

“The Inside Man” by Gary Lovisi, Hardluck Stories, Spring 2005

Johnny is the inside man for a team of career bank robbers. He gets a job at a bank, works there for a few weeks to learn the routine and the security codes and then his partners rob the bank while he cowers on the floor with the rest of the bank’s staff and customers.

Johnny’s gang of several years standing consists of himself, Jackie/Jack, “as butch a lez as one could get,” and her mountainous and mentally challenged brother, Deke. Left to himself Deke isn’t much of a threat to anyone, but he does what Jackie/Jack tells him without question.

This time Johnny has been working at the bank for a couple of months, longer than his usual tenure. Soon after he joined the bank he began a romantic entanglement with Janet Egan, the branch manager. He learned that the bank was due for a large infusion of cash, a million dollars in small bills. He and Jackie/Jack decided to wait until the cash arrived before pulling the robbery.

Unfortunately during the down time a woman with the improbable name of Flouncy attached herself to Deke. Deke wasn’t the only member of the gang to be attracted to Flouncy. In fact there wasn’t a single member of the team that wasn’t attracted to her. And Flouncy seemed quite happy with the way things were going.

Johnny, however, was not. Just before the day of the robbery, he convinced the rest of the gang to relocate their base of operations without telling Flouncy. She was out of their hair, and the team was working. Or so he thought.

On the day of the robbery, instead of an invasion of two masked and armed robbers, there was an invasion of three masked and armed robbers. Flouncy was back. And things went downhill from there with a couple of twists on the way.

This is a good story with a lot of suspense. Mr. Lovisi builds tension, then relaxes it, then builds it again to a higher peak. There is a series of these peaks and valleys throughout the story. Poor Johnny has more ups and downs than a yo-yo. My only quibble with the story is that I wish I could have felt more empathy for Johnny. That lack of empathy is always a danger when your main character is a bad guy.

In short, mildly disappointing but still an enjoyable story.

One Step Closer by Iain Rowan

2005-04-20T06:26:00.000-06:00

“One Step Closer” by Iain Rowan, Hardluck Stories, Spring 2005

A man goes to the bank on a whim. He needs a little walk-around money, and there’s the bank. Might as well pop in.

On a normal day, five, ten minutes and he’s on his way, one more check on the list of Things-To-Do. The thing about extraordinary days is that they are pretty normal until something exceptional pops up and punches you in the gut.

That was Ward’s day. Nip into the bank for a little folding money, then be on his way. Only that day an armed bank robber decides to do the same thing in the same bank at the same time. In an instant the normal becomes the extraordinary.

This isn’t a long story, but Mr. Rowan packs it to overflowing, to mix a metaphor. In the first three paragraphs, the bank robbery is already in progress, almost over in fact. Then a flashback. (To those who think flashbacks are a bad idea poorly executed, see this story and be shamed.) The story then proceeds chronologically. Mr. Rowan builds the suspense as gradually as he can in a story of this length. He increases the stakes with a killing and a near miss, then the characters see the hope that it is within seconds of being over. Suddenly, things really go to hell.

Mr. Rowan uses the device of a panicky woman to ramp up the tension, but he does it well without making her panic the centerpiece of the scene and without making her unsympathetic. A nice balancing act.

Another thing I liked about the story is that Mr. Rowan uses smells to help set the scene. Few authors do that. Smell is a powerful sense that can often evoke more vivid memories than any of the other senses. These memories can bring a reader deeply into the story. I’ve never seen the inside of a British bank, but I know the smell of commercial floor polish.

Near the end of the story, Mr. Rowan repeats the first three paragraphs, but in this position they have an emotional impact that they didn’t have at the beginning. This indicates how well the character of Ward was drawn.

And finally, harking back to my latest rant, Mr. Rowan knows his criminals. “We don’t even exist for him, Ward thought. We aren’t even people. There is nothing in this world but himself.”

In short, read this story.

Hardluck Stories, Spring 2005 Issue

2005-04-20T06:17:00.000-06:00

The spring issue of Hardluck Stories has sprung. There are stories by Walker Eugene Dollahan, Robert Wm. Wagner, Gary Lovisi, Barry Baldwin, J. Mark Bertrand, Iain Rowan, Chick Lang, and a reprint by Michael Black. In addition, there is an original noir comic book adapted from one of Dave Zeltserman's stories. There have been a few changes made to the zine, and Pat Lambe does his usual bang-up job with the layout. Stop by and take a look.

The Jane Case by Michael Z. Lewin

2005-04-19T06:18:00.000-06:00

“The Jane Case” by Michael Z. Lewin, Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine, May 2005

The story begins with Old Man Lunghi, founder of the Lunghi Detective Agency and head of the family. The Old Man is a little more than semi-retired, his extended family now running the agency. Mama, the Old Man’s wife, decides that he needs something to do, so she gets him to start going to a YMCA gym on a regular basis. One day while at the gym he notices the running style of one of the other male patrons. This guy “dishes,” throws his heels out to the sides, as he runs. While watching this guy a young woman comes up and tells the Old Man about how this guy stole her phone on the street a few days before. When she saw him in the gym and recognized his running style she confronted him. He laughed at her. She went to the police, but they wouldn’t believe that she could identify the thief by his running style.

The Old Man believes her and decides that he will help her. This pleases Mama, though, of course, she doesn’t show it. She begins manipulating the rest of the family into helping the Old Man, but on his terms. She wants him more involved, more interested in life. If the rest of the family takes over the case, the Old Man will just sink back into the lethargy she’s trying to get him out of. So the Old Man handles the case his way, bringing in one of the school-age members of the family to help him.

From a structural standpoint this is a textbook detective story. The Old Man discovers one small piece of information that leads him to another and another until, as Clouseau used to say, the case is solve-ed. It’s the writing that confuses.

Don’t get me wrong. Mr. Lewin is a good writer, but . . . . The story is set in Bath, England, but the writing style is pure American. The Lunghi family is ethnic Italian, but the Old Man and his wife speak with a Yiddish rhythm and language style. This issue of AHMM is called the humor issue, and maybe Mr. Lewin looked at this concatenation of ethnicities as the humorous part of his story. Written straight, set in the U.S., with either a Jewish or Italian extended family, this would have been an engaging, enjoyable story.

In short, a little too much of a mish-mash to be really enjoyable.

Violence, Sex and "Bad" Language

2005-04-18T06:07:00.000-06:00

If that title doesn't get this essay bumped up in the search engine rankings, I don't know what will.

I reread Chandler's essay, “The Simple Art of Murder”, again last weekend, and it seems to me that it is just as applicable today as the day he wrote it. For those of you who haven't read it, you are missing something that is arguably the pre-eminent analysis of the "detective" story.

In the essay Chandler laments the state of the detective story feeling that it has, in general, been relegated to the realms of fantasy. Not the fantasy that word currently brings to mind, the magical doings of the sword and sorcery ilk, but fantasy in that characters don't behave as real people would.

I can't help but feel that, in the mainstream of mystery fiction, particularly short mystery fiction, that we are right back in the position Chandler was lamenting. What other conclusion can be drawn when the only two mainstream markets paying pro rates for short mystery fiction state right in their guidelines that stories with overt violence, sex and "bad" language will not be considered?

Crime in general, and murder in particular, is ALWAYS accompanied by violence or the threat of violence. The nanny-staters have tried to tell us that watching violence in the movies and television, reading about violence in literature, playing video games wherein one wins through perpetrating imaginary acts of violence will inevitably result in violence in the real world. Violence does not arise from imagination. Violence arises from unbridled passion, a lack of self-control. But that's a discussion for another time.

Of course the refined and educated do commit crimes, but they are a tiny minority, and the crime is usually a one-off. The people who commit crime as a matter of course are not the refined inhabitants of drawing rooms or private clubs. Unless that club is called the Black Gangster Disciples. These people live in a world permeated by violence and sex. How do you write about them without placing them in that world?

To quote Chandler about Hammett and his characters, “He put these people down on paper as they were, and he made them talk and think in the language they customarily used for these purposes.” In these times when even high-school kids use the word “fuck” in every sentence, “bad” language is hard to avoid. How can we write about these people without using their language?

AHMM and EQMM seem to be willing to hamstring the art of writing realistically in order to remain politically correct. As a result, I find more stories that grab me by the throat on the Internet than I do in the pages of the Big Two mentioned above. Unless they let in the occasional realistic crime story, I think they will eventually find themselves left eating the dust of the ezines.

Or am I just miffed because they don’t publish what I like to read and write?

Home by Eddie Newton

2005-04-15T05:59:00.000-06:00

“Home” by Eddie Newton, Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, May 2005

This story appeared under the Department of First Stories banner. As such it is a pretty good story, though it does have its faults.

Three people, Marion, Mabel, and Dell are holed up inside a house that obviously isn’t theirs. They are hiding in the house, because the radio says that some desperate and dangerous convicts have escaped and are thought to be in their neighborhood. One of the convicts used to live in that very neighborhood. The radio is advising everyone to stay in their houses behind locked doors.

Mable is crying and Dell is impatient. Marion wanders through the house remembering. Everything he looks at brings back impressions and memories. He knows the house and the people who used to live there. Marion also worries about “them” and how the locks on this suburban house wouldn’t keep out anyone determined to get in.

The story goes on in this vein in an almost stream of consciousness river about to overflow its banks. That’s fine technique and can be effective if it’s used in short pieces. Unfortunately the entire story is written this way. Because of that the story is too long. I would have been much more effective if it had been about half the length. That would also give the reader less time to figure out what’s going on before the ending. It didn’t take me long to suss out what was what.

All that said, the story is well written and the ending is effective. As you reach the final paragraphs you can see that there are two ways the story can end. Mr. Newton is able to introduce enough suspense about which way the story will go that the ending has at least a little emotional impact.

In short, a good first effort.

Forget About Me by William Bankier

2005-04-14T06:09:00.000-06:00

“Forget About Me” by William Bankier, Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, May 2005

A cop, Detective Darren Conway, and his friend, Lucy, attend the showing of a Woody Allen movie. The theater is crowded, and by the time the movie is about to start parties are breaking up because most of the seats left open are singles. One of those open seats is next to Conway. A woman comes by and leaves her jacket in the empty seat, then goes to have a word with her friend before the movie starts. She never comes back.

Conway can’t get the woman out of his mind. He and Lucy wait for her to return for her jacket until after all the other patrons have gone. They turn the jacket in to the theater manager, Lyle, and Conway leaves his card.

Later Conway gets a call from a man called Oswald. He tells Conway that Serena is fine. He won’t let Conway talk to her.

Conway goes back to Lyle and gets a description of the man who picked up the jacket. The name Oswald and the fact that he was wearing a college athletic jacket with the number, 86, on it allow him to find out Oswald’s full name and that he lives in Venice. Conway and Lucy go there and sits at an outdoor café watching the people, hoping to seen Oswald. Before long, Lyle and Oswald come up to the table. Oswald offers to go get Serena, who is staying with him just a couple of blocks away. When Oswald returns, a woman wearing the right jacket accompanies him. Oswald maneuvers her so that the sun is behind her. She thanks Conway for returning the jacket and leaves. Conway is sure that she is not the same woman.

When Conway and Lucy get home, there is a message on his answering machine. It is Serena, Conway recognizes her voice, saying that Conway should leave her alone.

A few weeks later Conway catches a homicide at the theater where he met Serena. Lyle, the manager, is dead. Conway finds Oswald’s address in Lyle’s day planner and, with his partner, pays him a visit. They arrive just as Oswald is about to drive off towing a U-Haul trailer. Asked about Serena, Oswald says she is upstairs. Conway goes up to finally meet this woman he has been obsessing about for weeks.

The story is well-written and kept my interest, but there was just something unsatisfying about it. The ending just doesn’t read true. I suppose that there wasn’t enough build-up given to support Conway’s condition at the end.

In short, a workmanlike story that is ultimately unsatisfying.

Walkie-Talkie by Michael Mallory

2005-04-13T06:17:00.000-06:00

“Walkie-Talkie” by Michael Mallory, Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, May 2005

This story had my blood boiling.

Jeff McKee, his wife, Dinah Purdue, and their five-year-old son, Gage are going on a trip. Jeff and Dinah are actors. Jeff is the more famous of the two having played Jack Ryan, the hero of several Tom Clancy novels, in a movie. Dinah’s fame has faded in the last few years since she took time off for being a mother. The disparity in recognition has begun to rankle, not obviously, but Jeff had noticed and increasing number of little things that tell him his wife is not happy. He tries to compensate by disparaging his own achievements, a strategy that doesn’t work as well as it used to.

Dinah has insisted they bring along a couple of Power Ranger walkie-talkies in case they get separated in the airport. She has one and Jeff has the other.

While waiting to board their plane Jeff takes Gage to the bathroom. Gage insists that he doesn’t need to go, but Jeff does. Jeff goes into a stall and tells Gage to stay just outside giving him the walkie-talkie to play with. They talk back and forth for a bit, but then it gets quiet. Jeff becomes concerned and comes out to discover that Gage is nowhere to be found.

Jeff goes to find Dinah hoping that Gage got impatient and returned to his mother. Dinah hasn’t seen him. They try to call him on the walkie-talkie, but at first get no response. Then a few minutes later they hear an adult voice on the radio saying that he has Gage and he wants to see “if the great Jack Ryan can solve the mystery.”

As the story progresses Mr. Mallory shows us that Jeff has a violent temper, one that plays a big part in the ending. He also shows us the progression of events that cause Jeff’s fear for his son’s safety, his guilt and his rage to build to the breaking point. Everything is logical in within character. Mr. Mallory had me identifying so strongly with Jeff that with the penultimate twist I was getting angry myself. I’m a very even-tempered, laid-back sort of fellow. Any writer that can make me angry in sympathy with his character is doing one hell of a job.

In short, one of the best stories Ellery Queen has published in the last year.

White Tea by G. Miki Hayden

2005-04-12T05:39:00.000-06:00

"White Tea" by G. Miki Hayden, Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, May 2005

This story is about two women in similar circumstances but on opposite sides of the Earth. The time period is apparently the late 1920s or early 1930s. The Communists have not yet taken China, and future Supreme Court Justice Felix Frankfurter has lost the Sacco and Vanzetti case.

In China a young girl is sold to her uncle to work on his tea plantation. She grows up and becomes the best tea grader her uncle has. Along the way she has fallen in love with another worker on the plantation. Her dreams of marriage to this young man are dashed when her uncle informs her that she is to be married to another older man of his choosing. She is desperate to avoid marrying this man, so she plots to murder her uncle. Knowing that he always chooses the choicest grade of tea for his own use, she poisons a fresh package of tea that she intends to bring to him.

In America there lives another woman, no longer so young. Anne has spent the best part of her life caring for her own uncle who was once an importer. Uncle Wilbur dies suddenly one night, and Anne's life changes forever. As the old man's sole heir, Anne can taste the first hints of the freedom that awaits her. A freedom she's never known.

But then the doctor asks her some strange questions. The police arrive and take away all the food in the house. Anne can't imagine what is going on. Eventually the police arrest Anne for the murder of her uncle.

The lives of these two women intertwine, and Ms. Hayden does an exceptional job of telling their stories. Ms. Hayden illuminates the characters of the women effortlessly. In addition, the "voice" of each of the women is distinct though not obtrusively so. There is a discrete difference in tone between the Chinese setting and the American one, but the transition is not jarring.

In short, another feather in Ms. Hayden's cap.

The Cherries of Lucullus by Steven Saylor

2005-04-11T06:16:00.000-06:00

“The Cherries of Lucullus” By Steven Saylor, Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, May 2005

This story takes place in ancient Rome just before Cicero was elected Consul. The main character is Gordianus the Finder. Lucullus, famous general and epicurean, has asked his friend, Cicero, to bring Gordianus to dinner.

Lucullus was, and still is, famous for his elaborate and extravagant dinner parties, thus the origin of the phrase “Lucullan feast”. The dinner to which Gordianus is invited is to be one of the more elaborate ones. The guests are to be Lucullus’s wife, his brother Marcus, Cicero, Gordianus, and the three A’s, Antiocus, the Greek philosopher, Arcesislaus, the sculptor, and Archias, the poet.

Once dinner is over Lucullus takes his guests into his orchard where he has the only cherry trees in Rome. He brought those trees, along with many other exotic plants and flowers, back from his many military campaigns in the far corners of the empire. The cherries are just now ripe, and he invites his guests to help themselves.

While in the orchard, Lucullus tells Gordianus why he was invited. Lucullus believes that an old enemy of his, Varius, is currently masquerading as a slave tending the roses and biding his time before attempting to assassinate him. Lucullus had captured Varius and was bringing him back to Rome by sea for public execution. Varius escaped his chains and went over the side. He hasn’t been seen since. One of Varius’s distinguishing characteristics is the fact that he has only one eye, the left being missing. Motho the gardener has only one eye, only it’s his right eye that is missing. In spite of that fact, and in spite of the fact that Lucullus has had men who knew Varius tell him that Motho is just a slave gardener, Lucullus remains convinced that Motho is Varius. He wants Gordianus to confirm this.

In spite of the fact that I am not drawn to Ancient Rome as a setting for much of anything, I found this story to be engaging. Mr. Saylor is able to make the setting believable, injecting just enough detail about the culture and politics of the time without being obtrusive, a delicate balancing act. The writing is smooth, and he doesn’t try to “Latinize” the dialogue. I found myself genuinely interested in how Gordianus was going to prove or disprove Motho’s identity. The solution is one that I certainly didn’t expect, and one that ties the story back to a problem a segment of our current population has.

In short, an excellent story.

Everybody's Girl by Robert Barnard

2005-04-08T06:07:00.000-06:00

“Everybody’s Girl” by Robert Barnard, Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, May 2005

Everyone has always loved Ruth Lowton, or so it seems.

Ruth is away at her first year in college, and her parents are worried. Her letters indicate that she is unhappy, not fitting in at college. The latest letter even hints at suicide. Her father drives to Leeds, where she attends college, while her mother stays at home in case she calls.

Meanwhile we meet the couple across the street, two people in an unhappy marriage of long standing. They too love Ruthie, each in their own way.

We also meet Ruthie’s high school history teacher, whom Ruthie tended to dominate. And there is a boy at school, a melancholy sort. Ruthie seemed quite attached to him. He certainly thought the world of her. There is also the guy across the hall at her flat who didn’t like her at all.

When her father reaches Leeds and begins looking for her, the police are fishing her body out of a river. Her father witnesses this and is devastated, thinking she has committed suicide as she hinted at in her letter. The police, on the other hand, know it to be murder. The back of her head is caved in.

As the police investigate, talking to more and more people who knew Ruthie, a very different personality from the loving, caring Ruthie comes out. Ruthie was a master manipulator, had been from an early age. Only those people she manipulated couldn’t see it. But there was one person among her intimates that knew about her manipulation and could stand it no longer. Mr. Barnard does an excellent job drawing her character through the recollections of the people who knew her.

This story is a textbook police procedural. We follow the detectives assigned to the case as they question people and put together a picture of Ruthie and her life. There isn’t a lot of emotional content in the story. You don’t spend enough time with any of the characters to become attached to them, but that is pretty typical of this type of story. The process is the star.

In short, a good story.