Ay' get me me other crutch will ye, I need to get me dictionary out of stowage!

When did it become poor form for an author to send his readers to a dictionary?

I don't know how many times now that I've perused a review blog or lurked through a writers forum and found so much negative response to the use of large words or words whose meaning has changed enough over the years that someone would suggest that using it for what it was intended was a grand sin.

I have heard every argument from it being purple prose to perhaps trying to talk over the reader's head. But, the truth seems to lie in that no one wants to pick up a dictionary anymore. And in this age when the dictionary is a few clicks away on a keyboard that seems even more phenomenally idiosyncratic at the very least.

I recall when I was young, yes I really do, and maybe I don't remember it all exactly the way it was, but I think that I've got this one correct. I was assigned reading, which required the use of a dictionary. I was encouraged to read those novels that would introduce me to new words and I was, eventually, never in fear of entering a library where my mind would be devoured by the vagaries of an author who was too high handed with his vocabulary.

Perhaps it was just me, I remember even times when first delving into Mark Twain's universe that I had to find the meaning to a word. Oh, but, then, I didn't always try to rely on just the context to tell me the meaning. And I knew well the pitfall of trying to use context because there were words used in his time that meant something different today. No context does not define the word it helps determine which definition the writer is using. The dictionary still defines the word.

In recent years I've actually found small innocent words that have been sorely abused. Oh, sure by context you can figure out what the writer wanted to say. They merely slipped up and used the wrong word without looking up the meaning. It's only four letters so why would anyone look it up? Now there is the root of this whole problem. Some people simply do not want to use a dictionary for anything.

The question is: how did we reach a point where the so called professionals of reading and the help desk for writers have been allowed to lay claim to knowledge that readers don't like using the dictionary and that they have to be coddled into the understanding of the meaning of every word by its context and that no single word should actually encompass that context unless its such a simple small word that the simplest of readers might glean the meaning and the context without all the fuss of verification.

Yet to hear that someone would put a book down rather than constantly run to the dictionary makes me cringe. How many times have Poe, Dickens, Melville, Conrad, and Doyle, been cast aside for this very reason today? I still have my dictionary at hand whenever I read Charles Dickens. Might as well just burn Dumas and Cervantes.

The worst argument I have heard yet is that, for a new author, it is forbidden. If they want to become a well read author they must use simple words that everyone understands. Since they are not established as the authors mentioned above, they have no right to use outdated and long words that are mostly an obvious show of purple prose attempts to create great flourishing phrases that will stand out.

And, there might be some truth to that.

But, these same people who spout these truisms have time and again shown an unswerving inability to gain context of the material to even begin to determine what is and is not purple prose. Their method is: if it looks, smells, tastes, and sounds like purple prose then it must be. The ability to determine context seems to blow completely from their head.

Even the famous phrase such as "It was a dark and stormy night..." can have relevance. Of course it's often what follows that is determined to be Purplish. Sure they all recognize that one as purple prose. But, if something happened on that dark and stormy night that could never happen on any other sort of night, then what do you do?

The sky was devoid of light and there was a dearth of open space between the angry clouds. Even the few voids in the cloud mass seem belligerent with the occasional flashes and their cacophony of sounds like drum rolls. Behind that blackness was even greater darkness as the elements shed their frustration over the earth below. Coming ever closer ever faster towards revealing the many flaws in the very structure of the great Manor House.

I use a dictionary when I write. Often to check spelling sometimes to make sure of my definitions. If I have to look it up that could bode ill towards my reader. Should it stay or should it go. That depends on the context and how well it fits the structure of the writing. It should never be determined by how often I might send a reader on some mad dash to get that dictionary from under their bed or from off the pressed leaf collection.

It should never be decided by a quorum of "writers" who have determined that the readers are not smart enough or will be distracted if they have to look up a single word.

On the other hand the reader still may just toss the book aside because they really are lazy and indigent. That's just a risk you take- and obviously with all the unsolicited help out there one that need not be taken at all if you want to play it safe.

Copyright J.L. Dobias

Being a frequenter of GoodReads.com I came across this gem of a book as The Nine Inch Bride. It was probably a title far from what would interest me. But, with goodreads I always get the free offers about three days too late and I expected that to be so with this book anyway. To my surprise I saw that it was offered for a much longer time than usual. The caveat being that I would have to write a review.

Being no stranger to the need for reviews I thought this was quite reasonable and download the book which it turns out is the first half of a whole, which has been split and is named Book one: Conundrum.(the first conundrum being that my copy calls itself the Stone of Conscience)

I must admit that the beginning of the book intrigued me. But as with some other readers it segued soon into something less bearable for a time. For me it was just that it was bit too morose with the downward spiral of the life of our protagonist. It's when the suspension of belief occurs that the story picks up pace again. So does our protagonist's life.

At this moment it is almost safe to say that one might wonder that the events that follow isn't just a fabrication of our protagonist. But slowly we get the notion that the fantastic has happened and it is all real. But, the most interesting and intriguing part of this portion of the novel is that it becomes almost a political science diatribe. Unfortunately it takes getting about half way through the book to get there.

It's worth the trip.

In some way the long political discussion borders on perhaps a intimation that this might be a commentary on socialism. The real and elusive never quite attainable socialism that lives only in philosophical discussions.

The character that delivers it runs their own gamut of potential - from angel to devil. They just draw the reader in with what seem like selfless acts- to what seem like intelligent conversation about current political failing in democracy - to a bit of an imp suggesting almost the unthinkable.

Ultimately we're led to believe the goal is to help the real and elusive never quite attainable democracy that lives only in philosophical discussions to finally come to full bloom. Something that possibly is being held back by circumstances of today's global economy and capitalism.

I mentioned socialism earlier because along the line there is a familiar thought mentioned about how once the system is allowed to purge itself- capitalism will dissipate or just sort of go away to make way for the true democracy. Our protagonist's new friend wants to help this process along.

I want to see how this works out for them, that means I will have to obtain the next half.
(Which might be named A Stone of Conscience.)

It's a shame the author is Anonym-ous but there seems to be a measure of paranoia in writing when simple names are misspelled deliberately to inadequately obfuscate the reference of whom they are speaking.

J.L. Dobias author of Cripple-Mode Series

Murder on Michigan Avenue is not your average mystery.
It's also not your average LGBT novel.
It is a literary masterpiece that puts its author Jere Myles on par with other favorites of mine such as Hemingway.

Certainly there is a heap of murder within this trilogy. And a large mystery that unfolds to the reader. There is no doubt that the bulk of characters intersect or have lives that are bisected by gay and bi-sexual themes. Strangely, though this is not really just a mystery and certainly not an in your face LGBT novel.

This is a primer for a large discussion of an ever growing problem in the community of man. This is a story of love and how much our world today does to stifle anything related to it. The characters of Jon and Mieko and Eileen could be considered dysfunctional by many in the world because of their confusion of orientation. But, such a judgment would overlook the obvious. Their dysfunction is that they live in a world that has taught them to hold onto their love out of fear. Fear of rejection and fear of being misunderstood. The lives of these adults is only the tip of this iceberg. There is much more that is involved here. In these books we only see this piece. I wonder if Jere Myles will return to these characters and help explore the rest.

We have been carefully eroding love from society. If two close and old friends meet and hug and kiss. If they are women it may go unnoticed. If they are men it might raise eyebrows or more. We are taught from childhood onward that certain types of display of affection for members of the same sex are not appropriate. This of course in direct opposition to "Love thy neighbor as thy self." I'm talking about love here and not that sticky love/sex thing that people get hung up on.

Today we live in a world that is beginning to facilitate the denial of love of parent for children just out of fear of it appearing to be the wrong things to onlookers. We have even legislated ourselves to a point where protecting the young takes away a parents ability to reach out and lovingly care for their children. The lives of the people in these books is a mirror of the symptom of these problems. And it all goes much deeper. Because there are those who would point at these peoples lives and try to justify their problems with what they have chosen as a lifestyle while overlooking some fundamentals.

It's rather ironic since sex is more common to eating, sleeping, breathing, sensing. All pretty much autonomic responses. All at sometime necessary for continuing life. All at sometimes subject to subjective urges that go beyond the norm.

The shame is that society places Love as a lifestyle decision. Man was made to love whomever he chooses to love not whomever some lifestyle dictates. When a lifestyle chooses whom we love it restricts our ability to love to the fullest and that is definitely dysfunctional.

Yes. I suppose someone else could argue I took too much from these novels- but, I think not.

This book this trilogy is for everyone who's ready to handle it with a mature attitude.
For those who have read the other two- what are you waiting for?
For those who haven't- there is enough here to give you the full picture. But, I'd advise reading the other two.

J.L. Dobias author of Cripple-Mode Series.

I prefer my own voice, but if you want a ghostwriter go forum it!

Writers Forums:

Now lest someone get me wrong. I'm not against writer groups or workshops. There is a lot to be had from the notion of a peer review. A place where I can throw out my ideas and some of my prose to be playfully bashed or shaped and reformed. I just believe this should be in a place where I sit eye to eye with a comfortable understanding that this really is meant to assist each person present in honing their craft. It should also be a place where each person's qualification in the craft are visible for all to see so that I know whether I'm interacting with a peer or a mentor. It does make a difference if a peer makes an observation and it is validated by a mentor, in my decision to consider the thought or dismiss it out of hand.

There are many ways I have seen in which forums online can work toward undoing all the hard work I've put into building my craft. There are many ways that forums online create a falsely comfortable atmosphere while engendering disassociated sociopathic bullying. And forums employ all of these nasty ways in a most creative fashion.

There is no doubt that the need for online writers forum has been driven recently by the proliferation of self-publishing on the web. I am certain that the first response internet team was well meaning in its initial intent to do a good deed. There is truth to the saying that no good deed goes unpunished. It has taken little time for all sorts of writer forums to crop up. In my brief limited foray I sampled some dozen in my genre alone.

Who can start a forum? Well today almost anyone with internet access. There was a day when it took someone who was savvy about the computer the internet and some programing and lots of geek knowledge of linux. Now there are so many tools and free resources that a twelve or thirteen year old could start one.(That age group oddly and actually is valid with the savvy computer internet community I mentioned earlier.)

My experience is that most writer forums are started and administered by people who have not yet published but are hoping to publish soon after they get some help from their sites users. Very few- in fact only one of the twelve I sampled- have a qualified published author (advertised) on their 'staff'. Staff consists mostly of people whom the ADMIN has given admin privileges. I focus on the one with the 'qualified' professional. - with several books in publication the one I read was mediocre and violated many of the tenants taught in the forum.

The forums have rules:

These rules arise from way back in the age of slow modem bbs. Written at a time when they felt the only way to deal with what they considered rude people was to gang up and flame them causing a flame war resulting in chaos in that particular bbs. So, I've no problem understanding the need for rules to control that type of situation/behavior. The problem is that it does not control it as much as it puts that type of conduct (flaming) into the hands of the ADMIN teams, elite squad. So the first rule is that I must be civil in my correspondence online and civil is as is defined by the ADMIN. Or suffer being flamed by the ADMIN who will then bury the body.

Because the forum's all offer what they gladly proclaim is a benefit of the knowledge of its membership given freely at their own considerable expense. (In brain matter and time.) There arises another rule of necessity. Since it's common for the existence of transient membership (people who are looking for possibly some form of ghostwriting to enhance their work) who drop out after getting help and don't seem to contribute anything to the community. There are rules for a minimum number of posts to ongoing threads before I, a new person, may be allowed to post my own thread- for critique or assistance. Typically this can be 10 to 30 qualified comments in other people's threads. By qualified that's that the post must pass certain admin standards. It does not in any way imply or infer that I have to make qualified comments within my own knowledge. In fact I'm free to go way above and beyond my knowledge to offer any assistance I feel I can get away with.

The next important rule: the one for when I obtain the ability to post my own thread: is probably the most insidious yet justifiable because of the flame factor.

When I post I must keep in mind that these people are all taking time out of their busy lives and generously offering their valuable help to me- an assumed novice( who incidentally fleshed out 30 mandatory 'brilliant' critiques just to get here)- and I am prohibited from responding to any of their critique or otherwise noted helpfulness. (Unless to say thank you for the insightful response.)They explain there will be disciplinary action taken for any transgression. What is not explained is that if I am perceived as failing in this rule, the whole mass of anointed will descend upon me with flaming until I'm banned for starting the whole thing. ie; I lit the flame that caused their gasses to ignite.

This is the insidious part:
I now face a community of slightly definable noobs who are less than x posts old in the community. And a more undefinable quantity who are above that bar some to the tune of having thousands of posts. Having thousands of posts does not make them an expert writer but most of them think that it does. The recognized professional sometimes makes comments- but not that much.

So basically I am throwing my work to a vast number of people who haven't or can't publish their writing. These people are supposed to be helping me accomplish what they have not yet accomplished. And- they are hiding behind that clause that says they are taking their valuable time to help me and I should be so grateful to them. Keep my mouth shut unless I'm offering the help.

Now this is all not that bad because you have the same thing in a writers group/discussion /workshop. But you also have someone there to moderate and recognize when someone is way out of line. In a forum the moderator shows up much beyond the point when you ignited the flame.

And what could possibly bring this on:

Well on the lighter end there are the obvious OCD people.

I am Mr. punctuation I will never be happy there either is a lack of punctuation or too much- never enough. I cannot help the writer without tossing screen after screen of corrections. Filling in red and blue from top to bottom. Nor can I refrain from observing that I will not offer corrections at all with the grammar and spelling because I'm simply exhausted by the mass of incongruity in the punctuation.I am incapable of offering up perhaps two or three examples and trust that this writer- who obviously is incapable of judiciously applying punctuation- can complete the task.

I am the Grammar and Spelling gatekeeper. Not only will I find and destroy all relevant errors I will point out words which simply no one in their right mind uses today. I will not be satisfied until I've reduced the writers work to the level of drivel that any reader might understand without the need of an overrated and too heavy to carry dictionary. God forbid that the writer should interrupt the reader with a necessity to learn. And when I am finished though it may take three times the words that are allotted I shall have created the great American masterpiece and it shall be mine. But I shall liberally allow the writer to claim it for their own. Disregarding the fact that I probably belong in the GhostWriting threads.

I know that Spelling and Grammar and Punctuation are important enough for everyone to try to have these taken care of so they don't distract the rest of the knee jerk OCD responses. Still I should explain that I can not resist the urge to totally rewrite your work once its out there.

I am Character development. I am a gestalt of all my parts and get very disturbed if you separate me by too many words or god forbid across several paragraphs. Never tell of me- show me but please for gods sake show me all in the first paragraph so that everyone may know me within the first 20 words or so. Oh and while you are at it squeeze in some excitement and tension maybe a bit of conflict lest the reader think I'm too boring to bother with. It doesn't help if you spread me across the whole piece- then the reader will lose interest before getting to know me.

And once all the above have been broken and beaten several times and way beyond the scope of human understanding, I shall resort to reminding you that the reader does not have a mind of their own. We have trained them to only be comfortable with third person and past tense writing. If this writing so much as tries to deviate I will find so much wrong with it to make any writer sorry they ever thought they could put two words together.

Lastly-because the work must stand mute- because I have been so generous with my time and knowledge- I stand firm with the knowledge that I didn't even read this once through before I took the red pen to it. No I started at the very first sentence and with my brilliance I dissected this evil piece of garbage line by line. Knowing that even as each sentence that unfolded answered the questions I so brilliantly brought forth to display your misguided ignorance, I had no need to back-peddle because the light of my brilliance will be seen by all and none shall dare dispute what I say. I shall allow my light to be used to replace the dimmer glow of the wretched soul I condemned today and will so generously allow the author right to claim my brilliance as their own. --I.M. GhostWriter Egregious

Dog Eat Dog Publishing!

To publish traditionally or not to publish that is the question...

I was going to pontificate on the virtues of self publishing while bashing upon the traditional methods when it occurred to me that I have better things to do with my time.

So here's a link to a website that will be extra helpful if you intend on writing Sci-Fi or Fantasy.(For those who don't know true Science Fiction is non-existent- at least by my crippled understanding of most formal definitions and that's a whole 'nother' discussion.
http://www.tarakharper.com/faq_pub.htm#who_publisher

This is not a rant but it might be long and since I'm not expert it might be opinionated. I did try to keep it somewhat informed. Lacking in citations though.

The above site is written by an established writer who has an agent and a publisher. I don't need to emphasize the focus will be on extolling the virtues of having both. ie: It is heavily biased. But, it is informative in demonstrating the monster that every writer-new author- will have to face to get published. And though it will also relegate those who subvert the system to the label of Vanity Publishers there are many important pieces of valuable information to be had from here no matter how you intend on publishing.

Particularly pay attention to the 39 steps (I loved that movie-not even related to these steps though)

http://www.tarakharper.com/k_steps.htm 39 steps

Now back to the question. Of course there is a third option. That is to self-publish. While most seasoned-monied- authors will recommend that you abide only by the first two which seems to make some sense. I have often wondered if they might be treading carefully so as not to bite the hand that feeds them. But, if you read the material in the above links carefully I think you will agree there is something much more simple and perhaps sinister in their motives.

If you have read the above then you know some of this but I'll try to paraphrase.

A suggestion is that .03 percent of a 10000 sampling of books are published in a year. Of one genre it was said 1800 books were published in a year. That means it took roughly 60000 selectable choices to get that. Of these there are reprints of old titles and there are old standby producible income authors that cover a large portion of those depending often on the publisher and how much they focus on that genre. This gives the new author a miniscule chance of getting his foot in the door.

Even then with the foot in the door there is a one in ten chance that that new author will make more than his initial advance.(in a case where the house has a small commitment to the genre there might not be a new author) One primary reason is that they have no presence(except in some exceptions where they have presence somewhere else). Mind you publishing companies (traditional that is) do have dollars for advertising. Those dollars will mostly go to the tried and true authors and books so don't hold your breath. You will need to market you and your book if you want any or many sales.

Bottom line: Its a dog eat dog business this publishing. The ideal is to get the tried and true authors out as quickly as possible to suck up the most reader dollars before the competition gets those dollars. There is a finite amount spent on books and reading and it's every man for himself. The brick and mortar and e-commerce stores only make this ever more evident by flushing their brand of marketing into only the books they know they will sell the most. It is all about the bottom dollar- making the most profit to help defray the cost of that crappy book the new author snuck into the system. (Could be a really good book but if they are unknown it might not matter. Maybe a good argument to get your crappiest piece published first. By at least one authors account that would only alienate the three people who purchased it.)

Always keep in mind that some publishers might only have 0 to 10 open slots for a book in your genre so they may not even get to your manuscript before they fill them. You might get the form letter because they didn't have that 11th slot.

Also it is possible for a very good book written by a new author going to publication and failing against the very poor work of an established author within that same publisher's domain.

That said if you pass the .03 percent to make it into that big lottery you still haven't won and your chances of winning are minimal.

If you go with self publishing your chances are not going to get better. I will not sugar coat this. All you have done is subverted the system to get a chance at the bigger lottery. It does not ensure that your name will appear in the long list of potential winners. There is a lot of marketing that would have to happen unless you are already somehow an established house hold word.

Remember the Dog eat Dog part though, because what it does do is cut into that market, which is not what these published authors want to see.

Is it greed or self preservation- you'll have to decide.

This is the reason established traditional published authors like to call self publishing, vanity publishing. That is an interesting term because if you go with the traditional publishing it makes you feel better and you might get some help with marketing and you might get your name out there and you will have hard volumes to offer to friends and family and you will probably finally qualify for some specific writing clubs that require traditional publishing to qualify. If that doesn't sound like vanity publishing then I don't know what would.

Vanity vanity all is vanity. Its just nice to see your name even if its a pseudo name on a hard copy or even the e-cover of a book.

What they have that self publishers don't have is that cushion of someone else money invested and possibly thrown away on their work. If the self publisher's work incurs cost its to the self publisher. And when there is no profit that may well be construed as a hobby- not vanity. A hobbyist painter who sells their own paintings is not considered a vanity painter- er; at least I don't think so. There is probably less likelihood of them cutting into other painters income. So, you don't see other painters shaking their head pointing and saying shame vanity painter.

So you might ask is that finger pointing meant to convince both the vanity publishers and the readers to stay away from these mavericks who infringe on their territory. Once again I can't judge this. It's just my curious observation.

One negative side of self publishing as noted is the lack of a system to market yourself and your book. If you already have a presence that condition markedly improves. ie: You are a star doing your memoir or auto-biography- You have a website with interesting content that people have been begging you to put into book form. You've committed the crime of the century and have too much time on your hands in prison.

This can lead to the next 'bane of the dog'. One really good marketing tool is to give your first book (e-book) away. If your writing is good this will lead to selling your next book. One hint here; try to have the next book close to finished before the new readers lose interest.

This definitely will grind on the traditionalists who don't generally have this as an option. It will also cost you whatever you've invested.

The good news is that now with some sites you can do free e-books with relatively no cost. The only cost will be money spent to have editing done and covers made. And- if its difficult for you -maybe having someone convert your file to acceptable format.

This takes us to the next wave of attack.

There seems to be a prevalent notion that self publishing will automatically mean the exclusion of certain variable that the publishing industry has 'trained' the average reader to expect.

These would include:

The use of first person:: We've trained the reader to be familiar only with third person. A new author couldn't possibly have the genius to pull off first person writing.

The use of present tense: see above: Not only is present tense going to grate upon the reader if used too much but will be impossible to sustain along with first person.

Over use or under use of punctuation: doesn't matter that they are polar opposites the new author is guilty as charged.

Use of cliche's: (I'm unclear if this includes some idioms, but it doesn't matter.) we reserve the right to determining whatever we think is a cliche is one and the new writer will use a dozen or more so it's just no good.)

Poor grammar will be rife in the new author's work.

The new author's work will lack the tight nature of the traditionally published as it will lack substantive editing.

New author's characters will lack depth and clarity(especially if we convince them not to use the cliche's and idioms and poor grammar.)

I can go on for days, but the list will not contain anything that the self publisher can't have fixed. The most difficult is the substantive editing because to get an outside professional job is costly. More so if you have over 150K words.

The self publisher will have to be careful about keeping an eye on the editors and very careful about any offers to help market his work(which is very costly). Marketing is probably the toughest job you will have. But chances are unless you are the author of a famous series of books about a wizard you will have to deal with that reality in the traditional publishing venue also. So far for myself the best marketing tool has been the book giveaway. I went from no books downloaded to 200 downloads in three days. Its not a best selling number but it's something.

I cut myself short on the critical errors in writing because I'm lazy. Also because I will address later, in the trial and tribulation of trying to use online forums to hone your skills.

As a hint I'll possibly entitle it:

If you want someone to ghost write it for you then go forum it.

http://imgs.xkcd.com/comics/geology.png

Self Publish How To Resource

If you have self published or you are thinking of self publishing there is something in here that you can take away.

There's lots of general help and some specific tips and a bit of wisdom such as the statement listed below.

"If you think your writing is perfect and that you never make mistakes, then you're clearly delusional - no offense, but no one is perfect, ever."

How Expert Press; Johnson, Jennifer-Crystal (2012-04-01). How To Self Publish - Your Step-By-Step Guide to Self Publishing (Kindle Locations 278-279). . Kindle Edition.

I like that it covers a lot of territory in a compact area. Everything from editing to formatting and choosing programs to help publish and format the cover graphics. Tips on creating e-books that will give the reader the best experience. I particularly found the tutorial for setting up MS Word review features helpful. That is something I could have benefited from on my first venture into self publishing. Now when I hand someone my raw work to edit I can just say here- chapter one under Revision.

Nice tool.

J.L. Dobias Author of Cripple-Mode:Hot Electric

V:The Other Hamilton Sister: Rifle

The Rifle; is the key.

That's what Dalton had suggested. He shifts his position in the sand where I'd left him sitting. His hands are still restrained by the overlarge tie-wrap.

I walk over to the rifle. I pick it up and use the edge of my blouse to wipe the grit off of it. Turning it slowly in my hands. It sure looks like dads. I choke back a breath. I observe, "This could easily be it, but I've no idea how many of these there might be around here." I look up at Dalton as if he might be able to confirm something and turn away before he can respond.

My eyes stop and rest on Ted who is still in his alcoholic stupor watching this drama unfold. Ted doesn't appear to be focused on anything. I slowly look back at our prisoner.

Dalton moves once more. He winces as though in pain and looks over his shoulders then at me. He says, "It's a one of a kind here. Possibly the only one outside of earth itself. That's an exceptionally old piece." It almost seemed to me he'd left off saying, Belongs in a museum. That makes sense. Dad made his own shells.

I grip it a more tightly. The significance begins to grow. My eyes tear away from it and rest again on Dalton. I've no idea if he can fathom how much this means to me. I look again at the rifle. I pull back the bolt. The trigger moves and the used cartridge is exposed. Obviously Jason doesn't know how these work or he forgot in a hurry during the excitement. It's a wonder he had it loaded and ready. If he's not familiar, someone else must have set this up before giving it to him. The question then is why. Jason might have even fired it by accident. The second time he tried to fire wasn't an accident, but it was very stupid. I flip the spent cartridge to the ground. I pull down the magazine, it has only two bullets left. I dig those out and stuff them in my pocket then replace the magazine and leave the bolt and trigger in locked position. I hook the rifle on my arm pointed at the ground.

As if thinking the same thing I am. Dalton says, "Interesting."

I let out a slow breath and manage to croak out, "So you found my parents dead and someone took this and you traced it to Jase."

Dalton shakes his head and says, "Not quite. I wasn't able to get near the compound and I was following a different trail."

I correct him and say, "It's a house or estate, that's what we call them here." I open my eyes wider and stand straight while considering what he's just said.

Dalton shrugs,"Yeah. I know. I'm sure they call them that where my primary came from. I didn't know about the rifle until I saw your friend coming over a hill waving it around dangerously. I knew it existed. Until I saw him with it I wouldn't have known where it was. I assumed he was headed this way. He had the rifle and I figured that he was the one I was looking for."

Breathing more normally I grasp onto what he's said and ask, "You couldn't get near the house? Were the local police there and you are unofficial or something so you couldn't get involved with them?"

Shaking his head he say, "Na. They took me there so I could see that they really had the problem they said they had. They thought I could solve it for them. I couldn't and that's when they got upset and we parted ways."

Coming over next to him and pulling out my knife I say, "So, what kind of problem did they have?"

He gives me a dubious look until he's certain I'm not going to slash him. I use the knife to saw away the plastic tie from his wrists. While he rubs at the marks he says, "The um, Estate guardian."

Preforming my best dumb look I say, "Estate what?"

He repeats, "Guardian." Then he looks at me for a hint that I might have a clue. He says, "It's some older tech from the clone home worlds. Some of the tribes use them to guard the property of important tribe members. The guardian stays dormant while monitoring life signs of the owner. If he dies or appears to, they activate and protect the property of the owner. In most cases it amounts to protecting the body. Trouble with them is that they can activate if the owner is too far away from them and forgotten to disarm them. I need to confirm that your parents really are dead, but can't do that until the guardian is deactivated."

Shaking my head, I say, "I didn't know they had one of those. So, they sent you here without the code to deactivate it. I hope you didn't come here to me for the code."

Dalton looks annoyed but says, "I had the code. And it's a bit tricky and dangerous approaching one of those. It can be deadly if you don't deactivate it right away. It seems your father changed the code somehow. It was quite a feat to get away from that thing before it squashed me."

I nod and say, "And that's about the time the locals abandoned you?"

Dalton runs his hand through his hair and says, "That about sums it up."

I narrow my eyes to slits again. I say, "Can't the locals just hit it with something hard. Maybe knock it over and disable it."

He shrugs and says, "Maybe something from their military. I think they're hoping your parents are just absent. The hardware to bring it down is expensive and so is the guardian."

Ted distracts us with a movement. The branches on the ground crack as he tries to back into the edge of the trees. I turn around to look in the direction that Jason had run off. I first see Misha then Jason. He must have brought her for an extra witness for when I strangle him.

Jase has his hands in his pockets and is looking down. Hesitantly his voice explains, "I didn't know it was loaded."

I fix him with a stare and say, "Well, that's the first rule with these things. Always treat them as though they're loaded. What I really need to know though is how you ended up with it. I also thought by now you'd be half way back to the big city. And, before you tell me anything I should explain something to you. This was very important to my father. He kept it locked up. I tried to get it out a couple of times just because I was sick and tired of his obsessiveness with it and a few other things. He always caught me in the middle of the act. The last time he told me if anything ever happened to him he'd be sure that I got this since I found it so fascinating."

Jason looks away then edges into the camp in careful steps. Misha is holding back where she is. I can see she's pretty uneasy about what might transpire. I've no idea what Jase may have told her. He says,"Yeah, well. Your dad told me I should give that to you. That's all there is to it."

My body almost sags involuntarily. I say, "Ha! Now I'm not sure what bothers me most. That you appeared as though you were going to keep this or that you were actually talking to my father. What is that all about?"

Jason looks from Misha to Ted then to me and says, "I don't think I was the only one he offered to pay to come talk to him. He just wanted to talk about you. How you've been doing." Jase's eyes dart to the side to watch Dalton, his hands are making fists.

I'm still glaring at him without uttering a word. A while later when his eyes come back to me he says, "I, think he was going to offer me some credits to bring you back home. He wanted you home whatever way he could get it done. It was a lot of credit. But, I wasn't gonna take it for anything."

I look at his co-conspirators and say, "I'm sure it was a lot of credits. So what really happened? Why did he change his mind?" For the next question I have to bite my tongue a bit. "Is that why you killed him and took this?" It takes every once of energy to keep my voice steady.

Jase shakes his head and says, "I swear he was fine when I left. You heard the man here. He didn't check cause of that guardian thing. Maybe they're still alive. All I know is he already had the weapon out. He seemed spooked about something and gave me extra chits and told me to make sure you stay where you are."

I look at Dalton who is also shaking his head. He say, "It's possible they could be alive but not likely. I'm not sure anyone would be able to tweak the guardian to activate when the owner is still alive and nearby. And, it could have even been keyed to only trigger if both of them were dead. I suppose if they both packed up and ran off somewhere far enough away the guardian might have triggered. I'll know that once I can get past it. But, by design it's primary function is to locate the body and protect it. Based on it's constant position I'd guess it's protecting something."

I'm wondering now why he even bothered to come out here. Dalton must be able to read my body language because he says, "I'm hoping that it might be keyed to you also. You are out of range right now. As soon as we get you closer it might response to your presence."

I say, "So, what's the key look like? Cause I don't wear jewelry and crap." Dalton approaches me. I step back and the rifle bobs on my arm. He looks at it and stops. I stare and say, "What do you have in mind."

Dalton says, "It's a tag. Sometimes in the earlobe. Maybe. It will feel like a lump."

I put my hand up to my left lob then the right. I shake my head.

He says, "Sometimes they insert them in other places."

To that I give him a steady stare. I say, "Well, I don't know you well enough to have you groping all over my body in search of something that probably doesn't exist. In fact,now that I think of it, was that the plan last night?"

He slowly shakes his head while backing away with his hands half way up.

There's a long quiet into which I do a lot of pondering. I finally break it, slapping my hands together. I say, "Well, maybe we should go check this out and see if there's a way to get in there." Dalton doesn't move or speak and that might be a good sign. Still I have doubts. Almost hopefully I say, "Unless my dad paid you to concoct this god awful story?"

Dalton shakes his head again. His voice is almost soft as he says, "I wish it were that simple."

Jason says, "Hey, we could go along. Make sure he keeps his hands to himself. Make sure you can come back here after you straighten things out. Oh, hey. Your father wanted you to stay out here. Maybe you should do that. Maybe he sent the gun to you for protection."

I think Jason is telling the truth. There still is room for doubt though. I walk over to him and say, "It's okay. You should stay here. If Mr. Greymare here had it wrong, the authority in town might have things just as muddled. You probably don't want to deal with them."

Walking into his space I say, "You can hold on to this while I'm gone. And even though I took the live rounds from it, don't point it at anyone."

I grab the stock twist it around still pointing it at the ground. And I place the rifle into his shaking hands.


Copyright 2012 J.L. Dobias

IV:The Other Hamilton Sister::Venom

Venom.

I've seen people cook these without draining em. Not me. Besides there are uses for that venom. I try to drain any that's left in the sack into whatever small container I have handy. This one only had a little. It was enough though if it had gotten close enough to score a hit. Stuff can paralyze a horse. If they can catch the horse. Most horses seem to have a sixth sense about these lizards.

Love the taste. That's the lizard not the horse.

Don't ask me what it taste like. I don't like chicken. Come to think of it this stuff is more like the marrow from that bone in the round steak. A little rich. You can only eat so much. But these lizards usually aren't any bigger than a cat. Cats like the lizard meat too. But, I've seen a few get on the wrong end of the deal. It's not pretty.

I lick some of the juices off my hand. The fire crackles and sparks. My other hand withdraws quickly. I've cut most of what I'll eat off. It's spread out on the flat part of the wood I call my plate. Sitting on my haunches well away from the radiating heat I nibble. When I look up Michelle shifts her weight. I think she's been sitting there waiting for me to offer her part of my kill. I point the knife at the fire. I say, "I was gonna save the legs for Jason. I know how much he likes them." Mich's nose wrinkles and the look of disgust tells me the legs are safe. I say,"Oh. Sorry I should have offered some of this." I separate the remaining chunks half and half and hold out the plate.

Mish puts her nose up and kicks at the dirt. Some of the dirt goes into the fire. She turns and starts to walk away. Without turning back she shouts, "You people are disgusting. I don't know how you can eat that crap. Those lizards and the disgusting..."

I offer, "Insects."

She says, "No! Those maggots. You eat insects too?"

I have to think about the maggots thing. Then I say, "Oh, the grubs. Sure those are good for you. And, It's mostly the larger insects. They have extra flavor."

She's almost running now. I can hear Mish choking or screaming. "Ahhhhhhhhhh..."

I hear someone laughing. Looking towards the sound I see Ted is standing shirtless with a jug under his arm. He's leaning up against a fragile tree. His feet are all clomping down on some green vines. I fix him with a remonstrant stare. I say, "It's really not that funny you know. She shouldn't be out here if she can't contribute. More so if she can't stomach the things we bring to the table."

Ted says, "She's a hoot. You were supposed to bring her up something from the bar." He uncorks the jug and takes a long swig.

I pull my eyes back and upward. "Oops. I forgot." I point at the flat thing on the fire with the legs lightly scorched. "I did bring that though, Jason doesn't have to have the legs."

Ted rolls his eyes and says, "Like she's ever going to touch that stuff."

I look at his jug and say, "Maybe if you could get her to drink some of that she wouldn't be so averse."

He hugs his jug more tightly. Now he has nasty looks for me. He says, "She starts in on my stash and I'll deliver her back to her mom and dad."

Shaking my head I say, "She didn't run away. They booted her. She doesn't have many options."

Ted grumbles, "As opposed to you who have parents who posted your picture before they discovered you weren't interested in being found."

I divert my gaze to the fire. Watching the flame inhale and exhale. I say, "Yeah, well. It wouldn't be a problem if I'd been brought up the sensible way. I'm not even sure how you can call people parents when they not only don't have your genes, but they have no clue how to parent someone."

Ted says, "Maybe you should cut them some slack."

That makes me growl. I say, "Maybe you shouldn't drink that stuff in the daytime when it can suck the water out of you. You'll pass out somewhere where no one notices and my next lunch will drag you off somewhere."

Ted shrugs his shoulders and says, "Circle of life, ya gotta love it."

I hear a rustling of the nearby foliage and start to wheel around. Ted shouts out, "Oh, welcome back Jase, you're early. Thought you was gonna work all weekend. What's that you brought back with you?"

I turn in time to have Mr. Dalton Greymare thrown almost at my feet. His hands are behind him. When his forward motion pushes him to his knees I have to stick mine out to keep his face from hitting the ground. His clothes are all dusty. His face and arms are scratched up a bit. When I take a closer look I can see the heavy duty plastic tie that's binding his hands together. I look up at Jason ready to ask him what the deal is but I have to stop and turn away. I'm almost laughing.

Jason is also covered in scratches. It looks like the bramble attacked both of these guys. But, Jason has a black eye too. Bramble doesn't usually do that. When I look back down on the captive I notice he has a shitty grin on his face and his eyes are staring at my thigh. Jason lowers the antique weapon he's pointing at Dalton. He scowls and says, "Good you can torture him for a while."

I nod at the rifle. "Where'd you get that? My dad has one like it. It's in a glass case. Like it's something valuable. Only takes it out to clean it."

Jason looks at the rifle with what seems like added respect. He smiles and says, "Got it as a sort of bonus on my last job."

I say, "Nice bonus." Reaching down I hook the tie and pull out my knife. I say, "Enuff horsing around. We should let Mr. Greymare go."

Jason looks at me with quizzical eyes. Then he nods and pulls a wallet from his pocket and says, "You know him? I guess that would be about right. Being he's from your home world. Don't cut him loose until I have a moment to find out why he ambushed me." His hand has stopped my knife before reaching the plastic.

"Ambush?" I raise my eyebrows. I don't know if I should be impressed or confused. I look at those boots again while Jason tosses the wallet at me. I catch it and look down to Dalton, who seems happy to rest his head on my thigh, I say, "Escura Luz, is this some joke. A fake ID. Greymare from Escura Luz. Lord Greymare?"

His shoulders shrug and Dalton says, "I am but a shadow of my former self."

That hits home. The clones that are brought up after their namesake has passed away are religiously taught to view their life that way. I throw the wallet down and say, "Yeah, a shadow full of crap maybe."

He doesn't say anything so I grasp his wrist and tear him away from his comfort zone.

Jason says, "I didn't know you had lords on the clone worlds."

I look Dalton in the eyes. Yeah there it is or isn't. There's no fear. He has a neck chain. I pull at it and it pops out with a small tube floating at the end. These are used to scab off a chunk of flesh to go to the vats when Dalton has any sort of death, untimely or otherwise. Most of the clans closer to the central cities keep some on file. Some like the ones in the region of Escura Luz don't have that much luxury. And some choose to wait until the event happens. They have been known to lose a part of their line that way. He still looks too soft to me. But I now have a little more respect for him.

Letting out a long breath I say, "So what are you doing here?"

Almost bordering on glib Dalton says, "Your friend here dragged me."

Shaking my head I say, "Not here, here. Why are you on New Terra? I always thought mom and dad were just being paranoid that someone was going to come out here looking for us."

Dalton fixes me with a cold stare before he turns his head and over his shoulder he says,"You should have killed me out there when you had the chance." Jason just looks confused. Dalton turns back to me. He says, "Your parents are dead."

My heart sinks and I have no idea why.


It's quiet for a long time. Jason seems to be on the edge. He's holding the rifle as though he's going to throttle it or maybe strike Dalton with the stock. Unsure of which, I hold up my hand and say,"You don't want to mar that if it's valuable." I stare at Dalton while a moist glimmer of a tear is trying to make itself in the corner of my eye.

Dalton looks once more over his shoulder and then address's me again. "They were murdered three days ago. I arrived here yesterday. I picked up the perpetrators trail by evening. They went to ground and I spent the night at your nice tavern. I almost missed his flight out this way but i was able to get up there on Jerry's truck so I could intercept him."

Gasping once I say, "What are you talking about?"

Jason takes this moment to bring the rifle to bear down on Dalton's kidney. Dalton's knees start to buckle but he holds his stance. He grits his teeth and says, "You should really take a closer look at that weapon."

Jason brings the rifle up, I try to grab the barrel and pull him towards me. He lets off a shot that nearly deafens me. He pushes me aside trying to rip the rifle from my hands. He tries to point it at Dalton with me still holding onto it. I grasp my knife and swing it out towards Jason's face. Jason brings up a hand to his face and he steps back. It probably felt like he was stung. He looks at the blood on his finger and starts to move forward again with the rifle.

I grit my teeth and say, "You should probably get down to the river and wash that out." I let my eyes wander to the fire where the charbroiled lizard sits over the dying embers."

Jason looks, his eyes widen and he drops the rifle and runs almost in the same direction Mich had gone.

I wheel around and grasp the front of Dalton's shirt. I pull him closer and say, "Alright, while he's busy you better start talking fast."

When he remains mute I nudge him."Better hurry before he realizes that knife didn't have any venom on it."








Copyright 2012 J.L. Dobias

III:The Other Hamilton Sister::Hiss

Hiss!

I hear the hiss first and it causes me to turn roundabout 180. A hiss is always bad out here. Damn lizards. They attack just about anything this time of day. I have my knife out. I don't see the tell tale dust trail. I listen and watch. I hear the whirr and whoosh of an Anti-Grav lift truck. I wait and sure enough there's a hiss. It's still not a good thing. I look up from my stalking and down the twisted dirt path until I see the artificial dust devil bringing up the rear of Jerry's supply truck.

Jerry's an okay dude for a city type. He occasionally drops us campers a few supplies. And, on days like today he tends to offer me rides. That hiss tells me he'll want just a bit more than to offer me a ride though. Trouble with those old pieces of CORE material they use for the Anti-Grav is that they are made from the scrap of the good stuff they use in outer space. This one is overheating more than usual and the sweat from the systems pipes is starting to flow down upon it. That means the coolant system has been overtaxed or compromised.

I put my knife away and stick my hands in my back pockets while I wait for Jerry to catch up.

Jerry takes runs over the mountain and into the next valley. While in the big city He picks up supplies that he knows are needed in the small city. He makes a moderate profit selling the stuff to the locals in WestBend City. WestBend is mostly a shanty town. They have a local government though. Otherwise Jerry would make more profit. He has to pay taxes to the city.

Jerry's Rio Express is close enough now that I can see the sun gleaming off the silver grill. I can also distinguish the steam from dust. Anti-Grav is more push then it is a float. That creates dust. Some people call it anti-pressure, I'm not all that sure about that. But it does seem to show up better down here where pressure is higher. If a piece of CORE were to push its way up high enough it would likely stop for lack of enough pressure to react upon. The whole system is an affectation of keeping the CORE crippled. They call it cripple mode. They hobble the CORE so it doesn't slip into JumpSpace. That produces the Anti-Pressure effect. Trouble is it causes the CORE to overheat the longer it stays in that condition. It can take a lot of heat before it reaches critical.

If it gets that far it's going to do one of two things. It might just blow. It might slip into JumpSpace. Either way it will likely take a good chunk of whatever is near it with it. Jerry's taking a chance with that thing but maybe he saw me here and figured he could get to me before he could turn back and try to reach the city.

Several meters away there's a clunk and the dust storm dies. It dies with a vengeance though and comes whipping up around the front until everything disappears and I get a face full of dirt. As the wall of sand abates I catch the shape of the truck gliding towards me. The CORE is still activated or he'd be nosediving into the rock and sand. I can hear the thistle cacti pinging against the underbelly as the truck ducks a bit before it settles.

Jerry's tanned left arm is hanging out of the window. His head peeks out and he says, "Hey Angie lady how bout a cool ride?"

I call back, "Sounds about ready to get real hot if you ask me."

Jerry's other hand slips out with a rolled up pouch full of tools. "Na. Not if you take a quick look see. I'll be out to help you in a sec." I run up and take the pouch. A face leans around Jerry's shoulder. Jerry doesn't usually take on strangers. I don't recognize the face. It's nothing local. Jerry ignores the company and says, "The tank is full in back if it needs recharging."

Looking over his shoulder I say, "You starting a bus service Jerry?"

Jerry waves his hand and says, "Tourist."

That makes me blurt out, "Tourism in WestBend City. That's... different. I guess."

The face has a hand and it's waving at me. I take a closer look. Last time I saw that face it was serenely attached to a table top. I almost duck for cover. Instead I just wave and say, "Oh, hey you woke up."




Putting the tools down and wiping my forehead I look at Jerry who's bending my way and has been mostly watching. Jerry hands me a towel so I figure that means I should probably check and see what parts I just dirtied up on my face. I look at him and say, "It probably has a slow leak. You might have to have someone check it back in the big city. I'm not sure anyone in WestBend City will be of much help. I can't seem to find it and the system took a good charge and its holding for now. So you should be good to go. If you had someone charge this recently you might be able to gauge by that to when it will need attention again. I wouldn't wait though."

Jerry nods. He looks over his shoulder at the gentleman standing watch near the front of the truck. He's been real polite about not interfering or helping. He looks kinda soft anyway. Those boots of his look more fancy ornamental than practical. Good thing he's heading for the little city. He isn't rough enough for the terrain here. I touch Jerry's shoulder and say, "How much you getting for being a tour guide."

Jerry's face almost goes red. He hesitates and then says, "Enough."

I say, "Well, I guess i can ride out on the sideboards."

Jerry shrugs and says, "I don't think he'll mind you crowding into the cab."

I spit onto the ground and say, "I don't expect so. I'll still ride outside."

Jerry cocks his head and says, "He's the one noticed you out here first." He grins a bit and says, "He thought maybe we should offer you a ride."

I lift my eyebrows and say, "I take it you hadn't mentioned you were about to turn back."

Jerry looks off to the side and says, "I was only just then thinking about it. Kinda glad to see you myself." He looks back to the front of the truck at his guest.

I glance that way and back and have a thought. I say, "How much extra did you tag him for to let me ride along."

Jerry doesn't answer. That's what I thought always the entrepreneur. I grin at him and say, "If I did ride up front with him you'd just want to charge him more anyway."

As Jerry moves back towards the cab I notice a slight limp in his gait. I say, "What you do to your leg there."

He waves a hand in the air and says, "Just twisted things up while loading the truck. It'll be alright after I work it out a bit."




Were moving along at a fair clip and it won't take long to get up into the mountain and out of these hills. Jerry's path will take us a bit away from where the canyon divide sets hidden behind some of the largest trees you'll find around here. That means I still have a way to go after he drops me off.

I'm hanging off of Jerry's side of the truck and was going to ignore Tom over there on the other side. But, Tom seems too eager to make chit chat. He leans into the windshield to see around Jerry and says, "Hi my names Dalton. Dalton Greymare. I don't believe I got your name last night."

I turn to let the wind hit my face. There is still a lot of whining and whuring going on and all sorts of dust kicking around behind us. These Diamond Reo's blend in nice what with all the natural dust devils that whip up along the plain below. Leaning back into the window a bit, to annoy Jerry mostly, I say, "Angie."

Jerry laughs, "Yep, just Angie."

I shake my head a bit. That's what most people think, just Angie. I remember the General had a last name for us. We girls. What was that? Something having to do with the prime male donor for our genetic workup. I have another thought though. I lean into the truck again and say, "Greymare that's a prominent name in current clone history."

Dalton nods and says, "Yep."

I'm thinking he's either just agreeing with me or he might know a bit of common history. Things stay quiet for a while and I finally blurt out. "Hamilton, That's my last name or at least the only one anyone ever tried to give me."

Dalton says, "That's another name with a lot of history."

Looking at him through slitted eyes I say, "Wouldn't know any of that."

He sits back quietly. So, I return to staring off in the distance. It won't be too long before I get off this ride anyway. Too soon we slow to a halt. I look back at our drifting brown tail. I hear Jerry say. "Just stopping to sight see."

I try to look past Jerry but he's half way out the window and in my way. So I shout, "Not much to see here unless you're partial to desolation. There's some nice trees and foliage up a bit further.' There's no answer so I turn and look across the sand and rock through the tumbleweeds. I'm almost tempted to get off and finish this on foot.


After a long wait Jerry says, "Well, you might just as well get in the cab now." He has leaned back in and the seat next to him is vacant. I step down and run around the front of the truck then I go half way to the rear. On the way back I shout, "What did you do with our guest?"

Jerry says, "He got off."

I say, "When?"

"Just now." Jerry looks out past me towards a large stand of dried weeds.

I wave my hands and say, "Why didn't you say something. I could've tripped him up and knocked him out. You could have delivered him to WestBend. Out here by himself something will kill him and eat him. At least in WestBend they won't eat him."

Jerry says, "He ran behind the bramble if you want to chase him. But, I'm not gonna stick around long."

I shout again, "Why did you do it? And, what anyway? He just decided this was a good spot to go hiking."

Jerry shakes his head, "Ha, he paid me earlier and said he was gonna be dropped of somewhere out here. Hell when we picked you up I figured he'd at least wait and get off with you. Course with you being miss cordial and all he must'ov figured that wouldn't work."

I nod and say,"Darn right it wouldn't." Looking outward I can't see anything moving. I say, "I'm not chasing after some mad man. Just remember when somebody misses him and tracks him out here I'm pointing them your way. No way I'm gonna put up with them harassing us once more for something we have nothing to do with."

Jerry says, "No Problem. I'm gonna pick him up here on the way back. I gave him the time and he said he'd be here."

As i climb into the cab I say, "And if he's not here."

Jerry shrugs, "I'll come up and visit with you and leave a note on the truck."

While I glare at Jerry he turns to start the truck. I say, "You didn't tell him how to get to our camp did you?"

Jerry puts us in gear and as we slide forward he shakes his head. "Na, I wouldn't do that. He'd be killed and eaten for sure then."

After that we ride in silence.

I slam the truck door and don't even say goodbye. I can't believe Jerry could be that rude. The trees afford enough shade for me and I take my time walking through the brush. We've been very careful not to wear down a traceable path. I walk back and forth weaving a new route over fallen trees and moss covered rocks. I'm quite a ways in before I hear the hiss. Jerry and his truck are gone so it's not them.

I stop to look around and I think about that foolish tourist. Maybe the boys can take a moment to hunt around for him. The lizards will still be active for a while. I pull my knife from my side and wrap my fist around it pointing the blade down.
Something moves.

This time it's me who hisses.


Copyright 2012 J.L. Dobias

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Cripple-Mode: Some notes on its Birth

The Cripple-Mode Series was born somewhere in the early 1980's. It had been in my head for awhile before, just rattling around. It was somewhere near 1980 that I broke out the smith corona and started tapping away at sheet after sheet until I had the first two novels of a trilogy fleshed out. A lot of it was on the back of some scrap paper.

Then, as with many things, life sort of got in the way and took me on a wide left turn. But those two novels stayed tucked away in their briefcase through the ups and downs. All of the time I would have odd moments when I would dwell on the notion of getting back to them to whip them into shape.I mostly wrote snippets of poetry in those scattered years. And I read a large volume of science fiction.

By the mid 80s I had my first computer and was almost tempted . But, there was another left turn up ahead. It was not until the year 2000 that I got serious and looked at the old papers long enough to shake my head and decide I needed to have a back story for some of my ideas.

One of the main themes of my story involves the main characters struggle to adjust to specifically mind bending personal issues. A back story might leave that on the back burner. So I almost dropped the notion of  spending a lot of time or for that matter anytime on the back story. But, I still needed to be more secure about how we got to that spot in her life. The original story took the reader half way into it before these issues even arose. It was at that point that I decided to bring the issues into the story at the very beginning.I just wasn't clear yet that this was going to be the beginning of the back story. It was not until I chose the style of writing that things began to jell and the story began to tell itself. Mind you this is all still in my head the real on paper writing doesn't start till 2006.

Copyright 2012 J.L. Dobias

II: Other Hamilton Sister::Heat

It's hot!

The sun blinds me. I try to look away,  it reflects off the residue of dew on everything around me. It's not making this easy for me.  Sweat on the coils of the AC is mocking me. I can't decide if it’s just the dew or if it’s another indicator.

I have to look up to relieve my eyes. What should be a pretty sky with its blue-red reminds me that I have to hurry.  My eyes wash across the lesser moon that looms ever large in the sky. I know it won't be visible much longer with the clouds coming. I already feel the humidity the clouds bring with them.

With longing I glance at the remaining dew. I lick my lips feeling the dews fragility knowing New Terra is unable to embrace it. Our big mother star burns it off and tosses it back into the air around us. I can feel her smothering comfort rolling down my flesh. It's making me feel parched, squeezing me dry to burn my sweat from my skin. It's been less than an hour of sun, yet I feel as though its mid day.

I wipe my forehead with the thin sleeve of my chenille overcoat. My eyes watch it change color under the light. This distracts me from the affectation of my skin. I feel as comfortable as I can in this heat, having cast off my barmaids outfit in exchange for a sports bra and short shorts. I'd be more comfortable without the overcoat, but modesty prevents that. Not too much modesty though, I have left it unbuttoned.

I contemplate going back inside the bar with Jack, but it's going to get worse inside with the AC broken.  I could make Jack come out here to do this. Then he'd have to completely replace the whole thing. I'm trying to help him avoid that. I look down upon my work.

Ants are dancing on the clots of fractured clay around the air conditioner. Seeming unperturbed by its spurious attempts to restart then die and restart again.  Though, they have dissipated considerably since I shut the AC down completely.

I finish bleeding the system. It hasn't leaked out but it acts like it’s blocked somewhere. It could be one of these ants or a whole colony. The seals on this thing are worn enough to invite intrusion.

I carefully pull the reclamation canister and my rigged filter off the assembly.  Hooking up the can of compressed air I give the system a good blow. I can hear the problem, Jack would likely not. It quickly disappears as whatever was there breaks loose and hits the palm of my hand. I'm thinking we're not out of the woods yet. Feeling uncertainty of the future, I make the sign of the cross and say a few Hail Marys. That could be sacrilegious, because I don't consider myself religious. Everything looks good to my eye. Well, as good as it can. I need to recharge the system.

First I cap it and test some pressure on it.

It's a bust.  I mean a real bust. The leak is so evident I see the few remaining ants being blown hither and yon. Normally I'd give the wrench a good toss. I've not been using the wrench for fear of making things worse.

I ask myself why I'm doing this.

Turning at the sound of the back door opening fortuitously I can see Jack's head sticking out. He squints under the sun. He says, “Angie, how we doing out here?”

Stepping back from my work and looking at Jack, I say, “Hot, sticky. This damn stuff is worn beyond its warranty period by almost a decade. Could use some better sealant. A few new parts.”

Jack steps out. I watch as he shifts his slightly rotund midsection. After some difficulty he's standing on the stoop with the door shut. He's round not fat, but definitely not buff like the Tom's who strut around the bar. He looks to me to be in thought before he does a half dance with the door again to make a hasty retreat. I hear his grunting and grumbling as he disappears and the door closes. I'm thinking he can't stand the heat. But, his head comes out again.  This time he lands in the sand. The door slams itself.

With a sheepish expression he offers me a bag.

He also offers a glass of amber liquid.

I wave a hand and say, “Thanks. You know I don't drink that stuff.”

I’m clutching my chenille together in front. I’d have to let go to grab both. I turn my back towards him as I take the sack.

Jack waves his hand pointing at the glass and says, “It's tea, with sugar, the way you like it.”

 Embarrassed at my own lack of trust, I take the tea from his huge fist.

I set the bag down and look inside.  It contains everything I need to do this job proper. I give Jack a well deserved harsh look. I say, “Great, make me do this twice. Where were you hiding this?”

Checking the ground for ants, I stomp around a bit.  I sit. The ground feels cool. That's not good. That means I'm warmer than it is. I sip the tea slowly. "Thanks Jack, I really needed this tea."

Jack shrugs, wiping his fingers on the towel draped over his shoulder. He says, “Yeah, Sorry. I'm bad. I know. But, I listen and I picked this up a week ago. Figured it was due to quit soon.”

I pull my feet closer to me until my hiking boots touch where my bare thighs meet the hem on my shorts.  Taking a very short break I touch the cool glass against my legs then I move my feet away to make room.  Feeling contorted I try to reach the bag so I can I pour the parts in my lap. Flattening it on the ground I carefully lay the parts upon the bag in a row.

Feeling light headed and giddy for a number of reasons including the heat I exclaim, “Wow. All shiny and new.  I hope this doesn't come out of my paycheck.”

I start to work again, this time I take up the wrench.

Jack says, "Only if you mess it up and I have to buy more parts."  I watch him step into the little shadow offered by the structure of the bar.  His gaze falls out across the desolation toward the line of trees that mark the lower edge of the mountains.

I look into the sky, looking for clouds. To me they are as scarce now as the ants are at night.  I know that at night the clouds sink down covering the ground like a cottony blanket. The sun comes up to burn these away in short order. For a number of hours the moisture hangs in the air before clouds return like a colony of ants.  I feel the need to hurry. I'm already overheated.

I catch Jack following my gaze, he says, “If this takes too long I can make an exception. Let you use that cot in back.”

I recall the first time Jack made such an offer.  I'm not sure what he expected to get out of it. Whatever, he didn't get it. I feel comfortable with Jack though, you only have to say no once with him. With confused and possibly misplaced disappointment I recall he hasn't made such an offer since. But, I've been diligent about getting home early.

 Huffing a couple of times, I stop to sip at my sweet tea. I look at Jack. I say, “Na, That's okay. I'll get home just fine. It's much cooler up in the mountains.”

Jack nods. As I work I can feel him become focused on his observation of my own intent process. He says, “Where and how did you learn to fix stuff?”

This is not the first time Jack's asked this. I say, “I dunno, it just came to me one day.” I stop and think about that. I'm certain each time I give him the same answer.
I hear Jack scoff. He half laughs and says, “Yeah, sure, don't tell me. You could go to town, take the test, and get licensed. No longer have to deal with the Tom’s here. I'm just say'in you'd have a good chance at a better career.”

I finish my work, check for leaks, fill the line, and bleed the air from the system. Everything is sealed and tight. Gathering Jacks tools, supplies, and decadent parts I stuff them into the bag and wipe my hands on the bag.

I see Jack raise his eyebrows. I nod, and watch him slip back inside. In short-order the conditioner comes on and begins to cycle. I wait and watch. After some moments, feeling some relief, I stand. I look to the door.

Jack’s hanging half in and half out. His gyrations are giving me a headache. I think he's torn about doing something or rushing in to enjoy the cooler air.

I wave and say, “She's all good.”

I see Jack decide and he falls upon me giving me a fatherly hug before I can move. He says, “You do good work.”

I shrug out of his grasp, put some distance between us. I do like the way he refrains from adding, for a clone, at the end of that sentence though.

Jack’s arms fall to his sides. He grins, “I'm serious. About schooling. I'd help pay for it. If you was my daughter …”

I shake my head, I say, “You'd miss me. Maybe you need to get yourself a real daughter.” As I think about that and what he tried that first night I think, maybe not.

Jack waves his hand. He says, “Na.” He goes quiet. I'm unsure which he has said no to. Then he says, “You still could come check and make sure everything is in working order.”

I finish my tea and hand Jack my glass. He bends down to the spigot, gives it a short blast of filthy water.

I say, “That's okay, Jack. We have a good arrangement. I don't need to be indebted to you forever.”

Jack shrugs, looking toward the hills. Pulling the towel down he works the corner into the glass to polish it. Jack says, “I know you don't like working Toms.” His head points.  “Like that one inside. Just a tourist. Passing through. Now with his face plastered to the table because he thought he could ply you with a few drinks.”

I'm looking at the ground. The ants are back en-masse. Back to worship this humming deity. I'm almost pleased to have restored their continuity perhaps their existence.

 I shake my head to clear it of Jack’s merciless words.

Turning away, I step towards the hills. They are the first leg of my journey into the mountains. This thought tires me. I'm not looking at Jack. So, just to be certain he can see I'm leaving, I shout, “I'll see you tonight, Jack. Take care of yourself.”

I need to get away from the heat.



Copyright 2012 J.L. Dobias

Write-edit-write-and keep moving forward:

Do you really want your readers to be your editors?

Well, yes.  At least that's what I had in mind when I asked a few of them to read my book while it was in development.

I felt the lack of takers on that offer was a poor reflection on my ability to write.  The trauma of rejection gave me writer's block for about a half second pause.

So, one problem with self publishing may be the perception that I'm still asking those people to edit my work while also asking some to pay for it.  Heh, Heh Heh, and in a way I am.  But, that's only a reflection on the system of self publishing.

Some things to remember:
You shall do extensive spell checking and grammar checking and sentence structure checking. You shall find someone else to go over your work, doing the same things you just did Then you shall sit down together and do substantive editing (also known as developmental editing and comprehensive editing). This is a much more in depth look at structure, continuity, and character building. Perhaps cutting the fat.  Keep in mind that old saying.  "Don't throw the baby away with the bath water."

This is also a bit backwards but trust me you need to get some of the little stuff out of your way before delving into rearranging your thoughts to be readable by most readers.

This can never hurt you if you plan to go the conventional route and get an agent or a publisher to notice you. This is critical if you plan to self publish.  That is mostly for the sake of your reader.

The reader will most likely still find a way to express their opinion of the errors they do find.  And they will find them.  You should nod and smile and write notes.  Remember, this is the unsolicited edit you forced on them.

When you publish you should try to buy a self publish package that contains a copy-edit.  This will be a final look at grammar and spelling at the very least. There may be some attempt to help with sentence structure. Usually what you get though is the low end description of copy-edit and something better than proof reading.

We did our best to cover the substantive end in my first book, but I had a poor grasp of the whole process and may have contributed to a failure mode.   The up side is that this gives the rawest form of the writers work and might ring more true than a polished piece.

If you are like me you may feel compelled to go the extra mile and have someone new look at what you now think is the next best thing to sliced bread. It's probably not totally critical and it is costly unless you have an abundant number of volunteers with English degrees. But, if you think you didn't miss anything, as a friend once said, you are delusional.

Keep in mind, when you have someone else do the copy-edit, that you should read the manuscript all the way through while verifying the work accomplished.  Most editors will send you back a document file with notes and tags on the changes.  I found though that some changes were made that did not have tags and were critical because the change altered the meaning of the sentence.  This sounds bad, and it is.  But in most cases it caused me to rethink my wording, since it must have really confused them for them to make it say what I did not mean.

You can possibly try to get substantive editing from an on demand publisher if you ask.  The problem will be that substantive editors are expensive, in terms of the cost of self publishing.  My document had over 400 pages and 260000 words.  In page count they charge by the hour at a rate of 50 to 60 (low estimate) us dollars per hour. That's at anywhere from 1-6 pages per hour. Word count is 2 to 4 cents a word.  These are on the conservative end of the estimates.  For my first book it would cost anywhere from 5,000 to 10,000 dollars for a good substantive edit.

The good news is that if you are buying a package including copy-editing and they do a good job.  You will be getting a value on this book of about 3,000 to 5,000 dollars. And unless you are a copy-editor you will need another set of eyes to look at this. And if you are a copy-editor you will have it done anyway because you know you will need it.

The final goal is to not burden the reader with someone else job.  If they don't enjoy reading the book then you failed.

And, yes.
 If you didn't enjoy it please let me know.

I subscribe to the no news is good news. And after 250 downloads and no comments I'll just assume everything is dandy and keep on keeping on.

J.L. Dobias Author of Cripple-Mode: Hot Electric

I:The Other Hamilton Sister::Smoke

I sit, contemplating memories that I shouldn't have. Memories that are clearly not mine. Wondering if there is some tiny strand of truth to the notion that twins have a connection that goes beyond their shared lives. It's been a long time Theodora. What are you up to that these thoughts and feelings burn me to the dark pit that stands in the place of the soul I've never had and can't possess? Why now? Why do these memories plague me at the time I'd given up; the moment I'd tried to immerse myself in a life that wasn't meant for me? I'd gone to great length to lose myself. How did you find me and why did you send me these strange memories, ever more strange than any I could imagine from you? Memories that work at the very fabric of the shadow of my inner self that pretends to be a broken soul. And how can any of this be possible when in truth we are not real twins when we've only shared a womb as creatures created by man and not endowed with life by god. I'd given up and you so mercilessly pulled me out of that tailspin and gave me gifts that beg me to make more of this wretched life than to immerse my hollow self in my own pity. How dare you make me care again?

I watch the smoke curl up at the end of my hand. It looks as though my fingers are on fire. Winding itself around the long nails and climbing straight up to wither away at the edge of my face. It's disgusting. I know. I don't much care. I don't smoke these things anyway. They are here for ambiance. I've played this wretched character too many nights. This cigarette has become an ironic symbol. The glow is like the embers of my being releasing the grey smoke of my phantom soul into the air.

I lift up my right leg and cross it over the left until the knees are neatly stacked. I'm creating a tell for the perv across the room. I call him that because I've watched him observing me half the night. Perhaps I'm being unfair. He could be an ardent admirer of beauty. I lift my skirt, what there is of it. This is a way to show more flesh and yet less substance. It's certain now I'm blocking the view of what he's been trying to see. It's a tease. His eyes haven't wavered. He's like the rest. They're all the same. And I'm not much different. I've become the damned leading the damned.

Tom, that's what I call them. It's for peeping Tom. Whenever they catch me saying it, it quickly becomes Tom Cat. He's been here long enough intently gawking. He should have pounced by now. I pivot on the bar stool to afford a better view. I watch from the corner of my eye. His movements are subtle. He's rich with intent where his eyes are concerned. Maybe he's unsure about interrupting my work. He doesn't realize that he's the other half of my work.

This is how I make money. It's not what everyone thinks. I just have to get him to buy me drinks. He pays a god awful amount for my cola's and his liquor and I get a fair commission. I watch him drink himself under the table and I move on. I can't claim it's much of a living, but it's all I got. Nice work for a clone. The best I can expect on this suck rock planet, New Terra. I'm pretty sure this job isn't helping our image here, but that was tarnished to begin with.

I can't say people here think well of clones. I don't blame them. I don't have fond memories of clones myself. Even if I'm one, by most definitions. My problem with elitist groups like the Clone Colony Collective is that they have rules for defining what a clone is. I don't fit the mold even though they left genetic markers in me to make it impossible to deny what I am. I'm an outcast of the outcasts.

My understanding is that I'm not quite acceptable because I came into the world in a most normal fashion. Being a natural live birth makes me something disgusting to the average clone. I'm just as broke up about it as they are, but it was their leaders who decided to bring us into this universe.

Us is me and my sisters.

If Tom were sitting next to me where he's supposed to be I'd be telling him all of this. Spilling my guts, only today I'm halfway relieved as this all has a strange feel of something disgusting. It's just a story,My names Angie my sisters are Betty and Lucy. Bet you thought I'd say Betty and Veronica. The Toms like that joke. Personally I don't quite get it. But I try not to be judgmental, they always listen to my story. So, I tell them I'm the Alpha and Betty is Beta. We're the first two prototypes. Lucy our little sister was sorta in the middle and I'm not at all sure if there was going to be an Omega. I never tell them our real names are Amber, Theodora, and Lucia. I'm Amber.

I tell the Toms that Lucy passed away, and that's the truth. I think her death sealed Omega's fate. Lucy was supposed to be the golden child. Betty and I we were failures, but I don't tell the Toms that because I'm not all that fond of the fact.

We would have washed out of the program, but they let us be Lucy's babysitters. That whiny brat didn't make things easy. But, I shouldn't blame her, not for whining. I do blame her for taking us into her nightmare. That was uncalled for. Well, if we'd believed her, instead of laughing at her, maybe she would have been less inclined to prove there is a boogeyman. I guess we laughed too hard.

Lucy wasn't really our little sister.

We're triplets. Identical in shape and form if not in mind. Lucy was too odd to be like us.

Lucy knew better than to take us there where that horrible thing was lurking. It snatched us up in one fell swoop and held us like the catch of the day. I'm not sure what Lucy had to do to get us loose. I know Betty and I were certain we were going to die. What that beast did and what it tried to take from us had us hoping it would finish us quick. Lucy got us out somehow, but it cost her. I know that bastard sucked her soul out of her. Despite what people say about clones having no soul. If I've no soul then why do I care and why does it hurt? And why does it feel like what isn't there is slowly being torn from me every day?

Now I have to deal with worthless tears rolling down my cheek. After putting us into that mess, she's not worth this. But, the crying serves a purpose. Mr. Tom across the way has noticed. He's on his way to comfort me. I know what he really wants. It's not what he'll get. But, when I play the cards right he'll pay for it. I try to avoid his eyes. His eyes tell me lies I can't afford to buy lest he touch the heart and then the soul that isn't there.

Tom sits in the bar stool next to me. His arm engulfs me like a cradle does a baby. At first it's a slight and tentative action that grows less so for each moment I don't rebuke him. He's talking to me, consoling me. Maybe asking what's wrong or if he can help. I wouldn't know. I see his lips move but the words are like white noise to me. I have an attention problem. I've been this way since that one time in JumpSpace under the thumb of that creature. It's why I crave the contact of even this stranger to take away the bitter taste left from an encounter with indescribable terror.

Somewhere in the moment of his unusual comfort my head finds this stranger's shoulder. I'm pressing hard against him. I make faint attempts to dwell on anything else other than what I'm sure Tom must think of me. This whole town knows I'm the Clone Slut. I've a reputation to maintain. I do my thing at night then vanish in the morning. Into the mountains. Up where my friends are. Where everyone is smooth. Without a care for where you came from and what you do with your life. The one place I'm not a castoff clone.

I'm here, on New Terra, because mom and dad ran away with me in tow.

Theodora, Betty, was the wise one. She took the general's offer. The general was LJG, League Jump Guild. He promised steady work and decent wages. I wonder how Theo is making out with all of that.

I worry about mom and dad, even though they aren't really our parents. Mom did carry us in her womb. That doesn't much count with clones. It's just a different sort of vat, an inferior one at that. I struggle to understand how I'm supposed to feel about it. I say it doesn't make a difference. I'm betrayed by tears that might protest.Life wasn't pleasant after the project broke down. The general promised a lot. Still, he was one of those many who set this all up to begin with. He killed Lucia as much as that monster in JumpSpace. Her blood and her ashes are on his hands. I worry about Theo. I wonder if she thinks about me.

Tonight's gentleman is being awfully tender. I'm not used to that. I push his drink a bit further away from his reach. Sipping my cola I look at him. He's still absorbed in his one-sided conversation. I rest my scattered golden truss upon his shoulder and try to listen to the rhythm of his voice. If I can't focus on his words I'll focus on his tone. Dad and mom were never this tender. It was always, "Make sure Lucia does this. Have Lucia do that. Keep Lucia happy." If they'd only known it all amounted to "send Lucia into the jaws of death."

I almost ask Tom what his real name is. That would be bad. Wrong. None of this is real. My real life is in the mountains with my friends. Tom will be gone tomorrow to be replaced by another Tom with the new night. I look at him with suspicion. I'm not at all sure this isn't one of the Tom's of a bygone night. That's happened before. They usually are aggressively abusive if they can recall that the other night ended with their face pasted to the table instead of my breasts.

He's too kind to be a dissatisfied customer.

Jack, my boss and bartender, has worked his way over to us. He's swishing the corner of a towel into a shot glass. After giving me a severe look he pushes Tom's drink back up next to Tom's hand. He waits for me to move, so I keep still. Jack has only my interests at heart. I can't live if I don't have money. I can't have money if Tom doesn't keep buying drinks.

Tom picks up the glass and empties it. Jack has the next one on the counter for him before he can lift a finger. Tom tosses money into the great jar there in the middle. That's good, a part of that is mine. Before I allow my self to backslide I stand up. Tom instinctively encircles me with both hands to hold me there. I have to be gentle but firm in explaining that I need to use the powder room. I really just need to get out of his gentle reach long enough to let the harshness of reality intrude on my state of mind.

Still trying to make things difficult for me, Tom gently lets me go in warm fuzzy pieces. I use my forefinger to touch my lipstick and I use it to smear his lip just a tad. He smiles genially. I walk away giving him coy glances from over my shoulder.

Inside the bathroom with my hands on either side of the sink I take one long look at myself. I could just as well be looking at Theo or Lucia. But, Lucia's a ghost by now so I'd rather not go there. Tears swell and continue to smear my makeup. I look into the mirror. I place the remaining piece of my cigarette balanced on its filter on the ledge at the bottom of the mirror. The smoke runs across the mirror in the direction that the ventilation takes it. My eyes are a mess, so I begin wiping them gently until they are clean, so I can re-paint them. I can't take out the redness but some eye-drops will help a little. My whole body shudders and I long for Tom's gentle touch. With a harsh shake that tosses my hair in the air I try to push those thoughts away.

By the time I'm finished I'm certain Jack will have Tom more under the bar than over. It's better this way. That those who have souls do not mingle with those whose soul is in question. I really don't feel soulless, but to be honest I don't know how that should feel.

Now I'm all fixed and ready to proceed through my night. Once again anchored with the reality that my real life is in the morning in the mountains. I pull out a new cigarette and light it, leaving the tiny smoke stack in front of the mirror. One last look through the fog of smoke to assure that I look presentable. I touch the glass.

This here, right now, is nothing more than smoke and mirrors.







Copyright 2012 J.L. Dobias