Posts Tagged ‘fiction’

“If You Were a Puppy, My Sweet”

by Glenn Hauman & David Mack

If you were a puppy, my sweet, you would be a wild one. You’d be big and neutered, just like human-you. You’d bound from place to place, unburdened by any thought of consequences, full of energy and bereft of conscience. Some would delight in your antics, your perverse rejection of dignity. Others would quail from your manic slobbering and call you a nuisance, but you would be excused, because that’s just how puppies behave.

If you were a wild puppy, I’d hear you yelp. I’d bear your endless braying and wonder what you were going on about. Sometimes you’d growl at people passing by, innocent people doing things you didn’t understand or thought dangerous, and you’d bare your tiny fangs in an impotent snarl. Other times, you’d bark at shadows or at nothing at all, and I would imagine that in your head you were facing down dinosaurs with mighty roars. You’d be crazy-brave.

If you were crazy-brave, you’d be impossible to housebreak. No matter how many times I tried, you’d have a mad streak in you, which would become a different streak on the floor. You’d confound me by defecating in your own den, devouring your mess, and doing it all again. I would do my best to help you stop, but you would be defiant, my sweet. You would become angry and think I was trying to stop you from doing anything you wanted, at any place and any time. And that would make you sad.

If you were sad, I’d try to make you happy again. I’d add something solid to your imbalanced diet of red meat. I’d give you a chew toy to see if it cheered you up, hoping that having something to gnaw on would satisfy you. I would enter you in a dog show, but no award would suit you. You’re too proud to be placated by such small gestures; you would never be satisfied with any bones thrown your way. You’d resist my advice until you made yourself sick.

If you got sick, I’d take care of you. I’d take you to the vet and get you all the medicine you needed, and I’d be on the watch for any of the horrible diseases you could get: Lyme disease. Worms. Fleas and mites. Arthritis. Puppy strangles. Parvovirus. But you’d slip your leash, flee into the night, make friends with the wrong animals, and come home infected with rabies.

If you came home infected with rabies, I’d watch, helpless, as you twitched and foamed at the mouth. I’d stay back as you lashed out at nearby objects, attacking and biting anything in range, trying to infect everything around you with the very thing that has driven you mad. I would try to soothe you as your voice became dry and rough and hoarse, the spasms of the muscles in your throat degrading your bark to a miserable “chorf.” I’d be heartbroken as the disease consumed your brain, and I’d wish there was something, anything, I could do to free you from its madness.

If I could free you from your madness, we’d both see you’re not really rabid, that you do what you do with the power of reason. We’d know you were once a thinking human being, responsible for your own actions—an honor you sacrificed to become this gibbering beast I can’t understand. I still wouldn’t know what you hoped to become. I couldn’t tell if your plans went ass-over-teakettle or if you planned to become this all along. I’d know you once were human, but that you chose to turn your back on that for reasons known only to you… to become something different.

If you became something different, all you’d do is howl strange love songs to your legions of the spittle-flecked, and you’d respond to nothing but dog whistles. Even so, in spite of evidence and experience, I’d try to reason with you.

If I tried to reason with you, I would soon discover it to be in vain. I’d realize you thought your fury would make you big and strong, and maybe you’d fool more than a few, but I would see the truth: I’d see that you’d shrunk, your stature diminished by your swelling savagery. You’d still think yourself a creature of courage and strength and righteousness, whose claws and fangs intimidate your foes effortlessly, but your anger and delirium and weakness would only make you an object of scorn, a walking tragedy defined by wiser souls than you. Honor and glory would desert you, and all you would be left with are your regrets and your incurable rabies.

If you were afflicted with incurable rabies, no one could save you as you weakened and drooled, a grotesque public spectacle. I would be sad but resigned to your tale’s inevitable conclusion, and you and all your puppy friends would be sad, too.

If you were sad and rabid, I would bring you with me to the wide-open rampart, and we would watch the mighty spaceships fly. I’d tell you to look up, and we’d see those ships break our world’s surly bonds to depart for alien shores. We’d wish their crews well as they explored great wonders yet unknown. Then you’d fill the lengthening dusk with your pitiful whimpers as the shiny rockets soared away … without you … never to return.

with a tip of our hats to Rachel Swirsky

(Read the backstory behind this piece, and our apology to Ms. Swirsky here.)

Theme, or, What is your book *about*?

Over the past few months, I have fielded queries about the art and craft of writing from various would-be novelists. Some have sent me e-mails, while others have chatted with me at conventions and other public appearances. All of them seemed quite capable of following along as I talked about how to structure a long narrative, or some techniques I had learned for more smoothly integrating text, action, and exposition.

Where I seem to lose them is when I start talking about the importance of a novel’s theme.

(more…)

My stories for GISHWHES 2014

Now that the scavenger hunt known as GISHWHES is ended for this year, it’s my pleasure to share with one and all the four pieces of microfiction that I wrote for various teams.

The terms of Item #78 were to obtain from a previously published sci-fi author a story of no more than 140 words that included Misha Collins, the Queen of England, and an elopus (an elephant-octopus chimera, the mascot of the hunt).

The first three I gave to teams what had one of their members send me a selfie with one of my books, just so I could know I was supporting folks who were my fans. The fourth I sent to a German GISHER who wrote me such a heartfelt letter that I couldn’t let her down, with or without a selfie.

It was a pleasure to write these tales, and I was glad to help some folks in their quest for GISHWHES glory. Let’s do it again sometime.

Now, without further ado, I present the stories … such as they are.

 

“The People’s Queen”
© 2014 David Mack

Cold wind swept over the bridge. The pistol trembled in Charles’ hand as he aimed at Diana and her lover, Misha Collins. “You’ve cuckolded me for the last time!”

Diana sprang forward, arms wide, to shield her inamorata. “Kill me, but don’t hurt Misha!”

“Save your breath. You’ll need it after I throw you in the Thames.”

He tensed to fire—then the elopus’s violet tentacle lurched over the side of the bridge and snared him in its fearsome grip. Caught in the beast’s trunk was the corpse of Charles’ mother. In a blur they both were gone, pulled down into the gray dredge of the river, their bones breaking like dry twigs in the monster’s embrace.

Misha looked at Diana. “If they’re both dead, doesn’t that make you Queen of England?”

She was positively giddy. “Yes, I believe it does.”

(written for GISHWHES team Lumptacular, requested by member Jenna Carodiskey-Wiebe)

“The Cliffs of Dover”
© 2014 David Mack

“Majesty, we’re ruined! The Spanish Armada nears our shores!”

The Virgin Queen gazed east from the Cliffs of Dover, her mien placid. “Fear not, Walsingham. I have matters well in hand.”

“But Raleigh is slain, your grace! His ships are ablaze! We must retreat.”

“Spanish feet will not touch England’s green and pleasant lands, Sir Francis. Stand fast.” She pointed into the smoky distance, toward a churning vortex in the middle of the English Channel. “Look there. Our salvation arrives.”

Walsingham’s eyes widened. “By all that’s holy! Majesty, is that—? Can it be?”

“Yes—it’s the time-traveler Misha Collins, astride his invincible elopus Gishwhes. See how its tentacles crush our enemies? The forces of King Charles have blundered into our trap.”

“It’s a miracle!”

“No, Walsingham. It is victory by design. Prepare a feast for Misha and his monster.”

(written for Team Leaphard, requested by member Daniel Leaphard)

“The Gift”
© 2014 David Mack

“What is it, Mister President?”

“An elopus, Your Majesty.”

“Begging your pardon?”

“An elopus. An elephant-octopus chimera.”

“If you insist. Pray tell, what is it doing in my throne room?”

“Eating the prime minister of Canada, I believe.”

“Allow me to rephrase: Why is it in my throne room?”

“It’s a gift. From the United States to the people of Great Britain.”

“You shouldn’t have.”

“It was our pleasure.”

“You mistake me. I spoke literally. You should not have brought this abomination here.”

“My apologies. Excuse me. … Steve! Pack it up. We’ll give it to the French.”

“Stop!”

“Majesty?”

“I hate it, but I’ll die before I let the French have it. … Sergeant Major? Put it in Loch Ness.”

“Yes, Majesty.”

“Now then, President Collins, let us retire to the castle for dinner.”

“Please, Your Majesty—call me Misha.”

(written for Team E=MCHammeredLoves37027, requested by member Paloma Figueroa)

“Scoop”
© 2014 David Mack

Misha Collins points across the fog-shrouded heath. “There.”

I focus the binoculars, and I can’t believe my eyes. A tusked, trunked, tentacled behemoth scuttles and slouches across the moor. “What the—?”

“Isn’t it magnificent? It’s an elopus.”

“I’d call it terrifying.” I spy the surrounding area. “What kind of bait-and-switch is this? You promised me exclusive photos of the Queen of England.”

A diabolical smirk distorts Misha’s handsome face. “There she is.” He notes my confusion and nods at the creature. “Elopi are shape-changers.”

“The queen’s been replaced by an elopus?!”

“She’s always been one. The entire House of Windsor is elopi.”

Visions of the front page dance in my head. “We’re going to be rich.”

I feel the tentacle around my throat and realize I’ve been deceived. Misha is one of them.

Damn him. Damn him to hell.

(written for GISHER Marina Ginsberg and her team with an impossibly long name)

All About Media Tie-in Writing

On Wednesday, February 26, 2014, I was part of a panel discussion and Q&A about the art and business of writing media tie-in fiction. The panel was hosted by Housing Works Books, an all-donation, volunteer-staffed, nonprofit bookstore and café whose proceeds all go to fight homelessness and AIDS.

Participating in the panel with me were fellow author extraordinaire Keith R.A. DeCandido and veteran fiction author Ginjer Buchanan. The panel was moderated by the inimitable Cici James of the Singularity & Co. bookstore in Brooklyn, NY.

For all of you who wanted to be there but couldn’t make it, or could have made it but didn’t, the fine folks at The Chronic Rift podcast have posted the unexpurgated audio of this rambling, hour-long verbal scrum.

Click here to listen to the recorded panel.

Enjoy!

 

Media Tie-in Publishing Panel, Wed 2/26 @ 7pm

On Wednesday, February 26, I’ll be participating in an event about media tie-in publishing, as a part of GEEK WEEK at Housing Works Books. Here’s the low-down on the event:

Tied-in: The Ups and Downs and Ins and Outs of Writing Licensed Fiction

Wednesday, February 26, 2014 from 7:00pm–8:30pm

The bookshelves are full of fiction based on Star Trek and Star Wars and Halo and Batman and Doctor Who and tons more TV shows, movies, videogames, and comic books. Writing these books is a great deal of fun, but the life of a writer of media tie-in fiction is also full of pitfalls galore.

Join three tie-in veterans — New York Times best-selling author DAVID MACK (Star Trek, The 4400, Farscape, Wolverine), award-winning author KEITH R.A. DeCANDIDO (Star Trek, Doctor Who, World of Warcraft, Cars), and editor GINJER BUCHANAN (Star Wars, Conan, Leverage, Marvel Comics) — for an in-depth discussion moderated by Singularity & Co.‘s CICI JAMES.

This event is free and open to the public. Food, snacks, beer, and wine will be available for purchase from the in-store café. (Please don’t bring outside food or beverages to the store.)

Housing Works is an all-donation, volunteer-staffed, nonprofit bookstore; all of its proceeds go to fight homelessness and AIDS. It buys no books, so if you have any tomes you’d like to donate, bring them with you!

 

Don’t miss this Kickstarter bargain

Over the past month, I’ve told you in this space (and others) about the Kickstarter for Athena’s Daughters, an anthology of short stories by female authors writing about heroic female main characters. It’s been so successful that it’s going to have a companion anthology, Apollo’s Daughters, in which male authors will write tales of strong women. One of those stories will be my own upcoming short, “And Hell Rode With Her,” which will be a tease for my upcoming original novel project.

If you haven’t chipped in yet, you should. Because time is running out — the Kickstarter ends Wednesday, January 8 — and because this is one of the best deals around.

Why should you chip in if it’s already funded? I’ll tell you why.

For just $5, you’ll get more great reading material than you’ll know what to do with. Seriously, multiple bonus stories and novels, plus Athena’s Daughters, all in eBook format. That’s a tremendous value for just $5. Just $5 more gets you the Apollo’s Daughters eBook.

For an additional contribution of only $20, you can get a trade paperback copy of one of the new anthologies IN ADDITION to all the stuff listed above. That’s a pretty sweet deal. For just $45, you can get BOTH anthologies in trade paperback and all the eBook goodies.

Last but not least: this might be the ONLY way you’ll be able to get these new anthologies. Once this Kickstarter ends, there’s no guarantee these kick-ass new works of original science fiction and fantasy will be sold again. Don’t miss your chance! Chip in while there’s still time!

 

Mourning a fictional character

Last night, I watched the season finale of the FX series Sons of Anarchy. And by the end of it I felt not only emotionally devastated, but deeply traumatized.

If you haven’t watched the series, know this before you dismiss it out of hand: It is, in many ways, a complex exploration of the story and themes of Shakespeare’s acclaimed play Hamlet (with grim intimations of the Scottish play) — an interpretation more intricate and unforgiving than any I have ever seen — all rendered in modern dress on motorcycles.

Given those starting parallels, which I’ve perceived ever since the pilot episode, I should have seen this season’s finale coming a mile away. But I didn’t. I refused to believe the show would go there. I couldn’t dare to let myself imagine that such horrors would be visited upon such a core character of the series, or that such a beloved and central figure of the series would meet so horrific and grisly an end.

Consequently, I went to bed last night haunted by the death of a character I had come to love, one with whom I had learned to empathize. Someone I was rooting for, even in the darkest moments. I realized as I closed my eyes that, despite all my efforts to purge myself of the memory of that character’s violent and gruesome demise, I couldn’t stop seeing it. It replayed in my mind’s eye whenever I closed my eyes, like some Hollywood cliché.

I realized I’m in shock. I’m grieving for a fictional character. The tragic end of someone who never existed outside of a realm of shared imagination has nearly reduced me to tears.

The actor is alive and well, unharmed, and no doubt already under contract to star in some new series next season. But still I’m haunted; my gut twists as I relive that fictional person’s last moments and I rage against the waste of it, the injustice of it, the stupidity of it. Part of me still can’t believe it. I’m actually in denial.

And that’s how I know that showrunner/creator Kurt Sutter is a fucking genius, and his writing and production staff is clearly among the best in the business.

It also makes me fear for the end of the series. Now that I see this horror was unavoidable, that the parallels to Hamlet and the Scottish play demanded this moment transpire by some means — and when I factor in that the show’s rendering ripped my heart out far more than Shakespeare’s ever did — I now realize what the series finale must have in store. And it’s not going to be good. Not for anyone. If Sons of Anarchy plays out as I now fear it will, it might very well become the most unflinching, gut-wrenching, long-form tragedy ever produced on television.

Time will tell. But until then, I will continue to reel from the blow the show dealt me last night.

“Defend me friends. I am but hurt.”