Dying Light

excerpt from "Dying Light" -- Hidden

2011-08-09T20:22:00.000-07:00

That storm still brewed in his head now and then. It came back at the most pressing times – that horrible scene, those cold winds, the pounding of his heart, the tingling in his fingers – when his stress was highest, in those moments when he once again felt the world pressing in and threatening to strike. Right now the storm was brewing and the world pressed in on all sides as Michael ducked into a cul-de-sac and took a deep breath.

Outside, on what had been Pratt Street in the 21st century, the winds whipped down the wide avenue and whistled through the ground clutter. Long ago what was once home to the bustling Baltimore Inner Harbor and the multi-use Harbor Place, once renowned as magnificent inner-city waterfront, was now awash in decay. Now, a high but crumbling wall blocked off frothy waters, and cloudscrapers climbed into the roiling sky, throwing the lowest levels of the city into shadow – narrow alleys between shacks and lean-to’s, small shops erected out of little more than scrap plasti-steel welded into place or molded carbon fiberboard pieces riveted together. People of all shapes and sizes filled these narrow spaces, pouring out of their cubes in the morning, crowded together like ants trapped under glass – the nooks and crannies of poverty in the Lowers. They moved with the flow of the day, gathering sustenance, picking up work where it could be found, garnering what money they could or bartering for goods and services. Some were wrapped in plastic coats to ward off the perpetual drizzle underneath the crosswalks and sky rails of the higher levels of the city; others protected themselves with cheap parasols and umbrellas, huddling underneath them with packages or children, valuables safely out of the wet. Eyes darted to and fro from under hoods and hats in search of threats or rewards, mouths moving in greetings or retorts, haggling for wares, chanting the prayers of the Lighter, mouthing tunes from the interweb stations. The Lowers moved with a unique, somewhat frenzied rhythm as if the life there was always on the verge of being extinguished. Here the names of streets and alleys hardly mattered, only the next day’s meals, the warmth of the cube, the imminent changes of territory between gangs of savage boys.

Michael inhaled deeply, breathing in the pungent, salty air as it swirled between the plasti-steel giants. Michael closed his eyes and willed his body to relax. Escalation demanded greater command of one’s body and mind, and the situation had escalated since the moment the security forces had put their hands on him. Even now he could hear the whoosh of hovercars overhead. Escalation. The Praetorian would have been called in by now, and they would be trying to lock down the whole district. He’d seen it happen so many times before – studied the decrypted files hacked from the local security networks, but never once had the net fallen over him. Every time a vampyre was compromised – and it happened only rarely – Charlotte had an after-action case study prepared from the stolen reports and data she or Christian had collected. The response pattern was the same; the response time, as well – predictable but still very dangerous – very thorough. Very few vampyres, once discovered, were able to escape. If there was anything he’d learned from the studies, it was simple: lose the broadband.

He pushed back his sleeve and looked at his scarred left forearm. It was already healing, the skin a bright pink, but it would be a while before the area looked as if the device had never existed. A fresh infusion of blood would change that quickly, but it wasn’t a concern, and there was nowhere to get it either way. To take it from another person, a human, was unthinkable, and while that might become a necessity in the near future, it wasn’t an option unless it was a dire situation.

He slid the sleeve down again and half-heartedly scratched at the spot over the top of the cloth. It would be nice to have the broadband – he could use a pick-up, a quick drop and load, but it was for the best that the broadband was gone.

After the third track down/take down of a member of the coven, he’d seen the greatest danger to the coven – the ability of the security forces to track a DNA signature. It was clear as day in the last incident’s case study, and he’d immediately gone back to the previous data to look for the same pattern. It had been there – somehow missed before, but more importantly now perceived and recorded – contact, flight, chase, identification of the fugitive’s DNA signature and subsequent trackdown and kill. Once the code was isolated, the myriad pick-up sites that would read the data for any number of reasons – usually for advertisements, newsfeeds, or currency exchange – would provide a track that officers could follow and would eventually lead to the perpetrator. There was no way around it if the fugitive didn’t know how he was being tracked. Even the safest hideaway was easily discovered when the runner left a trail of virtual bread crumbs behind. Each case study was unique, but each pattern and each result was the same: vampyre tracked down and terminated. If Isaac’s tech team had not tweaked some of the broadband code, causing the device to self-erase all data in case of death, they might have been in real trouble and on the verge of extinction.

As it was, there were only a few hundred vampyres left in the city, and all of them had been given evasion training along with the broadband protocols. “When in doubt, rip it out.” Michael had laughed at his invention at first, but silly, simple catch phrases had worked well in the 21st century and would still work well. A few thousand had been reduced to a few hundred, and that called for greater security, additional precautions and finally desperate measures – his infiltration into the heart of the city government and ultimately to within an arm’s length of The Council.

Maybe that’s it. Maybe she’s angry and secretly trying to get back at me.

The thought hadn’t entered his mind, but it suddenly made sense – a theory, a premise – nothing more, but something to think about, something to consider. He was sure the Premier had been furious, at least somewhat embarrassed and humiliated, when she’d found out – after the deal had been struck – that the vampyres had had a man on the inside, someone in fact very close to The Council, and someone who had even spoken with her a handful of times. How else would they have found out about her condition and approached her to make her an offer she couldn’t refuse? No name had been revealed, no direct connection established with him, but there was little doubt that when Michael ceased to return to work after the deal had been struck, he was indeed the spy.

He’d waited in his flat since that day – no reporting to the coven – furlough, vacation, leave of absence, whatever he wanted to call it, but the Lord of the Vampyres, the man he’d protected since that bleak, windy day, had ordered him to go into “cooldown” mode and wait. There was wisdom in that decision. Would there be blowback? Would there any repercussions or reflections? There was no way to know. The Premier was a proud woman, even though she had been beaten down by her cancer and was desperate. Still, her zeal in combatting the “vampyre threat” had been tempered by reality – Michael had seen it himself over the last year – and there was something to be said for second chances, Willem had remarked, and getting a first-hand look at your own mortality. They’d each been given that look and a second chance, and he wasn’t inclined to deny even an adversary the same. The only question that remained now was who it was that had ordered this hit. There was only one way to find out: survive and track back through the clues. First of all, it was time to survive.

Michael let out a quick exhale of warm air over his hands – it was humid, as always, but it was still cold in late December in Baltimore. He pulled the coat he’d snatched tight around him, dragging the hood over his wet hair, and stepped out into the flow of humanity. He needed to disappear in the flotsam and jetsam of the city.

the past, the present, and what's coming in the future

2011-04-19T11:19:00.000-07:00

Well, it looks like we are all kind of the big loser here. Sorry, but I'm in the same boat. My small publisher has pretty much fallen apart, and that has kind of left me, and subsequently you, in the lurch. What does this mean? It means I can't even tell you how many copies of Dying Light were even sold. It means I have no idea when or if I will ever get paid. It means that part two is not coming out in May.

It means we all kinda got screwed. Yeah well, if you just grumbled, then let me tell you, I've been grumbling, too.

So, here's what I am doing about it. I'm looking at another publisher. I'm looking at a revision of part one, which I actually just started on (more on that in a second), and I'm looking at adding in part two and throwing the whole thing complete and fresh at the world in July (hopefully). Yeah, yeah, I know. Trust me, I know. This sucks, and it's been really disappointing. Trust me, there's nothing I want more than to tell you all the rest of the story, but it's just not worked out that way. And don't think I'm just laughing all the way to the bank because I'm not. It sucked for me, too, but I'm trying to fix it.

As for the revision, some people had a few issues with keeping up with the story. I had always thought that it would be a difficult story to follow, that it would take some "active reading" and real thought to keep up with who is doing what and who is who and what is real and what is a lie. (I even tell you lies in the book, but you won't know it until the end.) So, in the revision I'm going to try and make it a little smoother and easier, not because people can't keep up but because in my own opinion I can do that without really losing any of the complexity of the story. I will change my approach a bit so that everything flows a little more, so the reader has a little more information, and so that there's more to the story that just what the characters can see and hear and feel. I won't that aspect away because I frankly really like that the story is so intimate, but I will pull back a tiny bit and talk more about what is happening outside the characters, and I will ease on the dream sequences and flashbacks and weave them more into the tale as it moves forward. I think it's the right thing to do, and I hope the reader will like.

Also, I'm working on some art for the book, so when part one end and part two begins (between chapters 17 and 18), there will be a few pages of art from a few artists who captured my vision of this or that scene and put it on paper. It think that's a cool idea, and I already have one scene in ink that is fabulous. In fact, once I saw it, I was actually kind of surprised at how the artist envisioned Emily, and at the same time I was pleasantly pleased.

So, there you have it in a rather large nutshell. It seems life has gotten in the way, and so I am adjusting and have to ask you to adjust, as well. This is what happens when working with a small business sometimes, and it's not so bad. We stay flexible, we stay hungery, and we keep working. The good news is that Dying Light, I think, will come out better and sharper than before, and then I can kick on to the sequel, which already has a few completed chapters.

Thanks!

Scott

letter to fans of "Dying Light" -- what's coming next?

2011-03-03T10:39:00.001-08:00

Fans,

First, let me thank you for hanging in there and hanging around. The first book was tough in a lot of ways -- tough on me to keep straight with so much going on; tough on you to keep straight with so much going on; tough to follow up in a timely manner -- as you may know, my original plan was to have part two out just before Xmas so we kept up our momentum and you would have the first 17 chapters fresh in your mind.

Alas, that did not materialize. A computer death and my inability to back everything up caused some rewrite delays. Now there are some publishing issues, which I think will be resolved smoothly and quickly, but they will require some patience on my and your part and will result in about another two month delay. What can ya do? When you work with small companies, which I like to do, these things happen.

The good news is that DL2 is reportedly "13 lengths" better than DL1, and that's good news for everyone! Also, this gives me a chance to dive in once more and make sure everything is as smooth as a baby's butt. In the meantime, I will continue a few projects that will hopefully bring a smile to your face.

The New Baltimore short story endeavor is going to get more focus, and I'm working with a few other writers to develop shorts based on the world of 25th century Baltimore. In addition, there's the art aspect, and I have a very good artist dedicated to drawing up some brilliant illustrations that will make some of the more dramatic scenes in DL1 and 2 come alive in ways you never imagined. Also, this gives me a little more time to go back through DL1, which will be re-released with an update or two, and to finish the 'marginalia' project, in which I am reading through the whole book and making handwritten notes on various things like character and place names, catchwords or phrases borrowed from favorite movies and books and songs, etc., to bring you a more in-depth look at how a writer, or this one, comes up with ideas.

So, as much as it pains me, let's look for DL2 in May, but along the way keep an eye on the blog (www.dyinglightnovel.com) for updates, new contests, information about the developing art side of the story, and new short stories and other related fiction.

Thanks again for sticking with me. I'm doing everything I can to make sure you are getting something good to read.

Scott

excerpt from "Dying Light" (part two) -- The Situation Room

2011-03-02T09:52:00.000-08:00

//a commentary on today's media and politics//

The doors opened, and Willem stepped into the Situation Room. The name of the room had always seemed appropriate since the first day he’d walked in. Perhaps it was the low lighting, throwing dramatic shadows across the room. Perhaps it was the bank of screens along the wall always flowing with rivers of information. Still perhaps it reminded him not so much of the Situation Room from the White House, a place he’d visited more than a few times, but more so the kind of room that Hollywood had often put together to wow its audience. It was entirely too fancy, too connected, and simply too “high tech”. What had always been needed when the stakes were high was not a snazzy room full of gadgets with 24-hour access to every event in the world, not a place to filter the information, but a place to deliberate away from distractions.

He slid into the cool comfort of the black leather chair at the head of the table, and looked around, his normal scowl in place. Too much information. It wasn’t information that made decisions; it made decisions possible. In the end, when it was time to make a decision, one had to cut off the flow of information, take what was given and then make a choice. So often he’d seen others standing by, always waiting for the next piece of the puzzle. He’d seen indecision marring faces of advisors as they’d waited for that last tidbit to come in, the one that would make decision-making unnecessary: a bomb exploding, a remark by a foreign leader, an aggressive action by a terrible power. His questions had always been simple: what can you tell me? But the answers seemed always to be complicated or over-the-top – information overload. To have a decision made on the data one provided meant taking some responsibility for that decision, taking a chance. And as the 21st century wore on, as the media was more involved and public opinion became more and more a force to reckon with, people were less and less willing to take on that responsibility at the risk of being held accountable later and having to shoulder the blame if things went wrong. CNN, Fox News, Al Jazeera, All-World News – they steam-rolled weak leaders and dissected every decision, the worst kind of Monday morning quarterbacking! And public opinion polls, a new one for seemingly every single news story, were worse.

The people in the room now didn’t fit that mold. After what seemed like an endless revolving door of the pretending and petrified in the last days of the United States of America, he’d no longer had the patience for the fearful and indecisive. Their faces slid across his mind one by one, calm, eager visages from the early years when he’d held his post in Congress; then gradually they grew less confident as time wore on and circumstances began to shake the foundations of the world they knew and trusted – the assassination of Alex Tribault, the success of pan-Islamism, the third World War, and finally the horrifying reality of the Blood Virus.

He shook his head almost imperceptibly, pushing away those thoughts. He couldn’t blame those people for being afraid – they had a job to do, and they’d done it to the best of their abilities. In the end, it was his responsibility; those decisions were his to make, and he was the one that would be accountable, and he’d step up and answer for what he did. It was all he could do, and after all, that was nearly 400 years ago.

in the sequel to "Dying Light", New Baltimore will burn

2011-01-31T09:30:00.000-08:00

Yes, this is a compilation from YouTube of the recent riots in Egypt, so I place it here as an inspiration to myself. In Midnight Sun, the sequel to Dying Light, New Baltimore will undergo a massive revolt and everything that we thought was going to be solved is going to be completely undone. Where will that leave our characters? It will leave them and everyone else scrambling for cover.

I'd planned out some time ago where I wanted the story to go, but I like to use images and music as inspiration to get a feel for scenes and events and emotions, for color and sound, for reminders of little details that make a scene so real and so moving, and these events in Egypt are going to help me do that. I admit that I feel like it's a kind of exploitation, but since I always have a message in my writing, a number of themes going, this will just help me to get there, and the misery my fake world feels will reflect the misery the Egyptians experience -- my best to them both.

"Dying Light" quiz -- these are the answers you were looking for

2011-01-19T13:53:00.000-08:00

A collage (From the French: coller, to glue) is a work of formal art, primarily in the visual arts, made from an assemblage of different forms, thus creating a new whole.

There are other ways to form a collage, and in my own way, as I have noticed more and more artists/writers/designers doing recently, I have added into my work a number of things that I've loved over the years, things that really stuck with me. Whether it be references to personal things, names of friends, names of places I've been, where I used to live, song lyrics, movie lines, etc., I squeezed them in here and there to make my novel more personal and, as every writer does through his work in one way or another, demonstrate some of my values.

Doing this was fun, and I felt that it made the book more special because it was more personal that way and including those things made it even more like reading a part of me, plus it was just fun to play with the reader a bit and give him something else to experience.

I put together a quiz for part one a while back, and I held out giving the answers for a long time so people would have a chance to read and try and discover these things for themselves, but I figured now is as good a time as any to put out the answers because part two of the book is starting its downhill roll, and the bottom (publication) is not far off.

So, without further ado, I will repost the questions below and address each answer. Enjoy!

1 -- What is the name of the only eating establishment mentioned, and why is that significant?

The only eating establishment mentioned in the book is the Sucker Punch. Why is that significant? Truthfully, it's not. I just wanted something dynamic and interesting. It's where Emily catches the one meal we get to read about. The interesting thing, if not important thing, is that later this year a movie called "Sucker Punch" is coming out, and it's about a young blond woman who had this fantastic adventure. It looks very cool, and seeing her as this late teens young woman, it reminds me very much of my character.

2 -- Why is the President's Secret Service codename fitting?

"Bookworm" is fitting because Willem Caisson, the last President of the United States, was known throughout his childhood for always having a book on-hand and usually reading it when he should have been doing other things, like dating. As a result of his love for books, he also minored in Library Sciences in college. Originally I was going to make him a teacher, but he went into law and then the Army before politics. Nevertheless, his efforts to restore the Library of Congress following the dissolution of the United States put him right up there as possibly the most important librarian ever this side of Thomas Jefferson (and if you know your history, you will know why).

3 -- From what artist/song is the announcement of the "New Republic" taken?

Prince's "Seven" is the inspiration for this. I had been listening to it quite a bit at the time of writing this part of the book, and it had a decidedly Biblical tone to it. Then when I looked up the lyrics and the background of the song, I realized that it would be an ideal model for the "sermon" given by the New Republic, the announcement that would set the city ablaze with worry. Check out the lyrics hereand you will see. This song also inspired me to make the number of Council members seven and the number of city/states in the former United States seven -- 777.

4 -- Which of the characters shares the name of a real person known to the author?

The only character is Emily. It's my daughter's name, and poor insane Emily (the character) has no relation to her in any way other than that. It was suggested that I change it to Sophia because of the horrifying person that Emily is in the book, and for a short time I did, but I changed it back. Obviously I liked that name for a reason.

5 -- Which of the non-characters?

Non characters include a single mention of my friend Sandra Mato, who I also mention in the acknowledgments as a super supporter while I was writing "Dying Light". Also, Robert Nicholson, who was one of my best friends in high school and college and later the best man at my wedding, and who tragically died as a result of kidney failure in 1996, gets a pretty big part. By including him here and using nothing more than his name, I thought it would be a nice tribute to a guy that never really had a chance to get out there and live.

6 -- What favorite book is shared by a "Dying Light" character and the author?

The Count of Monte Cristo -- in a flashback, Willem finds this book nearly burned and takes it with him to include in his collection at the Library of Congress. This is my favorite book, and its bittersweet ending is something that has always influenced me to end my stories in a less than tidy and "every one lived happily ever after" way.

7 -- In what movie can you find Rix's line "In the pipe, five by five"?

This one should have been easy; this is a line from the pilot in Ridley Scott's "Aliens" movie as the space Marines are flying down to the surface of LV-426 for the first time. This is without a doubt my favorite movie of all time, and I've seen it may 600 times (because I often put on movies and turn off the sound when I write to just set the mood with the lighting).

8 -- What symbol is used as a metaphor to describe the beginning of the end of the United States of America?

In an early flashback, in the inauguration scene, Willem sees the American Flag ripped from the flagpole by icy winter winds just after the inauguration goes bad. It's this moment that he considers the beginning of the end of modern 21st century civilization.

9 -- What fictional location is lifted from a famous movie? What's the name of the movie?

OK, I lied -- along with "Aliens", "Blade Runner" is my all-time favorite movie, and I have seen it a zillion times and turn it on regularly when I am writing. At the end of the movie are perhaps the most perfect lines ever uttered by an actor in a scene, which you can watch here. The answer is "Tannhauser Gate", which is the most elegant, affluent area in New Baltimore.

10 -- Identify one of the anagrams used in the book and the name of the related movie.

There are many, but I will say that each of the major corporations headed by CEOs who make up the Council are named after or are anagrams of famous fictional companies found in movies and books, including "Aliens" and its infamous "Weyland-Yutani Corporation". I could have just come up with original names, but again, I wanted to pay tribute to some things and have some fun with it.

So, that's it then for these questions.

There are a number of other references, Easter Eggs, puzzles and little cutesy things that I put in part one, and in part two there are even more. Pay close attention to the names, to places, to items. As a writer, I must first be a very keen observer, and there's no way to ever shut out things you've seen. You just have to borrow a little of what you like, give it your unique spin, and go with it. Meanwhile, why not show some love to the things that deserve it, and give the readers a little more bang for their buck.

writing, editing and revision, or the trials and tribulations of "Dying Light" (part two)

2011-01-18T06:53:00.000-08:00

Ack! I thought I'd never get done with part two. The crazy part is that I'd already written it. That said, I had some rewriting to do because when I got to the end and went back through my notes and thoughts for the book, not to mention where I see the sequel going, I thought it would be best to make some changes.

It also didn't help that of the changes made, a lot were lost when my laptop faithfully committed suicide and ate a few of the chapters that had gotten healthy revisions. Thus, I was a little put off and not so ready to sit down and re-re-write. I'm sure you can imagine.

So, it's done, and now the final chapters are about to roll out to my four beta readers, who will hopefully not shred me and yet hopefully not just tell me it's wonderful. I'm hoping for something somewhere in the middle, some smart constructive criticism and a bunch of 'yes, I totally got that part' responses.

It's especially crucial to test the waters when one is writing a novel like this. Not only is it complex with a lot of story lines intersection, but the way I put it together, only letting the reader see what each character sees and not spelling it out directly most of the time, means that I have to make sure I included everything. I often compare this to writing a test. As a teacher, I already know what the answers I'm looking for are, so when I go to build the questions, I have to make sure I included all the information necessary to lead the student to the right answer without giving it away. This thought process works the same for this book. I hide things on purpose, build a puzzle that the characters must solve, but with them, the reader must be able to follow and solve the puzzle, too. If I give too much away, then the answer will be too easy and the student won't need to read the whole question or work too hard; likewise, the reader will guess the outcome and not have to read through the whole book to get there. No one, teacher or author, wants the recipient of his work to skip to the end and know that yes, he guessed right; the answer was "a".

So, testing the waters now and seeing if the sharks come feed on my chum. Hoping to clear up a few little "oh shits" before the general public gets it, and happy to reward some very good friends and supporters of my writing with an advanced look and a chance to see right now how the story ends.

I can't wait to share it with the rest of you. Looking at mid-March for that. Stay tuned for a little more editing, and then look for the cover at your favorite online bookstore.

excerpt from "Dying Light" -- presidential speech

2011-01-12T08:32:00.000-08:00

Willem had remembered the planning and funding and commissioning of the memorial. He’d remembered the sentiments from the Congress – unanimous approval, which in those late days of extreme partisanship was unthinkable. The War on Terror had taken its toll on the country and the people in particular, and both were in serious upheaval when the proposal had come in from the junior Senator from Mississippi. It was touted as a symbol of unity, an attempt to bring the two main political factions of the country together, to erase the anger and doubt, the outright hatred and bias that each group held for the other. It was a brilliant stroke and a superior demonstration of long-forgotten bipartisanship, a towering memorial in black granite that represented every soul lost to the protracted world-wide war. The inaugural ceremony to reopen the Ellipse between the White House and the Washington Monument had been a grand, unifying event, found every Congressman and Senator in attendance, and terrified the President of the United States.

He’d confided only in Maryam. Only she would truly understand. Alex’s death had shaken him to the core. It had been nothing like the other deaths he’d been witness to in the field. It was like losing another family member to a terrorist’s bullet, and on occasion he could still feel the warm blood splatter across his face. He wouldn’t allow that it might be Post Traumatic Stress Disorder; that had always seemed too convenient, too easy. And here was another major ceremony, perhaps the most important he would ever participate in; it was only about a half-mile from the Capitol Building, the scene of the last horrific tragedy in America’s history, and the cause of his ascendancy to the highest office. He joked with Aiden, the new Vice President, that he should plan to be elsewhere just in case, but the joke always felt forced, and he could see the stress on the other’s face. Aiden wasn’t ready to step up – not in that way.

The ceremony, however, had gone off beautifully. He’d kept the speech short and sweet, taking advice from his favorite President, Abraham Lincoln – his Gettybsurg Address was only two minutes long. Willem’s was only 10 seconds longer. Lincoln’s address contained 10 sentences; Willem’s contained 11. Lincoln called forth the brief history and recent birth of the United States of America, mourned the dead and called on the people of America to ensure that they had not died in vain. Willem focused in on the same message, reaching back to periods of American History, finally focusing on the 24 years of global war, starting in 2001 with the 9/11 tragedy. He mourned the dead both at home and abroad, praised the steadfastness of the country in supporting the troops, and entreated every American to honor those who sacrificed themselves not with prayers and memorials but in upholding the ideals and principles on which the nation was founded.

Every time he walked up to the War on Terror Memorial, he felt those words running through his head. He’d tripped through the speech thousands of times since that day. It was by far and away the thing that he knew best, even though he could nearly recite entire novels and endless passages of poetry. The words literally spilled out of his brain as soon as he set foot in the Ellipse. There was nothing he could do to hold them back.

“My fellow Americans, I come before you truly humbled. We stand here today to make peace with the loss of our loved ones, to honor their passing, and ensure that they will never be forgotten. This monument, however, is not simply a testament to this nation’s sacrifices in the realm of war; it stands as a witness to our fortitude, our determination, and our national will. When our Fore Fathers granted us life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness, they set forth ideals and principles upon which only a truly free nation could flourish. And flourish we have. For 255 years our nation has stood against tyranny, battled injustice, warred against terror and vanquished the foes of freedom. For 90 years this nation has strived to come together, to become one people despite our vast differences, to realize the dreams of the few. For 24 years we the People have held at bay terrible forces that have driven every conceivable horror against our teeming shores. Today we stand here, one nation united under common goals, with common ideals and a common vision. We stand together in pursuit of freedom and democracy for all Mankind. And today, let those who would try to destroy us know that we stand arm-in-arm, hand-in-hand, and shoulder-to-shoulder, one nation under broad stripes and bright stars without fear but dedicated to the great task before us: to lead this world out of the ashes of war and forward into a new age of unity, fraternity and liberty for all.”

recurring nightmare

2011-01-10T10:09:00.000-08:00

Every once in a while, when I'm reading through part one or editing something in part two, or just thinking about the story in general, I have this sudden freakout that I must have forgot this or that detail, forgotten a change in the story and sent part one off to the publisher without it. And then, just as quickly, I remind myself that everything is OK, that the story was fine how it was published and that I didn't leave anything out. Whew! I'm glad it's only every once in a while.

the "Dying Light" quiz -- did you read, or did you read?

2011-01-09T18:58:00.000-08:00

If you know me, you know that I threw a lot of love at some of my favorite things in this book. Some of them come in part one; some later in part two. But in part one I came up with 10 good questions to throw at you, the reader, to see if you've read the book, or if you read more than just the story. Most of it is just story -- made up, but some of it is much more. Let's see what you got?

1 -- What is the name of the only eating establishment mentioned, and why is that significant?

2 -- Why is the President's Secret Service codename fitting?

3 -- From what artist/song is the announcement of the "New Republic" taken?

4 -- Which of the charaters shares the name of a real person known to the author?

5 -- Which of the non-characters?

6 -- What favorite book is shared by a "Dying Light" character and the author?

7 -- In what movie can you find Rix's line "In the pipe, five by five"?

8 -- What symbol is used as a metaphor to describe the beginning of the end of the United States of America?

9 -- What fictional location is lifted from a famous movie? What's the name of the movie?

10 -- Identify one of the anagrams used in the book and the name of the related movie.

Feel free to answer in the comments and let's see who is on top of their game? Yes, you might have to really know me to know a couple of the answers, but otherwise you just have to read. It's all in fun anyway!

excerpt from "Dying Light" (part two) -- Purgatory

2011-01-06T18:09:00.000-08:00

The only sounds in the lift were the whispers of movement, quiet breathing, a muffled but audible whimper. Emily held her breath.

The quick decent made her slightly uneasy. It was too close to falling, and she wanted to grab the rail on the sides of the lift, but she held steady to her current purchase, squeezing, and focused on keeping her heart steady, her stomach intact. The tiny room smelled of sex – a mix of fragrant perfumes and musty odors, oils, leather, and semen. When the lift stopped at the bottom of the deep shaft and the doors opened, the same smells hit her delicate nose tenfold – Purgatory.

She released her grip with a snap of her wrist and snickered to herself at the ecstatic groan it produced in the bound male struggling to work the lift controls. Encased head-to-toe in supple black leather, his scrotum was the only exposed flesh. She’d sunk her nails into them and pulled down, indicating the direction the lift should take. Now released, he slumped against the wall wheezing through the skin-tight mask, his breath coming in gasps through the small holes near the mouthpiece, hands still bound behind him next to the lift controls.

Welcome to Hell, little boy.

"Dying Light" marginalia -- still working on this -- coming soon

2011-01-01T16:12:00.000-08:00

Over the next couple of months, leading up to the release of part two, tentatively scheduled for Spring 11, I will be giving away a few copies of part one with personal notes, comments, insights and various other tidbits scribbled in the margins and white spaces.

If you are interested in getting a copy, stay tuned for details! You won't find personalize copies of novels in book stores or on Amazon. But you can find a few right here or on the Facebook fan page.

Are you interested?

on being a person (quote from "Midnight Sun")

2010-12-31T19:23:00.001-08:00

“Yes, Mr. Nicholson. I am a vampyre. How very eloquent of you ask!” She glared at him over the clipboard. “I, however, prefer the word “person”. I am a person. You are a person. It’s very simple – being a person does not exactly imply some kind of biological or physiological qualification or trait. It does, however, require that the individual in question not be an animal or a vegetable. I most certainly am neither. Are you?”

excerpt from "Dying Light" (part two) -- the end

2010-12-28T20:39:00.000-08:00

“A good traveler has no fixed plans, and is not intent on arriving,” said Willem, looking up from the dirt underfoot. All eyes were on him, as if they felt just as much pain as he did in the churned earth, as if they were just as terrified to gaze on it.

“So it was said long ago about the nature of Man, and so it remains true. Man, you see, is wary of this place, his ultimate destination. He holds this vision ever-present in his mind, but he turns a blind eye at every chance and focuses on the journey and the adventure ahead, the tribulations surrounding him, and the happiness and sorrows of the path behind – anything to distract him and quell his terror. To think of arrival is to imagine the journey complete, and there is but one end for him, no matter how the road twists and turns, no matter how long the track.”

“Today, my friends, we find our beloved have arrived.” He paused and looked down, eyes closed, drawing in a deep breath through his nose – it was the only way he could keep calm and continue. It was the only sure way that he could stop himself from turning and simply walking away – breathe.

It was nearly sunrise, he knew, and they needed to move along. To be discovered here would lead to another discovery – two freshly dug and filled graves, the earth packed solidly and only slightly veiled by the flurries that foretold a shift in the season and weather. He’d meant the ceremony to be short and sweet, a few words for those that had gathered and prepared the site – nothing personal or risky. “Keep it safe,” Robert would have said. “No tears; no sorrow,” they’d said on the flag details he’d led. When he’d come back from Uzbekistan, his brothers draped in American flags, he’d volunteered for duty, to say a few words and then present the flags to his mother and father. “No tears; no sorrow. Keep it safe.”

Willem swallowed, caught Charlotte’s eye in the pre-dawn glow of the wooded area, and continued. “These, our fallen, we honor while others battle on. These, our family, we lay to rest while others continue the journey forward. These, our most dear, we cherish while others bring us new hopes and dreams. Let us not forget the one or begrudge the other for all men have their chosen path, and all men make their destination with open eyes. Let us remember them for who they were and what joys and sorrows they brought to our lives, for without them we could not be who we are, and in such, they will always be with us, a part of us everlasting.”

Interview with a character from "Dying Light" (part one)

2010-12-25T20:27:00.000-08:00

Welcome to Atair E-Com News – The Eyes and Ears of New Baltimore. Today we have for you an unprecedented video event: the first ever interview with a vampyre. Yes, friends, you heard me right – a vampyre. In fact, we have access to the leader of this last existing coven, the Vampyre Lord himself. I’m Iron Riley Night, and this is “OHPV – One Hundred Percent Valid”.

Iron: Welcome to the show, sir, Lord, Mr. President? I’m sorry. We didn’t have time to go over the protocol. You can understand how this is awkward.

VL: “Mr. President” is a little out of fashion, I’d say, Mr. Night, although I did answer to that title some time ago.

Iron: Five centuries ago?

VL: Yes, indeed – to my utmost regret.

Iron: Sir?

VL: You can imagine it was not the best of times.

Iron: Understood. Now, sir, our viewers can see that you are not actually “here” in person. I don’t know if you can see this broadcast yourself, but you are represented by a holographic image, a “plain brown wrapper”, we like to say, although it’s a simple black and white representation that picks up your movements and transmits them to the image, so that it moves like you do. It’s something we use when our guests are not comfortable appearing, as it were, in person.

VL: I understand. I am quite comfortable.

Iron: I just have to explain it for our viewers. Thirty-nine million people in the city can ask a lot of questions.

VL: I’m sure.

Iron: Now, sir, if we can get right to it, would you state your name, please, and give us a tiny bit of background to start?

VL: My name is Willem Benedict Caisson. I was born in Chicago, Illinois. I was born in the year 1980. It is the year 2412 now.

Iron: So you are (pause) 432 years old.

VL: But I don’t look a day over 60!

Iron: Sir?

VL: It’s a joke. I’m sorry. You can’t see me smiling. I haven’t aged, Mr. Night. Technically I’ve been around for 432 years, but I haven’t aged physiologically since the year 2033.

Iron: And tell us about that time, sir. What happened in the year 2033 that changed your entire world and resulted in ours?

VL: That’s a long story, Mr. Night, a very long story.

Iron: Well, we’ll get to that. Tell us about your life leading up to that point. What did you do with yourself from childhood on? Life was very different then than it is now. We don’t have time to explain it all to our viewers, but please at least give us a run-down of your life before the year 2033.

VL: Certainly. I can do that. My mother and father were both well-off, and I went to private schools as a child. I excelled in sports, but I was more interested in quieter pastimes. I was obsessed, as my teachers would say, with worlds that couldn’t exist, worlds one could only find in books. I was addicted to reading, a bibliophile to the point of concern. It was often remarked that I could be found in center field reading a paperback between pitches.

Iron: “Paperback”, sir? For our viewers.

VL: Oh, certainly. A paperback was a kind of book, usually a fictional tale, which was made of flimsy paper, something you could stuff in your pocket when you were done with it. I had hundreds, maybe more, in my room. I spent all my money on stories of space travel and monsters and traveling under the sea. I borrowed books from the library when I ran out of money. And indeed, I did often have a pulp fiction or such sticking out of the back pocket of my uniform while I was in center field, although I didn’t pull it out until we were back in the dugout.

Iron: So your childhood was spent engrossed in reading books?

VL: Not always, but yes, I think that’s fair to say. I did well in school. I got great grades, lettered in sports, and even managed a date to the prom, although I think that surprised everyone. I graduated with a scholarship to University of Chicago, where I majored in Political Science and minored in Library Sciences. In fact, I was in the library so much there that I took on a part-time work-study in one of their fourteen libraries. It was my favorite place to be.

Iron: I understand. And then you went to law school.

VL: Yes, three grueling years at Loyola, also in Chicago.

Iron: After that, you went on to a law firm – we have this information from the brief questionnaire you filled out for us, but then you joined the security forces shortly thereafter and went away to war. Can you tell us about that?

VL: Yes, I did. I quit the firm, my job. My parents had plans for me, but they didn’t have plans for my twin brothers, both of whom were younger than me and didn’t quite take to reading and academics like I did. When they graduated from high school, they went to college through a military- or security forces-supported program called ROTC. Right after they graduated, they joined the Marine Corps, and so did I.

Iron: Why? Didn’t you have a lucrative employment in Chicago? You were going to move up the ladder quickly and rise through whatever economic and societal levels that existed at that time, correct?

VL: Yes, but except for the four years separating me from my brothers, nothing else could. We did everything together, which is one reason I stayed in Chicago. Then, in 2001, when 911 happened, I had to talk them into staying in college and not running off to war. But when they graduated, there was no holding them back, and my parents and I couldn’t let them go off alone. I went with them.

Iron: Sir, “Nine Eleven”?

VL: Yes, September 11th, 2001. There was a horrifying terrorist attack in New York City, and the entire country was shocked and saddened by all the lives lost. We responded with invasions by our security forces, one type of which was called the Marine Corps. My brothers and I joined up in 2007 and headed straight to Afghanistan after our training. That was a major life change.

Iron: Afghanistan?

VL: Yes, it’s a country on the other side of the world. It’s hard to imagine with life how it is now, but it’s far away, and we went there and made war on them.

Iron: And that’s where your life changed again?

VL: No, not until 2011, when we were in Uzbekistan, a neighboring country. That’s where my life changed for the second time.

*end of part one*

excerpt from "Dying Light" (part two) -- imprisoned

2010-12-19T07:01:00.000-08:00

It was neither day, nor night in the cell. Long ago her world had ceased to revolve around the hours of the clock, the movement of the sun and moon. In the early days, she remembered, she had counted the minutes, counted her steps as she paced back and forth in the tiny chamber, estimating time, trying to anticipate when they would come for her again, when the invisible gas would sweep her away to her nightmares.

The hours turned into days, days into weeks, and finally as the months began to accumulate, time seemed to cascade up and over the boundaries of her consciousness. It turned in on itself – like a snake consuming its own tail. The “cycle” that she had taken for granted for centuries had ceased to exist, and there was only the endless flow of time forward, dotted with moments of exhaustion and unconsciousness or splattered with unending terror.

When the door opened, and the silhouette waited quietly in the doorway, she only knew that they had come again, that it must be “time”. There was no clock, no window. There was only an innate movement of life forward and a sensation that it was time to wake, time to sleep, time to scream.

But what was waking? What was sleeping? She turned her head to the side as she asked herself the questions again, looking up from the hard floor and trying to focus on the shadow, no longer sure of the answers – only that there was something decidedly wrong, a vague sensation that once again her world was about to abruptly change. The haze that clouded her mind, the lingering lull after the familiar frenzy of the Blood Fog – how long had she been unconscious this time? It held her motionless on the cold, steel surface, apathetically awaiting the angry embrace of the manacles and yet another session…or whatever her faceless captors had in store for her.

Will this nightmare never end?

She eyed the shadow among shadows in the doorway, her eyes shifting the fraction of light playing behind the tall figure betraying a modicum of shape, a hint of form. It was a man, tall and slender – that much she could tell. She could smell him now as wakefulness crept over her – dank, musty as if he was just in from the rain. Did it still rain every day in New Baltimore? She’d never seen it. Yet the smell was sure. Or perhaps it was a trick of the drugs, a new gas, a new solution added to her water and the meager rations she was given.

Will it be the chair again? Will I bleed for them again? Will I scream?

She swallowed the answer. She would scream now if only they asked, if only they simply requested it – without the whip, without the needles, without the devices that she could never see but only feel break, scratch, tear at her flesh. What, she had asked herself so many times, was there left for her to do? Scream, bleed, suffer the needles, give them every ounce of blood they required, then scream again, if only to satisfy their unquenchable thirst for her agony. Until her voice failed her, and then she was croak and sob and feel her mind begin to break. Tomorrow it would come again, and tomorrow after that. They seemed to never tire of it – the experiments, of course, but afterward, after the doctors were gone – the deep cuts only to watch her wounds heal, the rapes, the tortures that even now she could not think of – the ones that thankfully made her black out, only to awaken here again on the floor of her cell where the only sound she would hear for hours or days or longer was the air passing through her nostrils, the occasional catching of her breath when footsteps passed by outside that indestructible door.

She blinked – the door was still open. The man was still there. It had to be a dream. If it wasn’t a dream, she would be terrified now, not simply waiting, not simply accepting – or maybe she was beyond the terror now and had finally come to accept that this was her life, that there was and never would be anything else again.

He waited a moment longer, as if gathering himself, as if assessing the situation – would she try to escape? Would she fight? Or was she, and she herself knew, utterly beaten and helpless? Emily knew the answers to her questions even if he didn’t. She stared at the shadow, wondering if he would just simply disappear, if he even existed. Then he stepped forward, utterly silent, nothing more than a whisper of cloth to betray his passage, and suddenly he was there, kneeling down, his eyes coming up to meet hers, blue against blue, a crackle of electricity shooting through her body as the stranger spoke, and she knew it could only be a dream – a vampyre.

“Emily, come with me. I’m getting you out of here.”

A moment later he lifted her naked body and carried her out of the cell and into the quiet darkness.

Dying Light spin-off short story "Mods" (part three & final)

2010-11-21T13:51:00.000-08:00

Mods (part one)

Mods (part two)

“Killed him?”

“No, bought him. Ten thousand marks for two years’ service. The bosses have their wars, n’ they much bigger wars than the lil savage boys fight ‘mongst themselves. The savage boys war on each other n’ take the scraps in money n’ food n’ gulls – it’s just survival’s all it is. The bosses watch n’ see the cream rise to the top, as ever’one says, n’ then they come callin’.”

“They really pay it all out? Ten thousand?” I suddenly realized I was in the wrong line of business. Maybe there was something to this boss recruitment, although a second after I thought that I realized that it was a totally ridiculous idea. But that kind of money in the hands of a child from the Lowers – a fortune!

“Silly boy. Ten thousn’ after two years of service.”

“Doing what?”

“Theys warring on them other bosses. Little armies o’ savage boys all grown up n’ promised the world n’ sent to die in the alleys. They sees the money signs in their eyes, sees a chance to own the world, to eat good food n’ fuck the good holes. Oh, they see what the bosses have, ya see, n’ they wants it, too. It’s ‘The Glamma’, they calls it, n’ they gots stars in their eyes when the Boss comes a’talkin’.

Just sign ya life away n’ join the service of Tiburon in upper mid-town or Lors in The Hate or Ivy Eye in Alters. Oh, it brings the boys runnin’ for the marks. They gots real kingdoms. Theys real kings. Not like the king of the savage boys, who’s like a king ant on a tiny lil ant hill, ya know. I never seen an ant, mind ya, but I know what them are. Gullops, I says. Gullops!

So comes Lors n’ his men to muh house – muh house, mind you – don’t no Lowers Boss come to an’one’s house, sure not muh house. But he comes, n’ he finds Mixel there with his new gull, n’ he’s grand like gold shinin’ in shit, as they says. N’ Mixel is witched n’ gives himself over in a heartbeat to be the boss’ champeen. Oh, the words come out of that man’s mouth were all Mixel could hear, so sweet, ya know, like the sweet drip of that gull’s cunt, but more, more sweet‘n he ever tasted. He left her there, ya know – right then, left her there n’ went with Lors, n’ I had her myself, even though I wasn’t much use in that way even then.”

The old man’s face reflected what I could only guess was lust, a revolting kind of grimace that involved his tongue lapping against the blackened strips of skin he’d have called lips. I’d almost wished he’d start coughing again. His fingers seemed to suddenly have a mind of their own, and they angled and dangled out in front of him as if feeling the smooth contours of the sticky air.

“She was ripe, see, ripe n’ any that comes on the flat racks n’ lil trucks in the bazaar, like a juicy orange or tangelo. Oh, I couldn’t much fuck ‘er, not with my drooping prick, useless for many years a’fore that, but he’d cowed her down n’ she was nekked in muh room where he slept with all the gulls. It was just a mattress, lumpy n’ torn at the end so’s I had to keep stuffin’ in the stuffin’ n’ patching it as I could. She was there, eyes all glazed over from P.I.K.E., that drippin’ hole just open for me to push my fingers in.”

I had to look elsewhere, scan the crowd while he talked. He’d been as still as a dead man this whole time while he talked, but just now he was animated, alive, and I could picture what he was saying, and I didn’t want to see him with his gangly fingers and his pink tongue talking about taking a girl that way. I’ll right admit that I had my own deviant fantasies about girls and what I wanted and what I liked, and I’d indulged a few times in the Pink Stream with this one looker, but this was more than I wanted, and I couldn’t watch him until he’d gotten on with the story.

I couldn’t think of anything to say either to help him move on. His foul cloud of filth seem to wrap itself around my head and drag me into that ill fog, leaving me there about to choke. So, he just kept talking, and all I wanted to do was leave or hit him or …

“Oh my, sweet she was. He knew how to pick ‘em, muh boy Mixel did. But the savage boys came n’ took her away a’next day – sold her, fucked her, killed her – I dunno what they did, them ones. Mixel was gone, n’ they was battlin’ for a new King of the Hill. After that, I ne’er saw them there again, but if’n I did see one or two I knew, they’d nod to me, always keeping to that code they had, that respect for Mixel, the King who went to serve the big boss.”

Thankful for the shift in conversation, I twisted back to face the old man and saw him quiet down, his hands falling back to the bar, wrapped around the dirty glass. The story was nearing its end – I could feel it. We’d started with Mixel’s death, it seemed, and there was no doubt we’d almost come full circle. I just needed those last details, if he had them now that the boy was grown and gone.

“What happened to Mixel n’ his new kingdom?”

“What always happens? The boys, theys always disappearin’, and they ne’er comes back. The bosses take them n’ wring them for all their blood – wring ‘em good, squeezin’ out ever’ last drop, ya see. They knows those boys gots nothing, won’t be nothing, n’ won’t live for long. Ever’one knows, but nobody talks about it. Ya go work for the boss, n’ ya ain’t a-comin’ back. Maybe one outta a hundred o’ them boys lives on n’ comes to full service with the boss. Maybe one gets away n’ levels up with his money, but I dunno if that e’er happens. I think that’s just a tale they tells us to keep us hopin’. Gullops, I says. Gullops.”

“Did you see him again? Did Mixel ever come back to the house?”

“No. I mean, yep, I seen him once more, but not at the house. I didn’t know him when I saw him though. He looked at me – we was in the bazaar n’ a band o’ brothers was walking through. That’s what we calls ‘em – band o’ brothers – theys always together, them mods. Ya see, theys mods, modified like. They trade what they is for what the boss wants. He wants killas, boys, men with no future, no past, no nothin’. He takes ‘em n’ he mods ‘em. Hands get cut off n’ then puts knives in their place – long, pointy blades half the size o’ ya arm again. They pulls out their teeth n’ puts in these metal gnashers, we calls ‘em. Plasti-steel n’ shiny n’ horrible. N’ they eat the bits of those who gots the worst end of the deal – lots of meat cuz there’s lots o’ dead men on the other side of the knife hands.”

“Knives? No guns?” I didn’t want to ask about the “gnashers”. I was pretty sure I knew what he was saying, and even though it would have probably make my story soar the clouds, I couldn’t bring myself to ask that question. The smart listener would know.

“No guns. There’s rules, ya see? The bosses gots rules, n’ they all play by ‘em. You bring guns, you bring the black guards, the Praetorian. Knives n’ gnashers n’ fists n’ boots. Blades n’ razors fit into the bone at the elbow n’ knee.”

He twisted and turned as he said these things, as if showing me his own modifications. I’d heard of the mods, but you never really saw anything like them unless you went to the Arena. And that was in the fucking Hate, and well, if you didn’t belong there, you didn’t go. It was that simple.

I watched him as he got more animated. I couldn’t tell if he was revolted by what he was describing or fascinated by it. Maybe he’d wished he had been one of those boys chosen to serve in the boss’ turf wars.

“So, you saw him once more?”

“Maybe. I thinked it was him – same hair, same eyes, ‘cept one was missing. There was a big scar on his face where his eye should’a been. Big long blade where his left hand used’a been. N’ he had a big, spiky glove that would cut anything it touched to smithereens. He looked right at me, he did, n’ I knew him. Ya know, when ya see a man like that, someone you oughta know – ya see his face, n’ it’s the face ya member, but it’s not. It was him, but it wasn’t. He wasn’t no boy no more. He wasn’t no King of the Hill. He maybe wasn’t Mixel no more – not my boy.”

“He didn’t speak to you?”

“I dunno if’n he saw me or if he did n’ just didn’t know me. He walked past with his mod brothas, n’ they went off slinking into an alley on some mission for the boss.”

“So, you didn’t see the battle? Didn’t see him die?” We were losing steam here, and the old man’s voice was beginning to waiver. I wasn’t sure if it was the booze finally taking over, or if it was something else, maybe his heart breaking while he was telling the story. He didn’t look any different – sickly, horrid old bastard that he was, but I could sense the change.

“No, ya see. I never saw him ‘gain. Them boys, his savage boys, the youngins who was still too young to go work for the bosses. They come by now n’ again, n’ once they come by with a present for me. Not a gull this time, but I would have better wanted a gull I can’t fuck than what they give me.”

He reached up, hand steady n’ full of purpose n’ slid a slender silver chain out. It had been hidden under his soiled tunic. There wasn’t anything to it – just a simple chain that glinted in the dim lights of the shit hole we were in – the prettiest thing for a mile in any direction, I figured, n’ immediately I reached up n’ guided his hand to put it away so no one would see it. They killed for less around here, n’ that would surely mean a slit throat.

“They says to me that it belonged to Mixel, that one o’ the savage boys as went with Mixel to serve the boss snatched it from his neck when he went down in Two Squares. They was jumped by a few killas as was comin’ down from District 134, working for Ivy Eyes n’ stretching his territory. Mixel went down last, slicing n’ dicing, they says, cutting the boys up fierce with his blade n’ a toe-curling battle scream. A spiky fist to one head n’ blood all over, the long blade in another gut before he caught a knife in the side n’ gushed pink, bubbly blood. He’d killed ‘em all, they says, but he fell that day, savin’ his brotha. This is what I gots left o’ muh boy. The brotha lived another week. They both ended up face down, guts out –always the same.”

“It’s right pretty, old man. You keep it tucked under your shirt, where it will be safe.” I didn’t know what else to say. I could feel the sorrow oozing out of him like the stink of booze and sweat, a cloud of sympathy that I wanted only to be free of. Wrap it up and go, Jan-boy, I thought to myself.

“Mixel was a good boy.,” he said, looking past me as if I wasn’t even there. “He lived hard cuz he had to. Better to go down fightin’ than to sit in this place n’ die one cup at a time. Gullops, I says. Gullops!”

He turned away then, and he wouldn’t look at me or say another word for the better part of an hour. I finished my drink and walked out, tapped my broadband at the door and closed my eyes, preparing the message in my head. It was nearly a hundred meters to the closest building and a secure lift, and anything could happen in that time. If I never got another story out, this one was going to be it. The story loaded, and I sent it – full e-gram, all senses plus, not only the taste of the rot gut I had to swill to get the story, but the nausea I felt more than once at the story or the booze or his breath.

Mixel’s body maybe never made it out of the Two Squares’ alley – eaten by some Gnashers that came by afterward, no doubt. But his name would live on; that’s all I could do for those savage boys and their sorry lot.

Dying Light spin-off short story "Mods" (part two)

2010-11-19T10:00:00.000-08:00

Mods (part one)

“Yeah, Old Timony. He had a little cart o’goods he pushed round the square. It was full of things as he found, trinkets, things he’d traded for. He had a rep for havin’ things no one could find – once I got a right nice pair of boots off him. He said they were Praetorian boots, but I didn’t really believe it. Who woulda? Old Timony sold his stuff, but he also ran a little P.I.K.E. on the side – ever’body knew, n’ ever’body knew that sooner or later he was gonna to end up face down, guts out.”

He leaned forward and coughed again, a dirty, wet cough, and I sat there expecting a gray lung to come shuffling up through his toothless mouth and splat on the floor. It was a nasty sound and for a moment I thought to cover my mouth and nose as if it might be catching. There was no doubt that the doctors at the Hopkins Conglomerate were generally superb, but there was also no telling what you might end up paying – an old saying could come into play, and if you weren’t on your game or had someone to watch you, “an arm and a leg” could be the price.

“He lost his ears?” I tried not to imagine it just as I tried not to picture the old man’s lungs splatting on the floor. I swallowed against the feeling that was churning in my guts. What’s a man look like with no ears?

“Mixel was a tough lil boy. He was a savage boy, as they calls ‘em. The savage boys ran all over midtown playing that ole game “King o’ the Hill”, but this one was for keeps, see. Ya don’t just get pushed off the hill, ya roll off with ya guts out, n’ ya don’t get back up no more. There’s a lil killin’, a lil stealin’, a lil whatever comes, as boys will do. Mixel a-come home to me every few days n’ show me his trophies, leave me a lil scrap a-food as he liked. He was good to me, a good a boy as savage boys can be.”

I had seen them, too. As he was describing it, I could picture it in my head, and then there they were, some tiny figures in the shadows as I’d walked down the alley on the way here. I’d hardly paid any attention to them because they were so tiny. Would they have pounced on me like a pack if I had been walking any slower?

“Those savage boys play their games, but those games – they make those boys into men, dangerous men, the kind that the bosses like, ya see. I says the games make those boys into monsters, n’ people like me will one day find ourselves face down, guts out to boys like that. But Mixel, for his part, took care of me, n’ none of those lil rats would come near me or muh place. I was safe while he was around. N’ I was proud of him, too. People was afraid of him, but I was proud, I says, like he’s muh own boy, n’ he’s making his way in the shit.”

He paused, his eyes far away for a moment, and then he looked around as if he didn’t know where he was. He starred(stared.. or once again, are you trying to convey dialect?)) at me for a moment, and then he smiled again. I wished he hadn’t because he breathed my way, and had to catch my breath and close my eyes – it was toxic. He sipped on his cup again, taking down the foul liquid, and that gave me a second to compose myself and come up with a question to move the story along.

“Mixel became King of the Hill in Twelvers? In The Hate?”

The old man took a moment to register my question, and then he turned and smiled again, a big, winning smile full of pride. It was in his eyes, almost beautiful, where his mouth was only terror. I had called it right.

“Yep, yep, he was the King. He was dirty, a hateful lil bastard, he was. A stone killa. Didn’t take nothing he didn’t want, didn’t give nothing he didn’t wanna give. He beat all those boys down til they was following him ever’where, til they did an’thing he wanted. I listened to his stories on the nights he would visit, n’ I’d see his trophies. Oh, there was boys, bigguns n’ lilluns – all kinds of boys wanted to be the King of the Hill. Oh, but Mixel, he beat ‘em all. N’ when yas playing fer keeps, ya take yer trophies quick n’ ugly-like. Ears n’ tongues n’ fingers. Oh, he had ‘em all. He could name ever’ boy that he killed n’ point to the trophy. My window was full o’ jars with lil trophies in ‘em.”

“He killed all those boys?” I couldn’t imagine the fights, the personal wars that kid must have won. I damn sure couldn’t image what it must be like to cut out the loser’s eye and put in a jar to admire later.

“Oh, no, he only killed two of the savage boys who challenged him. He beat all the rest n’ he took his trophies from them. They was his troops then, some with fingers missing, one with no nose – I saw him once. They called him “Piggy”. Mixel took what he took, n’ afterward, they was his boys. He was king of the savage boys. He ate like a king, he fought like a king, he fucked like a king.”

He must have seen my eyes, the questions that lay there, even though I wasn’t able, for some reason, to bring them forth, to voice them. He just winked at me and kept talking.

“He had the pick of the litter, you see. Them savage boys, they was killas n’ robbas n’ all that. But they was rapers, too. N’ where there’s lil boys around, there’s lil gulls. Some of the gulls was tough, n’ I saw a couple of ‘em in his gang, hair cut short or heads shaved, lil bits of metal through their noses or ears like all the boys. But they was gulls. N’ they was tough as nails, too. They was savage boys, n’ what’s the truth is that by the tell of it, from Mixel’s mouth himself, they was sometime worse than the boys.”

“He had a girlfriend in his gang, or somewhere else? A squeeze?” I didn’t know what the hell I was supposed to say, or what term they used here for a female companion. The rape thing had me curious, but it also hit me like most of this story – hard. Still, I needed to know. Hoping he wouldn’t notice, I stole a glance at my broadband to make sure it was still recording – full spectrum, e-gram. Yes!

“The boy, I says, took what he wanted when he wanted it. As he got older n’ built up his lil army of savage boys, he got to a lot of fuckin’. He got the pick of the litter, n’ when some lil group of boys got overrun by his gang, they took their trophies o’ fingers n’ ears, n’ they took the gulls, too. Mixel brought round a few gulls, his trophies at the time, but he didn’t keep ‘em. It was too dangerous to keep ‘em, n’ he knew that, the smart lil fuck. He says ever’one is gunnin’ for the King, n’ the smart place to gun is the Queen, so there gonna be no queen. He was ever so smart, that boy.”

Gran – that’s what I’d come to call him in my head because I’d never gotten his name, nor asked after it – it just seemed right. He took another swig, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“That does sound smart – a girl he cared about would be a weakness.”

It made sense, but I only threw it out there to make sure we didn’t stall, that the engine in his head would keep going. The way he was putting that shit down his throat, it was only a matter of time before he ended up on the floor in a puddle of piss and vomit and booze. I was too far in now, and the e-gram was winding, taking it all in – sounds, words, smells. I could almost feel all the wires in my head transmitting the sensory data to the chip and down to the broadband. And while the corps wouldn’t care to put this on the net – the last thing they want is to acknowledge the ugly underbelly of this metropolis, the indies would snatch it up and black light it all over. And they’d pay me a fat chunk of marks for it. All I had to do was keep Gran talking.

“S’right. He was the young king of The Hate, the king of all the lil savage boys, n’ he got what he wanted because he didn’t fear nothing, n’ he took what he wanted savage-like so all the other boys stepped aside n’ followed. His lil gull trophies, though, he was nice to. Oh, he’d cut a boy’s ear off in a second just for some back-lip, but his gulls, he was sweet with – when he had ‘em. He kept ‘em in the house with me for a few days, have ‘em all day n’ night, n’ then he’d give ‘em to the boys to share n’ that would be it. But when they was with me at muh place, he was like a new boy.”

“But he was nice to you. He took care of you.”

“Well, yeah, he did right fine by me, but I was the only one. He hated on ever’one else. ‘Cept them gulls. I never really got used to it, I guess, how he’d a’bring ‘em on home. They knew they was there for the ole slap-grab. Sometimes it was ugly, but he always got what he wanted. Only once they knew their place, he was sweet on ‘em.”

“He liked them, huh? Did he fall in love?” I didn’t know where to go with this. I just shifted in my seat and watched him out of the corner of my eye while I sipped at my drink and tried not to wince at the bitterness.

“No, he hated ‘em. He hated ever’one. Couldn’t keep ‘em, ya see. Ya live down here like a savage boy, ya kill n’ loot n’ murder n’ ya become the King, but ya can’t keep the gulls cuz ya can’t protect ‘em. So, he had ‘em n’ he gave ‘em up. They always went screaming, crying, begging for him, but he always turned ‘em away, n’ the boys ate them gulls up.”

“Ate?” The word hit me harder than his breath had, and for a moment, I wasn’t sure if I was going to be sick.

“No, boy, not ate as in had ‘em for dinner. They raped ‘em n’ did what they wanted, sold some of ‘em, I’m sure, for money. Lil Mixel – now big Mixel – got what he wanted, all he could get, n’ then walked away. He had to be King, else he’d end up face down, guts out. There’s no room for silly play in The Hate or with the savage boys. Ya can’t go soft one day n’ say ya need to settle down. Ya can’t show nobody no kind face or say no kind words, not to boys or gulls. So he hid ‘em away with me, where he loved them how he could, n’ then he had to be the King again.”

“He had to play the role.”

“Right! Right!” He smiled at me again and laid a hand on my shoulder. It was the first time he’d touched me, and I suppressed a shiver. Still, I could barely feel his touch, it was so light, as if he barely existed, as if he was already half in the grave and was there mostly in spirit.

“So he knew the game, and he was growing up.”

“He was a mean bean, he was, n’ grew up fast in the head n’ fast in the body. Being the King means getting all the best – the best gulls, the best food, the best booze n’ drugs. He was a smart boy, n’ he was quick with the challengers n’ clever with the gulls. He grew up quick-like n’ big n’ strong, n’ that, if ya can believe it, was the end of him. The boss o’ The Hate came to find him.”

//stay tuned for the last part soon//

the first "Dying Light" spin-off short story -- "Mods" (part one)

2010-11-16T09:36:00.000-08:00

Mods (part one)

“There was really nothing left of Mixel when it was all over. We didn’t even really bury him, if ya get what I mean. There’s only so much ya can do with scraps, ya know? Some of the other boys – well, they call them Gnashers, n’ there’s a reason.”

The old man looked at me. He was the boy’s gran or something; I forgot. We were, well, enough drinks into it that it no longer mattered how many we’d had or what their relationship was. A man can only count so high at a time like that, and he can only remember so much. The music was loud as hell; the place was dark as hell; his breath stunk of rotting teeth and that gut-rending filth he poured down his throat and offered me twice. I declined. I wasn’t there to end up in the Emergency at Hopkins or face down, skull shattered, my pockets looted and broadband raped in the alley. No, they would rape my band, not my body. My band was worth so much more.

I sipped my drink. It wasn’t what he was drinking, but it was some sick shit – the darkness hid the face I made every time I tasted it.

“Tell me about it,” I said, hoping to coax him along. We’d been sitting there an hour, and suddenly, out of the blue, he’d started talking, and I’d started recording, and it was just a chance thing – this story about this kid, Mixel. I didn’t know why I was recording or what I could use the recording for – they didn’t go for this kind of “people thing” at the newsbanks, but I just needed to know. I couldn’t help myself. It seemed more real than anything pumped out by Atair. Maybe Axel could use it; maybe it would sell somewhere.

I nodded to the keep, and he poured us another round. “Keep ‘em coming, Jan-boy,” I told myself, “and he’ll spill it all.” It was just one of those things.

“Mixel, ya see, was my gull’s boy. He was a miracle baby, that one, what the Bishop want call a “True Sign of the Light”, n’ all that. Gullops, I say! Gullops! I don’t listen to that old fat fool. He looks shifty, a man who you can’t do a deal with; he’s always got his hand on his band, n’ his other hand in yas, I says. Mixel, though, that boy was true; truer than a day with no rain. They says it used to be sunny here long ago, ya know?” He stopped and coughed, that old man cough that doesn’t bode well. “Rained yeah, but not all the time. Sunny n’ cheery n’ bright. Ya think it was nice?”

I nodded. “Mixel was the “True Sign”?” I had to keep him on the point, you see? He was old and wandery, and well, he was water-logged like there was no tomorrow. Only, as the saying goes, it’s not water he’s gone logged with!

“Mixel, yah, strong lil bean he was. Born just outside The Hate in Twelvers. Weren’t no doctors there as he was born; his mama jes pulled him out – what’s a woman gots to do in the Lowers? No mother. No brothers. No nothing, ‘cept a father, n’ she was afraid of me and afraid of the butchers. I wanted a son, ya see, didn’t matter that he would be a generation past, but a boy for me. She gave him up, then gave up her own life – bled out on the table as he screamed his lungs out.”

“Poor woman. You must’ve felt terrible. What kind of trade is that? A life for a life?” I looked for the grief in his face, in his eyes – people can hide it away, but it is always there somewhere, waiting to come out in these moments, especially when the sauce is thick. Instead, he surprised me. He smiled, a grand, almost toothless, lippy smile, like a great, black sore on his face.

“She was gone to the Lighter after a horrible hard life. I was happy to see her go but worried that maybe her soul had slid into the child’s body n’ she would-a to suffer another terrible lifetime. They say that, you know, that sometimes you come back n’ live your life again if you didn’t do it right a first time. I dunno if it’s true, but the scripture says it – man is doomed to repeat his failures til he lunns his lessons, that he’ll be cast back, rejected by the Guardians of the White Gates if he is not worthy. Could it a-been that gull’s life was so slappin’ bad that she’d be drawn up n’ cast out in a single breath? Gullops, I says. Gullops!”

He drained the glass with that last retort, as if the story was over, as if he’d said anything to me at all except that there had been almost nothing left of this Mixel, as if I knew all there was between his pathetic birth and his demise. No, I wasn’t done yet with this story. I nodded to the keep. More booze. It was what this bastard ran on, and I was gonna keep his tank full until he pissed himself. By the smell of him, he already had once.

“What happened after that? Mixel grew up right?”

“Aye, he did. A miserable little puny wretch. A sad little munchkin. If he hadn’t bitten the ears off Old Timony n’ kept them in his pockets for weeks to show all the little savage boys, he would-a surely been killed a’fore he was old enough to use his little prick.”

“Um.” I wasn’t sure how to respond, but then I chided myself. I should have known better. This was the Lowers. Shit happened. Shit that most people never wanted to know about. I was about to find out, but already I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.

(to be cont.)

slave -- excerpt from "Midnight Sun"

2010-11-10T10:05:00.000-08:00

She’d been embarrassed the first day that they had brought in Johari, a girl smaller than she was herself. She was 15 then, but they’d never told her how old Johari was, only that she was of age, and she was Saira’s new and very first slave.

Saira stared at the naked girl that was before her. She stood in the doorframe of her bedroom chamber, blocking the way, unable to move. They stared at each other for a few moments, and then Elise pushed her aside, shoved her roughly out of the way and ordered the other girl in. Immediately, the newcomer responded, taking three steps forward, her small, bare feet padding soundlessly on the turquoise tiles of the floor like a cat, and she dropped to her knees and pressed her forehead to the floor without word or hesitation. Her movements were crisp yet fluid, practiced but graceful. Saira stared at the girl, at once outraged that Elise would touch her – regardless of her position in the household – but also shocked that a creature such as this would be prostrate before her.

She stood back, her mouth agape, Elise’s stern words floating harmlessly by. She could neither see nor hear her step-mother but looked right through her to the perfectly formed shape on the floor. She was amazed at the young woman she saw, the clean, brown skin, the graceful, curving lines and the raven hair so different from her own. What had struck her even more sharply were the girl’s shadowy, penetrating eyes, which she’d had only seen for a moment, a brief spark, and which even now she longed to see again, to feel their electric gaze grace her own skin. But the girl was down in the practiced position of obedience and submission, her striking eyes out of play. She wouldn’t move again until ordered to do so, until her step-mother could be appeased.

Saira stood, patiently waiting for Elise to finish, but she kept talking, droning on like she was apt to do. The Sayyed house had a number of slaves, she’d said, but all of them were older and the property of her father. This one was hers alone, her property, schooled in the finest arts at the most prestigious houses, fitting for a young woman of her station. She was Saira’s to do with as she wished, to be her everyday servant, provided she followed the same rules as she did with the other house slaves. There were rules to follow on both sides, and Saira must adhere to them just as her new possession, Johari, must obey at all times. Saira was aghast, unsure of how to handle this new development, but she was sure of one thing, and she always remembered that day, the day she fell in love for the first time.

Nearly a year passed by when she finally succumbed to her ardor.

Saira had caught herself too many times – or rather Johari had caught her looking, staring at the slave girl – at her delicate features, her developing curves, and always again at her haunting eyes, drawn in, falling helplessly into a wanton abyss. The girl was truly beautiful in every sense of the word, a perfect rose plucked out of the dense thicket of thorns that was the Lowers. Johari couldn’t say which district she had come from or where she’d been born – she’d been led away from her mother so early that she had few memories of a family or a home. All she had were endless memories of endless training sessions, honing her service skills as well as her sense of devotion. Obedience to the will of another was reinforced at every turn during this time. then finally she had been sent to intensive schooling to make her a valuable commodity, one that would one day find itself traded yet again, another purchase price – this one much, much larger – around her neck.

Families, Saira knew, paid exorbitant prices for slaves from certain houses – Anigma, Ware, Tyrell. Their products – trained slaves – were the finest; their training was the most diverse and finished; their manner the most elegant and their abilities the most assorted and exquisite. A perfect cup of tea, the latest hair fashion, food preparation and service, music, the proper application of make-up and body paint, and even – it was said of some – the most erotic and exotic sexual deviances, a virtual menu of pleasure. A slave could be as valuable as any piece of property a family owned. The right price and the right house could net a wealthy family a possession that contributed to the house and family’s honor and prestige in countless and unimaginable ways.

Johari was a prize on the market, but she was much more in Saira’s eyes.

It was the first Sunday of October when Saira finally let her heart and body overpower her mind. She could feel the need creeping through her body, expanding out from what seemed like her belly – later she realized it was not her belly that was on fire.

Johari helped her out of the bath, their two naked forms coming together, the broad, soft cloth of the white towel enveloping them both, their lips coming together in a way that staggered Saira yet drew her into a mysterious and unfamiliar world.

on war, vodka and football -- excerpt from "Dying Light" part two

2010-10-27T13:36:00.000-07:00

A single drop of moisture dripped down along the glass, leaving a transparent trail behind. It moved steadily lower, curving gently around the oil of the fingerprints, until it was consumed by the slim, glimmering ring on the table. The ice had melted, and a measure of water had taken the place of the vodka in the empty tumbler.

The bottle nearby was empty, as well, and lying on its side. It gleamed in the dull glow of the lamplight, its cut glass shoulder gleaming like diamonds in a pale moonlight. Willem reached out and fingered the opening at the very end of the long, elegant neck, sliding the tip of his finger inside, and drawing out the last drops of vodka. He put the wet fingertip in his mouth and tasted the harsh liquid. Then he reached out and righted the bottle. Its square bottom rattled on the table, breaking the silence of the semi-dark room with a chain of hollow thuds.

The bed was nearby. He eyed it for a moment, taking his eyes off of the bottle for the first time in minutes. The down comforter and ruffled sheets had welcomed him only hours before, but now they stared back with rejection and disdain, despite his entreating gaze, the endearing thoughts that buzzed in his head.

No sleep for the wicked, for the righteous, for anyone tonight. The world is coming down around us. And I’m out of vodka. Again.

The events of the last thirty-six hours clouded his head as much as the vodka did. There was no clarity before the bottle; there was no clarity afterward. There were no answers in the stinging liquid that he poured down his throat, grimacing as he did so, grunting against the burning sensation. There were no answers in his insistence that he didn’t need that simple, clear liquid, that for once he could do without it. There were only questions before, and there remained only questions, but as they grew in number, they also began to fade away into the distance, leaving two simple words echoing.

Now what? Now what? Now what?

He sat back and licked his lips, the bottle forgotten for the moment.

"’Failures have been errors of judgment, not of intent.’ Grant said that at the end of his second term.”

“Master, please. Now is not the time.” Albert leaned into the lamplight, elbows resting on the table. His skin was pale in the light, a lighter brown than the mahogany table, his face reddish, mirroring the ruby-colored glass of the lampshade. He leaned in farther, gazing up over the short lamp, blue eyes glimmering in the shadow. “No one has said anything about a “failure”, sir.”

“Grant was given to nepotism, putting his cronies in high positions and leaving the more competent folk out in the cold. He drove Congress crazy in his second term with his scandals, and undoubtedly with his drinking.”

“He was only a man, Master. He was a mortal, a normal man famous for his tactics in the Civil War, not so much his faults. His faults are for the historians, not the public.”

“Cameron’s Grant Reconsidered left nothing to the imagination and outlined all his flaws, including his extremely poor record during his second presidency, his alcoholism, and his cronyism.” Willem’s head was beginning to ache. He could feel his body battling the alcohol, quickly metabolizing the vodka. He knew in moments the hangover would be over, almost as it had begun. The high was literally only momentary, but for now the pain was becoming acute. Without another bottle, there was no way to maintain the euphoria more than an hour or so, and no way to stave off the wrenching pain that would follow. The Blood Virus had taken away many things; a pleasant state of drunkenness was one of them.

“Grant, Master, was also responsible for equal voting rights for my people. We’ve talked about this before. I’ve read Reconsidered, if you recall. You gave it to me, amongst other books. Grant was inclusive, helping to put down the KKK, ensuring freed slaves could vote, and stationing troops in the southern states. He wasn’t perfect, but like all men, he did some things well.” Albert eased back, his bulk slipping into the shadows, and he folded his immense arms across his chest, his tunic, almost black in the low light, going taut, a determined look on his face.

“He also made lots of mistakes,” Willem said. There was another bottle in the cooler, he was sure, but he was also sure Albert wouldn’t go get it. He stared back across the table at the other man and tried to see past the glare of the lamp. It hurt his eyes, and twice now he’d considered sending the lamp flying across the room. But as the fog lifted and the pain in his head set it, he realized closing his eyes was the better approach, the calmer approach. He leaned back, pressing the back of his head against the cool stone wall, a slight grimace on his face against the thrumming pain.

“You’ve made your share, sir. There’s no denying it, but in the end, we are finally at the turning point, and none of the other covens ever got close to a dialogue or a treaty of sorts. Now you’re going to have to keep up your impression of Grant for a while – he handled the Reconstruction and reconciliation. I think you have a slight advantage – he didn’t have 400 years of experience to fall back on.” Albert settled back against the wall himself, and cocked his head to the right, peering behind the light at the tortured face beyond. “And he didn’t get over his hangovers in a matter of minutes either.” He grinned in response to the smile that crept across the other’s face.

“I am the winner.” The lilt in the ex-President’s voice was mocking, but playful.

“Yes, so let’s get you together. Alex and Gabby will be here in a few minutes. We’re still waiting on word from Kathryn. We all need a friggin’ break, but now’s not the time.”

No, not just yet. But soon. A “friggin’ break” is what everyone needs. A night without worries.

Willem leaned forward and dropped his head into his hand, teetering slightly, elbows on knees, trying to squeeze himself into a ball. The rush was fast and hard, the alcohol firing throughout his body quickly and powerfully until he’d had to sit and prop himself up against the wall. The bottle had tumbled when he’d emptied it, not a drop spilled – not one left. Now the hangover was the rush, only it ignored the rest of his body. Where there was the tingling of little pinpricks all along his legs, now there was only the pounding of the sea in his head. Blurry vision gave way to the stabbing pain of the lamplight. He squeezed his eyes shut and grimaced.

“Fuck, Albert. This is no way to win a war. No way to make a peace.”

Albert watched out of the corner of his eye, silent and unmoving, waiting.

“I know. I know. Stop staring at me. I know. You think it’s funny, don’t you?” The crescendo was building like an out of tune orchestra all playing different parts of Beethoven’s Fifth, cannons booming randomly. It was traffic on 5th Ave at rush hour during a water main break. It was the parking lot of Nationals stadium after beating the Phillies to advance to the 2014 World Series. There was no quiet place he could go, no Camp David he could escape to, no out of the way pier on Lake Michigan he could stroll down to avoid the raging storm in his head.

Just hold out. Just a few more minutes and it’ll be over. And I will lay off the vodka. Hahaha! Yeah. Right!

He would have laughed if he didn’t think it would have been painful. The corners of his mouth were turned up and his eyes squinting like they always did, squinching little slits as if he was staring into the sun and trying to look through it. A tear streamed down the length of his sharp nose, but he held back the laughter at his own foolishness and tried to put the thought out of his mind. There would be another bottle and another hard-fought bout as the drink struck at his brain cells only to have them fight back and repair themselves. It’s how Dr. Ages had described the process for a vampyre, and how he’d explained the intense pain that came afterward. It was the rebuilding process in the presence of the chemical that causes the destruction of cells, a war, he’d said, between armies of chemicals in the brain. An unpleasant one, he’d said. But just another interesting aspect of the change to the human body that the Blood Virus had wrought – “unpleasant”, he’d said, and “interesting.” But for now, it was acute agony, even if in the end there would be no damage. Even if, after all was said and done, all the cells would be repaired and operating “optimally”.

Fuck “unpleasant”. “Interesting.” My head is going to explode!

“Oh my God!” he groaned as wave upon wave of rolling agony battered his mental shoreline. Gritting his teeth, he held on, knowing the end was coming soon, always very quickly after the crescendo. And moments later he began to feel the pain subside. The eye of the storm was moving in, and soon he’d be left with a pleasant calm, followed by a drawn-out cloud of dull pain. Even vampyres, Dr. Ages had said, couldn’t escape a hangover.

“I doubt Grant ever felt this,” said Willem. His voice was low and soft, but even at that low decibel, he could feel the soundwaves, or what he thought were soundwaves, reverberating against his skull.

“I’m sure half his pre-Civil War generalship was spent in the state you are now experiencing, Mr. President,” said Albert, still sitting quietly. “But, he got his ass in the shower, got over it, and got it together. I’m going to suggest you do the same. The Cabinet will be assembled soon, and we need to get a plan together and get it moving. You know what’s at stake and what we’re poised to lose if we don’t act. And frankly, Master, Mr. President, friend,” he said, leaning forward, his voice slowly working it’s way through the ebbing ache, “you need to move your ass, and it’s my job to make sure that you are not only alive but on time.”

A muffled chuckle came from the man on the other side of the little table, and slowly, his hand firmly on the table for support, the former President of the United States and the Lord of the Vampyres stood. His other hand was still massaging a temple, trying desperately to ease the pain. It was subsiding all too slowly, but he knew it was almost over. As fast as it had come on, as fierce as the storm had been in his head, it would fade just as quickly. Old rules still applied: pain killers and rehydration. And a nice hot shower.

He straightened and looked around, breathing deeply. “Yes, to get my ass moving and get me there on time. I’ve always had a little trouble with that, even before you came along.” He stared down at the glowing blue eyes looking up at him. “But you get the award for dedication, Albert, like no man ever could. What man could stand beside another for over 300 years and not falter? How many times have you pulled me out of a situation I should never have been in in the first place?”

“Sleepy Hollow?”

“Of course.”

“No, I didn’t pull you out of anything. I committed murder that day. You weren’t in any danger. I killed a man that day, a man who needn’t have died.” He eyes looked away. It was Albert’s turn to put his head down and close his eyes.

“No. You did what you had to do. You were there and acting before Michael could even begin to move. He has always carried that with him no matter how many times I’ve told him that he wasn’t shirking his duty, that everything turned out ok and you were there to clear away the problem.” He leaned over, moving close to his guardian, his confidant, and placed his hand on the table an inch from the other’s hand. “You’ve always been there to do your part, and that day I put myself in danger. I put you in a bad position, and you did what you had to do. It was my fault.”

He paused, looking down at the other. Blinking, he felt the pain fading away, almost gone now, a pleasant calm flowing across his mind in its place. He stepped closer, and put his hand down on the other’s huge paw, and Albert turned his hand and took Willem’s hand in his own, squeezing it, holding it tightly, his eyes still downcast, his face hidden behind the long, thick digits of his other hand.

“I killed that man. He was a fool, but I snapped his neck and threw him into the underbrush like a doll, like a….like nothing, as if he had no soul, no world. Someone once said, when you kill a man you take away all he’s got and all he’s ever gonna have.”

Willem leaned closer, his voice low but clear. “And that is precisely why you are here by my side day in and day out. Your conscience, your clarity, and your heart.” He squeeze Albert’s hand and brought his other hand up and ran it across the warm, smooth skin of his bodyguard’s scalp. “It’s more than they look for in a Secret Serviceman. It’s what one looks for in a true protector, a friend, and confidant.” His fingers lingered on the big man, maintaining the contact, the warmth that passed between them. “And when I walk out that door, I know you’ll help me face any fears, confront any dangers, and think through any decisions with your mind and your heart. I’ve no doubts about you, Al. We’ve been partners in this life for a long time, and as long as you stick around, I know that we can take care of anything, even this latest, even when once again the chips seem down. Thanks, man, and keep it up. That’s about as much as I can do or say.” He straightened up for a moment, hesitating, contemplating the warmth he felt for the man at his side, and then leaned down and kissed the top of his head. “I love you, Al. Stick around.”

Then turning, he stepped away, the pain in his head all but gone, a contentment filling the void left behind, and he stole across the room toward the bathroom and shower, steps toward the new day, meeting with the Cabinet and the decisions that needed to be made. He stopped at the door, not turning back, unable to see if the man he so depended on was looking up at him or still hiding in the shadow of his pain. He smiled, and laughed softly to himself. “And if your locker room mates ever saw a skinny, elderly white man kiss your bald head and say “I love you”, you’d never live it down.” He laughed out loud and stepped through the doorway, a voice trailing behind, a low grumble followed by a laugh.

“Oh, totally fuck you, pal. I mean, fuck you, Mr. President.”

line from "Dying Light" (part two)

2010-10-24T18:23:00.000-07:00

"She waited for a moment, feeling her arousal stirring again, but tasting her own anger and disdain, reminiscent of the feelings that had driven her only moments before to deliver his murder."

it's the Great "Dying Light" Giveaway, Charlie Brown!

2010-10-18T09:35:00.000-07:00

Ladies and Germs,

Announcing the Great "Dying Light" Halloween Giveaway! Yes, yes, it's only 13 days away, but 13 is my lucky number!

So, what's the deal? What are the rules? What's the prize? What already?

It's simple.

~~Deal:~~ Answer the question given at the bottom of this notice. It requires two answers, and you can answer anything you want -- serious, funny, interesting, inspiring, introspective. Whichever combination of answers the panel of judges (me) thinks is the best will be declared the winner on Halloween!

~~Rules:~~ Only answer once please, but two answers are required. You can answer here or on the FB fan page. Entries will be allowed until 12 midnight EST on 30 October 2010.

~~Prize:~~ A signed copy of "Dying Light" mailed to the winner complete with a $10 Visa gift card so you can splurge on all that leftover Halloween candy on sale.

So, without further ado, here's the million dollar question:

~~Question:~~ As you know, many of the characters in "Dying Light" have lived about 400 years; what would be the best thing and worst thing about living that long?

New Review for "Dying Light" -- from across the sea!

2010-10-13T15:17:00.000-07:00

No words can express my gratitude more aptly than the simple and modern: "Thanks, homey!" From across the Atlantic Ocean, I get a little vampyre love from Ireland.

I'd been waiting for Dying Light to arrive at my doorstep for quite a while. So when it did, I immediately put down what I was reading and dived straight in.

Let me get one thing straight. I'm not into Meyer's Twilight saga, and when anyone attempts to write a contemporary vampire story, I compare it with the greats: Stoker's Dracula and King's Salem's Lot. They are the standards today's writers have to attain. It's tough - but D. Scott Meek has more than reached that bar.

Mr. Meek has created a post-dystopian future, a new sub-genre that combines high fantasy with science and apocalyptic writing. Dying Light, his first novel - and the first of a series - is not your average run-of-the-mill vampire novel. From the off, the reader knows this for a fact. The world is, but not quite, ours. As a result of a devastating war against Islamic terrorists, the Vampyre is now among us. In the 22nd century they have their own society, their own president, their own beliefs and philosophies. Yes, they kill to survive, and yes, they are feared and reviled by humans. But what sets Dying Light apart from other vampire fiction is its realism. Mr. Meek has put his considerable life experience to good use. He's an army man and a teacher. He has his own views and opinions about modern politics and society. He also knows how to tell a story.

The novel is a page-turner. His characters, human and Vampyre, are well drawn and each have their own back story and motivation. There is violence, there is blood; but there's also technology that while futuristic is so plausible that you suspect the powers-that-be are working on prototypes right now. As you read through this dark novel you are brought into a world that is frighteningly real. Like our world and society there are social issues to be addressed, there is politics of every description at play, and there is danger lurking around every corner. The reader has to think while reading. It's an adventure story, but there's much more going on than just action.

It's not enough to say that Dying Light is a science fiction story with vampires. There's a socio-political element prevalent, too. This story feels real, the writing is brisk and hard-hitting, the characters are alive on the page.

Most readers of this genre are aware of Justin Cronin's The Passage as an example of science fiction literature. I recommend that they make themselves aware of Dying Light, too.

new cover fun!

2010-10-13T07:51:00.001-07:00

We're only going to subtly change the cover for the second part of "Dying Light". I've been playing around with the image on Photobucket. Here's just one that I liked -- "inverted" colors.

"Post Dystopia" is the new black! (revised)

2010-10-13T05:43:00.000-07:00

I've decided that I'm starting a new genre -- half joking, half serious! It's called "Post Dystopia" -- not the end of the world, but what rises from the ashes; not a horrific, oppressive regime, but a government that looks out for its own interests in a less "hands-on" way.

It fits with my plan to not only write this trilogy about the fate of New Baltimore, its citizens, and the last vampyre coven, but also my plans to write at least one prequel, which I set up in this first novel. I'm actually going to New Orleans this weekend for pleasure and to do a little research since the prequel takes place there. Plus, I have set up 400 years of history between the advent of the Blood Virus in the early 21st century and the original novel, which takes place about 400 years later. It includes the destruction of the New Orleans coven, from which one of main characters of "Dying Light" comes. Thus, the reader, you, will see how the 'world' is rebuilt piece by piece.

If you are tired of paranormal romance and kinky vampire sex (Anita Blake) or vampire lite (Twilight), you may be more interested in grown-up, contemplative vampire science fiction that revolves around today's themes.

What are today's themes, you might ask, and why are we finding them in a book that portends to be taking place 400 years in the future?

Today's theme are found in the newspaper everyday:

Religious and political upheaval
Tortured masses at the mercy of economic forces
Massacre and genocide
Megalomania
Fading trust in religious and political figures
The possibility of God and afterlife, and the lack of faith in both
What it means to be human (cloning/stem cell research) and have a soul
Disease prevention and cure
Class warfare -- have's vs have-not's
Terrorism
Human dignity
Exploration and alteration of the human body

Am I saying each of these themes can also be found in my books? Yes.

Are not science fiction tales simply allegories of a different color? Can we not address today's issues in the guise of tomorrow's strife?

Battlestar Galactica did it quite effectively for four television seasons. They addressed a number of these themes, although not as thoroughly as they would have if it had been a series of books written by a serious author. Nevertheless, I thought they did a terrific job overall.

Battlestar Galactica asked questions about the danger of creating life, about massacre and genocide, about God and afterlife, about disease, about class warfare, and even terrorism. The creation of Man came back to destroy him as a result of mistreatment -- in fact, as a result of slavery. The Cylons proved they had just as strong a faith as Man; in fact, theirs was stronger. They fought disease with their superior genetics, much like my vampyres do, and they were actually able to extend the life of one of the main human characters by infusing their blood with hers. The humans (and those Cylons who thought they were human) conducted suicide and other terrorist attacks against their oppressors, demonstrating to the watching population the thinking behind that kind of warfare. Each of today's themes (and others) was diligently explored in a future fiction.

Thus, my books are not what I like to call "Vampire Lite", bodice-rippers disguised with vampire fangs and supernatural powers. There is so much more that I'm trying to explore with my characters, and you will find that they, human and vampyre, are just as human as any of the Cylon models and just as human as anyone you pass by in the street today.

So, walk the streets of New Baltimore, see how history meets the present and then meets the future. Welcome to "Post Dystopia"!

"Dying Light" marginalia -- how you can get one

2010-10-11T16:13:00.001-07:00

Over the next couple of months, leading up to the release of part two, currently scheduled for mid-January, I will be giving away a few copies of part one with personal notes, comments, insights and various other tidbits scribbled in the margins and white spaces.

If you are interested in getting a copy, stay tuned for details! You won't find personalized copies of novels in book stores or on Amazon. But you can find a few right here or on the Facebook fan page. Stay tuned!

the music that moves the words

2010-10-08T03:15:00.000-07:00

When I write, the book plays like a movie in my head, and music has a big role in setting the tone. If "Dying Light" was a movie, where would this music fall in it?

first interview with the author

2010-10-07T04:28:00.000-07:00

Thanks to Samantha Anderson, who, after reading "Dying Light", posted a great review and then followed it up with my first interview. I thought the questions were really terrific. There's so much going on in my book underneath the surface that it was nice to dig at it a little.

Here's the link: Interview with author of Dying Light

Enjoy! And keep in mind, I'm up for other interviews and such. Thanks again!

line from "Dying Light" (part two)

2010-10-04T18:50:00.000-07:00

“You need to save your own heart before it is broken yet again. A woman can only lose so much…before she turns out like me.”

themes in "Dying Light" and an excerpt from part two

2010-09-29T07:21:00.000-07:00

There are lots of themes in "Dying Light", but admittedly one that I can say I probably explored the most (at least in the story at this stage -- we still have two more full books to get through) is lost love. If you've read the book, you know that almost everyone is suffering from past pain usually stemming from the loss of a loved one, whether it be a parent, a spouse, a sibling or a lover. Part One gives us a few solid character backgrounds to explore, and most of the characters, as should be expected in life, have had to move on from a past tragedy.

Cain, who we as of yet know very little about (although that will change) has his own past pain, and I thought I might share some of it hear in an excerpt from part two of "Dying Light". If you have read the first part already, you will recognize the setting: the Lone Sailor statue at the Navy Memorial Plaza and the Cheval Rouge sculpture at the National Gallery of Art Sculpture Garden.

The last things Cain saw before they’d closed the door on the jet black hovercar were her eyes. He was still amazed at their deep sapphire color even as they disappeared behind the dark glass as the car lifted away. He felt the ground vibrate underneath his feet, leaving him alone with his last friend in the circular plaza. He turned to the silent figure on his right, touched his shoulder thoughtfully and felt the cold hard bronze under his fingertips.

Over 400 years old, my friend, and you remain alone, as far from your love as I.

He stared at the lifeless eyes of the Lone Sailor for a moment, hoping for an answer that didn’t come, and then turned and strolled back across the square towards Constitution Ave., toward the place he’d just left.

The moment was still with him, freshly fluttering in his mind, and he grasped at it as if his hand was reaching up to snatch a twisting leaf in the wind. So close. It danced in front of him as he surged forward to catch it, to hold it tightly and shove it into his pocket. The moment was still there, but he knew it would be gone soon, sweeping violently onto the leaf-strewn pavement in front of him, lost amongst all the other moments.

Lurching, he grabbed it and squeezed, feeling it bend in his clutch, wending tightly around his thumb. He stared at it a moment, the rusty reddish memory in his palm, and he greedily jammed it into his pocket.

Cain blinked and found himself in front of the Red Horse again, looking up at the seven meter high behemoth glowing in the waning light of the early evening. Its five tapered legs bent elegantly to the black shadow of grass below, its neck arching upright toward the glowing gray of sky above. He leaned in and stroked the cold sheet metal, feeling the beast’s pent up energy. Turning he could hear the whinny of the stallion and see its metallic mane rippling in the breeze. Its feet stamped at the ground nervously, and its tail swished side to side as it prepared to bolt.

But he stroked the beast, whispering quiet words to it, and smiled to himself as it began to calm, recognizing his voice and his touch. Cain knew they were old friends, and the Cheval Rouge would never throw him or kick. As it eased and snorted approvingly, he could feel the comforting energy of the stabile, and his eyes were drawn down to the grass underneath where it was indented, a shallow valley in the shape of two riders.

He could clearly make out her shape, the smaller of the two, despite the growing darkness. He could feel her take his weight, hear her hushed voice, see the way her eyes blazed for him, never looking away, boring into him as he drove into her.

Suddenly the call to prayer rumbled across the open expanse of the mall, shattering the still of the misty morning, and Cain looked up, blinking, eyes blurred from unexpected tears, and for a moment he thought he saw the black hovercar disappearing into the distance.

excerpt from "Dying Light" -- part two

2010-09-26T19:42:00.000-07:00

The body was still, a pool of blood creeping slowly outward in all directions. Reaching down, Michael could feel the heat from the body before he even touched it. He grabbed the limp shoulder, pulling on the thin jacket, and turned the body over. The lifeless blue eyes of a young woman stared up at him, her head lolling heavily to one side, throat severely cut, nearly decapitated. Her mouth was slightly open, and he could see the elongated incisors. He swallowed as his eyes walked lower, past the oozing blood and ripped blouse to the words carved into her bare chest: “ur ded now”.

"Dying Light" -- question for readers

2010-09-23T15:52:00.000-07:00

So, straight up, what was the highlight of "Dying Light" for you?

newest review for "Dying Light" -- Hamptons.com

2010-09-21T18:00:00.000-07:00

The 'devil's deal' the head vampyre and the current acting head of the former United States (a woman) reach brings the role of each's personal survival, as well as the beings they represent, down to the fundamental concept of good versus evil. Meek manages to arrive at the same conclusion history has proven again and again, and that is as long as humanity survives in any year, the chances of greed, selfishness and bad behavior will always play a role in the fate of many.

The technological advances Meek outlines in this book are as fascinating as they are potentially realistic - this is a great read for those who enjoy the science fiction genre, but what Meek outlines is perhaps not all that fictional - since the possibilities are both plausible and frightening.

The battle of good versus evil, and 'humanity' emerging victorious is always a satisfying read, and without giving away too much, the scenario Meek lays out in "Dying Light" offers twists, turns and a surprisingly feasible plot that makes this book a page turner.

Given the current rage for all things to do with vampires, Meek addresses the trend in an interesting and thought provoking manner - by assuring the reader immediately that not only do vampires exist but they just want to survive like everyone else.

excerpt from "Dying Light" Part Two -- the Bishop

2010-09-19T19:28:00.000-07:00

“The LORD is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake.” A voice drifted across the expanse of green like a cool summer breeze. She blinked and the field slipped away, replaced by the dim gloom of the recovery room, the blue sky gone and in its place the cold pale whiteness of the ceiling tiles.

“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.” She blinked again, listening to the voice. It seemed familiar, but it came to her as if spoken through a long tube – a hollow, tinny sound at first, and then closer, fuller as if the voice had found a body.

“Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the LORD for ever.” And suddenly it was quiet, all but for the whisper of movement, the soft padding of feet on the floor. And then a round face came into her view around the plastic oxygen mask.

Bishop Munro. What?

He stared down at her, his small, blackened mouth smiling, blackened eyes wide and gleaming with the inks of his office. “Yes, Anna, I’ve heard you are not well, and I’ve come to pay my last respects.” His pink tongue appeared, and he licked his lips as he spoke, his hands coming up, fingers locked together as if he were praying. “Oh, how I’ve waited for this moment, you see. To watch you fade away.”

She groaned into the mask, coming fully awake now. Her mouth opened and closed, and she gasped for air, trying to speak, to push the words out and force him back. Her hands scratched at the sheets, but she couldn’t lift her arms.

He watched her struggle and cackled, that high-pitched nasally laugh she hated. “Oh, oh, poor girl. Poor old girl,” he said, locking eyes with her. “So full of nerve only a few hours ago when I called to make peace, and now so weak, so pathetic. I called to give you a chance, to help you, of course, but you rebuked me.”

Reaching out, he touched her cheek, and she groaned again and tried to pull away. Twisting her head to escape his touch sent shockwaves of agony through her skull and neck. She whimpered as tears clouded her eyes.

And then he whirled away, his robes spinning behind him as he began to circle her bed. He slipped out of view, the mask blocking everything except his voice. “Did you like the verse? It’s an old one. An old one. Put your trust in me, says God. I will lead you to a safe place. I will protect you if you come with me, believe in me, honor me and love me and obey me. Oh, oh, oh. He was so eloquent, don’t you know? God was. So eloquent.”

Her breaths came in ragged gasps now as she struggled to move, to speak, to somehow peel away the mask and see the man at the foot of her bed. There was no telling what he was doing or why he’d been let in. She cursed herself for not telling Robert to keep him out. Yes, he was a member of the Council, and yes, he had permissions and clearances, and he could walk into just about any room in the city without regard to penalty or privacy, but Robert could have kept him out. Robert could have physically put him off. If only she’d said something…if only she’d thought about it. She’d no idea that he would come here, that he would find out about the seizure.

What do the other Council members know? Where is Henry?

“But did we listen? Did we? No.” The voice was a whisper now, and there on the right, looming in the distance, she could see his face turning back towards her, the dark eyes wrapped in black ink, the pink tongue working along the thin lips between words. “No, we didn’t listen, and God’s wrath wiped the sinners from the face of the Earth. He brought forth demons, a horrifying plague that cast the worst of the sinners into their own private Hell. And they preyed on the vile and unclean, the rank and file of the world, the closet sinners and hypocrites who praised the Lord on Sundays and worked the Devil’s magic in the days between.”

The Bishop moved forward, coming with view. He reached up and pushed back his dark brown hair, and then his fingers came together again as if in prayer. He was inches away, and she was happy for the mask now – she couldn’t smell him.

“They all died, Anna. They all died, and they deserved it. They lied to God. They came to his house and they lied. They were no better than the non-believers, no better than the Godless heathens who marched for their rights! Kicked the Lord out of their schools, raised up the mentally ill, the deranged, the homosexuals and transgendered abominations. Sickening! Frightening! Are these the kind of people that God would welcome into his house? Or even tolerate? And yet Man tolerated them; welcomed them even. Some did. And those, you see, have been punished.”

He peered at her, eyes flashing, and she shuddered.

“But we still have these abominations, do we not? They still whore and thieve and rape the land. They still have masks and put on airs and pretend to be righteous, do they not?” The pink tongue snaked out again, wetting his lips, as he leaned in closer. “Who leads them, hmmm? And you wonder why your body fails you.” His voice was a whisper now, a chilling creep along her skin. She shuddered and closed her eyes.

Dying Light giveaways for September

2010-09-18T20:05:00.000-07:00

The hits just keep on coming! Now there are two blog sites that can score you a free copy of the newest sci-fi vampire thriller "Dying Light". Check out the sites linked below and meet the easy requirements for a chance to win!

Clickety-click:

Dark Faerie Tales

Suburban Vampire

I'm sure there will be more to come, not to mention giveaway by yours truly just in time for Halloween!

Now, go click and win!

excerpt from "Dying Light" -- part two

2010-09-14T20:40:00.001-07:00

"God is dead, Mr. President; we are all that's left."

excerpt from "Dying Light" off-shoot short story

2010-09-12T18:40:00.000-07:00

They had spent the entire night talking, and it seemed to him that with each word, each movement, she pulled him into her web, weaving a silken spell that ensnared him. He didn’t touch his meal, but drank in every detail of her existence, filling his need with her essence. It seemed like he had only spent moments talking with her that first night, but it was early morning when she’d finally excused herself. The night had drifted away on her words, a tale that she spun of a magical experience she had discovered with a close-knit group of friends. Her eyes blazed with their own fire when she spoke of it, a twisted tale of deviancy that at first he found ludicrous and yet later compelling. When she bid him goodnight and slipped away, he sat still mesmerized, wondering at the intimate moment that had passed between them, the erotic invitation. “Come and die in my arms,” she said, and he’d agreed.

"Claws" -- what came before

2010-09-10T09:52:00.000-07:00

Do you ever wonder what got a novelist going in the first place? What concept? What idea? Sometimes it's something as simple as getting tired of watching the good guys always win in movies and deciding to write something decidedly dark and deliciously deviant to assuage that boredom.

Sometimes these things morph into something more, and suddenly, years later, a novel appears where once there were only 511 words...

Blood dripped from his claws, tiny puddles forming on the floor beside him as he knelt, exhausted...exhausted but primed. He relaxed his breathing, calming his hammering heart. Eyes closed, focusing, feeling the struggle, hearing her pleas again in his mind, and smiled to himself. Unconsciously he licked his lips.

She had been good, this one...too good. It was all too much this time, too quick to be over, too hard and fast, not enough time to savor the experience – her skin, her mouth, her breasts...her screams. But oh! so glorious! So furious!

No one should walk home alone in the dark, he thought. When a warm, young body is there, when it’s ripe and luscious, when it’s available like a ripe pear dangling from a tree...can we not pluck it and bite deeply? And what can stand in the way when one has such hunger?

His erection was subsiding now, and he could feel his urges calming, sated for the night...for the moment. Claws retracted. Reaching up, he sucked on his fingers; one by one, tasting the warm blood, the sweet juices intermingled, like the remix of her screams of agony and ecstasy in one smooth symphony. Had she not enjoyed every moment? He chuckled. Yes, she did...until it was too late...until she had realized that it was folly, that her bonds would never be cut, that his soft, smooth tongue could be a razor, his nimble fingers claws, his full hard cock an unsheathed dagger. Only in the end, when the wave of euphoria from his attentions had eased, when she had looked into his eyes, mirroring his wildness, had she seen what lurked behind them. She had seen……him.

Pulling the last of his fingers from his mouth, he gazed over to the bloody mess in the corner and smiled again. Enough for one night...tomorrow is another day, another meal, another and another. He sighed quietly, once more feeling her warm caresses, her breath on his cheek, her tight clutch when she came suddenly, moaning like a whore. A sneer crept over his lips as he saw the thrill in her eyes, the fear.

He turned, stretching as the first hint of sunlight poured in through the broken window pane. “Time to go,” he murmured. One last glance back, the pink of her mini-dress on the floor in sharp contrast to the dark pool of blood dripping from her ravaged body. He stepped to the ledge, feeling the cool morning breeze wash over him, cleansing his foul body, freeing his soul to soar if only for a moment. He lifted his face to the sun, eyes closed. Another day, a busy day………but the navy Brooks Brothers would put him back in the right mindset for a long day at work. The McMahan bill was before the House Homeland Security Committee today and he had to testify. More fucking fighting; more bullshit; more senselessness. Mustn’t one have an outlet when surrounded by such ugliness?

intro to "Midnight Sun", the sequel to "Dying Light"

2010-09-06T10:24:00.000-07:00

Below is the first line and first paragraph of what I hope will become something even greater than "Dying Light" -- deeper, darker, more devastating!

The body fit neatly into the cupboard by the stairs.

There was no blood to speak of. He’d driven the dart effortlessly into the base of her skull, a precise four inch gouge. Before she could even scream, he’d activated the charge and sent a massive jolt of electricity to the center of her brain. She’d slumped into his arms without a sound, and now she was slumped in the narrow closet. There was no sound and no alarm – he smiled to himself and closed the door.

what's so special about yours?

2010-09-02T21:20:00.000-07:00

So, I often wonder, and thus I am wondering "out loud" here, what authors do in their books that they consider unique. I mean, we can't all just write the "same ole, same ole" over and over. Even while we may follow a kind of formula or model our characters after others that came before or turn a plot corner that we saw once in the film, there's always something that we know that we bring that we feel is unique.

I'd love to hear what that is...

the first "Dying Light" Twitter Tweet Chat?

2010-09-01T21:16:00.000-07:00

While I don't have to push "Dying Light" as a thinker's book, I do want to maximize that aspect of it. I thought back to the other night when I stayed up talking with Melanie and going over so many points of the book, and I realize how much of a thinker's book it is. I wonder if it's hard to keep up with everything, not that I mean to take anything away from my readers, but perhaps I really don't make it very easy for them. Plus, Mel asked questions that I successfully answered in the book, but there were times when she thought maybe I was pulling her leg and the way she read something was maybe a lie or a fake-out. I admit there are blatant lies and fake-outs in the book, but one thing she touched on as a potential wasn't intended at all. And no amount of confirmation from me convinced her that it was, in fact, not a fake-out. Still, it was interesting, and it was a great time to just talk about so many aspects and see it from the reader's perspective.

Thus, in order to engage readers more with this rather unique (I think) approach at story-telling (or not telling in some cases -- haha), I believe it is time to put together a Twitter Tweet Chat session and see if we can get some people engaged in talking more about what's happened, what's coming, and what's even farther down the line!

tidbits, thoughts, and plans coming together

2010-08-25T10:47:00.000-07:00

After a really terrific hour or two of talking to a friend/fan about the book, I can't say how happy I am about how it has turned out. It may sound ridiculous hearing that from me, the author, but really genuine, in-depth feedback is often hard to come by.

The goal, as I've always said, in the writing of "Dying Light" was to write a book that as soon as you are done with it, you must immediately go back and read it again. Why? Because the farther you get in the book, the more you realize there are things going on that you didn't get the first time, that there are questions coming up that you need answers to, and somewhere five chapters ago something was mentioned that might help you understand what is really happening.

Is the author lying? Is this really what's happening? Am I understanding the relationship between these two characters correctly?

Questions and more questions.

Of course, when you get to part two of the book and things begin to become more clear, you will realize that there is even more you missed -- more questions, and that, as I said, you will have to go back and re-read.

To say that the conversation from a writer's standpoint was very exciting and fun is an understatement. To get that kind of feedback and see that 'yes, that's exactly what I was going for' is tremendous. To hear that I hit that note just right, that this or that relationship resonated with the reader, that the way something was described set the tone just right -- these are the things an author lives to hear. And for me, to hear the frustration of the reader because she doesn't totally get what is going on and needs more information and part two of the book, makes me feeling calculating and devious, and that is something I like, as well.

"Dying Light", if I may be so bold, is unlike any book I've ever read, and hopefully like any you have read. (In fact, I would say it is more like a movie that you have to read.) I have never read any book (and I've read thousands) that makes the reader work so hard, and this is something that I did purposefully. If the reader is not engaged and paying close attention, there will be so many things missed, and later, when I start to shine light on what's going on, some of it might not even make sense. Reader engagement is a must. The reader cannot just be along for the ride, and doesn't that make it that more fun?

As my friend said, I ruined her summer reading. She must go back immediately and re-read the book before she can even write any kind of review or move on to another book. It's that kind of complexity that I was going for. It's that kind of feedback I was hoping for. It feels good when a plan comes together.

new "Dying Light" trivia game coming this weekend!

2010-08-20T08:12:00.000-07:00

So, you've read the book, huh? But have you really been paying attention? We'll see when the game kicks off. Check back soon to see what is going on, and we will see who the "top fan" really is. Will it be you?

excerpt from "Dying Light" part two

2010-08-17T03:24:00.000-07:00

As she closed on the center of the riot, she heard more than saw the mob. Hearts pounded in nearby chests, voices cracked as they reached their crescendo, groans and grunts as the press of the crowd pitched forward and pushed back, long fits of coughing as the wind whipped the smoke into the crowd. She could smell their stench, the sweat of their bodies, the foul breath, the tell-tale whiff of P.I.K.E. And for a moment, she looked up and found their eyes, the round orbs absorbing the chaos of the moment, the pupils dialated and reflecting the red inferno.

Everywhere bodies threatened to crush her, envelope her, encircle and imprison her in the crowd, but she worked her way quickly through the massive throng until a face appeared before her as if a ghost had risen up from the cold, dark asphalt below. She froze in place as if its icy fingers had grasped her throat. The face was ghastly white as if the moon had laid its own pale light on her for eternity. Blood trickled from between her grayish lips, dripping from her chin and staining her ragged coat. Her eyes were fearful a vacant, and in that fleeting moment Charlotte could tell that the woman was falling. She reached out instinctively, catching the frail figure, her eyes fixed on the other’s face as crimson life poured out of the old woman’s stomach and onto the slick ground below. Her eyes suddenly took on that far-away look as if there in the distance Heaven was opening up its gates for her and only she could see it. Only one thought entered Charlotte’s head at that moment, and suddenly the woman’s face seemed to change, to become agonizingly familiar. It came rushing towards her like a nightmare that had faded from her memory long, long ago. The spectre had come alive again to renew its terrifying haunt. It was a horror she had long since buried, an echo of the past that she had thought finally purged forever.

Mother.

She stood transfixed in the midst of the pandemonium, lost in the moment, easing the fragile body in her arms to the ground like she had so long ago.

Fiction Vixen Book Reviews: Sci-Fi: I’m back! Tell Me What To Read

2010-08-08T14:03:00.000-07:00

Fiction Vixen Book Reviews: Sci-Fi: I’m back! Tell Me What To Read: "I watched Avatar last night and wow! What a great movie. I really had no desire to ever watch that movie, it just didn’t appeal to me even..."

what's the latest for "Dying Light"?

2010-08-07T07:33:00.000-07:00

So many things -- I can hardly even get started.

Sales -- haven't heard about sales figures yet; we're still in the baby stages, so i don't expect a whole lot. i just want to keep building toward part two of "Dying Light". that is the plan. meanwhile, i'll be selling books at the roller derby this month and putting them in consignment at Atomic Books and Uzakoo. i am aware of two MD libraries that are buying my book, and it's in a B&N in Austin, courtesy of a good friend with connections. there's still a long way to go, but it's a good start i think.

Art -- still working on the art side of the house; there are pieces in progress, but i'm also still looking for more artists to donate some time and help both of us get discovered.

Short Stories -- i have a couple in the works, including one written by a friend of mine. i'm open to collaboration, so there will be opportunities for others to chime in, so to speak. i think eventually there will be an anthology of "New Baltimore" short stories and poetry to come from this. this world has a lot more in it than the main story told in the novels, and i'm going to explore it.

Publicity -- i am hiring a publicist to do some major marketing damage and get the word out. the goal is to create a ground swell, a grass-roots campaign to get everyone talking about the book. along those same lines i am looking for people and organizations to collaborate with in some mutual support, which should not only satisfy my desire to help other achieve their goals but also gets me exposure for my work. to get the book more notice, i am lining up events to attend: the Brooklyn Book Festival is coming up, as are the NY and Baltimore Comic Cons; plus there's the Capitol Book Fest and a host of other events that i hope to at least attend and maybe get the word out, hand out flyers, cards, etc.

Book Signings -- they are a'coming. i am working with the Charm City Roller Girls to hold a signing at the next roller derby on 21 August. i am talking to Atomic Books, B&N Towson, and Uzakoo books in Towson about signings, and i'm still pushing B&N Inner Harbor to notice me. i wonder if i could hold a signing at work -- thousands of nerds in my organization!

Book groups -- already have one group on Goodreads that has taken on "Dying Light" as the book of the month for August, so that's a great start. i'm also working on other Goodreads groups for something similar, and i just got onto Library Thing with that in mind as well. additionally, a guy at a local bar heads a reading group, and he wants to have his group read "DL". so, that's going pretty well -- a little at a time.

Reviews -- there are a couple of reviews online for "DL", and they are great. i'm very happy. i am still waiting on the all-important one from the Baltimore Sun and another from City Paper. i've been reminding people that if they are reading the book, they would really help me out if they posted a review on Amazon and B&N.com. i'm also waiting on reviews from three bloggers, so there's more to come -- i'm just hoping they are positive. it's going pretty well.

Posters -- posters are still being worked. i can't find a good solution to the little poster dilemna i have currently, but i have an idea. then the posters will flow through the mail like, well, mail. haha

Charity -- i've always had a mind to donate money to and partner with a local charity, so i am working that angle and searching for a charity when i have time. i just found one that looks interesting, but i have to do some investigating to make sure it's a good fit.

What's next -- next is just to keep doing what i am doing: writing, massaging my relationships, working with everyone i can, and just having fun with it. what more can i ask?

now what?

2010-08-04T17:07:00.000-07:00

Now that you have read the book, what's going to happen in part two? Speculate! Who knows. I have a little tweaking to do; your idea might end up in the story!

excerpt from "Dying Light" -- the alley

2010-08-03T16:54:00.000-07:00

The alley was dark and quiet. This far down, at the street level, under the various sky bridges, awnings, balconies and architectural anomalies, there was very little rain – only a steady mist. But it soaked her clothes, and the synthetic fabrics clung to her small form. She pulled at them to free herself, but with each step down the alley, they clung more tightly. Perhaps the mist held them close – perhaps the raw fear that gripped her even now was pervasive and had worked its way into the very fibers of her clothing.

Looking back, the entrance to the alleyway and the street beyond seemed to retreat of their own accord. And looking forward, the alley seemed to extend into the distance and shadow, unending and daunting. There was no way to know what was ahead, what was lurking in the darkness there, but she was sure that turning back was not the answer. Back there, somewhere, she’d seen them – the shimmering blue eyes in the distance staring at her.

Turning the corner had been the only reasonable thing to do, and she knew that to keep moving was to stay alive. And that meant continuing down the alley to who knew where and who knew what. The blue eyes would find her soon enough. There was no way around it. And there was nowhere else she could have gone. The alley was the only choice she’d had; only now she wasn’t so sure it had been a good choice.

The blue eyes would peak around that very corner soon, and they would be fixed on her because they knew. They knew who she was and what she wanted. They knew what she had done and what she would do given the chance. But finally, it seemed, they had her right where they wanted her – exposed, vulnerable, alone. Soon they would round that corner, and then what?

She spun back around and ambled forward, clawing at her robes, the way her dress tangled up her legs. How could she get away if her own damned clothes were conspiring against her? And yet, there was nothing she could do. The mist was heavy, and her heartbeat was heavier, thudding in her chest as she scrambled ahead. Behind her, there was only the emptiness of the street, but soon, she thought, soon those eyes would be there, peering around the corner, searching.

The cobblestones were slick, and she almost fell twice within a few steps. Looking down, she navigated around the pile of trash threatening to block the alley. Stepping over the boxes and refuse, she avoided the jagged metal beams and broken glass. But only then did she realize that her feet were bare……..and bleeding!

A gasp escaped from her throat before she could stifle it, and her hands clamped over her mouth, as she spun and slammed up against the wall, her back pressing reassuringly against the cold metal. Could the eyes hear that? She couldn’t take a chance. She couldn’t make a noise. Looking back again, she searched for them, but they were nowhere to be found. Not yet, she thought, not yet.

No eyes, but suddenly she could see there was something far worse. Blood. A trail of bloody, misshapen footprints, extending from the street down the alley, leading directly, imminently, accusingly to her. The footprints literally glowed in the dark, a brilliant illuminating crimson, a nearly neon trace of her passing, each step a condemnation of her existence.

She swallowed and gasped for air as her eyes traced the steps down the alley. She stared in disbelief, her mouth open now trying to pull in air, and she took in each bloody print until they stopped inches away. And there, below her, the warm blood pooled, oozing from the slashes and tears in her skin where the brutal cobblestones and shattered glass had assaulted her.

There was nothing to do now, she thought – nothing. The eyes would find her easily now. They would come upon the alley and see the bloody footprints leading right to her. There was no way around it, and nowhere left to run.

Still staring in disbelief at her mutilated feet, she slowly slid down the wall, huddling in the cool mist, her arms wrapping around her knees for warmth and comfort, what little there was to be had. It was only a matter of time now. And there was nowhere to go when she would only be leaving a trail to any hiding place. It was too dark and too cold and all just too much. It was hopeless. It was over. The eyes would come, and they would find her, and they would take what they wanted. And she could do nothing about it.

It was only a matter of………..she froze in mid-thought. Down at the entrance to the alley, the eyes stared back at her. Hovering there in the mist and darkness, they waited, watching.

She tried to turn away, to turn and stand, to scramble away, but she was frozen. She could only stare back at the eyes. They had her now, and there was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. Inching forward, they seemed to pause and hover over each of her bloody steps, to savor the crimson feast that lay pooling between the cobblestones. As they moved forward, each of the bloody footsteps disappeared, fading away into the darkness that held sway just behind the electric blue of the oncoming eyes.

She was mesmerized, falling into the cool blue pools. As they gradually drew nearer, she could see them more and more clearly, discern the detailed outline of each orb – a hint of cobalt fire where there should be eyelashes, a raging sea where there should be an iris. And with each step, she could feel the power of the eyes, feel her heart slowing, feel the cold seeping into her toes from the cobblestones, mixing with the warm blood there. The numbness crept slowly, gradually into her body, past her feet now and into her legs, paralyzing her muscles and drawing out goosebumps across her skin. She tightened her grip, pulling her knees in closer, but there was no warmth to be found. The cold creeping sensation was flooding her body now, spreading steadily through her abdomen and into her torso, threatening and then engulfing her arms. Her fingers tingled as the sensation slipped away, and the eyes came on, until they were inches away.

She opened her mouth to scream, but she couldn’t breathe. Her lungs were frozen. Her chest was numb. There was only the oh-so-faint hint of a heartbeat, and it continued to slow until she could no longer feel it. Fixed on the blue eyes only a hair’s breath away, she wanted to scream out, to cry, to push them away, to flee, but she was helpless.

The eyes stared back unmoving and yet growing larger before her. Her mind broke free of their spell for a second, and the words poured forth in her mind: ‘Who are you and what do you want’?

The answer thundered in her head, shaking her entire body. ‘You know who I am.’

Then suddenly the eyes shrunk, fell away into rounded sockets, blue pools part of a worn and weathered face, dark, grayed hair falling over them, a gaunt body draped in flowing robes kneeling only a breath away. The small mouth opened, and fangs gleamed in the darkness. “I want what you want,” said the husky voice, whispering as it leaned closer, it’s warm, acrid breath falling on her cold, frozen neck.

And suddenly she knew the face, knew the voice, knew exactly what and who it was that had her there. And she screamed as the fangs bit deeply, clamping down on her exposed neck. She could feel the blood flow again, leaving her body, feel the last beat of her heart, and her final thought, as the crimson darkness engulfed her, drifted through her mind: the face she had seen with the shimmering blue eyes was her own.

publicity anyone?

2010-08-02T15:05:00.001-07:00

It might help in the publicity department if I involve someone who knows what's going on in that arena -- an expert to help guide me while I weave my way through this maze that is the book world. I'm a fast learner, and today I learned to be smart and hire someone smarter than myself. Thus, I am hiring a publicist with a lot of 'move and shake'. As my friends say, if I want to write big, I have to go big -- well, they haven't said that, but they agree when I say it. I guess we'll see. I think I just took an important step though. And if years from now we're chatting over the reviews of the first "Dying Light" film, then we'll know for sure. Why not dream big? Why not?

a little theme music for "Dying Light"?

2010-07-30T11:46:00.000-07:00

newest review for "Dying Light"

2010-07-30T11:45:00.000-07:00

Thrilling, bloody...Dying Light!
by SandraLM39

July 29, 2010: Click order, wait for it, read it, re-read, absorb. I am enjoying this book immensely.

No matter how you slice it, this book is different. These vampyres have more rage and thirst for vengeance than the rest. They love hard and longer. These vampyres make you think, ponder and wonder. You may stop and look around wondering if they are really among us. The viral epidemic that he describes can certainly happen. Why not? We've seen worse, maybe not yet.

Pay attention to the historic details D. Scott Meek introduces in his book, one of my favorites is Dantes. You will get wrapped in the places he describes, and feel what the characters in the book are going through. Great care was placed to make certain that you get lost in this story. Hopefully you come back safe and sound. Check your neck to make sure.

There is also a love story in there somewhere; my hopeless romantic heart demands it. Charlotte and Michael, they are not a Hallmark romance for sure.

Enjoy!

this just in -- "Dying Light" is out!

2010-07-23T11:42:00.000-07:00

Yep, check Amazon and B&N.com, and soon Powell's! The book is out, and it looks great! Hurray!

Please don't forget about the contest! We are still working very hard to get the book out to everyone, so please help spread the word!!! Thanks!!

newest review of "Dying Light" -- ready to read?

2010-07-16T12:35:00.000-07:00

Let’s face it: you can’t swing a bat without hitting a book about vampires these days.

They’re everywhere – vampires glittering and sulking, staking and loving and enduring their forever lives. But in Dying Light by D. Scott Meek, vampires are doing something quite original and captivating: they are living among us humans side by side, working, healing, moving day by day in a future that is bleak and uncertain.

Meek’s vampires – a lot cursed by a viral epidemic that swept the Earth centuries before – walk among mortals blue-eyed and stealthy, working side by side in hospitals and offices in what was once the nation’s Capital and is now a den of corruption and rubble from wars of the distant past.

Meek’s writing style is immediately accessible, his characters sympathetic and interesting – especially the vampires, who are more fleshed out here than the mortals. These are vampires to take notice of, full of rage and loneliness and sadness and sexual deviancy. Their blues aren’t the only way they stand out in a crowd.

And such as in other vampire tales in Dying Light there is a battle, but it, again, is not your typical blood-thirsty war – it doesn’t suck. This psychological thriller - this puzzle of who is really on who’s side, who wants to change and who wants to die - is more of a puzzle to unravel slowly (and flip back pages to search, hungrily, for clues) and follow to its climax… which may or may not involve a certain, very interesting, chair.

For an intelligent take on a vamp tale take on Meek’s Dying Light. And keep at least one light burning through the night.

"Dying Light" is now on Gather!

2010-07-12T08:32:00.001-07:00

http://dyinglight.gather.com/

Just started up the Dying Light group. If you are a "gatherer", then gather there!

in with the old; in with the new

2010-07-10T09:13:00.000-07:00

In trying to come up with new terminology for this futuristic novel series, I often reuse and modify old terminology.

Here's an example: "deuce" -- an old term for dating or courting, it's now the 25th century for the same. That said, it's going to be very hard street slang and is rather crude; that is, it leans more to "fucking" or "sleeping with".

Still working on new terminology for a new part of the story, I am looking over replacements for "dude". Here are some possibilities I've come up with:

"pard" - short for "partner" and used in the 1800's.
"fam" - short for "familiar" or "family"
"sweet" - just something i thought of; would be very intimate/close friendship
"kiss" - same as "sweet"

Of course, there are upper class and lower class version of a lot of words, which would distinguish them from each other, so that's a thought, as well.

I think "sis" or "sister" would be a great informal word at the lower class level, so I think I'll add that, too.

Any thoughts on this? Or do you like/dislike any of the above?

the first "Dying Light" contest

2010-07-09T07:28:00.000-07:00

Fans and book lovers,

I need your help in getting the word out about the book, getting it in local independent book stores, and making it a must-read for book clubs everywhere.

So, how do we do that? We have a contest -- the first of many this year.

As you know, "Dying Light" part one is coming out this month; part two will be out in December, so we have six months to generate interest in the book. How do we do that? We throw some major grass roots efforts into it, and make sure the world knows this book is for real.

Contest Guidelines:

The contest will run from the date of publication of this blog til midnight 28 July 2010! (This is in case the winner is local and will be at the book signing, so there can be a little personal touch to the contest.) The winner will be announced on 29 July by 6pm.

What does the winner get? The winner will receive one of the three first books that I get as the author. I will likely keep one, and the other, well, there's no telling where it will end up -- perhaps in the hands of the Mayor of Baltimore, since I'm planning on sending one to her. As for that last one, it'll be exclusively for the winner -- a collector's edition signed, sealed and delivered with my tremendous thanks!

What else? The winner will also get a $50 Visa gift card to use as he/she wishes. I'm serious about asking for help, so I'm gonna do what I can to get the word out.

How about 2nd or 3rd place? Well, in exchange for a few minutes of your time, I'll throw in $10 Visa cards for both 2nd and 3rd place. Why not? I need all the help I can get.

Contest stipulations:

What does one have to do to win? Score major points -- more than anyone else!

How? Simple -- get the word out as follows:

FIRST: sign up/register by commenting on this post!

5 points -- send email to indie book stores and libraries according to the following (http://dyinglightthenovel.blogspot.com/2010/06/helpful-templates-to-send-to.html). Ensure you cc info@canonbridge.com and dyinglight@rocketmail.com, and absolutely ensure that you put "Dying Light" in the subject line somehow. Each individual email sent scores you five (5) points, and those points add up fast;

3 points -- repost this blog on Facebook or Myspace or Tumblr or your blog or other sharing network and email dyinglight@rocketmail.com with the url so I can keep track. For each repost, you score three (3) points;

1 point -- fan up on the "Dying Light" Facebook page;

1 point -- fan up on the Canonbridge (my publisher) Facebook page;

1 point -- follow dsmeek36 (me) or dyinglightnovel on Twitter and send me a direct message -- total 2 points for following both;

1 point -- invite your friends to the "Dying Light" Facebook page; they must mention that you sent them in a comment on the page;

1 point -- follow this blog or encourage others to follow (they must mention your coercion in a comment);

1 point -- coerce friends to follow me or dyinglightnovel on Twitter; have them tweet or DM me a confirmation that you sent them;

1 point -- add me as a friend and mark my book on Goodreads (http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/8537203-dying-light) as "to read" or "reading".

1 point -- retweet book cover (http://s985.photobucket.com/albums/ae331/dsmeek36/Dying%20Light/?action=view¤t=dyinglightsmall.jpg) and note @dsmeek36; or post on FB and mention the book and tag me;

1 point -- read and comment on any excerpt from "Dying Light" or "Midnight Sun" on this blog or on the Facebook fan page; any of your friends who do the same and also mention you sent them will earn you a point;

1 point -- suggest my book to book clubs and email the url of your post or a copy of the message to dyinglight@rocketmail.com.

Reminder: The contest will run for only about three weeks, but it's a chance to get a very rare copy of the book and my undying thanks! Please utilize the email templates in the link above for "5 points" -- getting the word out to book stores and libraries is the most important aspect of this campaign.

Check back periodically for updates and more contests, and thanks again!!!

new excerpt from "Dying Light"

2010-07-07T10:43:00.001-07:00

Ahead the corridor ended in a simple door. He’d been within reach of the door when the visions slowed him down and led him here, leaning against the wall. He contemplated the door for a moment, considered the comforts beyond – the bed, the warmth of the sheets, a refuge against the chill of the subterranean complex. He felt renewed from the fresh infusion of blood, but he was still weary. It was early, but there never seemed to be enough time to sleep. There never seemed to be time to relax. Early mornings and late nights had been the rule since that fateful January 20th.

And the nightmares had followed.

He hadn’t heard the shot, sitting there holding Maryam’s hand, distracted by her voice in his ear. The morning had gone so smoothly, although it had started, he’d mentioned several times, entirely too early. The swearing-in for him was first. The Vice President was always sworn in first, according to tradition and in the event that there was a “problem” – no one liked to talk about the possibility of the President being shot during his inauguration. He’d been told that the schedule had changed a bit due to heavy ice forming on the platform the night before, and so, much to everyone’s chagrin and some major beef from the networks, the inauguration was going to be shortened considerably. The winter storm warning issued by the National Weather Service had proven true, and freezing rain followed by temperatures dipping into the teens coupled with occasional wind gusts reaching 35mph nearly washed out the entire event. It would prove to be the coldest winter on record, and the most memorable in the brief history of the United States of America.

The most important change of the day was that he would be sworn in in the Senate chambers. That had been the normal procedure up until 1937, a result of the 20th Amendment to the Constitution, affixing 20 January as Inauguration Day, and he and the President-Elect had agreed to follow some kind of tradition since the current normal procedure was not possible.

He’d been none too pleased getting up that early on that fateful morning, but there was little choice. The motorcade was coming at 7AM, and it was not the kind of day to be running late. He followed a frighteningly hot shower with a new razor to his face. The President-Elect was a tad younger and very sharp. The Vice President would be just as dashing if there was anything to be said about it. The crisp black two-button from Hart-Schaffner and Marx and a pale blue tie – Alex’s would be a darker shade of blue – fit perfectly and looked terrific in the mirrors in the elevator. Maryam’s dress was nearly the same color as his tie, but hardly anyone would see it today. She’d been almost as upset at the weather as anyone, and he’d held her hand all the way in the motorcade to soothe her and the fact that the dress was hidden underneath her greatcoat. Wasn’t this as big a moment for her as for him, she’d asked? And she’d been right.

The door to the inner chamber and his bedroom slid aside. He walked through unceremoniously, mind still wandering the paths of that frozen moment. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he kicked off his shoes, ignoring where they fell, his eyes still far away.

They’d stepped onto the platform together, Alex leading, Jennifer on his arm. The wind bit at exposed flesh, piranha seeking an unprepared and unsuspecting meal, and they all dipped their chins, pulling their coats tighter against them. His first thought had been to profanity, but this wasn’t the time. Still, he’d grumbled a vulgar word or two to Maryam in Farsi, knowing no one else would understand, and she’d giggled. She’s taught him all the inappropriate things to say, and it came in handy now and again when they were in mixed company.

Leading her, they occupied seats in the front row of the dias, right of the center and the podium. The teleprompters were blank and clear, but the lights were blinking green. The cameras were panning the crowd, and one just to his right was swinging around to him. Settling back in his chair, he struggled to look vice-presidential, suppressing a laugh that came out of nowhere. Here it was finally: the west steps of the Capitol, the day he’d been working hard for all these years, the swearing in of both parties almost complete. In less than 30 minutes, they had been assured, he’d be in the limo headed for the White House. The parade had been cancelled.

Alex shifted in his chair, and Jennifer whispered in his ear. He was nervous, and he’d as much as said it in the hallway coming up to the platform. There were more people stretched out in front of them than either of them could ever count, a virtual sea of people, despite the sub-zero temperatures, the ice and the wind. They stretched out and covered the National Mall as if each blade of grass there had been transformed into a human being. The crowd moved like a single living organism, waves of people shifting, and the noise rumbling up from below was the wave crashing against the shores of the Capitol steps.

Pushing back, Willem stretched out on the bed, pulling his legs and feet up underneath him, already feeling the exhaustion of the morning weighing on him despite the confidence that Emily had provided. Fingers of weariness crept up his spine, massaging, soothing, coaxing him to lie back. The visions in his head played on, clearer now as he closed his eyes and gave in to the moment yet again.

The announcements made, the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court, the Honorable Stephen D. Culbreth, stood solemnly before Alex Tribault, Jennifer just behind. Each of them had raised their hands, and the Chief Justice had begun to read. “I do solemnly swear” – try as he might, Willem could barely watch the Oath of Office; his mind and eyes were playing across the crowd, enjoying the spectacle and their enjoyment of it – “that I will faithfully execute the Office of President of the United States,” – an endless number of camera flashes dotted the sea of bodies, everyone trying to capture this historic moment and bottle it – “and will to the best of my ability, preserve, protect and defend the Constitution of the United States.”

The two men shook hands as the stage vibrated to thunderous applause. At once the band, situated, off-stage to the left, took up “Hail to the Chief”, and Willem stood, crossed the short space between them and congratulated his friend, the President of the United States. And firm hand shake and a warm hug was all that passed between them. Words, he was sure, would be lost in the competing roars of the crowd and the band. Instead, they turned and looked out again over the crowd, hands up, waiving, taking in the amazing scene before them and the majesty of the most important capitol city on Earth. People stretched as far as the eye could see, well beyond the Capitol Reflecting Pool and into the spaces between the Smithsonian buildings. It seemed they stretched endlessly, even past the Washington Monument, but he was sure no one that far back could possibly see or hear anything, sure that it had to be an optical illusion as the heads of spectators blended in with broken patches of ice amongst the browned grass.

He rolled over onto his back, another deep sigh expanding his chest. The bed had never felt so comfortable, the sheets so soft. Sleep tugged at him, clamoring for his compliance as the dream continued.

The music died away as suddenly as it had come up, and the first crack of the Presidential Salute Battery shattered the sudden quiet, the beginning of the Old Guard’s 21-gun salute. With each successive firing of the howitzer, Willem winced – that sound would forever haunt him, and as memories flooded his head, brought on by the distant booms, he looked down the Mall toward the Vietnam Memorial hidden nearly a mile away behind leafless trees. It would days before he could get down there, he thought, but he would visit them soon.

The 21st shot echoed across the campus, fading away into the distance, and the whole of the world grew quiet. He blinked, startled by the sudden calm, and waited momentarily, his arm still around the presidental shoulders as the words of the inaugural address scrolled up on the tele-prompters. Looking over at his life-long friend, he whispered the simple words that came to mind: “We did it.” A moment later a 7.62 sniper round struck Alex Tribault in the left cheek.

Atop the Capitol building, a powerful gust of wind ripped the flag from its perch and sent it fluttering down into the screaming throng.

new book/author posters!

2010-07-06T11:31:00.000-07:00

Got the new batch of posters in, so it's time to get together the mailing list of those who want signed posters.

Send your email addy to me at dyinglight@rocketmail.com or dyinglightnovel@rocketmail.com. Posters going out this week!

"Dying Light" book review from GoodReads

2010-07-05T06:56:00.001-07:00

"What a fabulous science fiction thriller! The story incorporates the concept of vampirism with the science of blood-borne pathogens, and suggests what civilisation could be like 400 years after the current Mayan calendar ends.

The story incorporates the concept of vampirism with the science of blood-borne pathogens, and suggests what civilisation could be like 400 years after the current Mayan calendar ends.

I found myself invested in the characters. I liked some, felt sorry for others, and openly disliked a few of them. I could tell, however, that these characters have elements to them that could make other readers feel differently than I did. As I read, I found myself analysing the political situation and acknowledging the implications of history on the survival of New Baltimore.

That's the other thing. Scott identifies landmarks in Baltimore and Washington DC that will draw in readers who live in the area and those who are familiar with particular neighbourhoods and landmarks based on travel and news stories.

In many respects, it's all very familiar and leaves you with the feeling that this was almost too real and could happen!

The story is left open at the end, but there is a second book coming out close to Christmas. It's like waiting for the next episode of a good serial on television."

new excerpt from "Midnight Sun"

2010-07-03T20:21:00.000-07:00

Saira stood in the doorway of the washroom and starred back as the water drained away and Johari cleaned up.

She smiled to herself, watching the slave girl move about the room. The bangles at the girl’s wrists and ankles clinked together softly as she cleared away the paraphernalia from the bath. The taut strip of red cloth wrapping her thighs and waist were damp with the tub water, in sharp contrast with her dark skin. They hugged her nearly naked body, but they weren’t enough to hide her most intimate delicacies or the alpha-numeric code tattooed into her skin.

What a pretty girl you are, Jo.

There was something especially luxurious about baths – much more than the tub and the scalding hot water, the relaxing scents…it was Johari. It was the way Johari’s hands played across her skin when she scrubbed – they were thorough, strong. It was the way she leaned in close, smelling of scented oils and rose and ginger, bent hard at work at her daily chore. It was the way her naked breasts heaved from her exertions; they were heavy and glistening with the applied oils and the earned perspiration. It was the way their bodies moved in unison, like a dance, as she dried Saira’s body and applied the essential after-oils. It was the way she looked up from her knees, that hopeful look, seeking her Mistress’ approval and pleasure.

It’s everything about you, dear.

Saira waited, watching the girl move, her smooth lines and elegance mirroring that of her Mistress. Her mother had chosen the girl well; little did she know how well.

developing main characters

2010-06-30T07:25:00.000-07:00

Interview Questions for Main Characters

Smart re-post from Writer's Digest!

"Clubbed to Death"

2010-06-30T04:30:00.000-07:00

Music inspires so much of my writing; I couldn't do any of it without music. Here's one of my favorites! Feel the power of it!

new quote from "Midnight Sun"

2010-06-28T19:18:00.000-07:00

"But all I can think of is all the time she and I didn’t spend together, all the times we didn’t talk, all the opportunities we had to say ‘I love you’, and we didn’t. After all this time, you think you are really going to live forever and that person will always be around. And then you’re proven wrong, and it’s too late because the other person – she’s already gone. Already gone.”

helpful templates to send to booksellers for "Dying Light"

2010-06-21T06:35:00.000-07:00

To all my loyal fans,

If you are looking to help out and get "Dying Light" into your local bookstore and/or library, here are some sample letters to help you on your way. Remember, check out the local stores online and find the individual responsible for ordering books, then send him/her an email. Also be sure to cc info@canonbridge.com so my publisher can track the recipients.

Here is a handy template to make things super easy; feel free to change it up a bit so they don't all look the same. Also, when you do send this, if you modify it, please be sure to be thoughtful and not pushy. Gush over the novel so they will see that it makes good business sense to get it into their stores.

And thanks!!!

---------------------------------

FOCUSED ON BOOKSTORES

Dear [insert name of contact person here]:

I happened to run across a book sample for D. Scott Meek’s Dying Light on fReado.com. I have heard that it will be coming out in mid-to-late July, and I’m anxious to get my hands on a copy. I know I can order it online sooner than bookstores can order it, but I’d rather get it from your bookstore.

I know others feel the same way. Scott has quite a following as a new science fiction writer. He is writing in the new post-dystopia sub-genre.

You can read the sample here: http://www.freado.com/book/6910/dying-light, and if you want more information on this book, please go to the publisher’s website at http: www.canonbridge.com.

Thanks for your consideration. I’d sure love to see you get your fair share of the sales from this book, and, like I said, I’d rather get it from [insert name of bookstore here] than order it online.

Sincerely,

FOCUSED ON LIBRARIES

Dear [insert name of contact person here]:

I happened to run across a book sample for D. Scott Meek’s Dying Light on fReado.com. I have heard that it will be coming out in mid-to-late July, and I’d love to see it in our local library. I know that online booksellers will have access to it faster than libraries, but would really like to see it available for pretty much everyone.

Scott has quite a following as a new science fiction writer. He is writing in the new post-dystopia sub-genre. You can read the sample here: , and if you want more information on this book, please go to the publisher’s website at http: www.canonbridge.com.

Thanks for your consideration. I’d sure love to see it in the [insert library name here].

Sincerely,

the big tease -- first four chapters on freado.com!

2010-06-20T18:16:00.000-07:00

So, my publisher has pushed out the first four chapters of "Dying Light" on freado.com. Take a look.

This is the first real tease only 30 days away from the release of the full version. Again, part one will be available in July 2010 and part two in December 2010. In between, expect original art, short stories and other content from the world of "New Baltimore" in the year 2412!

"so what's in a name?" contest for "Dying Light"

2010-06-17T06:47:00.000-07:00

As you are probably aware, dear readers/fans, the "Dying Light" story is a three-part series, beginning with "Dying Light" and followed by "Midnight Sun" and then "One Nation", in addition to all the other works surrounding it. What other works? A prequel, for one. A possible graphic novel. A downloadable soundtrack. Original art work. Additional short stories, poetry and perhaps even news stories. The possibilities are endless.

But what I need is an overall title, so to speak. Everyone knows "Star Wars" as the fourth movie in the series, but that fourth movie is actually called "A New Hope". "Star Wars" is the overall franchise name, and that's what I'm looking for here.

So, here's the contest idea.

Comment here or to the Facebook fan page with your suggestions as to what the overall project should be called. Be creative; don't be shy.

The contest will run from the moment this post is published here (it will be subsequently published on the blog, too) until 10 July, right before the book is available for purchase.

Everyone who submits an entry is eligible to win; I don't care if you live in Australia.

On July 10, I will resubmit the entries for a vote through 15 July. The person with the coolest idea, hence the most votes, will be the winner. You may vote only once at that point. I am the final judge -- it is, after all, my project, but I won't screw someone over -- no worries.

There will be only one prize given out. The prize will be a signed copy of the book, a signed poster, and a signed original piece of art work. Honorable mentions will go out, too, and those people will get something special, as well. I don't really want to leave anyone out, but if I give away the farm, I won't have any crops left!

So, that's the deal. Tell me. Whatcha got?

bring on the art

2010-06-12T08:41:00.000-07:00

So, as I have stated in a few "Dying Light" updates on the Facebook fan page, I am soliciting artists to do some reading and create original art for the book. I have contacted a few different artists, and so far I have gotten two responses. So, it's looking good! I am very excited. I'm hoping to get a few of these pieces together over the next month and then start to use them in various ways, including as promotional items as part of posters and whatnot, or also a plain giveaways for my most ardent supporters.

It's looking very promising and of course leading up to another goal of mine: the translation of "Dying Light" into a graphic novel! :)

how to help get "Dying Light" into your bookstore

2010-06-10T06:02:00.000-07:00

"Dying Light" cannot become a world-wide best seller all by itself. It can only sit on my coffee table and look pretty unless, of course, someone sees it in a bookstore, buys it and reads it, then tells everyone they know how wonderful it is and sparks a revolution in reading really cool books!

Ok, maybe that's a stretch, but the premise is real. Yes, the book will be with online retailers and will be distributed to Canonbridge's network, but to really make it a rock solid seller will take some little effort by my heroic fans! Just a little help! Maybe 30 mins of your time?

Can you help a brotha out?

Ok, here's the plan to take the world by storm and (in an alternative reality in which we ingest lots of hallucinogenic drugs) result in a major motion picture and world-wide fame -- I promise to sign your forehead in permanent ink:

OBJECTIVE: Get "Dying Light" into every indie book store in America and the world!

TARGET: Your favorite local or national bookseller -- and any other bookseller you can think of, as well as your local, state, or national libraries -- hell, even the libraries in other COUNTRIES and inhabited planets throughout the galaxy. :)

GUIDELINES: This is a two-stage assault, and you don't even have to get up from your computer. Locate the e-mail address for the bookstore or library you have in mind. If it's one of the big dog bookstores, you may not find a local e-mail addy; you may have to go for one of the big corporate e-mail accounts. Specifically, you need to find the e-mail address for the person in charge of ordering new books. Now, compose a new e-mail to this acquisitions contact, and *BCC this e-mail address: info@canonbridge.com. You have to BCC this e-mail address so we can keep track of the requests, who made them, and who they're being sent to.

The first wave of e-mails is the first-stage, which can go NOW. The second stage, when you revisit your "targets" and start a new round of requests, will be announced as we draw closer to the hardcopy release date, which is tentatively 15 July.

RULES:
1. *NO MASS E-MAILS.* Send one at a time. The big booksellers filter out mass e-mails, and it just won't go through.
2. Send your requests from ONE e-mail address; it'll make it easier to track.
3. Make sure you're sending your requests to a VALID e-mail address for a REAL bookseller or library.
4. The word "Dying Light" has to be in the subject line.
5. Make sure to name-drop "D Scott Meek" either in the subject or in the body.
6. Be nice; be professional.

END RESULT: "Dying Light" pops up across America like a new wave of Starbucks, people see it, buy it, and we all live happily ever after and wait anxiousy for part two in December! Oh, and I love and adore you all, send you birthday and Christmas greetings and name a houseplant after you (my kids are already named, sorry)!

the winner of the back cover photo poll!

2010-06-09T09:21:00.001-07:00

So, of the five pics that I pulled from my most recent photo shoot, here's the one that received the most votes on the Facebook "Dying Light" fan page:

I think it's gonna be a pretty good choice.

posters, art and signed books, oh my!

2010-06-08T20:01:00.000-07:00

The "Dying Light" posters came in today -- if you want one, leave a comment.

Soliciting local artists also for original artwork for the book. I will have them read a scene, then draw it out -- color or black and white, pencil, pen and ink, or other medium -- sketches and/or full-color drawings. Looking for lots of different looks, and willing to spend a few bucks on some fresh ideas!

Will have to see how many books I can get from the publisher for signing and sending out to my closest friends and biggest supporters. Time is close, and I can hardly wait!!!

quote from the sequel to "Dying Light"

2010-06-07T18:13:00.001-07:00

quote from "Midnight Sun": “Yes, Mr. Nicholson. I am a vampyre. How very eloquent of you ask!” She glared at him over the clipboard. “I, however, prefer the word “person”. I am a person. You are a person. It’s very simple – being a person does not exactly imply some kind of biological or physiological qualification or trait. It does, however, require that the individual in question not be an animal or a vegetable. I most certainly am neither. Are you?”

"Dying Light" needs your help getting the book in stores

2010-06-07T11:54:00.000-07:00

vampire shot?

2010-06-03T06:39:00.000-07:00

the Vampire

1 oz Chambord® raspberry liqueur
1 oz vodka
1 oz cranberry juice

I think it's needs a little upgrade to make it into a "Dying Light".

new excerpt from "Dying Light"

2010-05-31T17:49:00.001-07:00

Charlotte gunned the engine, and the Charger responded, but the flickering headlights and blaring siren did little to move the traffic. It was bumper to bumper. It was 5pm. It was a Thursday evening in June, and there was little to do with the traffic on Massachusetts Ave except grin and bear it and hope for a break. But that wasn’t something she could do, not after the call.

She slammed on the horn, but its tinny warning was lost in the din of the street, a whisper in the everlasting dialogue of the commuter army. The red U-Move-It box truck in front of her belched black smoke in defiance, inching ahead. The parked cars along the sides of the street taunted her with blank stares, empty windows staring back innocently at the unmarked police car. Nothing was moving except a hot breeze through the window, a sweltering summer demon. She pulled at her blouse. It clutched at her chest and arms, clinging greedily to the damp flesh underneath. A trickle of sweat ran down between her breasts. She considered the AC again, but frowned and ignored it.

She slammed the horn again, and threw her head back against the seat. “Move it, motherfuckers! This is an emergency!!” Somewhere in the back of her head a voice called for her to pull her weapon and fire it out the window; they’d surely move then! If there was anywhere to go.

She waited. There was nothing else to do. There was no way around. No ambulance, no fire truck, or seemingly no policeman was getting through this. The car inched forward, and suddenly it was if the siren had faded away and she could hear the radio crackle to life with its haunting message again.

“Sgt Renfro, respond to a disturbance at 2814 Woodland Drive NW. Officers proceeding to the scene. Call-in is domestic: 273 David.”

She hadn’t answered, only looked in the mirror, the almond-shaped eyes staring back brimming with fear. She’d tossed the cold coffee out into a waiting trashcan and cranked the engine. There was only one thought in her head as she’d pulled onto New York Ave: ‘No, Mom; not again.’ Her hands were shaking so violently when she reached for the handset that she couldn’t even pick it up. She gunned the gas, leaving behind the Wendy’s and the cool luxury of a 32oz coke being handed out through the drive-thru window. Everything would have to wait.

Her hands still shook, and she gripped the wheel, squeezing it until her knuckles were white. She couldn’t bear the thought of seeing them shaking again. Just like she couldn’t fathom that her mother had probably hit her father again, so much so this time that perhaps he had called the cops, or even worse that the neighbors – fucking busybodies! – had heard some kind of fight and called the police themselves!

Not again. Damnit!

Summer had started early this year, but she refused to put up the windows and cut on the air conditioner. It fed her anger, her exhaustion, her fear. And while it seemed counterintuitive, she welcomed that additional stress and irritation. Just for the moment, she would relish her anger, hold onto it. Maybe she could use it to finally get through to her mother, not let her be so domineering.

How can she have done it again? How can she have hit him? Beat him? How can she have done this? Doesn’t she know I’m a cop?

The truck moved, pulling right and angling into an empty nook near the sidewalk. It was just enough for her to get by, and she whipped around it without a moment’s hesitation, breaking into Dupont Circle and watching the traffic scramble to get out of her way as she roared around the roundabout. She nearly clipped a silver Volvo micro-compact, and she could hear the little car’s bio-electric engine whining as she whizzed by. She cursed under her breath and spun the wheel back to the right to land back on Massachusetts NW. Traffic was lighter here, farther away from downtown, and even though she was less than a mile and a half away from the house, she knew the drive at rush hour it could still take 10-15 more minutes. The light at Florida Ave was red, but she eased through, and at Rock Creek drive, she spun the wheel right and floored it, racing past the elegant homes that lined the street.

Swinging left, she rounded the corner at Woodland, but she eased off of the accelerator, uncertain of what might lie just around the bend in the road, what secrets were about to revealed in the bright light of the Washington DC sun. Looking up, she could see cars massed in the street right in front of her parents’ home. Beyond them the red brick of the Georgian-style house towered over the heavily manicured landscaping, contrasting sharply with the pale, twisted cypress trees that dotted the foundation plantings and the blue and white of District of Columbia patrol cars.

Sgt Donnelly was waiting on the curb, fanning himself. He leaned down and peered at Charlotte over his sun glasses. His hand was out, palm open in a “hold on, wait a minute” gesture. He was serious, and he stepped over in front of her as she walked up. “Charlie, hold up a second.” They’d known each other for years, having gone through the academy together, but he’d opted for homicide while she went to catch drug dealers. DC was rife with crime and had been the unfortunate recipient of the title of “Murder Capital of America” on and off for over 40 years. Even in 2036, on the tail end of a global war, they hadn’t figured out how to slow the killing down.

“What the fuck, Donny? Spill or get out of the way. This is my mom and dad’s place. I’ll cool her down.” She looked at the half-dozen cars out front, frowning, shaking her head. “Why the hell is the whole force here?”

He acknowledged her frown with one of his own, touching her lightly on the shoulder. He’d known her long enough to see past her anger and see the fear. “It was a normal 911 hit. Neighbor walking by heard screams. Can’t shut that down, Charlie. But we called you right away when we got the address. No one’s been in. This is your mess, so we’re gonna sit back and let you clean, k?” He was straight-forward, looking her in the eye. “We got your back if you need anything, and there’s been no evidence of any violence, but diplomat or no, there may be some repercussions for your parents.” He let it sink in for a second and then backed out of her way, both hands up to let her pass. “Sorry, babe.”

“Thanks, Donny.” She shot him a half-smile, and stepped onto the sidewalk. He’d done all he could do to keep it out of the public eye, to tone it down, but a 911 made it official. Luckily for her, she thought, he’d been nearby when the call had gone out. Then, on the heels of that thought, she had a new, frightening idea.

Donny is homicide.

She shook off that thought and rushed up the walk. For the first time in her life, she walked up the path to see her parents and she was afraid. The door was ajar. She pushed it in slowly, suddenly hesitant.

Why would someone have called in “screams”?

“Mom?!” she said, and stepped in. The house smelled of cigarette smoke and camellias. “Dad?! Where are you guys?!” She pushed the door to and turned around. “Mom!”

She blinked as her eyes adjusted from the brightness outside to the darkened foyer. With the door nearly closed and the shades drawn in both adjoining rooms, the house was dark and eerily quiet. Looking around, she crept forward and surveyed the area. Her footfalls seemed unusually loud in the menacing silence. The foyer and dining room looked normal, but on the right, dark or not, she could see that the study was a wreck. Light spilled in between the blinds, accentuating slivers of chaos, dust motes floated like gold powder suspended in the slim slats of sunlight. Books littered the floor. Her mother’s desk was on its side, its contents scattered everywhere. What was always the most organized and immaculate room in the house was wrecked.

Jesus! What the hell is going on! Is this why Donny’s here? Are they sure this is a 273 David? None of their fights have ever been this violent.

“Mom!” she called and drew her gun. The thought that this wasn’t, in fact, a domestic violence call battered her mind like a tornado. She stumbled as she stepped towards the study. Grabbing at the doorway with her free hand, Charlotte steadied herself against the howling winds in her head and now the churning in her stomach. She scanned the room, trying to focus, looking for more evidence. There was nothing here other than the mess, a sure sign of a violent fight. She’d never seen anything like this, even at the worst of times, even before her mother had quit drinking.

Something clicked in her mind and she thought about the moment she’d entered the house, her eyes trailing after her thoughts, back to the half-closed door there and its implications. There had been no sign of forced entry. The door had been open when the cops had arrived.

And Donny didn’t say anything about anyone coming in. So who opened the door? And why didn’t they get out?

The only problem was that no one had answered her call. Nor had any of the cops even approached the house, even though Donny had said there were “screams” coming from inside. There had to be a logical conclusion somewhere, a misunderstanding, something that connected the call to the door to the history of the couple who still occupied this house. She could feel a welcome calm coming as she began to analyze the situation, look at it as a crime. As much as she didn’t want to think of it that way, as hard as her heart pounded in her chest at the very suggestion of a crime, she followed that thought path. It calmed her stomach. After seven years, she’d learn to find calm in the analysis of the crime scene, and she desperately needed it now.

Door open, but no one came in, except for me. Focus. No blood. But this room is destroyed!

There was only one answer in her head now, and unless there was forced entry somewhere else – the back door perhaps, or a window, then it had meant someone had been about to leave but hadn’t, that they had maybe worked it out and one of them, probably her father – she was sure, hadn’t stormed out.

They are both here somewhere. Upstairs maybe. Talking. Can’t hear me. Making up. Both drunk and passed out. Something. Something ok. It has to be ok.

She stepped over the fallen books and the antique lamp her father had given her mother as a wedding gift in Singapore long before they had moved here and she had been born. Three of the five bowls were cracked, the amber glass in pieces on the dark Oriental rug. There was still no sign of blood on the floor or furniture, yet it seemed like the entire room had been hit by a cyclone. Looking up, she peered into the great room and stepped around a fallen bookcase. It had been cracked in two and twisted half through the doorway. Charlotte starred at the thick mahogany backbone of the shelving and shook her head, holding onto that last thought.

Ok. Ok. It’ll be ok.

Past the doorway, the great room was trashed. And just behind the overturned divan, splotches of crimson dotted the beige rug. Her eyes locked in on the dark patches, and she sucked in a shuddering breath, shocked and unexpectedly moved. The tears crowded together in the sharp corners of her eyes, clouding her vision. She reached up to wipe them away, to try to hold back the growing flood. She was frozen in place, the blood looming closer, ever closer as if it flowed towards her. Charlotte exhaled suddenly, blinking away the tears that clung to her skin, pulled downward across her high cheekbones by the inevitable pull of gravity.

She clawed at her eyes, pistol still raised, questions still flooding her head, until a sickening shriek broke through the mental maelstrom. And without a thought, she bolted forward, carefully bounding over the blood stains on the area rug to preserve the evidence. She whipped around the corner and took the stairs two at a time. The scream had clearly come from upstairs, but she wasn’t sure if it was the from the second floor or the half-story third. Perhaps outside they had heard the scream and would come running, but she pushed that thought away. Whatever was happening here and now had to handled immediately, and if there was indeed a perp on the premises, she would deal with him quickly and completely.

Charlotte paused at the top of the broad staircase, swinging the Smith & Wesson L223 around. A gentle squeeze activated the targeting laser, shooting the beam out across the shadowy upper foyer. There was nothing here, only the sound of her breathing and the play of the laser across the paneled doors on either side of the room. And then she remembered the blood and dropped to a crouch, her eyes darting between the possible exits and the floor. There, just to the right of her foot, she could see more blood – no more than a few drops, but it led away from the steps to the left. She followed.

Every few steps there was more blood, sometimes fallen and pooled cleanly, and other times it was smeared with a footprint until the pale white of the marble floor began to take on a reddish tint. The blood led to the a pair of identical double doors, the master bedroom. Pausing outside, she steeled herself against nightmarish visions that threatened. She gripped the Smith & Wesson tightly, trying to calm herself in the comforting grip, the familiarity of the doors before her, the childhood memories of flying down the steps behind her.

Mom. Dad. I’m here. Just tell me it’s ok.

She reached out to the doors; stopped. Her hand was shaking. She stared at it, willing it to stop, but wouldn’t stop moving, as if somewhere in her brain the control switch was broken. She swallowed, and took a deep breath, trying to concentrate, trying to calm herself. Taking the pistol in both hands, she squeezed it tightly, and biting angrily down on her lip, she suddenly leaned back and kicked the doors in. They flew in and crashed against the walls with a hollow thump, and she charged into the room, kneeling to reduce her own target cross-section, the laser streaking out ahead into the blackness. She squinted against the lack of light, frowning at the heavy drapes she knew were covering the windows, and spinning to the right as the massive chamber opened up back towards the inside of the house. She swept the room quickly, but there was no movement and no sound.

The blood.

She scanned the carpet underfoot, keeping an eye on the two doors, the one open doorway leading out, the other deeper into the room towards the master bath. Yes! The blood continued around the corner. She could just make it out in the dark pile. It led ahead, forward into the bathroom.

One of them must have cut themselves and come here while the other followed. That’s it. That’s all.

She clutched at reasons, and yet there was still one annoying thought tap-tapping at her brain: no one had answered her call or reacted to her kicking in the doors. And she hadn’t imagined the scream. She was sure of that. She could hear it playing over and over in her head, that horrifying sound coming from the upstairs, a sign that something was wrong, that one or both of her parents was in trouble. And yet here she was, kneeling in their master bedroom only inches from the huge king-sized bed that she used to leap into to wake up sleeping parents early on weekend mornings. And there was a trail of blood coming here all the way from the great room.

Slowly she climbed to her feet, eyes still fixed on the short hall, leading back to the master bath. She opened her mouth to call out for her mother again, but just like the first time when she noticed the blood, she stopped, held back. Something wasn’t right, regardless of how she was rationalizing it. She was very aware of that now – how she was disturbed and yet creating reasonable circumstances that could explain this situation. It was the only logical thing to do given the incredible circumstances, and maybe, she thought for a moment, she should have brought Donny into the house with her.

The blood was heavier in this room, and heavier still as it trailed down the little hallway between the open closets on both sides. She could see her mother’s suits and a few dresses neatly arranged, see the shoes racked neatly and organized. But the blood kept nagging her, and she realized she’d seen no ambulance! She’d have to call it in, but she didn’t even know what was going on. She was sure it’d not been more than five minutes since she came into the house, and while the blood on the stair and the outer room was still fresh and glistening, there was so much of it here that there was no time left.

I’ve got to just go in there.

She sighed, hesitating. Her feet felt like they were encased in concrete. Her hands were up and pointing the laser down the hallway, but she hadn’t moved, couldn’t move. She didn’t want to know what was at the other end of the hallway.

Move! Go! Get up, goddamnit! Someone could be bleeding to death in there!

She heard the words in her head, but her body wouldn’t respond. Somewhere there was a button to push, a lever to pull, a catch to release that would make her body respond, and yet as much as she attempted to release the switch and stride confidently ahead, she could only stumble forward, her foot snagging on the high pile carpeting. Her hands reached out, and she caught herself as she tumbled to the floor, grunting. The laser sighting winked out for a second, and then she regripped the pistol, aiming the red beam down the hall. The jar of the fall had released her from the blood’s spell, the magic of the dark, suddenly mysterious house she’d thought she knew by heart. This time the house wasn’t inviting; it was alien, forbidding, even menacing, but the cobwebs had shaken loose, and she was up again, this time with determination in her face, her jaw set, lip firmly between her teeth.

Staying to the left of the trail of blood, she tip-toed forward. Something in the back of her head nagged at her: no one had answered. No one had answered. The house was too quiet. She could hear the voice more and more clearly as it seemed to gain volume. She slipped past the two closets, pressing in against her father’s side, brushing against his hanging clothes. She could smell his cologne lingering there, the outdated scent he preferred and could only get via the internet.

Dad.

The bathroom door was ajar, blood on the knob, blood on the edge where hands had pulled it open – or closed? It was too much of a mess, and it was no longer important. The answer to all of her questions was a moment away, and she swallowed, and tipped open the door with the barrel of the Smith & Wesson.

The bathroom was pitch black. In a moment of fumbling, she found and flipped on the light switch, calling out one last time, “Dad? Mom?” The lights flared overhead, and she blinked, suddenly blinded. Across the stained floor, she could see the body of her father lying against the tub, blood all around his lifeless body. And she screamed and rushed forward, ignoring the slick floor. “Dad!! Dad!!” Her breath caught in her throat as she dropped to her knees next to him, slipping her gun quickly into her holster and reaching for him. He was still warm, but as she grabbed his shoulder and pulled him around, she screamed, knowing it was too late. Blood still spurted from his flayed neck, his jugular gasping its last. His face was slashed in several places, as if a knife had ripped the skin open all across his cheek and jaw. Tears flooded her vision, blurring the destruction before her, and she smeared his blood across her face as she tried to wipe the flood away.

Reaching for her phone, she fumbled it open and dialed 911 through the sobs. A moment later the operator picked up, and she flipped it to speakerphone. The line crackled, and the operator’s voice echoed across the room, only Charlotte couldn’t hear it. She didn’t hear the first word from the 911 operator as she stared off to the right at the figure crouching in the shadow of the shower. It peered back at her from around the edge of the glass door, its face contorted in an inhuman grimace. Its hair was black and tangled around its blood-covered face, and underneath the thick strands of hair its eyes looked out as if it was taking aim.

Charlotte dropped the phone and slid her hand slowly up towards her holster, afraid to make a sudden move. She’d left the strap off, but she double-checked with her fingers as she stared back at the huddled mass only a dozen feet away. The operator’s voice faded into the distance; only her voice came to her, calming, soothing, entreating her to focus and move.

Draw the gun. Draw the gun. Slowly. No sudden moves. Easy. Easy does it.

The pistol pulled free, and she concentrated, moving as slowly as she could, forcing herself to breath. The phone was only inches away somewhere near her feet – she knew that, but she wouldn’t risk a look down to find it. And yet she had to call the ambulance if there was any chance left for her father. Still, she couldn’t get over the creature staring back at her. It was mesmerizing even as it was horrifying, covered in her father’s blood, the terrifying bluish eyes beaming back at her, and what looked like claws extending as much as two inches from the ends of the fingertips as they gripped the edge of the shower door.

Gun. Phone. Gun then phone. Do it.

Her voice sounded feeble in her own head; fearful, but she slowly raised the pistol and squeezed, activating the laser. Twisting, she shifted her weight and swung slowly around, her free hand trailing the floor, fingers searching for the phone. And suddenly it rang, a piercing scream in the dead silence, and the monster in the shower stall shrieked in response, bursting from its lair. It crossed the space between them in a split second, catching Charlotte by the neck and shoulder and hurling her effortlessly backwards. The claws raked across her flesh, and she winced as the skin opened up in both places and her back and skull slammed against the wall. She been aiming at the creature the whole time, but it was on her so fast she hadn’t even fired a shot.

Dazed, she slumped to the floor, looking up, blinking through the pain that rattled her. The monster stood over her father as if it was protecting its kill, and it crouched in a flurry of motion, sweeping back her father’s head and tearing at his neck with its teeth. A fresh jet of blood spurted out across the floor. A sickening suckling noise erupted from the terrible pair, but it lasted only a moment, and the creature through the wasted body to the floor and looked up again, eyes fixed on its next prize.

Oh my God!

The blue eyes fixed on her for only a second before Charlotte slumped to the side and flipped over on all fours, scrambling towards the door. It was all clear to her now, and the flashes of memory played across her mind as she made for the door and a chance to escape. Her father had been trapped in the house with the monster, whatever it was. It was he who had screamed, he who had tried to get out by opening the front door, and then he who had tried to lock himself in the bathroom. She pulled the door open, still crawling. She could almost see him now, bleeding and taking the stairs two at a time like he always did, trailing the blood behind him. He’d been caught for a moment in the bedroom, hence the greater amount of blood, and then gotten free for a moment to get down the little hall to the bathroom. But he hadn’t gotten the door closed in time.

A crushing grip caught her ankle and pulled. Charlotte half screamed, half yelled, rolling over and bringing up the pistol. She kicked at the creature hovering over her, kicked the bathroom door, hoping it would someone how dislodge the impossible grip. The laser swung up, center mass on the target, and she fired. Three times she pulled the trig, and the bloody figure shrieked. And for just a moment, the grip loosened and Charlotte kicked away into the hall, her back sliding across the blood-stained carper, legs flailing and pushing her along.

Donny! Jesus! Where are you? Don’t you hear the shots, goddamnit? Donny!

((to be continued...))

less than 60 days to go!!!

2010-05-27T07:25:00.000-07:00

So, "Dying Light" is about this close to being a reality! (See my fingers and how close my forefinger and thumb are together?)

Yikes! I have so much to do! And I'm going to try and remember it all right now.

- get headshots (contact Robert)
- get back cover finished (send material to Katy)
- get website up (coordinate with Katy)
- cancel body painting (contact Jen)
- contact sister for possible book signing dealio in MS in July (Stephanie)
- look over checklist from publicist (call Lisa)
- figure out was else publisher needs (email from Maggie)
- get back with Urbanite, and check in with City Paper, Atomic Books and B!
- drink heavily!

Ok, so far that sounds pretty good -- a sizable checklist for anyone not already doing MANY other things. Whew!

Now, have to get the dates for the Philly, New York, and Baltimore Comic Cons in my calendar and on my short list for travel. And while the Philly one is prior to the book launch, I may still be able to make some contacts.

I'd still love to find an artist to do some art for me for the book that I can give away to fans and use as promotional materials, but no luck there yet. It would be very cool to have some original sketches and pen-and-inks, which I will happily pay for if I can just find someone.

Yes, only about 900 things left to do, so I best get on it and stop procrastinating!

"Midnight Sun" -- excerpt from the sequel to "Dying Light"

2010-05-26T07:44:00.001-07:00

Leaning his head back, he felt more than heard the crowd noise wash over him. The voices of the mob reverberated in the grand space, and their energy transformed into endless aftershocks that seemed to shake the entire stadium. It seemed as if the building was itself alive, as if it breathed on its own – a collective gasp, a blood-thirsty roar, shrieks of delight and revulsion, a sigh, laughter, and a final magnificent cheer.

Cain opened his eyes again and watched as three emaciated men came out in red jumpsuits and boots to the unmitigated boos of the crowd to collect the corpse from the stage. The boos weren’t particular to the three; they were focused on the quick kill, the fallen man who was unceremoniously hauled away. His body would be picked over later by the sponsors, then cast down the incinerator chute like all the rest. He was a poor test for the victor, and the crowd let it be known.

In the middle of the raised platform, nearly a meter up and a half-dozen from the prime seats, the victor raised his hands to the warm bloodlust of the throng. He snarled back at the crowd, revealing jagged black plasti-steel teeth and perverting the pale scar that snaked up from the corner of his mouth nearly to his eye. It made him look as if his whole face could open up to engulf an opponent, a sickening display in the spotty lighting. Encouraged by the crowd, he paced the very edge of the square platform, screaming down at them and gesturing. Blood was splattered across his gleaming, bare chest and dripped from the hook blade that protruded wickedly from his elbow. It had been the instrument of death, a killing blow straight into the back of the other’s skull. Quick and clean, he’d moved with efficiency and lethal elegance, toppling his third and final opponent with a panache that had brought the mob to its feet in thunderous applause.

'I wonder if he’d survive an encounter with a vampyre.'

The man known as “Kazda”, the name the crowd was echoing in unison, stopped at the near corner, looking out across the crowd, brandishing his blood-slick elbow blade. He flashed the metallic claws on his opposite hand, tearing at the empty air that separated him from the throng, a rabid lot that clamored for his attention from a safe distance. He searched the crowd slowly, working his way along the innermost rows of the privileged, glaring at the patrons of the sport and gnashing his teeth. He growled fiercer every time he saw a man or woman cringe or look away, clearly enjoying the sport of their fear, laughing and moving on until he came to a pair of eyes that wouldn’t flinch.

Cain stared back at the brute unfazed, his head casually against the high seatback, arms crossed. The two exchanged a long look, pink eyes in the crowd reflected in the dark brown orbs on the platform. He could nearly feel the heat of the stare, the blaze in the man’s eyes, but he couldn’t identify what he saw there. Insanity with its warped clarity? Haze of drugs? Pure bloodlust and rage? There’s was no way to read the man, no way to tell what was going on behind the horrifying mask of his face, and a moment later he’d turned away, taunting the crowd again, driving them back to frenzy.

"Midnight Sun" -- getting back to the sequel

2010-05-23T18:59:00.000-07:00

It seems like it's been so long since I've been working on the sequel, and I miss the new characters and the exciting story that is unfolding in their lives. The coolest thing is that I have hardly any idea what is going to happen. I have a few ideas, but most of the journey will happen as I write it, and that's all I'll know until it's on the page. :)

"Dying Light" -- the Blood Virus

2010-05-12T07:34:00.000-07:00

In 2036, the world celebrated the death knell of the global jihad. The modern Islamist crusade against “the infidel” died as moderate Muslims rose up against the tyranny of corrupt mullahs and oppressive "theocrats". The fundamentalist fanatics had not destroyed America or liberal Western democracy, nor had Islamism swept across the planet. In a final desperate stroke, the dying movement unleashed what would be called “The Tears of Allah”, but in the West they simply called it the "Blood Virus".

The year is 2412.

excerpt from "Dying Light" -- the alley

2010-05-11T05:23:00.000-07:00

"Dying Light" update -- editing done for part one!

2010-05-09T20:05:00.000-07:00

done -- cranked out the editing for the last five chapters of part one (scheduled release July 2010) this weekend, now a final read-through and then it's off to see the Wizard!

"Dying Light" -- the first review

2010-05-07T08:01:00.000-07:00

So, even though the book isn't out yet, I figured I would just go ahead and write the first review. I mean, I know the story pretty well, so why not? Here goes:

Dying Light by D. Scott Meek

"Dying Light" (part one/Jun 2010 and part two/Dec 2010) straight rocked the house! I mean wow! I couldn't have written it better myself. There are so many great things I want to say about this book, but I'll try and keep myself to a reasonable length.

If you are looking for a major genre-bender, this is it! Is it science fiction? Horror? Romance? Mystery? Thriller? It's truly a little of everything, depending on in which part of the story the reader finds himself. Officially Scott is calling it "Post Dystopia", which means that the world has evolved beyond the initial kind of totalitarian repressive government that most post-apocalyptic books find themselves in.
"Dying Light" is a true roller coaster ride from start to finish, and although there are a few parts in which the reader must sit tight and let the coast crank slowly up the hill, the ride down is breath-taking. Scott really knows how to put on a show with his daring escapes, near-death moments, cold-blooded murder and the foreboding that permeates the novel. One minute the reader finds himself ducking through a crowd in a deadly knife fight, the next he's witnessing a gruesome killing, and the next is a nightmarish flashback.

There are some non-action-packed moments, too. But let's get back to the action. Holy crap! Did she just do that? And I thought she was the good guy. Wait a minute. Who the fuck actually is the good guy? I am having a hard time telling.

Anyway, um, you should definitely buy this book. I mean, hell, the guy is even half-way decent looking. If he puts his picture on the back cover, you're getting twice the deal -- a cool story and a great photoshopped pictured to boot! Who could ask for more? Yes, you...and you...and you over there crouching behind the comic books. But don't worry, if you don't know, this is really only the beginning of the actual story, which will be told in the sequels "Midnight Sun" and "One Nation". I can't wait to read, er, write them!

Two thumbs way, way up on "Dying Light"!

"Dying Light" update

2010-04-30T06:34:00.000-07:00

DL fans, today I want to ask of you one thing: share this note on your FB page, and let's crank up the 'viewers'. Just click 'share'! Thanks!

-------------------------------------------

"Dying Light"

-- a sci-fi thriller available in July 2010 everywhere!

In the 24th century, a new world order society mercilessly eradicates the last victims of the Blood Virus. "Vampyres", constantly in fear of discovery and persecution, live and walk among humans as ordinary people with an extraordinary reality and a haunting past; a deal to save the last vampyres is struck, but deception and betrayal ensure that while the sun will rise tomorrow, no one knows who will live to see it.

Vampyres + science fiction + thriller = win!

new excerpt from "Dying Light"

2010-04-22T18:23:00.001-07:00

Every few steps Michael looked down at his foot to make sure it was still there. Blood trailed behind him as he trudged across the barren field. It trickled out of the hole in the boot sole, his life dripping onto the ground a few drops at a time. He could see the cloth wrapped tightly around the boot, feel the strips as they dug into his ankle underneath, almost hear the gentle whisper of the crimson liquid between his toes.

But everything that reached his ears was muffled. Her voice trailed along beside him, quietly whispering encouragement, enticing words that were more felt than heard, muffled vowels and consonants with only an underlying meaning: “survive.”.

That red haze that had dominated his vision was seeping back into the corners of his eyes. Or perhaps it was a mist that was rising from the ground. Everywhere he looked he could see it swirling, twisting around his legs as they propelled him forward, creeping over the turf, invading every space. The fog had started with only a hint, a tinge of red. Perhaps it was his blood reacting with the ground after each step. Perhaps it was seeping out of his very pores, desperate to escape the dying vessel. He blinked to clear his vision, but every new glance found the mist hovering around him like a shroud.

Her voice again – she leaned in close, but he felt the words on his ear more than heard them, felt the grip around and under his shoulders as he leaned back into her for support. The warm breath caressed his left ear, sending tingling sensations down his spine, but the words were lost in the translation, in the millimeters of air between them. A new noise roared over the sound of her voice, a steady thundering beat that grew louder as they moved along. He cast about to find its source, but there was nothing but the crimson haze hovering over the field around them, the outlines of vertical and horizontal planes and shapes before them, and ascending platforms rising into the darkness above.

Blood.

chapter 11 edits done, and a little about flashbacks

2010-04-12T19:25:00.000-07:00

Chapter 11 edits are done -- added in a scene from a deadly moment in the wintry steppes of 21st century Uzbekistan -- how is this related to New Baltimore in 2412? wait and see!

Yes, flashbacks are a very important part of the story. Some conventional writing wisdom says that they should be avoided at all costs. Sometimes I wonder how authors can do without them. Yes, they can have their characters think back, but the key to flashbacks is to get the reader into the middle of the memorable scene. By doing that, the author allows the reader to experience the scene with the character(s) in question. It also allows the author to add in suspense, terror and all kinds of other aspects while embedding essentially story-building or character-building content.

Perhaps there are better ways to do it, but I prefer the flashback. And if it is effective and done well, it should leave the reader with a sense of satisfaction, just like the rest of the story.

a "Dying Light" moment

2010-04-09T06:16:00.000-07:00

"There for a moment had been the purest delight, a breath of fresh air in this stagnant place, a glimmer of light in this land of darkness. It was horrifying, and yet, it was so deeply fulfilling. He laid there on the floor struggling with the vision playing in his mind’s eye – the sweet stickiness of the nectar countered by the desperate despair of death."

Book Release Party

2010-04-09T04:56:00.000-07:00

Trying to figure out what to do about the book release party -- check out my input on the discussion boards and then chime in -- every little bit with help it rock!

So many ideas flowing right now, and two different people I'm looking to for advice are throwing two different things at me, so I have to figure out what is best. Luckily I have them to rely on, so I'm not complaining, but there are still decisions to be me, thus I've sent the advice of each to the other, and then when I get feedback, I'll compare them and decide.

Then comes the set-up. Gotta contact the places, figure out a budget and a date, then begin the process of planning out the parties, getting the word out, and making sure everything on the list is checked-off.

So far the ideas are to have more than one party, a smaller "friends" one in July right after the book comes out, and maybe even two more, one in Baltimore and one in New York, to invite critics/reviewers or newspaper/publishing people to. The more people who get involved, the better.

It's going to be fun, and even when it seems like work, I have to remind myself that it's yet another opportunity to be creative. That said, I can't forget that I still have half a book to edit before any of this can happen! haha

new "Dying Light" cons from Converse!!!

2010-04-05T18:55:00.000-07:00

I just went to the Converse website and designed an exclusive (and labelled on the shoe) "Dying Light" hi-top canvas sneaker! was fun!

working on the book trailer

2010-03-28T18:24:00.001-07:00

still fiddling with the book trailer, but i did finally find the right music! whew! had to listen to hundreds of cuts to get just what i wanted. now have to sort through hundreds of pictures to find the right ones; maybe write a short script or outline, too, and then see how it all fits together.

new excerpt from "Dying Light"

2010-03-24T09:45:00.000-07:00

twitter update

2010-03-23T11:02:00.001-07:00

You can now follow "DyingLightNovel" on Twitter and contact the vampyres at dyinglight@rocketmail.com!

"Dying Light" update 3/17/10dy

2010-03-17T19:36:00.001-07:00

the editing of chapter 7 of "Dying Light" is done! on to chapter 8 tomorrow and Fri night!

excerpt from "Dying Light" (NSFW)

2010-03-17T08:49:00.000-07:00

She smirked at the gimp, and stepped off the lift, trailing the other two riders, and stepped into the broad expanse of the club, a cavernous chamber stretching ahead in a fiery darkness. She paused to take in the wicked glamour of the spectacle, letting Jeramiah and Naseem go on ahead.

The space before her was magnificent, and she beamed with pride at the recent changes, updates she’d only just suggested. But they always moved quickly when she snapped her fingers. As she did now, and only moments later a boy clad only in stiff leather shorts appeared and accepted her cloak. He held his arms out to catch the wrap, eyes fixed on the floor, following the protocol of the club. “Mistress,” he breathed, turned and was gone.

The reconfigured structure had once been the Mount Vernon Place United Methodist Church, a stunning Victorian Gothic structure built in 1872 on the site of the former Key mansion, home and final resting place of the author of the Star Spangled Banner. The church had avoided catastrophe twice, the Great Baltimore Fire of 1904 and the Second Great Baltimore Fire of 2136, the year of the ‘blood virus’ plague. The walnut pews, all hand carved by a single man, and the original stained glass windows depicting scenes of nature and mirroring the reliefs on the outer walls, were gone, as was the stained glass Connick cross, which hung over the altar for centuries. Rediscovered in the bowels of the city only a few decades earlier, Emily had led the way in its revitalization until it had lost its original purpose and God had been replaced with sin. Irreverently, the entire structure had been methodically refurbished and updated, the place transformed into what it represented now – Hell on Earth.

Invisible lights beamed down from the shadows above, hanging from delicate chains and emitting laser-like streaks of red luminescence like rays of blood-red moonlight. The lights mixed with the translucent gray mist that swirled chaotically just above the floor, giving the impression of walking through Hades itself. In all directions, flames from thick red candles danced in the cool air, illuminating dark corners and casting astonishing shadows on the mist hiding the parquet floor. In place of the old pews, the floor of the former cathedral was littered with couches, divans and ancient iron tables, remnants and replicas of antique designs.

Emily started forward, her black dress clinging tightly to her slight figure. She crept forward, taking in the scene, basking in the hedonistic glory that flooded her senses. She slipped through the dense crowd, passing pockets of people standing together, feeling the silk and leather brushing against her body. Breathing in deeply, she devoured the sweet scent of the club, the erotic perfume of lust. She inhaled scented oil and touched slick naked bodies. Her eyes washed over the scene and lingered over each juicy detail. Here a woman in simple bands of shiny silver plastic held sway over a crowd of nearly naked men, their arousal obvious. There a man clad in a deep blue thobe sipped from a champagne flute while fondling the erection of his attendant slave, a man nearly half again his size and sporting silver rings in his ears, nose, eyebrows and nipples. Two women in exquisite gold lame and elaborate helmets sprouting amethyst and navy peacock-like feathers stood silently behind their Mistress, hands and elbows locked behind their backs with thick black cord.

Shifting the darkness, her eyes twisted the light and opened up the darkened corners and nooks of the crowded club, revealing the cornucopia of pleasures that held court there. A naked man was bound to the green inner wall of the church writhing as another man kneeling before him brought him to climax. A small woman, more petite even than Emily, stood by and watched the scene, egging the kneeling man on with sharp words and a long, slim plastic rod. The nearby candelabra revealed the welts on his finely-sculpted bottom and bizarre brand on his right shoulder blade.

Still moving, Emily slipped past a black leather chaise near the center of the floor, nodding to Mistress Katya as she was attended by two hairless men clad in simple black collars. They knelt on all fours on either side of her. Silver trays balanced perfectly on their glistening backs and proffered a collection of crystal glasses on one side and a selection of edible delicacies on the other. A young blonde woman, naked except for a tight corset, was writhing in Katya’s lap. One of the Mistress’ hands was holding the slave in place by her tight ponytail; the other hand teased the writhing girl’s glistening sex. Elena looked up from her ministrations to wink as Emily walked by, and Emily swept up a wine-filled glass from one of the trays and walked on.

Already she could feel her nipples hardening, a subtle throbbing between her legs. Emily tipped the glass to her open lips, savoring the delicate flavor of the wine, eyes still roving. The flute went to her lips again and again as she strolled through the orgy of pleasure, drinking in the visual feast. She smiled to herself as she looked from side to side, watching the crowd take its pleasure. She strode through the sea of sexual energy as if gliding on the waves of the crowd’s ecstasy. She took it all in, eyes darting left and right across the room, up to the balconies leaning out over the main floor and down to the couches and tables in the various recesses. Oiled bodies gleamed in the low, hellish light – heaving chests and erect nipples. She turned as she strolled by a heavily-muscled man, his engorged cock forced out towards her by the extreme restraint of his arms behind his back, causing his hips to thrust out embarrassingly. As she passed him, her black fingernail dug a path along the length of his shaft. He groaned from the contact and his hips instinctively thrust out even farther. Winking, she turned away.

I’ll have that later, I think. Marianna will understand if I covet her little treasure. She’ll indulge me if she knows what’s good for her. Mmmmm.

Glancing back, she revisited the powerful body for a moment, saw the tortured look in his eyes as her fingernail had scratched the tender underside of the head of his cock. His hair was naturally blonde, falling away from his head in waves, and she was sure his eyes were green, a very bright green. It was impossible to tell now. But there was no doubt about his appeal. She was sure she would enjoy breaking him.

Humans are so much fucking fun to play with.

the how's and why's of "Dying Light", the novel

2010-03-15T10:25:00.001-07:00

a lot of people ask me about the novel -- ok, i talk about the novel a lot, promote it here, and post a few excerpts now and again, so i thought that since i'm cranking out the end of book two during this National Novel Writing Month and therefore discussing writing even more with people trying to create a work of their own that i would spit out a few things about how this book has developed over the last two years. pardon my own cock-a-hoop (look it up) moment, but what the hell.

how did this thing get going? it's based loosely on a horrorotica 511-word flash fiction called "Claws" that i wrote several years ago about the aftermath of a particularly gruesome murder -- essentially a sexual encounter gone wrong. from there it evolved into a short story and then a second short story with an alternative ending and a slight sci-fi feel. the question was: who is this guy? the character didn't even have a name, a background, or even a species -- he obviously wasn't exactly human; he had claws and fangs and a really sinister feel. finally one day someone suggested i make the whole thing into a novel, and so i decided to take a shot.

now about 200,000 words (roughly 600 pages) later, i'm staring at the end of a sci-fi/urban fantasy/dystopian thriller about a woman who is bent on revenge and murder.

now, how did i get from 'bad guy with claws' to 'psycho bitch hell bent on killing everyone'? that's a good question. actually, all of my good idea come from a can.

ok, that's not true, but i do get a lot from movies, books, music, and everyday things. to answer more specifically without giving too much away -- i want you to buy and read it one day -- here are 10 very ambiguous things that i've incorporated into my novel for one reason or another:

1 -- the characters names are based off of names of characters from other favorite books, knock-offs of names, names of famous historical figures, names of friends, names of cars, names that have hidden meanings and, of course, the name of my daughter

2 -- lots of real places that you can go and visit and touch and see yourself right now

3 -- dozens of things have happened in my novel that i did not expect: a disease, a death, an entire organization, a murder, and the promotion of a very casual character to a prominent role

4 -- some of my favorite places: the Navy Memorial, the Museum of Art Sculpture Garden, Sleepy Hollow NY, New Orleans, the Engineer's Club and United Methodist Church in Mount Vernon

5 -- Prince song lyrics

6 -- references to or special lines stolen from The Matrix, Blade Runner, and Aliens, not to mention Alice in Wonderland, the Count of Monte Cristo, the Legend of Sleepy Hollow and Neuromancer

7 -- a terrifying weapon found in an old horror flick

8 -- a chase scene reminiscent of 5th Element

9 -- references to MLB, the NFL and football analogies

10 -- the histories of the Library of Congress, the desk used by the President of the United States, the Washington Monument (Baltimore), the White House Rose Garden, the Engineer's Club and United Methodist Church in Baltimore, not to mention WWIII, the Blood Plague and the presidential campaign of 2032

the question is -- will anyone notice some of the hidden gems? either way, i think it makes the whole journey more fun -- at least for me!