Here’s our first new novel for the Candlelight Stories blog format. It’s in the fantasy fiction genre and is full of rich language and adventure. Malocchio is the first book in an ongoing series called Elements of Alchemy. It is a story about a young man’s journey away from home toward confidence and self-reliance in a world not unlike our own, with the caveat that there are elements of magic, ghosts, the occasional monster, and of course, the struggle between good and evil. He gets himself and his brother into some trouble in the beginning, in an act of pride, and then has to work to come to grips with the changes and hardships brought about by the event.

We will offer this book in weekly installments.

Malocchio

Chapter 14
Candy Stripers

The next day, Leonardo showed up early with cinnamon buns in a paper bag and coffee in a thermos. Jean Michel let him into the house, and he sat at the table while the Ragman stoked the stove. Lenny’s mood was especially foul and Enoch soon found out why. Mauricio Craft had decreed that Lenny and Enoch would investigate Valerie Michel’s job as a nurse at the Veteran’s Hospital. Lenny tossed a duffel bag at Enoch and inside he found a blond wig and black leggings, along with a pair of shoes which looked like they were made for a lady.

Jean Michel and Lenny drank coffee in the early light and then Jean Michel left for work. Mesmine Michel left with her father, looking quite pleased in braids and her neat school uniform, a gray sweater and green skirt with buckle shoes. Leonardo excused himself to go to the washroom and came back out shortly afterward, his gray locks hidden inside a shaggy brown wig. He scratched at his arms, which bulged, straining against a red, long-sleeved shirt. He kicked out his feet angrily, his legs hidden inside a long black skirt with pleats and exotic animals printed on it. Enoch struggled to contain his laughter as the man scowled wickedly and cast about himself to conceal his revolver.

Valerie smiled placidly at the stubble-faced hippy woman and pulled a clutch purse from a low cupboard by the wash basin. Lenny snatched the bejeweled clutch, muttering to himself and stuffed his gun inside, moving objects around to make room. He looked more closely at the contents of the purse and after some searching, pulled a silver tube from the bag. He twisted the base of the tube and sought out the small mirror that hung above the wash basin. He applied a layer of red lip gloss to his gray chimp lips.

“Of all the fakaka ideas,” he muttered to himself, “Stinkin’ yellow-pot. I’ll give him a candy striper! I’ll fix his lunchbox on this one, just wait.” Lenny finished applying his lip color and stomped across the floor, his heavy boots clomping on the ground.

Valerie Michel looked up from her newspaper and snorted into her tea. Enoch coughed into his hand and Lenny turned his considerable wrath upon the young man, “‘The hailstorms makes you think you’re gettin’ out scott-clean, rich kid?” The bearded lady pointed one misshapen finger towards the washroom and hollered, “Get in there and make yourself pretty, boy.”

Enoch staggered into the washroom and shut the door, struggling to contain the giggles, which threatened to overtake him. He wobbled on unsteady feet, his mind reeling at the thought of dressing as a girl. What if someone he knew happened to be at Valerie’s work and recognized him? He looked at himself in the small mirror, brushing the hair from his forehead. He was intrigued by the idea of wearing a costume, but to be a girl? That was a tough one. What would Maricella think? He sighed heavily and pulled on the leggings, one at a time. Enoch took off his bedshirt and pulled on the green dress of stretch cotton over his head. He pulled his boots back on over the stirrups of the pants and admired himself in the mirror for a moment before donning the curly blond wig that had lain like a giant spider in the bag. A pale girl with spots on her face stared back, skinny, perhaps a bit strong in the chin and brow, but pretty enough for Agency work.

The disguised Leonardo and his young friend Enoch followed Valerie Michel down the lane, their breath white in the frosty morning air. They waited for the bus on the corner where Creek Street ran into River Street. A steady stream of auto traffic passed them as they waited for the bus, and children in neat, laundered uniforms and bright hair bands, passed by. Two little girls laughed under their hands at the mannish ladies at the bus stop on the corner, by the barber’s and curry shop. Blackbirds called out from the fields, rising in clouds when the rumble of the bus broke the steady hum of electric motors on the street.

The big red bus charumphed to a stop at the corner and a few teenagers disembarked, their personal music fields set to high volume, so that Enoch’s ears rang with a jumble of mixed rhythms and melodies as the they strode past in heavy black hoodies and denim. Valerie and her two helpers climbed the stairway leading onto the bus. The bus doors closed behind them and the conductor spun the wheel as the bus pulled away from the curb. It was a red bus, with soft white lights in the narrow walkway that ran through compartments of paneled wood and brown leather. Lenny led the way to the stairs and the three ladies moved towards the back of the Franciscan Liner.

They settled into a cabin near the back of the bus, sitting in couches appointed with chrome. The bus window was frosted, so that little light filtered through. Instead, the cabin was lit by chromed steel lamps shaped like silver rocket ships. The bus moved smoothly from stop to stop, an albatross on crimson pneumatic wings. The gaily colored houses of River Street passed by in the frosted windows. Enoch watched the street mechanics and the old men sitting on stools of barbershops. He watched a sandwich seller’s truck open in a barren patch of ground, the working men lined up in denim coveralls and heavy jackets. Their woolen caps were pulled down against the cold, waiting a turn for coffee and cake.

The Franciscan Liner passed out of Petty Hispaniola and into Rosedale, with its wide stonework streets and quiet, tree-lined neighborhoods. Pipe fitters and electricians drove past in their clean white lorries, the names of Scarpacchio, Doyle, Bishop and DeRoma stenciled on the sides. At the corner of Hyde and Salerno stood a great building of white stone, replete with columns, flowering boughs of stone and petrified animals on each massive cornice. Valerie pointed to the building through the frosted glass of the bus window and told him that this was the Veteran’s Hospital, where she worked. They trundled off the big red bus, and Enoch placed the image of the man they were looking for in the front of his mind. The panther man had bedeviled a child and left four deep scratches across his back, a wound carried with him from his dream of the dragon and the panther. He’d stolen the dragon scale, which was nowhere to be found out in the creek bed.

Lenny stomped off the bus, still muttering and grunting to himself. He fitted a cigarette to his painted lips as they crossed the street, and then took it out again when Valerie Michel fixed him with an icy stare. Enoch and Lenny followed Valerie up the wide stone steps of the hospital, which were crowded with people, men and women of all ages, size and color on their way to the Veteran’s Hospital. Valerie fell in behind an Army reservist in green cap, his bearing stern and proud. Enoch noticed that the mans hands were fashioned of brown plastic a shade darker than the color of his face. They reached the broad front plaza leading into the building, with its great black statue, and passed through the great iron doors. A young doctor ended his conversation on a cell phone and followed them inside, his blue scrubs creased.

The hospital corridor buzzed with activity, the morning shift rolling into full swing. Families towing little children in their best boots, walked through the halls along with brave men and women testing out their peace legs in the bright white light of the high-ceiling halls. Valerie led them down a series of halls and down a flight of steps into the belly of the Veteran’s. The floors of the building were fashioned from white marble tiles in geometric shapes that fit together like a giant puzzle, one that could only be solved by a giant or one of infinite cleverness. Nurses and orderlies passed them by, chatting away happily and sipping from covered mugs.

In the basement, they passed a fleet of breakfast trays, piled high with yellow eggs and golden slices of toast. A bevy of nurses clustered around the station in the wide, squat tunnel, chatting and laughing prettily. Valerie explained that she worked in a rehabilitation clinic for men and women who had suffered serious injuries in the wars. They walked past a wide corridor with a sign indicating the prosthetics clinic. A petite young woman named Jill with pale skin and short blond hair said hello to Valerie, hobbling along behind an aluminum walker with heavy rubber feet that squeaked on the floor wax. She looked at Lenny with a curious smile, one shapely eyebrow cocked. Lenny blew her a kiss to the hobbled soldier and they both laughed. Valerie kept moving down the institutional hallway, her step light and lively on the shining tile floors.

Little wars raged even now in the far away lands, and had done so for years, smoldering fires in the poorest lands that never extinguished. Famine and drought visited the poor brothers and sisters, driving conflicts never-ending, to which Little Carthage contributed its proudest youths. The veterans Enoch saw in the morning light looked healthy and strong despite their losses. At the end of the long hall, they came to Valerie Michel’s station. A trio of women stood around the enclosure, drinking coffee from paper cups and The Ragman’s wife checked a board with names and numbers and then set out to work with the odd candy stripers in tow. Enoch watched each face they passed, watching for the white coif and flat face of the panther man. He smiled demurely at the pretty nurses as they walked away from the nurses station.

He tried to stay out of the way as Valerie Michel conducted her rounds. The patients were mostly young men, cheerful and friendly in their hospital beds. None matched the face Enoch had in his mind, and none could walk yet anyway. Valerie talked briefly with each one, checking charts and attending to the needs of each. One patient, a woman with braided blond hair and brilliant blue eyes, smiled at Lenny and asked him if he had any beauty tips to share. She had lost a leg in the fighting, but her smile was unharmed. Lenny played along and invited her to go dancing when she got her new leg. The soldier laughed, the lines on her high forehead disappearing.

The day passed this way, with Lenny making a clown of himself and Enoch watching, impatient to find the object of his anger. He snooped each of Valerie Michel’s coworkers, sniffing for any sign of nefariousness. He inferred from the rules of occult detection, if there was a case of vampirism there must be a vampire. Mauricio had not given him specific instructions, but his mission seemed clear: suss out the panther man.

The morning passed into late morning and then into afternoon, with nothing of interest to report. After four hours, with nothing in his belly but crackers and weak tea, Enoch felt weary and ready to quit. Leonardo needled him relentlessly, entertaining himself with suggestions that he should come to work at the hospital, cleaning bed pans and changing diapers. It was about noon when Peter Priors, the insurance man, showed up to work records at the station for the afternoon. Peter was a middling man of medium height, slight bearing and straight brown hair. He had boyish features and flashed and easy smile at Enoch and shook his hand, talking about the nobility of the profession. Priors chatted with Valerie and the other nurses as he checked the charts and drank coffee from a thermos.

Around this time, Lenny seemed to grow restless. He shook Prior’s hand when introduced as Leonora and then faded into the background, playing with his curly locks and muttering to himself, at times reaching into his purse with one clenched fist. Enoch put a hand on the man’s arm, but he shrugged it off, tucked a lock of hair behind his gray ear and stalked off down the hallway, his large hands still holding the wig in place. Valerie apologized to Priors for Leonora’s strange behavior and chased after her, saying, “What has gotten into him…. er, her….?”

Peter Priors calm, kind eyes followed Valerie as she ran down the hall after Leonora. He realized that Enoch was watching and turned his gaze upon the mousy blond girl. She seemed faintly familiar, broad lips and cleft chin. He blinked at the strange girl and then smiled and winked, self assured. Enoch stared for a moment longer and then turned to follow after his companions. He marched down the brightly lit hallway, his leggings rustling against each other. A tall soldier hobbled past on new legs, his bearded face a picture of concentration. Enoch passed the struggling soldier and left the rehabilitation clinic, climbing the marble stairs that led back to the main hall.

Valerie met him on the top step. She pulled her long yellow hair out of its bun and it tumbled down her back as she walked down the steps. “He’s gone,” she said, “I looked in the great hall and on the steps, but he’s gone.” She stood still for a moment, catching her breath. They walked back down the stairs to finish Valerie’s shift. Enoch helped with changing bandages and bedsheets and generally tried to stay out of the way for the remaining two hours. When Valerie had finished her paperwork, they climbed back up the winding marble steps from the basement wards and left for Petty Hispaniola. Enoch was relieved to be leaving as the scratches on his back ached and his head hurt from focusing so intently on so many people in one day. It was hard work to pay attention, to listen to conversations, and to work while you were doing it. He had seen no sign of the panther man or his tombstone teeth, and felt generally disappointed with the detecting business.

The left the Veteran’s Hospital, walking out through the great iron doors, and moving through crowds of visitors, food vendors and veterans. They waited a few minutes and then caught the Franciscan Line back to River Street. The bus was crowded with nurses and orderlies, kitchen staff and janitors, the people who made the hospital run, all finished with their morning shift. Valerie picked a compartment in the back of the bus, and Enoch slid open the door for her. Inside the tight little cabin sat a matron with long black braids and a pretty yellow dress with printed flowers on it. Next to her sat a young woman in corn rows.

“These are your cousins, my dear. Haven’t seen them since you left home. They asked after you,” the woman said in a heavy accent as her hands moved over a view screen. Enoch tried not to stare at the girl, who had a beautiful, round face with big wide eyes and long lashes. She wore a rough green stone on a gold chain around her neck which looked strong and healthy, the color of cafe-o-lait. The girl wore a turquoise jump suit of a shimmering material with the logo of a rolling tumbleweed on it. The girl noticed Enoch staring and she smiled at him, making his belly ache once again. The matron cleared her throat and the girl returned her attention to the view screen. Enoch forced himself to stare out the window for the twenty minute trip back to River Street. The pretty girl and the matron left the bus first and Enoch sought her eye as they left, but to no avail.

The Franciscan Liner bus made many stops on River Street, dropping off passengers at apartment blocks and little shopping centers that cropped up among the fallow fields and blocks of blighted shacks and ramshackle homes. Enoch looked out over the gray landscapes, just beginning to show some green in the bunch grasses that humped up among the bottles and cans and windblown paper that populated the vacant lots. The wind blew over spindly maples and rusted bicycle wheels, tossed out into the dry yellow stalks of bulrushes and broken green glass that collected in the sumac hollows. Every few blocks, Enoch noticed a lonely pair of sneakers, the laces tied together, hanging from the telephone wires. The shoes made Enoch shiver for some reason, though he could not say why, exactly.
The next chapter comes soon.

‘Elements of Alchemy‘ Copyright © 2009 by Caleb Carlson
All Rights Reserved

Here’s our first new novel for the Candlelight Stories blog format. It’s in the fantasy fiction genre and is full of rich language and adventure. Malocchio is the first book in an ongoing series called Elements of Alchemy. It is a story about a young man’s journey away from home toward confidence and self-reliance in a world not unlike our own, with the caveat that there are elements of magic, ghosts, the occasional monster, and of course, the struggle between good and evil. He gets himself and his brother into some trouble in the beginning, in an act of pride, and then has to work to come to grips with the changes and hardships brought about by the event.

We will offer this book in weekly installments.

Malocchio

Chapter 13
Dragon Scales

After Enoch’s rounds with Jean Michel and a hearty dinner of curry and rice, he collapsed into his sleeping bag. Inside the bag, he found a crumpled piece of brown paper. He unfurled the paper and read the thick, black script by the light of a pocket lighter. It was a note from his father and read:

Enoch,

I have arranged for you to go with Valerie Michel to her place of business on the morrow. Keep your eyes open and follow the rules of occult detection:

One, never reveal the witching trade. Two, trust a ghost at your peril. Three, keep your ash dry and one eye on the door in this world of contention. Four, avoid crowds, lest the

malocchio reveal you.

Mauricio

Enoch crumpled the paper and placed it back in the bag, wishing that he could ask his father about the incident with the junk monger, about Lenny’s pet cicada. He knew better than to ask Lenny questions when he was in a bad mood, which seemed to be all the time now. He wished to tell him about the panther man of his dreams. He drifted off to sleep in the flickering light of the stubby yellow candle that burned on the sunflower table.

In Enoch’s dream, a blind dragon slept under the dark mountain, the forested flanks shaking with each labored breath. Puffs of smoke and ash rose sullenly from the summit, the warning of the slumbering giant. The boy walked the shadowy ways, with nothing but the dragon fire to light his way. The beast awakened in the deep, bellowing warnings to the intruder to its lair. He fled in the darkness, wandering the deepest passages, lamenting his chance to ever see the moon again. Winding ways led him back to the base of the mountain and he escaped into the world, carrying a piece of dragon ember in his mouth, a glowing diamond of the rarest color. The dragon escaped its lair on leathery, chiropteran wings, breathing great gouts of fire that turned night into day, screaming piteously and casting about with unseeing eyes. Enoch escaped into the wilderness of the world carrying the secret of dragon flight, the engine of creation, safely in his mouth. The dragon scorched the slopes of the Atlas Mountain, driven wild with rage. It crushed boulders and snapped grandfather trees with its great belly, but the quarry was already gone, off in the wilderness of the world.

In Enoch’s dream, the blind dragon soared up into the skies above Atlas Mountain, screaming its dirge and then flew off to the West, disappearing over the ocean’s dark horizon. The beast crossed the shores of Little Carthage, the easternmost province of New Hellena. Its sightless eyes glowed under lids of crusted stone. The lights of a thousand little homes spread out before its leathery wings, and it breathed a gust of flame that buoyed the beast high in the air. The low towns of the South County passed beneath the dragon’s wing, along with the rocky pits of Quarry Town and the burly shoulders of the Blue Hills came on dark and forbidding in the night. Under a cold moon, the dragon descended upon the gently banks of the Mattapan River.

Enoch watched as the great serpent splashed in the black water and then heaved itself out onto the banks on the edge of the Ragman’s property. The great beast lay quiet for a time, lulled by the whispering in the willow shrubs and the tick of dry grass in the night wind. It breathed again after a time and leapt into the air, spouting gouts of orange fire under its laboring wings. A single golden scale fell from its belly, gleaming in the poor moonlight. The disc of gold floated down and settled on a boulder in the shadowy creek. The serpent beat its wings and fled away to the east, its golden skin gleaming as it receded and then disappeared over the Great Bay.

The wind blew cold through Enoch’s dreams and a dog took to barking out in the willow breaks. He awoke and listened to the rustling song of the little river, dozing fitfully. The child lay on her bed, her breathing slow and even. The water ran down the river course, a lilting song, but his dreams had been too vivid and he lay awake, thinking about the fallen dragon scale. Enoch gave up on sleeping and rose from his bedroll. He walked to the door and flipped the bolt, letting himself out into the chilly night. The new moon hung low in the sky, a sliver of light that did little to illuminate the barren land. Enoch crept down into the creek bed, pushing aside willow branches, and stepped out onto the biggest of three boulders that lay in the water course. He spied the scale lying atop the thin layer of clear ice the covered the shallow water by the creek’s edge.

Enoch lay down atop the boulder and extended his top half far out across the frigid waters, holding himself up on a series of smaller rocks still sturdy enough to grasp. The water was deeper, perhaps thigh deep out in the middle and he could see that the ice would not hold him if he fell. The effort required to hold himself up on his hands was tremendous, but he could almost reach the shining disc. It looked brassy and gleamed in the pale light, sized like a platter and concave, with sharp edges and three gleaming points. Enoch gave a Herculean effort to stretch his arm across the gap separating him from the scale, and grasped it in his fingers.

He brought the scale back and arched it to catch the moonlight. On the inside of the shield piece, he glimpsed a map. His arm ached, so he placed the scale down on a rock and gingerly crab crawled out onto the smaller boulders. He was able to balance himself by squatting down on the rocks, and he angled the scale to catch the meager moonlight. The map was drawn in black ink that stung when he traced it with one finger. The caustic pigment had burned grooves into the scale, which was light in his hands with the flex and smooth resilience of cicada shell. He studied the map. Right away, Enoch picked out a familiar line, the gently curving course of the Mattapan River as it ran from the Blue Hills through the town of Quarry and out into the Great Bay. The roughly sketched drawing held no boundaries or town names, but it designated the Blue Hills with lines coming together in pyramids. Ponkapoag Pond was there, shown by a circle of reeds and tiny pitcher plants, as were the granite pits of Quarry and the refuse lands that surrounded them. In the largest debris field, which was shaped like a crescent, there were two black stars shown. One accompanied by a symbol of the Buddha and another in the shape of a rampant bear. By each of the little idols, a gnarled tree grew in the shape of a question mark.

Enoch sucked on his finger where the ink had stained him, and ran his eyes along the shining surface. On the far side of Petty Hispaniola, he saw the fish pond and the fens, drawn in black. In between, the death ships sailed Walk Hill, their skeleton crews depicted in pirate regalia on the gaudy decks. In Mt. Hope cemetery, another star lay on the shining surface. Beside it, lay a stone engulfed in flame with the name, Capodaluca.

He studied the map, running his eyes over its mystical surface. It was then that he realized that someone else was in the cut of the creek bed. On the far shore, in the marshy no-man’s land between the creek and river, a man crouched in the heather. Enoch recognized him as the panther man from the night before, though this time his long white hair was tied back from his face and he wore fine clothing of dark wool.

The panther man smiled at him, his jumbled teeth gleaming in the dim light. Enoch watched spellbound as the man stalked across the uneven ground, going on all fours like a beast. The panther man crawled like this into a hollow and disappeared from Enoch’s view. What emerged on the other side was a panther, black as night, and the beast stalked to the edge of the creek bed, a powerful shadow that hummed with predatory menace.

The boy had been mesmerized by the beast, so magical it seemed, but now it flashed its teeth and they were jagged and long. The cat bounded across the cut and with that Enoch jumped to his feet, bounding back over the boulders he had traveled so carefully before. His feet fairly flew over the gravelly ground, but the cat caught him and swatted him, sending him sprawling on the gravel bank. The boy’s back burned from the cat’s claws. He rolled over and scrambled backwards up the embankment, scratching his palms on rocks and thorns as he went. The big cat came on slowly, growling and batting the air. The boy’s hands brushed something hard and sharp lying in the dry weeds. It was the dragon scale, which had somehow gotten onto the bank from where he lay it on the ice. He picked it up, desperate for a weapon against the implacable panther man. Without thinking, he hurled the tri-corner end over end at the beast. The scale flew straight and true and embedded itself deep in the heavy, muscled shoulder of the beast. It let out a very human cry of anguish and rage. Enoch did not stop to admire his deed but instead ran headlong into Jean Michel’s house, slamming the door shut behind him.

The panther came hard on his heels, roaring in frustration at having lost his blooded prey. It battered the door and Enoch hurriedly thrust an iron poker into the stove mouth. The beast battered the door, mewling and coughing, and Enoch pulled the poker from the stove. He waited, his chest gripped by fear, fighting to control his breath. Enoch wondered why nobody had been awakened by the racket, as by this time the door was starting to give way.

Just as the thin wooden door frame seemed ready to buckle under the panther’s onslaught, Enoch smelled the scent of pine wood and fireplace ash and he awoke in his sleeping bag to find nobody other than little Mesmine, shivering in her yellow and blue pajamas, her yellow hair in braids, standing over him. Tears streamed down her round face, as she had seen the panther man with waking eyes. Enoch led the girl to her parent’s blue painted door and knocked three times. Mesmine’s mother came out and consoled the girl, wiping her tears and casting querulous glances at Enoch.

Mesmine went to bed with her parents and Enoch returned to his bedroll and lay down on top of the sleeping bag. He stared up at the ceiling and listened to the night wind playing in the bare willows. The room was cloaked in shadow and the old house creaked and moved with the wind. In his mind, Enoch could still see the map lain down in black blood that glistened on the scale of dragon skin. He forgot about the panther man and the events of the night and lay very still, thinking about the map and what it could mean. Somewhere in the darkness, a dog grumbled and circled his bed, readying to settle down for the night. Out in the barrens, a yellow sliver of moon hung low in the sky. The March wind played in the humped grasses and a fisher cat rambled along a deer path that ran through the empty lot, hungry and searching after the long winter’s sleep.

The next chapter comes soon.

‘Elements of Alchemy‘ Copyright © 2009 by Caleb Carlson
All Rights Reserved

This film was made by Franck Deron.  On his blog he says that he filmed it without a lens, using a pinhole through some aluminum foil.  I’m not exactly sure what that means.  I’d be curious to know more about exactly how he set that up.  But I like the results.  It’s a mysterious and moving film.  I watched it with total absorption and the blurry glowing camera work reminds me of old super 8 movie cameras. The director has quite an accomplished list of films he’s made as music videos and promo spots.  They are very well shot and edited.  But I always like a director’s more personal films, made with no other client in mind than his or her own demanding internal artist.  This is just such a film.

I found this on a beautiful web site called The Rumpus.

We artists are indestructible; even in a prison, or in a concentration camp, I would be almighty in my own world of art, even if I had to paint my pictures with my wet tongue on the dusty floor of my cell.

Pablo Picasso

And have you seen Keith Richards stop for a moment to hit a guy in the face with his guitar?

But what mainly interests me in this interview is the discussion about ‘predatory pricing’ by the giant retailers.  Apparently, if you listen to publishers, this spells doom for publishing and book selling as we know it.  When asked what he thinks about his latest book being available for nine dollars at Target, Grisham says:

It’s shortsighted. Short term, they know what they are doing, I think. But if a book is worth $10 then suddenly the whole industry is going to change. You are going to lose publishers and book stores, and though I’ll probably be alright, aspiring authors are going to find it difficult to get published.

Yeah? So what.  So we lose publishers and book stores.  Who cares?  The key in Grisham’s statement is where he says, ‘…and though I’ll probably be alright.’ He means writers will be alright.  The big scary fact of the matter is that we simply don’t give a tiny damn whether or not a publisher prints a book or an author does.  Publishers read, accept, edit, design, print and promote books.  At least they used to.  I don’t care what anyone tells you, but we do not need the editors.  Writers can do that.  You write the book and you edit it and you’re done with it.  Readers are getting used to reading writers without editors.  That’s why blogs are so popular.  No editors.  If you have an editor poking around in a blog, trust me, it’s not a blog.  It’s a corporate front-end.  A writer can also design and print a book.  And sell it.  Writers are publishers.  No reader cares about Penguin.  They care about the guy holding the gun.  The guy holding the gun is put there by the writer.  Writers will make guys, guns and gals forever.  It’s what they do and it’s what readers want.

I don’t care if the guy with the gun says, ‘I’ve been looking for you for a long time, Mr. Peabody.  Smile, because it’s the last thing you’ll ever do.’  Or if he says, ‘I’ve been looking for you.  Smile.  It’s your last.’

The writer can pick.  The editor can go watch Kitchen Nightmares.

There is absolutely no excuse for a writer to work hard on a story, hammering it into existence from nothing, polishing it and making it exactly what he or she wants it to be… and then sit around to wait for some agent or publisher to get back via the U.S. mail so that said writer can be allowed to move on and send out yet another plea for acceptance.  This is old technology.  Twentieth century.  It’s gone.  In this century a writer writes and edits and publishes and sells.  His book can sell in Target for nine dollars or three dollars.  Magnificent.  Literature available to people who don’t make lots of money.  What a novel idea!  If you’re griping about Target selling books for nine dollars, you must not be buying books.  Go watch His Girl Friday and pretend that typewriters still make newspapers.

And you know something else?  The guy with the gun doesn’t care.  He’ll always be there.  He’s not going anywhere.  All the publishers and book stores could burn and all the editors could go to their early graves, and you know what?  The guy with the gun is still gonna getcha.  He’s going to find you wherever you go.  He’s alive.

This is a short documentary called The Gospel According to Reverend Billy, from an outfit called Syndicate of Human Image Traffickers.  This guy looks like a preacher but he’s decidedly against what most preachers seem to be preaching in our angelic little country.  He’s Reverend Billy and he’s running for mayor in New York City.  He thinks Mayor Bloomberg is a corporate Wall Street guy who represents the takeover of the monoculture.  He’s right.  I lived in New York for eight years in the 1980s.  I remember it as being rough, exciting, nervous, overly work-oriented, and dirty.  I visited just a few months ago.  It’s now an open-air mall with a Starbucks and a Gap.  Gee, thanks Rudi Guiliani for your cleanup.  Micky Mouse would feel right at home on Times Square.  New York is also home to the several thousand creeps on Wall Street who are personally responsible for trashing the U.S. economy and running criminal scams on a worldwide scale.  Well, at least we know where they all live, right?  When I lived in the city I worked with many different types of people in many businesses.  I would always give the same advice to my friends and acquaintances who were looking for jobs: Never Never Never work for the money people.  They are vicious and very poorly educated.  I recall working for one of the biggest real estate investors in all of New York.  He owned some of the famous big buildings.  He was also prone to throwing insults around and yelling at employees.  He spent eight hours per day for a full week having meetings in his office about the design for his new closet at home.  On Friday at about 1:00 pm he emerged to ask me about a pile of papers I was supposed to have finished that week.  I had put them all untouched in a pile that I labeled ‘Complete.’  He picked them up and riffled through them for several minutes.  Then he threw them at me and screamed, ‘What the f–k do you think you’re doing?’  I picked up the phone while giving him a giant smile and called my employment agency.  I said, ‘I’m going to put you on the phone with Mr.____ and I’d like you to tell him to kiss my ass.’

As I walked down the hall, he was screaming at the top of his lungs, ‘Don’t you people ever even think about sending an asshole like that over here again!’

Yep, that’s the kind of New York SOB I was back in the 80s.  And I haven’t learned a thing.  I’d still do it on any sunny Friday afternoon.

New York has about as much cultural energy now as Dallas, Texas.  It’s like a zombie apocalypse in Manhattan.  Everyone looks like they’re trudging to the office on a Sunday.  The East Side – Woody Allen’s favorite – is the land of strange men in khaki dockers who buy baskets in small stores.  I’m not sure why Reverend Billy would give a damn about being mayor of a dead city but he’s got my vote of confidence if he wants it.

As for the preacher bit, I’m not sure I like it.  It’s some kind of a joke or then again maybe not.  He likes the vocal patterns of the preacher for sure, but that’s not all of it.  Couldn’t he borrow the vocal technique of the preacher without the costume?  Oh nevermind, that would be Bill Clinton.

Via Coilhouse

Want to see it?  The ginormous blue whale is right here.

The Whale and Dolphin Conservation Society had something to do with perpetrating this gargantuan act of underwater mammal-watching.

I don’t know about this nook thing.  I’ve got doubts.

Famed Charles Manson prosecutor and three time #1 New York Times bestselling author Vincent Bugliosi wants former President George W. Bush indicted for murder.  Bush and his vice-president Dick Cheney misled the nation into a brutal and needless invasion of Iraq which has resulted in the deaths of nearly 4,000 American soldiers.  They should both be indicted by a Grand Jury and tried for murder.  Absolutely no question about it.  The string of lies that they told in order to accomplish an invasion and put a sovereign nation under the control of a private corporation is the equivalent of what Nazi Germany was doing in the buildup to World War II.  It was a criminal act against both Iraq and the United States.  It amounts to treason and is punishable in the severest sense.

We need more people like Mr. Bugliosi around.  Everybody’s afraid.  Afraid to offend.  Afraid to be angry.  Afraid to make nasty comments on a web site.  What’s up with this country?  Bugliosi’s aggressive and sustained argument for prosecution is exactly what is needed.

So far, as Mr. Bugliosi points out in the trailer for the documentary, The Prosecution of George W. Bush for Murder, nothing has been done about these crimes against the nation.  Nothing.  No serious investigation at all.  These men have simply retired and walk around unmolested.  Mr. Obama is proving to be one of our weakest presidents and offers not the slightest glimmer of hope for justice in this regard.  But he’s a one-term president and the statute of limitations won’t help Bush and Cheney.  Eventually we’ll get them.

I cannot post this without mentioning the millions of Americans who voted for these people… twice.  It should be made perfectly clear that if you did something like that, you are partly responsible for what was going on.  Just like the Germans who put Hitler in power and helped him.  You.  You are no better than that.  Face it.  It was no mistake that certain people voted for Bush even after knowing what he was up to.  These people didn’t care.  They were bigots and they wanted Bush to win because he was killing people with dark skin.

And if I’m making you see red and you just don’t ever want to come back to Candlelight Stories again, well… guess what… my candle is actually a blowtorch.

Ingmar Bergman, the magnificent film director who most assuredly would have detested Woody Allen, lived on a Swedish island called Fårö. Diane Solway wrote an article for W Magazine about the island and she made this short film about her trip there.

I see people crossing streets while typing on their ‘devices.’  I see them driving and sitting in fine restaurants with their dates and they’re answering email and texting.  Makes you want to walk over and plant a big kiss on some guy’s date right in front of him while he texts his mother.  Would serve him right.  People are not even remotely aware of other people anymore.  They drive right through stop signs while texting or chatting on a cell phone.  They wipe out entire families on freeways because they were trying to type, ‘OMG Heeee’s sooooo hot!!!!’

These people are simple dark abominations.  They are fools who understand only how to be dead, dried husks that resemble human beings.  They think they are part of the information overload and that they are multitasking through life.  They’re just obliterating themselves.

Let me put it this way: if somebody sees you using your device, you’re not using it properly.

Sometimes I see a woman in the grocery store answer her cell phone and say something like, ‘Yes, honey,  I’m in the grocery store.  I’m looking for those little pepper things now.’

Do you know why the guy calls her there?  I do.  It’s because he thinks she’s cheating on him because he knows she wants to because he’s a total flaccid drip.  That is why 99.9% of all cell phone calls on the planet are placed.  That is why the cell phone economy works.  It’s nervous people checking up on their significant others to make sure they’re still around.

You know I’m right.  You’ve done it too.  Haven’t you?

But look at this cover illustration and think about trying not to do such an awful thing to your kid this Halloween.  Try hard, because that kid will never forget that little screen in your face.

Here’s a short animated film from Italy by Lorenzo Veracini, Nandini Nambiar and Marco Avoletta. Every trip on a bike should be such a good trip as this. I love the glass trees near the end.

There is also a web site for the film.

Marvel Comics has a Create Your Own Comic tool that lets you put together either a simple 3-panel strip or an entire 22-page comic book.  You don’t actually draw anything, but you choose layouts, backgrounds, characters and objects.  You can re-size everything and layer objects on top of each other.  It’s great for trying one’s hand at designing a layout that tells a story effectively.  So write your comic book and start designing!

I think it’s probably safe to say that NASA is learning an enormous amount through its telescopes, satellites and rovers.  I suspect that very little is really learned from sending three or four humans to the moon other than how to keep three or four humans alive on the moon for a few weeks.  Perhaps NASA should just relax a little and stop worrying about making people interested in what it’s doing.  Perhaps they should just worry about collecting information.

The new device is called the nook. Like book nook, I guess.  But this thing has a color touch screen virtual keypad like an iPhone and it displays book pages on an eye-friendly E ink display.  It appears to be sleek and well-designed.  It will also allow ebook owners to lend their ebooks to other people who own Nook devices for up to 14 days.  That’s a big deal.

Another thing it has going for it is support for formats like ePub, eReader, PDF, MP3, JPG, PNG and BMP files.  One article compared this device to Amazon’s by saying it was like the internet compared to Amazon’s AOL.  It has free 3G and Wi-Fi connectivity.

After the ongoing grotesque behavior by Amazon and its apparent lack of concern for owners’ rights it won’t take much for Barnes & Noble to turn Amazon’s ugly duckling of a closed-system ereader into a bad joke.

I never took the plunge to buy a Kindle from Amazon because I don’t trust their intentions.  I have no hesitation to run out and buy the Barnes & Noble device as soon as it comes out in November.

The NFB (National Film Board of Canada) has just released a new free iPhone app that lets you watch hundreds of their films.  You can use the app even while you’re away from hotspots by downloading films for viewing during a 24-hour period.  The NFB is one of my favorite places on the web for film.  They just do it the right way.  They make it easy.

This is an excellent way to distribute their huge collection of ground-breaking films.

You can get the app at the iTunes store.

The book is organized into sections like Pre-Dracula, which holds gems like Good Lady Ducayne by English writer M.E. Braddon, Carmilla by Sheridan Le Fanu, and Ligeia, by Edgar Allen Poe.

Another section is That’s Poetic, with works by John Keats, Lord Byron and Johann Wolfgang Von Goethe.

The final section is Modern Masters, with stories by Ray Bradbury, Peter Tremayne and Brian Lumley.

The book finishes with what is advertised as the most comprehensive bibliography of vampire fiction ever assembled.  And it certainly goes on for many pages.

The book is a big fat heavy pulpy treasure and I dug right into it as soon as I got home.  This thing will put you in right good shape for the approaching Halloween day of terror and magic.

And let me stick my thumb into the eyes of literary bloggers everywhere who can’t write about a book and link to its purchase page without sadly trying to make 14 cents off the deal, I am going to pull an unexpected sleight of hand trick and link to this fantastic book without making a single pathetic penny.

Next time I see some jackass literary blogger link to a book as an ‘Amazon Associate’ I’m a gonna send that hungry fool 14 cents so they can go buy a Big Mac.

This game looks marvelous. It’s made by an independent game producer who also made a popular game called Samarost.  Machinarium is about a little robot who’s been thrown out to the scrap yard behind the city must return and confront the Black Cap Brotherhood and save his robot-girl friend.  I think I’ll give it a try.  Although I usually find it much easier to build a puzzle game than to actually play one.  They always leave me feeling stumped and dumb and I just end up quitting.  But this one looks so beautiful that I’d try really hard just to see the next picture.