Book review: “Xom-B” by Jeremy Robinson (2014)


XOM-BXOM-B by Jeremy Robinson

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

“Xom-B” is one of Jeremy Robinson’s best novels to date. It takes a simplified approach to science fiction by being relatively plain spoken but incredibly deep by diving into the ramification and potential of humanity. It isn’t simplified in the derogatory sense, but much the opposite. It uses a specific style to accentuate the plot and subsequently, hard-hitting questions. It poses a myriad of inquiries that invoke his audiences into pondering their own existence and what it means to truly be a human.

Is it our characteristics? Our equal propensity for love and hate? Can we be something greater than we are now? All of these questions are touched upon inside the pages of “Xom-B”— Some more thoroughly than others but always touched upon. The depth at which Robinson explores these lofty topics seems to depend upon the narrative structure, or probably more intimately so…his own thoughts upon the questions themselves.

“Xom-B” begins by focusing on the near feature. Humans have advanced far enough where we have created life-like servants that provide us our every need, however, this leads to a grave injustice. Essentially, humans have created a new sect of society to subjugate and exploit. Decent people treat the artificial servants as one of their own, but there are just as many who do not. Some are sexually exploited, verbally and physically abused, while others are required to serve without question no matter the task. A tangible, ethical debate and rallying cry arises in the form of organized, peaceful protests from the aforementioned servants; the humans balk, and war ensues.

The plot then flashes forward to follow the most recent life of the new world order, Freeman; Freeman is fresh-faced, young, inquisitive, and intelligent. He questions authority and he seeks answers— The very mentality that could topple a fledgling empire and spark a new one…a better one. Audiences follow Freeman as he meets and allies himself with a wide cast of characters with their own unique strengths and weaknesses.

Robinson does a masterful job developing his characters. Each main character presented is given a proper backstory and motivation for their actions. The characters that strive to change (or at the least have the propensity to change) end up doing so with all pains present and included. The growth is logical and straightforward. This aids in the narrative and then culminates into near-perfect synergy…something much more than itself. The plot could be considered hard sci-fi, but because of how it is written it focuses so much more on character growth than the overall setting, atmosphere, and futuristic aspects of the framework. This results in a reminiscence of Arthur C. Clarke’s “Against the Fall of Night,” especially in its careful crafting to draw the reader’s focus to the overarching theme rather than the minutia. It may be classified science fiction in the strictest sense, but it poses big questions by following the journey of an individual trying to simultaneously escape, embrace, and find humanity.

An author’s style is an important facet to their career and writings, and some authors are fairly rigid in their methodology. Some stay well within their wheelhouse and constantly improve that particular style as they write throughout the years, others (like Jeremy Robinson) vary their style. They challenge themselves by matching a diverse cast of styles to the content, and in the case of “Xom-B” it pays off wonderfully. That being said, some longtime readers of Robinson may be put off because they prefer a singular style, while Robinson is delivering a different flavor. It would be hard to argue the validity of that point because in all honesty every reader reads differently.

“Xom-B” is a fantastic work of fiction. “Xom-B” is character driven, it provides insight and asks important questions in terms of what is means to be human, and it does so brilliantly in a straightforward plot that includes a great twist and conclusion. I highly recommend any reader who enjoys a quick-paced novel, science fiction, and/or the writings of Jeremy Robinson. He out does himself with “Xom-B” and I personally look forward to reading more of his work in the future.

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A Rough Draft of the Introduction of “At the Top”


“At the Top” is an idea that I originally had centering around the concept of a serial killer pyramid scheme.  I wanted to write a story about a hierarchy of serial killers, however, I ran into a speed bump almost immediately.  Pyramid schemes only exist and work because the lower layer always give something to the layer above them, some sort of commodity like currency.  What commodity do serial killers possess to be able to provide that would make an interesting and believable story?

Nothing.

Coincidentally enough, the next day I ran into my writing partner Josh Bartylla at work and I posed him my conundrum.  After  several minutes of conversation we came up with a solution.  What if instead of a serial killer pyramid scheme it was an assassin’s pyramid scheme?  That way the incentive would exist, and we could nuance it.  From there we started adding layers to it, and now the project (which has been named “At the Top”) includes a poignant look at our memories, aging, and the importance of friendship all framed out by Frank Sinatra’s album, “September of  my Years.”

Check out these opening pages to “At the Top,” which will one day soon be a complete manuscript that Josh and I plan on adapting into a screenplay to submit to Amazon Studios.  Cheers.

“At the Top”

Prologue

The plantation was settled deep within the confines of a Cajun bog in one of the most remote regions of the Louisiana wetland.  At one point the white pillared beacon of the old world aristocracy had sat dead center in one of the largest production lands of the South, but as the decades had waned, the land had turned against the ones who had spent generations taming it.  The family had perished or fled once the house had practically burned to the ground in the latter part of the 19th century.  The rest of the outlying buildings slowly rotted from the outside in as the once profitable lands began to slowly turn to mush and the swampland turned against the rich soils.

The first half of the next century was just as unkind to the manor as it was the surrounding area.  At the conclusion of the Civil War economic turmoil after economic turmoil plagued the region, and thus the Lebeau family plot was never purchased or truly lost to the family.  However, it wasn’t till 1970 that the sole heir of the decrepit mansion returned, and returned to rebuild it.  By the time the long, lost scion came into possession of the house that was no longer a home, it was near collapse, but that didn’t dissuade Remi from buying the land and the manor in an effort to refurbish it to its former glory.

Now, almost thirty-years later, Remi sat contemplating in his office overlooking the same marshlands that had encroached upon the Lebeau lands a century prior.  He sat alone.  He cradled a Brandy in his palm knocking the ice cubes back in forth in a repeated riposte and parry.  In his other hand he held, masked by shadows save for the ember tip, a rare cigar to match his drink and mood.  He was in a large overstuffed chair with his feet upon his Oak desk.

Thinking.  Always thinking.

Papers and books laid askew, and the steeping bookshelves on either side of the room were just as disheveled.  He blew a single waft of smoke up into the air and let it catch the moonlight from the recessed, latticed windows.  Below, his glass ensconced pool reflected and refracted the softly lapping waters’ light, resulting in a dance of shimmering waves across the ceiling of his study.  Between the smoke, the moonlight, and the mirrors Remi was overcome with introspection.  This meditation allowed him to remember.  It allowed him to recall, but more-importantly, it allowed him providence.

Memories

Memories are fiendish.  They have far-reaching, burnished talons that can stab into the cerebrum with fervency and lust.  They are malignant because all memories are apocryphal.

For those individuals with poor memories their ignorance is as the saying goes, ‘blissful.’  The beast still lurks within, but instead it has evolved.  These memories exist in the wretched.  The lonely thugs who play with children and drive nails into coffins.  They are brutish to say the least, but on the whole they are as weak and fleshy as is anything without a spine.  However, these ingrates are protected by their own lies.  The falsities that have secretly roosted into their thoughts.  These birds of prey live and breath in the shadows.  They blend when searched for and are always finding there way into the folds and tears of the remaining gray matter, entrenching itself like a solider in the darkest days of the Great War, except with memories there is no neutral zone, there are no shared Christmases, just fear and nerve gas.

Those with eidetic memories can recall the past immediately, however, it is always in sepia.  No matter how much the Polaroid is flicked back-and-forth it never achieves focus.  It’s blurred, hazy.  It exists.  It can be put in box, lost under the bed, pulled out to reminisce, and shoved back under to be forgotten by the unfaithful.  The photo is a lie though.  It was always a lie.  It exists in a separate, fabricated reality, guarded by the ego, but by most it is irrevocably regarded as the truth.  It is never quite right, nor will it ever be right.  These individuals are dangerous, and here is why: with upmost conviction they believe that they remember the truth.  They believe so wholeheartedly that their past is grounded and accurate that it borders on religious faith.  They rely on it, they believe it, and they adhere to it.  It is always right, and therefore no questions are ever asked.  It is has divine as the Lord, and just as intangible.

Faith is a powerful beast, and it has a way with ambitious men.  It forces them to do things with unwavering judgement and persecution.  Nothing is off limits, and no one will ever present an argument that will dissuade them from their path.  It forces men like Remi to contemplate their past…to remember the stings and the horrors, first kisses and Sinatra songs.

Lloyd

His cheek stung and he could taste the blood dripping from his left nostril into his swollen lips.  It was salty.  Tangy.

“Fuck you,” he spat.

He took another smack.  This time he fell back upon the stained carpet and his left wrist twisted awkwardly.  He screamed and received another backhand for the noise.  He laid whimpering, holding his arm upon his back.  The fucker stood over him like he owned him, and unbeknownst to the boy there was some truth to that.

Lloyd was a brute.  In and out.  He always wore the same wife-beater, a dusted cowboy hat, and a pair of carpenter jeans.  Remi surmised that those were the only clothes that Lloyd owned, but the one time he had cracked that joke within Lloyd’s earshot his other arm had been broken.  A long time ago, Lloyd had worked for Tony Slates crackin’ skulls for pennies, but one drunken night, Lloyd broke the nose of Tony’s nephew; Slate cut him and then cut him loose.  Lloyd still sported the deep scar across his left cheek like a badge of honor.  Once a Scout always a Scout.

He stood over the eight-year, reeking of moonshine and piss.  He scowled, sauntered off, and collapsed into the most prominent lawn chair of the living room.  His pants around his ankles, loudly snoring off whatever booze and drugs Lloyd had consumed before striking Remi.  Quickly violent, and quickly asleep.  The women loved Lloyd.

Still nursing his arm, Remi scuttled out on his back, trying to make sure he held his cries.  As-soon-as he hit the backdoor of the sprawling ranch-styled house, Remi ran for it.  He hit the alley hard and kept running.  He didn’t make a sound, but tears were streaming down his face.

Remi ran almost two miles straight before he made it to Miss Rose’s farmhouse.  As always, she was sitting upon her porch softly rocking and reading on of her famous novels with her big Basset Hound, George, at her side.  She was young in a way that her beauty was true and her years were low, but she was old in the same way Remi was.  She understood him, and during all the years that Remi was with Lloyd Miss Rose was there as well.  She never ratted on him, and she never caused him trouble.  She only helped him.  Rose was the first and last person to ever do that for Remi.  The rest of his life was hard, but Rose never was.  As Remi aged he thought about Rose more often and that small farm town.  Winston, MI was a hard place for Remi to forget, but in his age he realized that, that is how it would always remain and that there was nothing wrong with that.

As he ran holding his ruined forearm, he let the wheat part and the burrs catch in his dirtied hair.  He didn’t care or notice.  He just ran.  He ran with a heavy heart and a purpose.  Miss Rose would help him.  She was his savior.  She would make everything better.

Rose saw Remi break the field, she was up in a shot and came running down the creaky steps to meet Remi before he even made it halfway to the porch.  She held him as he cried.  They didn’t exchange words, nor did they need to.  On that hot afternoon, she clutched the son that was never hers as he sobbed into her shoulder.  She cried to a God that didn’t seem to care.

This was Remi’s first memory.

The only sepia that remained from this particular memory was the part that existed between the breaking of Remi’ arm and the removal of Lloyd’s jeans.  If prison had taught Lloyd anything it was that he liked boys, and like a gift from God he had been given one from the man in the cocked Bowler.

 

“Rory Winters” in the “Independent Author Index Short Story Compilation, Volume 1.”


A while back I got to know a fantastic writer, publisher, web designer/developer, editor and all around entrepreneur via Twitter by the name of Faydra D. Fields.  She is an amazingly talented individual, and I have had the pleasure of working with her off and on for about a year or so now.

She has an impressive resume, that recently expanded, with her production of the “Independent Author Index Short Compilation.”  Faydra is the creator of the Independent Author Index website and network, and recently furthered this endeavor with a regularly published anthology of short stories.  I was lucky enough to submit and be featured in the first volume with my short dubbed, “Rory Winters.”

“Rory Winter” is a tale of rival treasure hunters stalking the same mysterious artifact. Their fates are intertwined at a level that they cannot even imagine, but how far will the rabbit hole take them before it finally releases its grip?

This, essentially, was a homage to all of the wonderful action/adventure stories set in the 1930’s and 1940’s.  The very same ones that George Lucas pulled from to create the “Indiana” Jones” tetralogy.  This project was particularly close to my heart because it plays into several past times of mine, and if you are grabbed by these genres just as I am, don’t fret–I have plans to serialize Rory and Ashe’s adventures into a long running series that will (hopefully) develop into an anthology of novellas.

You can purchase the “Independent Author Index Short Story Compilation, Volume 1” via Amazon by clicking the cover image below, or you can visit my short story’s page on the Independent Author Index’s website by clicking the “Rory Winters” cover.

If anything, check out this collection of short stories to get a feel for all of the wonderful material that indie authors are producing today.

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Review: Carte Blanche by Jeffrey Deaver


Carte Blanche (James Bond)Carte Blanche by Jeffery Deaver

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Since Ian Fleming’s death in 1964 numerous writers have taken up the task of penning James Bond novels in an effort to keep the Fleming and Bond legacy alive and well. Some of these authors have had lengthy runs that have allowed them to frame out their version of the titular character with years of careful growth, however, others have had only a mere moment to make their mark on the famous character. Suffice it to say, some of these authors have been more successful than others, because of their respective opportunities.

In particular, I enjoyed John Gardner’s James Bond series, which primarily spanned the 1980’s, as well as Raymond Benson’s more-American take on the most-British of spies.
Recently, the popular fiction author, Jeffrey Deaver, was plucked from the ranks to write the latest 007 novel and on the whole I think he does the series justice. He does not take any chances, but he does hold true to the character and the universe which I think will appease fans but in the end deny them poignancy and relevance.

Deaver begins by taking Bond and bumping him into the twenty-first Century. By doing this, Deaver effectively alters the rules and the environment to create a new stomping ground for Bond to partake in, and because of this drastic change small facets of Bond’s backstory were changed but nothing that compromises the character. Besides these few details Deaver doesn’t really change anything else about the James Bond universe. He stays fairly grounded in the lore, and merely uses the revised setting to make a contemporary tale. As far as research is concerned it probably relieved some potential stress for Deaver as well. All things considering, it is an intelligent decision.

Interestingly enough the plot takes places over the course of a single week. It is quick and seamless. Each scene transitions smoothly to the next and it rarely has slow points because of its rapidity. Also, like most (if not all) James Bond plots, it trots the globe. The introduction takes place in Serbia and finally ends in Sudan with stops in Dubai and of course the United Kingdom.

The first several chapters follow James Bond as he thwarts an Irish hit man from derailing a train and polluting the Danube. This seemingly secluded incident then traces back to the villainous Severan Hydt and a much deeper plot that Bond must unravel before the death toll mounts. Hydt has an affinity for death. He enjoys it so much that he photographs it in order to get off on it privately. Severan is truly a villainous character that fits in to Bond’s wheelhouse of world dominators to a ‘T.’

The plot takes countless twists and turns and introduces various faces; some are familiar, while others are fresh takes on espionage archetypes. In the end and in traditional Jeffrey Deaver fashion, the conclusion is not so neatly sewn up as it may seem. There are numerous twists in the last fifty pages or so, but all-in-all, the good guys win the day and Bond has something left to ponder.

Carte Blanche” is not the best James Bond book ever written, nor is it the worst. It fires on all necessary cylinders to function accordingly, but it does not go above and beyond. It doesn’t push the boundaries, and unfortunately I think it will be easily forgettable a couple years down the line. With this in mind “Carte Blanche” receives three-and-a-half stars out of five.

“Carte Blanche” is not as in depth as a John le Carré or Joseph Kanon’s novels, but it gets the job done. It is a quick read, and the characters (whether new or not) seem familiar to the reader. Deaver pays homage to Fleming, while simultaneously holding true to his own form.

(SOURCE: Review: Carte Blanche by Jeffrey Deaver)

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Untitled


Preface:  I wrote this piece a while back, and really had no direction or purpose to lead the overall narrative.  I merely wrote what was comfortable for the moment.  Sadly though, this piece is a little rough around the edges, but consider the grammatical errors as author’s will and judge the content, rather than the mechanics.  However, I really did enjoy this one, and the ending seemed tacked on so I omitted it–I think it reads better for it.  I also was unable to come up with a suitable title, so for the moment it’ll simply be labeled as “Untitled.”  But, if you have any suggestions, or something jumps out at you while reading it, please feel free to suggest something.  I might eventually rework this and write an adequate ending, but till then just enjoy the ride!  Hopefully you like the atmosphere and imagery, and as always feel free to critique.


He walked briskly in the night, gandering as he gaggled across the sturdily built bridge.  The moon hung high, and the stars shimmered in unison like a child whimsically toying with a flashlight beneath a sheet.  Elliot was not fearful, or in a hurry, but his feet and his heart wanted him at his destination.  He had several blocks to go, but he observed and absorbed his surroundings with taught fervor.

There was an old man partially lit in the lamp that lay sunken in the shadows.  His mast was a long wooden pipe that could only be distinguished by the slow inhales and synchronic puffs, as smoke wafted above the stoop.  The man grinned a crooked grin as Elliot weaved onwards in an equally crooked fashion.

Beyond the old man’s resting place nestled a cat on the nearby roof.  He lay between the gutter and the top rail, and his eyes were aglow and his tail twitched irritatedly as if to say, “Leave before I scrap and howl.”  Elliot smirked at the sudden revelation that the roof was tin.  His own humor goaded him further, and before long he was at his destination—he was at the place where everyone knew his name.

The loudness of people cheering and clinking glass could be heard out front, and just as the wind began to carry the hundred year old sign into a sway Elliot stepped through the massive door frame.

As his eyes adjusted to the new lights and the clinks stopped as all the stools of the house pivoted toward him he bellowed in response, “It is I!” and the whole establishment went up in a cheer!  Before he could even find a stool at the bar a vodka on the rocks was served.

“You can smell the freedom with every wisp,” he whispered to the nearest patron.

“Ah, what you smell is your next novel my friend,” replied the man, “after all you do your best when your drunk!”

And, at that remark the bar went up in a roar even larger than the first!

“Bah, you don’t know me too well ye old snark.”

“I know you better than most and pray tell would you call your best friend a snark?  That’s just unkind!”

Another round of laughs erupted from the fiendish bartends.

“Thomas is that you?”

“It looks like you put on the goggles early tonight Elliot!  Hopefully you didn’t mount a stray without recollection?  Remember the last one—I thought you had stumbled into a zoo!  I had to pry her off of you.”

There was no laughter this time.  Elliot’s face suddenly became very taciturn.  He looked at Thomas–eye to eye, like a man killing his first beast.  At that moment, he let his now empty glass adrift and just about the time a full one reached his hand he burst out laughing along with everyone else.

“God, I can’t even remember the tits on her!” and that elicited a much hardier laugh than all the others combined.

The hours waned, and even though the bar was closed many men and women still laughed and cried as their old war stories unfolded into the sunrise.  In the wee hours of the morrow Thomas and Elliot stumbled arm and arm into the cobblestone incoherently mumbling to one another about the tits on that one!  There was always a laugh to be found in a drunken tale of lust and crime.

They staggered and yammered past the cat on the roof and a stoop that now stood empty.  As the blocks faded into memory, like the first drink had many hours ago, they found their bearings and plodded back to Elliot’s home.  Thomas hiccupped like an old cartoon character as he bid his friend farewell.  He staggered back down the street towards the tavern that he owned.

Elliot ambled across the gangplank into his floating home and promptly plopped face-down into the double that was coated in pages of his manuscript.  His snores matched the soft laps of the water against the old boat and just as quickly as the sun had risen above the hills in the distance it sunk into the waters on the other side.

“Dorian Waters”


I’ve been slowly working on a new short story titled “Dorian Waters,” which will be an Amazon exclusive upon release.  I wanted to take the charisma of 007, the cheesiness of a ’70s sci-fi flick, and the ridiculous strength of Stallone’s Rambo–with all that being said…let me introduce you to Dorian Waters:

Dorian Waters

Dorian rocketed towards the outer crust of the lush planet at speeds almost intolerable for his Tibranium launch suit.  At just the precise moment he jotted in his PI code and the blackened outer shell of suit unbuckled from his frame in a thousand fractured pieces, rocketed past him, and immediately burned up in the upper atmosphere.  Dorian repositioned himself as he fell into a sort of Swan dive and fell headlong into a thick layer clouds.  With a flick of his wrist he yanked the ripcord and his blue shoot billowed from his back pulling him upwards briefly before eventually allowing him to slowly descend into the dark green canopy below.

“Terra de Verde,” Dorian muttered in awe as he came into the canopy lining.

The landing was a bit rough, but with only a couple scratches from broken branches, and the consideration that little to no preparation time was had when he rashly jumped out of the low orbit Skirt Pod, it could have gone much, much worse.  He hung gently swinging, listening, and thinking about the sounds he was hearing before finally unsheathing his knife and cutting himself loose from the thick, brown branches that held him captive.

He awoke flat on his back, clutched for his knife which was missing.  He glanced upwards towards the canopy where he had fallen through several strata of branches–loll and behold he could see the glint of steel lodged into the bark in the distance.

Quickly thinking, he pawed for something close by, found a rock, and struck the cat-like creature as it leapt for his prone body.  The 180-lb creature growled in pain and fell to its side in a hiss of dust and a belabored roar.

“Kitty’s got claws,” Dorian mumbled to himself and then promptly passed out.

He awoke in awash of his own blood and rain.  Dorian sputtered water as he jolted awake in a nightmarish-like fashion.  He grimaced and propped up on his elbows.

“Fuck…it’s wet.”

Waters was ironically drenched and thoroughly pissed.

Joseph Nassise’s “By the Blood of the Heroes: The Great Undead War: Book I”


Joseph Nassise is written a slew of supernatural, dark fantasy thrillers that have all hit my Kindle at one time or another.  My mother turned me on to him several years back and I remember vividly reading the Templar Chronicles–which if you haven’t read them I would highly recommend picking up a copy.  It is a high-octane thriller that takes the supernatural genre and puts a great new lens on it.

When I started professionally writing I emailed several of my favorite artists and authors for advice, and Nassise was one of the few authors who emailed me back.  He was more than willing to chat with me about his work.  That alone kicked him up a notch in my book—punned intended.

Earlier this month I attended a virtual launch party for Joseph Nassise’s newest novel, “By the Blood of the Heroes: The Great Undead War: Book 1”  A company by the name of Shindig hosted the event, and basically it worked like a traditional launch party except from the comfort of your own home.  Mr. Nassise’s video feed was front and center, and he began by reading the first chapter-and-a-half of his novel, and then as people joined the event a smaller video would pop up onto the screen down below in the ‘audience’ section.  The whole event was placed over a snazzy a library background and run by a Shindig moderator who ‘pop’ in every once in a while to provide information and direction.

After Joseph Nassise finished his reading, he did a brief Q&A, and then ‘mingled’ with the crowd in private chat sessions.  Overall, I was quite impressed.  I can definitely picture Shindig’s virtual launch parties taking off.  It cuts down on the overhead costs of a traditional book tours and provides people who normally wouldn’t be able to go to a launch party a chance to attend one.

If you get a chance to pick up Nassise’s new novel, or any of his others, definitely snap it up.  “The Great Undead War” replaces the invention of Mustard Gas during WWI with the fictional Corpse Gas, and centers around a ‘what-if’ scenario involving zombies.  It has already released and is available on Amazon for a scant $10.00.  Check it out!

Film Noir, and Detective Fiction


All my life I’ve been fascinated with detective fiction.  It seems almost human nature to adhere to the unlawful.  I think that most individuals are spellbound by misdeeds and the felonious.  It intrigues us.  Simplistically put: crime is bad and, if indulged, there are consequences (some more grave then others).  We have the tendency to watch and absorb novels and films that depict crime; it’s an interactive gateway drug that allows people to nearly experience the inexperienceable.

Recently I discovered HBO’sBored to Death.”  What makes the show very appealing, besides the idiosyncratic wit, is the fact that the entire show is founded in classic literature and detective fiction.  Frequent references to Fitzgerald, Hemingway, Raymond Chandler, Dashiell Hammett and countless other authors dot each episode creating a writer’s haven of inside jokes.  Along with the references and humor, resides a wonderful plot, surrounding the inane exploits of an unlicensed, Craigslist detective.  This aspect of the show is just as equally founded in classicism as the literary references; “Bored to Death” continually dives into the deep well of the private eye genre.  From the ‘whodunit’ to the ‘inverted detective story’ tried and true methods of detective writing are revealed and then accented with atypical characters and circumstances.  These elements are then interwoven with the literary, and then once again recombined with a myriad of cliché film noir archetypes that creates a truly enthralling half-hour’s worth of television.

Other programs such as “Bones,” “CSI,” and “Psych” all tweak the police procedural to form a distinctively absorbing television show; however, all of which, are founded within the same genre.  Myself included, humans are rebellious by nature and this is but a small extension of that rebellion.

I started working on my own detective novella several months ago and have yet to make any real progress.  I have a couple of okay ideas, and the framework complete, in a purely outlined form, yet I’ve hit the proverbial stonewall.  I know what I want my characters to do next and I even know what to do with them afterwards, yet I’m unsure how to execute the process.  Even though my writing as well as “Bored to Death” and most Raymond Chandler novels are based in detective fiction, how do I tweak it to make it my own?  How do I take the inherent rebellion expressed through watching crime unfold and then to be solved, and fashion it into something unique?  I believe that some clichés are needed in order to redirect the piece back to its foundation; however, some aspects could easily brush by the ‘paying homage’ intention and graze upon plagiarism.  It is a fine line to straddle, but I think if done correctly I could, just as Raymond Chandler and Dashiell Hammett did all those years ago, write a unique piece of private eye fiction.

There are some truly great films out there that highlight the private eye, but I would like to see a second coming of detective fiction.  I’ve read some contemporary novels that are spot on, but the nostalgia created from picking up a worn pocket-sized paperback and curling up with a great read, a warm cup of coffee, and a fire a blazing is priceless, and unfortunately lost in modern times.

Why can’t we renew this concept, and curl up with a piece of detective fiction digitized for the Kindle or Nook, a warm latte, and an electric fire set aglow?  This is the question that I ask you.

The Chronicles of Kaiden


Book One – Origins

Chapter One – The Beginning of an Eternity

“Damn!” Kaiden swore as he shakily began to stand as the dust was just beginning to settle about him.

He reached down and took hold of the wooden stake that was imbedded into his side; Kaiden grimaced slightly as the stake came loose.  With a feint thud of wood clinking the bloodied soil the stake as well as a sick sputter of blood fell amongst the stones beneath his feet.  The pain was surprisingly minimal, and in a few hours time it would subside completely as the deep lesion closed.  Being half-demon was not half bad sometimes.

He leisurely glanced around the newly created battlefield making sure that the dead were not arising.  It was not the first time that he had stood on the edge of a town encircled with corpses.  In fact it seemed as if it was happening more and more as the years waned on.  The demons that had perished in the Great War and arisen from the hereafter only to realize that resurrection did not necessarily denote rejuvenation.  As a temporary solution the demon elders erected camps to hold these horrors until something more permanent could be established.  He and his motley crew of knights were charged with regulating these encampments, but all too often did the camps end in devastation.

Even though Kaiden loathed being appointed leader he was quite good at it.  His proficiency in combat along with an unrelenting desire to fix the wrongs of his past created a leader worthy of future lore.  He had requested that his second in command, Kane, lead the rest of the knights back East to base and rest up while he wrapped up a solo mission abroad in the West.  Kane new Kaiden well enough to let him go rogue every once in a while.  He knew the rules; if Kaiden did not return within a fortnight the Calvary would come for him and avenge his death to a man if necessary.

At an even six feet Kaiden was not tall, but he was by no means short either.  Kaiden’s eyes were always described as being a deathly blue; his eyes were lackluster and lifeless at first glance, but upon closer scrutiny his gaze indicated a deep sense of grief and unwelcome familiarity with battle.  His skin was coarse from the numerous nicks and scrapes he had received during battle.  Like his overcoat his mane and whiskers were a rustic auburn like a dark roast of coffee.  Behind his coat a single holster held his ivory revolver.  At twenty-three Kaiden had seen a lifetime’s worth of encounters, which had ultimately honed his skills as a combatant but in the end it, was his soul that had taken the damage.

Has father, Draken, had taught him to wield the family sword.  Most of his brethren were skilled in one art or another, but only the Lunguard family could brandish the famous, as well as infamous, Crescent Blade.  Besides the ability to wield this bringer of pandemonium the Lunguard family also had the supernatural ability to perfect more than one combat style.  Draken was legendary for wielding the Crescent Blade as well as his now equally famous rapier, Foreshadow.  Kaiden had taken a more unconventional approach, against his father’s wishes, by wielding the Crescent Blade along with an old earthly revolver.  Even though Kaiden used specially imbued bullets for his trademark revolver his father still goaded him over for his personal preferences.

The Great War between the demons and the wyrms had long since passed, but his father still clung to the old rules of conduct.

“You disgrace the Lunguard family name with your unorthodox behavior,” his father used to spat at him during their bouts of training.

Even though the anguish of his father’s memory still plagued his thoughts it did not matter.  He was far away from the birthplace of his ancestors.  He needed to concentrate on the task at hand.  He was to set out towards the Cerulean Mountain Range to the West.  Evidently a rather formidable wyrm from the Great War resided within’ the heart of Cerulean Range.  Common belief stated that all of the great wyrms had perished in the war, but in all actuality many had fled to the ruined corners of Earth at the closing of the war.  Over the past couple of years dozens upon dozens of these foul beasts had been discovered and slaughtered, many by Kaiden’s hand.  There were even rumors that Mistcabre, the dragon general, may still be alive somewhere within the turmoil of the new world.

He quickly gathered his thoughts and began methodically sifting through the corpses of those that he had killed.  The first time he had rifled through a dead man’s belongings he had felt sick, but over the years he had become accustomed to it.  He no longer felt any emotion for those that he had killed.  He killed them not out of pleasure or hatred; he did it for duty and defense.  After picking through a majority of the bodies he had amassed a fair amount of silver and trinkets, and it was now time for him to leave this place of butchery.

He gathered his belongings and set out.  He would have liked to ride, but unfortunately when a battle begins involving more than a dozen or so creatures the horses die first.  Sadly his horse had been the first one to perish.

Nevertheless, he needed to head onto the next town.  If his memory served correctly there should be a small town on the other side of the Bloodwing Woods that he crossed through many moons again when he had ventured to this region with his father those many moons ago.

He sped athwart the open field in between the woods and the destroyed demon village.  The sun was setting and he would rather fight in the woods than fight upon the open plains.  By nightfall he should be along the Eastern edge of the woods.

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