Pen and inc drawing by Jeff Mason from October Dreams, a Harvest of Horror
Copyright 1989 by David Kubicek & Jeff Mason
On July 16, I attended my 45-year Lincoln Northeast High School reunion. One hundred and ten former classmates came—not bad, this late in the day, for a class of around 600. Some were scattered too far across the country to make it, others had dropped off the radar and couldn’t be reached, and sadly a few—probably more than I know about—are no longer with us. I’ve attended every reunion since our 20th, but this is the first time I’ve gone without my wife, Cheryl, who passed away last November.
A nostalgic thread seems to connect us all to high school. We all had varying high school experiences, some good, some not so good. But even for those who thrived in high school, I doubt that it was the best, the happiest time in their lives—at least I hope not, considering they’ve been collecting life experiences for 45 years since graduation. But high school was the beginning of our adulthood—or at least our transition to adulthood—and I believe that is why we feel a special connection.
Friends and experiences we shared in high school keep drawing us back every five to 10 years to catch up and to see how much we’ve grown—and how much the world has changed around us—as we’ve followed our life’s journeys.
Here are a few things that come to mind as I think about the time that has passed since high school:
My son Sean, who will turn 21 on August 31, is a child of technology. He had his first computer when he was four—it was one of our old ones after we bought new equipment. We got our first laptop when Sean was in the third grade, and he taught me how to use it; it seems that his teacher had one, so he knew all about laptops. And throughout middle school and high school Sean did his homework on a laptop.
Today Sean has two laptops—a bigger, badder one especially built for gaming, and a standard laptop to do other things on. And he is using his smart phone, in addition to texting and going online, to catch Pokemon. We got into a discussion recently on the changes he will see over the next 45 years. He couldn’t conceive of what kind of changes there might be. What else could possibly be invented? Surely, we have reached the pinnacle of our technological capability.
I told him that our minds are too rooted in the present to conceive of what marvels the future has in store. Even science fiction writers, whose business it is to speculate about the future, missed predicting two things that define our current culture—the digital revolution and cell phones. But whatever technological advancements may come over the next 45 years will be seriously cool. Sean will see them, and I’d like to see them, too, because they will be, as I have said, seriously cool.
Unfortunately, my best chance of seeing that brave new world rests on the discovery, before my ultimate deterioration, of how to transfer our minds into robot bodies. I know this was the topic of a The Big Bang Theory episode, but the idea has been kicking around for decades. But I inherited longevity genes from my parents, so I have a good chance of surviving until such a discovery is made—unless something happens to me or I get an incurable disease.
Oh well, I’ll keep my fingers crossed.
Leprechauns are often stereotyped, misunderstood—especially in the United States—and even maligned, as in a series of 1990s horror films in which the leprechaun is a malevolent little beastie.
Leprechauns have been used to sell cereal (Lucky Charms) and as mascots for sports teams (the Boston Celtics). They have been portrayed as pyromaniacs (in an episode of The Simpsons), and their musical taste has been impugned—sentimental Irish music is called Leprechaun Music. And, of course, it is common knowledge that leprechauns have a pot of gold.
How does all of all of this “leprechaun lore” stack up to the leprechaun’s real place in Irish mythology? As with most fantasy figures, leprechauns have evolved over the years, and the most romantic aspects of their legend have survived.
A commonly accepted image of a leprechaun is of a small, old man with a red beard and wearing a top hat. He is often intoxicated, but never so drunk that he can’t ply his trade as a shoemaker or a tinker. The first sign that a leprechaun is near usually is the tapping of his hammer.
It’s unclear where the name “leprechaun” comes from. It may be from leath bhrogan, Irish for shoemaker, or it may derive from the Irish word luacharma’n for pygmy.
Leprechauns have not been around that long. They rarely are spoken of in folk tales, those stories that usually concern a human hero and are given a more formal telling. Leprechaun tales usually are told casually by locals and contain local names and scenery.
Only since the early 20th Century have leprechauns been depicted as wearing emerald green; the first leprechauns wore red, and their physical appearance varied depending on where in Ireland they lived.
Unlike the malicious creature in the Leprechaun films, leprechauns like solitude and usually avoid human habitations, although some have adopted human families and have even followed them abroad.
In general, though, leprechauns don’t have much use for humans, whom they consider foolish and greedy.
Leprechauns are cunning, mischievous and sometimes cranky, but they generally don’t harm people. They have a “gift for gab” and would be the life of the party, if you could get them to attend human parties.
Leprechauns do have a treasure, left by the Vikings when they plundered Ireland in the eighth and ninth Centuries A.D., which they bury in crocks of gold.
Because leprechauns are honest, if you capture one, he must tell you where he’s hidden his gold, but beware of his tricks. You can hold a leprechaun in place with your eyes, but if you glance away, he will vanish.
Each leprechaun carries two leather pouches, one containing a silver coin and the other a gold coin, to bribe captors to set him free. But both coins are bewitched; once the leprechaun has paid his ransom and gained his freedom, the silver returns to his purse, and the gold turns to leaves or ashes.
Copyright 2013 by David Kubicek
This story may be reposted on other websites and blogs if credited to the author. Publication in any other form must be by permission of the author.
In a close vote last week the Federal Communications Commission decided that the internet should be treated like a public utility. In other words, there will be no fast and slow lanes–internet service providers will not be allowed to decide which content should be given priority over other content. The danger of a non-net neutrality world would be that big companies with lots of bucks could buy faster delivery speeds for their content while smaller cash-poor websites could be relegated to the slow lane. So, for now, we can breath a sigh of relief.
But the battle hasn’t yet been won. Comcast predicts that some large providers will sue to override the FCC decision.
For more information on the latest goings on with net neutrality, check out these articles:
This week a Federal court overturned the Federal Communication Commission’s Open Internet Order.
This means that now Internet Service Providers like Verizon, Comcast and AT&T can decide which websites you will be allowed to visit. They can slow down or block access to certain sites (read: smaller, poorer companies and bloggers), and they can speed up access to sites (read: large, well-funded companies) who can afford to pay hefty access fees.
Net neutrality isn’t dead yet, but it is very sick; the FCC can still reassert its authority over broadband.
To read more about this latest blow to a free internet, check out these articles by Craig Aaron
A mournful wail shatters the stillness, rising and falling like ocean waves, echoing through the dark, lonely hills. It is the cry of the Banshee, an omen that someone will die.
According to Irish folklore, the Banshee wails, or “keens,” for only the five major families of Ireland: the O’Neils, the O’Briens, the O’Connors, the O’Gradys, and the Kavanaghs. Each Banshee attaches itself to a mortal family and follows that family wherever it travels, even across the ocean.
When someone in the family is about to die she stalks the hills around their home, her silver-grey hair streaming like a gossamer waterfall to the ground, her face pale and eyes red from weeping, her grey-white cloak as fine as cobwebs clinging to her tall slender frame. If you catch a Banshee, she must reveal the name of the person for whom she is keening.
The Banshee can take many forms. She may appear as a beautiful young woman, as a stately matron, as an old hag, or as an animal Irish folklore associates with witchcraft, such as a hooded crow, a hare, or a weasel. Some legends maintain that she is a ghost, often of a murdered woman or woman who died in childbirth.
In Ireland she is called Bean Sidhe (Sidhe pronounced “shee”), which literally means “woman of the fairy mound.” Her Scottish counterpart is Bean Nighe, or “washer woman,” which is another form she can take. The English word “keen” is derived from the Irish caoineadh, which means “lament.”
Traditionally, a woman would sing a lament, which was said to be an imitation of the Banshee’s cry, at peasant funerals.
According to legend, Banshees would appear before the death of a member of the five major families and sing their laments. If several banshees appeared, it foretold that someone great or holy would die.
The Banshee herself often attends funerals, her wails blending in with those of the mourners.
She launched a business empire when she was nineteen years old. Her New England Valentine Company grossed $5,000 in its first year and was earning more than $100,000 annually when she retired in 1881 at the age of 53.
Her name was Esther Allen Howland (1828-1904), and today she is often called the Mother of the American Valentine’s Day card. Her alliances with two other early valentine makers, Jotham Taft (1816-1910) and George C. Whitney (1842-1915), would build the company she started in her home into an economic powerhouse.
In 1847, Worcester, Mass., native Esther Howland was a recent graduate of the 10-year-old Mount Holyoke Female Seminary in South Hadley, Mass., when her father received a supply of English valentines to sell in his book and stationery store. She marveled at their lacy paper and floral decorations, but she thought she could do better.
Through her father’s store she imported the materials from England and set to work. Her brother was so impressed with the results that he took samples with him on selling trips and brought back orders—so many orders that Howland had to recruit friends to help her keep up with the demand.
Soon the enterprise moved to the third floor of the Howland home where there was enough room to set up an assembly line, with each employee contributing a piece to each card. Later she rented commercial space.
By the mid-1860s Jotham Taft and George C. Whitney also were building reputations as valentine makers.
According to family lore, Taft was creating valentines as early as 1840; however, 1863 is the first record we have of his efforts. Taft collected materials while traveling in Europe, and when he returned to the United States he and his wife made valentines at home.
Taft later partnered with Howland but sold his company to George Whitney when he retired.
Like Howland, George C. Whitney began selling valentines out of the stationery store he and his brother, Edward, owned in Worcester, Mass. Edward left the partnership in 1869, and in 1881, Whitney bought New England Valentine Co. from Howland.
Combined with Taft’s and Howland’s Companies, Whitney took his firm to the next level in American valentine manufacturing. He installed machinery to make lace paper and floral decorations so the firm no longer would have to import materials from England. By 1888, the company boasted stores in New York, Boston, and Chicago.
After George Whitney died in 1915, his son, Warren, took over the business. When it shut down in 1942, a victim of the World War II paper shortage, the company that had grown out of the efforts of Esther Allen Howland, Jotham Taft, and George C. Whitney was the largest valentine producer in the world.
The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2012 annual report for this blog.
600 people reached the top of Mt. Everest in 2012. This blog got about 4,000 views in 2012. If every person who reached the top of Mt. Everest viewed this blog, it would have taken 7 years to get that many views.
The following story is based on true events that happened on Christmas Eve in 1818.
An icy wind gust slammed into Father Joseph Mohr, but he leaned forward and pressed on through the night, snow crunching under his boots. The wind drove frail waves of snow skittering through the streets, deserted at this hour except for one lone plodding figure, Father Mohr. In his overcoat pocket his hand pressed the folded sheet of paper against his side, as if protecting it.
He stopped beside the schoolhouse and looked up the stairway to the apartment of the school teacher, who was also the church organist. Feeble light flickered behind the windows. The wind shredded the chimney smoke to ribbons that dissipated into the black sky. Low clouds hung like a shroud over the Austrian village of Oberndorf.
His body numb from the cold, his feet like blocks of ice, Father Mohr climbed the stairs and rapped on the door. Shuffling sounds from inside. The door opened. The man who stood in the doorway seemed startled to see the young priest.
“Franz, I need your help,” Father Mohr said.
“Father, come in. Warm yourself by the stove.”
Father Mohr stepped into the tiny room, and Franz closed the door. Against the opposite wall was a bed, neatly made up. In the center of the room was a small table with three chairs around it. A lantern hung from a hook above the table. The faint smell of Franz Gruber’s dinner lingered on the air.
“Can I get you some tea, Father?”
“Thank you, no. I can’t stay long.”
“How can I help, Father?”
Father Mohr motioned to the table, and the two men sat down. The stove radiated an abundant amount of heat, but it did little to combat the cold draft that stirred in the room whenever the wind battered against the walls.
“The organ will not play,” Father Mohr said. “I worked on it all afternoon, but it is no use.”
“But mass is in less than four hours! What will Christmas Eve be like without music?”
“I prayed for guidance, and after a time it came.”
From his overcoat pocket Father Mohr drew a crinkled yellowing piece of paper and handed it to his friend. Franz unfolded it while the young priest continued.
“While I prayed, I remembered the poem I’d written two years ago when I was at Mariapfarr.” Father Mohr licked his lips. “I hesitate to ask this of you, good friend, but could you write music for this poem? Could you write it for guitar? Could you do it in two hours?”
Franz looked down at the page and read the poem. Then he looked up at Father Mohr and smiled.
“I can do this, Father.”
Father Mohr gripped his friend’s hand.
“In two hours? I must learn the melody and the chords, and the choir must learn its part.”
“In two hours, if not sooner. I’ll be at the church with the song an hour before midnight.”
Father Mohr thanked his friend profusely and stepped out into the restless night. There was a spring in his step as he walked the few blocks back to St. Nicholas Church. The cold no longer bothered him, and an occasional star peeked out from among the clouds.
Shortly before 11 p.m., Father Mohr was tuning his guitar in the candlelit sanctuary when Franz came in. He showed his work to Father Mohr.
“This is perfect!” Father Mohr said.
“We’ve got to get busy,” Franz said.
While Father Mohr learned the chords, Franz gathered the members of the choir who were just beginning to arrive. He sang the song for them.
“You must come in on the last two lines of each verse,” he said.
Father Mohr had been musically gifted since he was a child, so it didn’t take him long to learn the song. Then he and Franz worked with the choir until it was time to begin mass.
Shortly after midnight, Father Joseph Mohr and Franz Gruber stood before the main altar, and Father Mohr began to play. The notes rang out crystal clear like bells on a still night. The two friends sang their composition for the first time in public.
“Silent night, Holy night. All is calm, all is bright . . .”
When they had finished, there was complete silence in the chamber. Father Mohr looked out over his congregation and saw more than a few moist eyes. He set his guitar aside and in a hushed voice led the congregation in prayer.
I’ve taken some liberties with this story. The facts are all true, the names, the locations, the time frame, Father Mohr having been a gifted musician since his childhood. But facts alone do not a story make, so I wrote up something that I believe is a pretty good approximation as to how these events played out. Also, Father Mohr was the assistant priest of St. Nicholas Church (ironic, but the real name of the church—I swear), but history seems to have buried the name of the main priest—at least I never ran across it. For the sake of the story I put Father Mohr in charge. So sue me.
In January, 1819, organ builder and repairman Karl Mauracher came to St. Nicholas Church to repair the organ. Father Mohr shared the song with him. Impressed, Mauracher wrote down the lyrics and learned the melody. He shared “Silent Night” wherever he went. Traveling folk singers and singing groups spread the song through Europe. One of those groups, the Rainers, performed the song in New York in 1839. By the time of the Civil War “Silent Night” had become America’s most popular Christmas song.
Many legends grew up about the song’s origins. One that persists to this day is that mice gnawed through the organ’s bellows, but that tale is like the urban legends and conspiracy theories of modern times; it makes an exciting story, but the truth is that the organ was old, the winter was bitterly cold, and the instrument just broke.
Other legends attributed “Silent Night” to Beethoven, Handel, and Bach. These stories were put to rest after Franz Gruber launched an extensive letter-writing campaign to newspapers and publishers and made public one of his early arrangements. Unfortunately, Father Mohr died in 1848, before he and Gruber were recognized as the composers of “Silent Night.”
For an excellent rendition of “Silent Night” as it might have sounded when Father Mohr played it to his congregation, check out Dave Colvin’s version: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BOzEG4i0hPo
Copyright 2012 by David Kubicek
This story may be reposted on other websites and blogs if credited to the author. Publication in any other form must be by permission of the author.
Izzy Baline published his first song, “Marie from Sunny Italy,” when he was 19 years old and working as a singing waiter in a Chinatown restaurant. During a career spanning more than eighty years he wrote thousands of songs; he published 812 of them, and 451 of those became hits.
During his most productive years Izzy wrote a song a day. One critic even called him a writing machine. It must be remembered, however, that he usually did not write his songs in a day; he just finished them. His songs had gestation periods of months or even years.
Izzy wrote many of his songs for the Broadway stage and for motion pictures. Some of his best-known songs are “Alexander’s Ragtime Band,” “A Pretty Girl is like a Melody,” “Blue Skies,” “Cheek to Cheek,” “Easter Parade,” “There’s No Business Like Show Business,” and “God Bless America.”
His songs were performed in the movies of Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers, among others, and Al Jolson sang “Blue Skies” in The Jazz Singer (1927), the first “talking picture.”
Izzy completed his most famous song, “White Christmas,” on January 8, 1940, and Bing Crosby introduced it to the world in Holiday Inn (1942), for which it won the academy award for Best Song.
Reportedly, Izzy began composing the song during a five-year stay in sunny southern California, where he was working on films, and finished it after returning to New York. Some of the many artists—besides Crosby—who recorded “White Christmas” include Frank Sinatra, Elvis Presley, Ella Fitzgerald, Willie Nelson, Fats Domino, and Michael Bolton.
More than 30 million copies of “White Christmas,” composed by a Russian-born Jew named Izzy Baline, have been sold worldwide. But Izzy Baline is not the name under which he published his music. Professionally, he used a different name, one he adopted when very young. We know him as Irving Berlin.
Occasionally I’ve heard science fiction writers complain that in order to create a future world or alternate reality they have to sacrifice characterization; to create a world and to create characters would take too long, be too wordy, and might bore the readers.
That is crap. It’s an excuse used by 1) lazy writers who don’t want to bother with characterization, and 2) inexperienced writers who haven’t yet learned to “show, don’t tell.”
Ray Bradbury created an unfamiliar world populated with well-defined characters in Fahrenheit 451, as did Margaret Atwood in The Handmaid’s Tale, as did Suzanne Collins in The Hunger Games, as have many other science fiction and fantasy writers.
You don’t need to waste lots of words describing your futuristic world; a few well-chosen words will do. In one of his stories, Robert A. Heinlein has doors that operate like camera shutters; they open automatically when someone approaches them and close after the character has passed through. To communicate this concept to his readers, as his character approaches a door, Heinlein writes three words: “The door dilated.”
Similarly, don’t waste words describing your characters; show them in action. The best way to engage your readers is to create characters who are like them, characters who want the same things and who react emotionally in the same ways. This establishes an emotional bond between your characters and your readers.
To create a dystopian world, find something that may be slightly wrong in our contemporary society and exaggerate it so that it is has caused your future society to be seriously out of whack. For example, Ray Bradbury took censorship to the next level in Fahrenheit 451 when he envisioned a future in which firemen seek out illegal collections of books and burn them.
So you have characters to whom your readers can relate, and you have a society in which something is broken. Now combine the two.
Remember that, although the characters have an emotional tie to contemporary readers, their thoughts and actions must be consistent with the society in which they live. In Fahrenheit 451, for example, at the front of the characters’ minds all the time is the knowledge that possessing a book is a serious crime. They know also that speeding 100 miles per hour down the freeway and trying to hit anything that moves is a good, and accepted, form of recreation.
That’s it in a nutshell. Writing a solid dystopian story is as easy as writing a contemporary story if you follow these three guidelines:
The article originally appeared on BEAUTY IN RUINS on April 12, 2012
It should not come as a surprise that a book of little literary quality (and I use the word “literary” in the loosest sense) should top the New York Times Best Seller List, but it is irritating when one considers all of the excellent novels that don’t even come within hailing distance of the hot 100.
I haven’t read the complete novel, but I did read the first several pages. Basically, I read it as an agent and editor would if it showed up their slush piles (i.e., “hook me in the first few pages or I pass on it.”) The opening didn’t hook me because the prose was not polished, the dialogue was wooden, and the scene did not interest me enough to continue reading. I didn’t even get to the porn, which seems to be the primary reason sales of this book are challenging sales figures of such authors as Stephen King and J.K. Rowling, who actually are excellent writers.
Since I can’t speak to the content of Fifty Shades of Grey because I got bored, here’s a video of a an all-woman book club that did read the complete novel–apparently to the regret of some members in the group. The novel (and I use the word “novel” loosely) has already resulted in many parodies, one of which has been getting much press. Although I haven’t read Fifty Shames of Earl Grey, it certainly piques my interest more than the book at which it is poking fun.
Ray Bradbury once said that there are three great adventures: being born, living, and dying. Last night Bradbury embarked on that last great adventure when he died at his Los Angeles home at the age of 91.
Bradbury not only had a profound influence on my writing style, but his book The Martian Chronicles inspired me to start writing in the first place. We exchanged a few letters in the 80s and early 90s, and I found him to be an approachable and generous man.
The first time I wrote him, I sent him a copy of the college thesis I’d written about him and his early work: Ray Bradbury: Space Age Visionary. In less than a week I received a note of thanks along with galleys for a new book of criticism of his work another author was publishing.
My first inclination when I heard of Bradbury’s passing was to take time off and read some of his stories in honor of his memory. But I immediately realized that the best memorial to a man who got physically sick if he didn’t write at least two pages every day would be to write. So as soon as I post this, I’ll go back to work on my novel. I’ll read some of his stories later.
Our nephew’s dog had puppies. My wife Cheryl and son Sean went to see them. They fell in love with the runt of the litter.
He was such a little thing, half Labrador and half hound dog. He spent most of the visit curled up on Cheryl’s chest, sleeping.
They wanted to adopt him, so they called home to ask my opinion.
“It’s fine with me,” I said, “but what do you think Whiskers and Kabella will think?”
Whiskers was our four-year-old blue-eyed gray and white tom cat. Kabella was our black Labrador, nine years old at the time.
“Whiskers will have to adjust,” Cheryl said, knowing that the cat didn’t care for dogs, barely tolerated the one we had. “Kabella has never had puppies. Maybe she’ll be a good mother.”
We had to wait a month before the puppy was old enough to leave his mother. During that time we debated possible names.
Cheryl suggested “Cuddles” because he liked to snuggle.
“With a name like Cuddles,” I said, “every dog in the neighborhood will beat him up. He’s already the runt. We don’t want to add to his troubles.”
We searched for a more masculine name. “Skippy” was proposed and just as quickly discarded.
I don’t remember how we settled on “Scooter,” but we agreed that it sounded butch enough so that the neighborhood bully dogs probably wouldn’t tease him.
Finally, we brought Scooter home. He spent the hour-long drive curled up on Sean’s lap.
Cheryl had over-estimated Kabella’s maternal instinct. Mostly, Kabella ignored Scooter, but if he pestered her too much she quickly put him in his place. And if he dared to eat from her bowl, she sent him yipping away to the living room where he cowered behind the couch.
Whiskers was indifferent to the puppy, but Scooter already had a fully developed bark-at-the-cat instinct. He would bounce around yapping at Whiskers, who was more than twice his size. Whiskers would sit serenely and watch this macho display. Finally, bored, he’d lift his paw and cuff Scooter on the side of his head. The puppy would fall over, and Whiskers would stroll quietly away.
Scooter didn’t stay tiny for long. Soon he was bigger than Whiskers, but he’d long since learned to get along with his adopted brother. Although Scooter thought of the cat as his buddy, Whiskers interacted with the dog only when he had no other choice.
Cheryl and I would sit on the couch and watch Scooter chase Whiskers down into the basement. After a moment of silence we’d hear thumping on the stairs, and Scooter would charge across the room and down the hall with Whiskers in hot pursuit. Scooter was playing, but Whiskers was serious; like Kabella, he was establishing boundaries.
Kabella never got in touch with her maternal side. She was top dog in this house, and she never let this scrawny intruder forget it. They got along fine, but Kabella continued in her role as dominant dog even after Scooter had grown larger than her.
Whiskers also came to accept Scooter. As long as the new dog didn’t violate his space too aggressively, he was cool with it. Whiskers even tolerated an occasional rear-end sniff when he came in from outdoors; he understood that Scooter was just making sure he was the cat who belonged in this household, not an imposter.
Later, when Scooter was full-grown, we visited Cheryl’s family and met two of Scooter’s brothers. Cheryl’s sister had adopted them when they were puppies. We were surprised that both dogs had short legs and were a little chunky. They were closer to Kabella’s size than to Scooter’s.
The runt of the litter had grown into a lean, long-legged powerhouse who dwarfed his siblings. And Although Kabella and Whiskers challenged him from time to time, he had managed to fit in with his adopted family.
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“It’s very difficult to portray the brilliant aspects of this book without giving plot spoilers . . . It’s wonderfully written and the early parts of the book portray the small town atmosphere perfectly.”
Read the complete review at bookstackreviews.com
My rating: 5 of 5 stars
The Ox-Bow Incident is not your standard western. This is an excellent examination of mob justice and its consequences. Clark was a really good writer. He develops the characters and settings much better than many of the westerns I’ve read. The descriptions of western life sound as if he’s writing from experience, as if he were there, which is not the case.
Clark was born in 1909 in Maine. In 1917 his father accepted the position of President of the University of Nevada and moved the family west. By that time the west described in The Ox-Bow Incident was well on the way to extinction in the face of 20th century technology and civilization, but I’m sure there were still many remnants visible in the buildings and the landscape and many people still alive willing to tell stories of those times to an eager youngster. Even in the late 1930s, when Clark wrote this novel, he could have still found many people who remembered the west of 1885.
Not long after its publication in 1940 The Ox-Bow Incident was made into a movie starring Henry Fonda. The film is good, too, considered by many to be a classic. Read the novel, then see the film, in that order. I recommend both most highly.
My rating: 4 of 5 stars
As young adult paranormal thriller/romances go, Red is page-turner. It tells the story of how love grows between Elodie and Sawyer. Neither of them knows the other is a werewolf when they first meet. Elodie, it turns out, is working with Sawyer’s father on a project to re-introduce the red wolf into Tennessee.
Sawyer’s dad also is a werewolf. His mother was shot while in wolf form–in Sawyer’s family, werewolves mate only with their own kind. Elodie’s father, who isn’t a werewolf, raised her after her mother supposedly killed herself when Elodie was three because of the curse on her family. Although Sawyer is a seasoned werewolf, Elodie, at age 17, is a late bloomer–she has yet to undergo a full transformation.
One night after working late, Elodie’s car breaks down. As she is walking home, a vehicle tries to run her down. Her assailant is a werewolf hunter who will not stop until she is dead. Elodie and Sawyer–who has appointed himself as Elodie’s unofficial protector–risk death as they search for a way to discover this hunter’s identity and stop him.
Red has everything a good story should have: twists and turns and surprises, characters we can identify with and cheer for, and a pace that makes us hunger for what is coming next. I highly recommend it.
My rating: 4 of 5 stars
In this fairy tale picture book King William is desperate to marry off his spoiled daughter, Princess Rose. She is so demanding that he finds himself hiding under furniture (we first meet him when he’s under the bed) whenever he hears her coming.
As in most fairy tales, he invites suitors to compete for the hand of the beautiful princess. Prince Sterling is one of those who applies, and she sends him on a quest to find her the perfect hairpin.
He tries three times before he brings back a hairpin Princess Rose will accept. By then he has lost his enthusiasm for the beautiful but spoiled princess, and although she agrees to marry him, he turns her down and returns to Lily, a not-so-beautiful commoner he met while on his quest for the hairpin.
The Rose and the Lily carries a resounding message: character trumps beauty every time. The story is smartly illustrated by Megan Stiver. At the end of the book, Susan Ross provides instructions on how youngsters can make a crown.
My rating: 4 of 5 stars
Love and Other Four-Letter Words is a well-written and engaging story about a teen caught in the middle of marital problems between her parents.
When Sammie’s parents decide on a trial separation, her father (a Cornell University professor) leaves for California on sabbatical while her mother sublets their home in Ithica, NY, and moves with Sammie to New York City.
Her mother, a frustrated artist, regrets leaving the big city for an art teaching job in Ithica when she got married. When she can’t find work immediately, she falls into a deep depression, leaving Sammie to take care of both of them while also trying to rebuild her own life. But before things get better, they will get worse, much worse, eventually leading to a melt-down.
This coming-of-age novel contains some profanity and mild sexual situations but nothing that would be surprising or disturbing to most teens. I highly recommend it for early teens on up.
Read my review of Carolyn Mackler’s The Earth, My Butt, and Other Big Round Things.
Nick Sherry, Australia’s Minister for Small Business, said he believes that within five years online shopping will effectively kill general bookstores, and only specialty bookstores in major cities will remain. This prediction upset lots of people, especially since the Minister made the statement at an event that was designed to encourage small businesses to expand their online footprints.
As you may know, I predicted in an earlier post that ebooks eventually would phase out paper books. But the Minister is not suggesting that people will stop buying paper books; he’s saying they’ll buy their books online.
I think five years is pushing it, whether for phasing out paper books or bookstores. Although people are buying more and more merchandise online, changes this radical happen slowly. I’d give it 50 to 100 years. The younger generation, those youthful whippersnappers who grew up using computers (like my son, Sean, who was computer savvy before he entered kindergarten) will drive this change. Five years seems awful quick. Fifty to 100 years will give society the time it needs to adjust.
For more about reaction to the Minister’s announcement, read the Sydney Morning Herald article.
I am a fan of the original Twilight Zone series, hosted by Rod Serling, who also wrote a staggering number of episodes. Because of my love for the show, I tend to write a story now and then of the TZ type. This isn’t intentional; it’s just how my mind works. Apparently, it’s fairly noticeable that “Elevator” belongs in that class. After my number one Beta Reader, my wife Cheryl, finished it, she observed: “This is like a Twilight Zone episode.” So I dedicate this story to every fan of Rod Serling’s The Twilight Zone.
“Elevator” can be downloaded for $0.99 wherever e-books are sold. Check my Books page for links.
My rating: 5 of 5 stars
The Help is a page-turner.
Set in Jackson, Mississippi, from 1962 to 1964 the novel unfolds against the backdrop of the segregationist society at that time. It is told in first person by the three main characters in rotating segments. Aibileen and Minny are black maids, and Skeeter is the white woman, recently graduated from Old Miss, who convinces them and ten other maids to tell their stories for a book she wants to write about what it is like to be black maids working for white families.
Given the social climate, Skeeter is risking ostracism, but the maids are risking not only their jobs but the prospect of being black-billed so they will not be able to support their families. After much work, Skeeter manages to gain the trust of Aibileen and the tentative trust of Minnie, but the other ten prove to be impossible to get.
Until some things happen.
The Help, Kathryn Stockett’s first novel, tells the story of writing this book and of what happens after it is published. It has been made into a movie – due out in August – which from the looks of the trailer seems to follow the novel quite well. But I encourage you to read the novel first; they have to do lots of trimming and condensing to fit a 444-page book into a two-hour film.
I most highly recommend The Help.
My rating: 4 of 5 stars
Jacob Wonderbar has one of the coolest log-lines I’ve ever seen: “Space travel is all fun and games until someone breaks the universe.”
That sentence sets the tone of this zany novel for young people, ages 9 and up. Jacob – general troublemaker and the terror of substitute teachers – and his friends, Dexter and Sarah, buy a spaceship from a disgruntled alien for a corn dog and set off for adventures in outer space.
In trying to prevent their spaceship from crashing, they fire a missile that causes a chain reaction of explosions across the universe (which Jacob dubs “the spilled milky way”), which blocks the path to Earth. Miraculously, no one is injured, no inhabited worlds destroyed, but in the words of two cosmic police officers the kids just caused a “big mess.” Unfortunately, that mess will prevent them from returning home for one or two thousand years (according to a construction worker when they try to head home), and there is no detour around the chaos.
The novel contains a pirate, a planet that smells like burp breath and has a day one minute long, a planet populated by scientists, a planet populated by substitute teachers, and a king of the universe.
Nathan Bransford is a former literary agent whose blog is an excellent resource for readers, writers, and anyone remotely interested in the publishing industry. I’ve been looking forward to reading Jacob Wonderbar ever since Nathan blogged that he’d sold it. I like the book, kids in the tween and early teen years will like it, and adults who are fans of Monty Python’s Flying Circus (which I am) will like it.