The Colored Lens Interviews Larry Correia

Daniel: The Colored Lens focuses on Speculative Fiction: specifically stories that cause us to see the world a bit differently after reading. Your Monster Hunter series of books are definitely different. Your writing style seems rooted in a desire to create characters who act in ways that, were they in a book more representative of “high culture” commonly found in modern Western canon, would result in a very short book.

Larry: I have never been accused of high culture. I write to entertain people rather than win awards. I’ve been called a pulp throwback, but I’m pulp and proud.

Daniel: Your plots are gritty and, despite the presence of magic and monsters, grounded with a heavy dose of realism.

Larry: I am a huge fan of horror movies, however as a gun nut and self-defense instructor, when I watched them I had to check my brain at the door. Most monster or slasher movies would be over during the opening credits if the protagonists had a clue. My original goal with MHI was to write about my kind of people stuck into those big B movie situations.

Daniel: Maybe there just wouldn’t be much of a story if the group didn’t split up and get picked off by the evil monsters one by one, yet you seem to pull it off with ease.

Larry: In the movies when the monster shows up people scream, run, and get eaten. In real life, my kind of people would simply get out their shotgun and blast the thing. Problem solved. So I needed to come up with a way to have smart, tough, tactically minded people running up against the mystical forces of evil on a regular basis. So I made them contractors who killed monsters for profit. One reason I think readers have liked MHI so much is because the characters treat it like a job. They do this stuff for a living, so they don’t screw around.

Daniel: Sometimes I find myself screaming at a character in a book… maybe I take them too seriously… but really, I want to know why sometimes it seems like, for no other reason that plot development, why don’t characters just do things that make sense?

Larry: They always say “write what you know”, but sadly most writers don’t know jack about weapons or tactics, which is why you end up with urban fantasy action sequences that read as flat out absurd to anybody with a clue.

Daniel: Some literary snobs look down on your style of writing as “pulp” – junk food of the literary world. And in once sense, it is, not that there is anything wrong with that. We need twinkies and cheeze-puffs as much as we need foie gras and filet mignon. And in that same sense, it’s fantastic. Like a B-movie turned cult classic, people seem to revel in the style and latch on to characters much the same as they would a “high-brow” deeply meaningful work.

Larry: There is this idea out there that “serious” authors only write message fiction, which usually turns into some ham-fisted politically-motivated bloated nonsense. Then the literati elite get together and issue each other awards for how brilliant they are. Meanwhile, readers are just sick and tired of getting preached at and just want to be entertained.

One time on my blog, I made a joke list of bad message fic clichés that you should put into your novel if you want to win prestigious literary awards. You know, the usual nihilistic twaddle that English professors love; dying polar bears, drug abuse, nobody is allowed to be happy, man has destroyed the environment, some character better get raped, and the villain should either by a right wing dystopia or right wing religious fanatics (bonus points for both) or a thinly veiled version of Dick Cheney. Then it was pointed out to me that the winner of the prior year’s Hugo award met 7 of the 12 criteria. (and I hadn’t even read and didn’t know anything about that book!)

Meanwhile the number of people who read for entertainment is ever dwindling, but the literati elite just can’t seem to figure out why.

When I became one of the finalists for the Campbell Award for best new fantasy/sci-fi writer, I had critics freak out. I had one critic say that if I won the Campbell Award I would “end literature forever”. Though the best negative review I ever received from a snooty literati critic was when somebody pointed out that MHI had Lovecraftian elements, but that Larry Correia was no Lovecraft, but rather more of a modern Robert E. Howard… He meant it as an insult but I took it as a huge compliment.

Daniel: Through all of this, you’ve had books rank up into the top 25 on the NYT Best Seller list. To what do you attribute this success?

Larry: I want my readers to have fun and be entertained, so I try to write books that do that. When people have fun, they tell their friends.

Daniel: What goals to you seek to achieve when you set out to write a new series of novels? Besides bringing home a nice paycheck of course 😉

Larry: I do love me some royalty checks. I’m not one of those sensitive artiste types. I like to get paid.

When I do a new series it is usually because I’ve got a bunch of stories in my head that I want to share. I love world building and I love research. A new series is just a great way for me to expand out and tell the types of stories that don’t fit in one of my already existing worlds. I’ve got three going on right now, but plans for an additional two and a couple of stand-alones.

Daniel: You do a lot of table-top roleplaying in various worlds such as Dungeons and Dragons. Does this experience affect your storytelling?

Larry: I am a gamer, and right now my game group is made up of a bunch of novelists. We’ve got Hugo and Nebula nominated writers, an award winning poet, and if I count the dude that is moving to Germany, 3 Campbell finalists. So my game group is pretty dang good at story telling. I don’t know if that has any actual bearing on my writing (other than sucking up my free time) but I am enough of a dork that I still write game journal stuff that is basically glorified fan fiction for fun.

Daniel: Your first Grimnoir Chronicles book Hard Magic just came out in mass-market paperback. One can’t help but notice certain similarities between it and your Monster Hunter series: individuals with special abilities being used by the government for their own purposes.

Larry: I think that is mostly a result of me having worked as a contractor. 🙂

Daniel: Do these series share the same universe?

Larry: Nope. Totally separate.

Daniel: Give us a brief overview of this new world you’ve created, where, in an alternate history, magic reappears some time in the 1850s.

Larry: The Grimnoir Chronicles is a sort of alternative history/epic fantasy series. The timeline diverged from our own in the 1850s when a small section of the populace started displaying magical abilities. As time goes on, a growing percentage of the population becomes magically “active”, until by the 1930s about 1 in 100 has some form of power, and 1 in a 1000 is capable of really screwing with the laws of physics. The first book is Hard Magic, and it takes place in 1932.

The presence of magic has altered history quite a bit. As a history nerd this allowed me to really tweak a few things. I looked at how magical super powers would change things like war, art, culture, sports, even organized crime. It was also an excuse for me to read a four foot tall stack of history books.

So then I took that world and cloaked it in a sort of hardboiled-noir-action-pulp style. I went for Raymond Chandler writing the X-Men. The main character is an ex-con, war hero, bounty hunting P.I. named Jake Sullivan who gets roped into a case involving the Grimnoir. The Grimnoir are a sort of self-policing secret society that tries to protect people with magic from the world, and to protect the world from people with magic. Their main opponents are the magical Iron Guard of Imperial Japan.

This is the only book I’m aware of that features a teleporting magic ninja fight on top of a flaming pirate dirigible.

Daniel: Spellbound, book two in your dieselpunk series, continues on where Hard Magic left off, only now the members of the Grimnoir Society are being hunted, and Jake Sullivan once again finds himself in the midst of the adventure.

Larry: Spellbound was a ton of fun to write. I’m working on the 3rd book in the series now, Warbound.

Daniel: Monster Hunter Legion is slated to be available September 4th. Monster Hunter Alpha gave us some unique insights into Earl Harbinger and provided interesting back-story to the world you created in the first two books. Monster Hunter Legion will return to follow yourself… er, your main character Owen Zastava Pitt,

Larry: We’re both large, gun nut, accountants, but beyond that we’re really not very much alike at all. However, whenever a critic accuses me of creating a Mary Sue, I simply smile, nod, and say that particular Mary Sue has paid my house off.

Daniel: We find him at a Monster Hunter convention where, naturally, huge monsters attack and the fate of the world once again hangs in the balance. What other developments can we look forward to seeing in this newest book?

Larry: Legion gives me a chance to introduce rival monster hunters from around the world. A leftover from a WWI weapons experiment crawls out of the ground in Dugway which sparks a not-so-friendly competition between the various companies to see who can bag it first. Only the creature is a whole lot more dangerous than anyone suspects. It ties into the overall story of the first few books, plus it gave me an excuse to totally trash Las Vegas.

Daniel: Why Las Vegas? Is there only so much action that can take place with Owen et al. in the deep south?

Larry: The first two books were set primarily in Alabama, but Monster Hunter Alpha was set entirely in the upper peninsula of Michigan. The series will continue to bounce around to wherever I think sounds the most interesting, and that gives me an excuse to go on “research” trips that I can write off on my taxes. Come to think of it, I really should set a future novel on a cruise ship. 🙂

Daniel: Can you tell us any details of the much rumored TV deal?

Larry: Entertainment One, the same company that did the Walking Dead, optioned the rights to Monster Hunter. Right now they’ve got the rights, but I haven’t heard anything about it actually going into production. Hollywood is a strange place, and though it would be totally awesome to get a TV show, I have no idea if it will actually go into production or not.

Daniel: Joss Whedon to direct perhaps?

Larry: That would be great. However I’m hoping he takes all of his Avengers money and makes a new Firefly series.

Speaking of Joss Whedon, I’ve had a couple hundred emails from fans pointing out some similarities between the endings of MHI and MHV and something that happens in Avengers. Personally I think that was a coincidence, and that it was just something way too awesome not to do, and somebody else probably wrote that into a story long before I thought of it.

Daniel: How is it that a Combat Accountant / Author like yourself ends up inside a GI Joe comic book?

Larry: I’m a fan of the guy currently writing GI Joe. Chuck Dixon wrote the Punisher and Batman for a long time and I think he’s the best writer in comics (When you watch the new Batman movie this summer, Chuck’s the creator of Bane). I got to know Chuck on the internet and I gave him some gun advice. When he found out I was an accountant right when he had a storyline where GI Joe needed an accountant, Spreadsheet was born. Yes… Codenamed Spreadsheet.

So I am officially a GI Joe. 12 year old Larry Correia has now achieved all of his goals in life. (I also married a girl that looks just like the Baroness).

Daniel: Recently Apple has been accused of price-fixing. Amazon has long led the charge to discount E-books to prices that publishers say are unsustainable. You’ve partnered with Baen, a champion of DRM-free E-books in a variety of formats and available for almost every platform. It’s obvious that digital publishing has changed the world forever, but what do you see for the future?

Larry: The last few years have had so much change that it is hard to predict. People ask me all of the time about self-publishing, because that is how I got my start, but already only a few years later the way I did it is obsolete.

I do believe that Jim Baen got it right a long time ago though. DRM is annoying and stupid.

Daniel: Is there a balance where anyone can publish their own novel and yet the concept of digital-rights and copyright protection still exists?

Larry: As long as there is any kind of art, there will be pirates. I like to think that most people are honest and if given the chance to pay a reasonable price for something, they will. There are like fifty scumbag pirate sites ripping me off right now, but honestly most of the people who download thousands of free ebooks aren’t going to actually read them. They’re hoarders. Same as the dude with 100,000 illegal song downloads.

I work and produce a product, and decent people are going to pay for that product if they want it. Jerks will steal it. Same as anything else.

That said, the absolute last thing I want is the government to overreact. I’d much rather be ripped off by pirates than give the government some sort of Orwellian powers over the internet.

Daniel: I’d be remiss if I didn’t ask about your stunning success as an initially self-published author. Do you have any advice for budding authors seeking to have their own works published?

Larry: Regardless of how you go about getting published, the traditional way through agents and submissions, or through the eBook revolution, self-publishing, or whatever:

1. Practice until you are good enough that people will give you money for your stuff.

2. Find the people who will give you money for your stuff.

Read Larry Correia’s newest book Monster Hunter Legion, now available for download in eARC (electronic Advanced Reader Copy) format exclusively on BaenEBooks.com

Marie Eau-Claire: Parts 4 – 7

Click here to read parts 1-3 of Caroline Miller’s Marie Eau-Claire.


Part IV

Though Geraldine arose early the next morning, as was her habit, Steven had already left the apartment. There were no traces of any activity in the kitchen so she presumed he chose to have breakfast somewhere along the boulevard. She had the place to herself but felt uneasy. What were his plans for lunch? Would he be in or out?

Her morning routine stretched before her exactly as it had done for years, but the rooms she entered seemed empty, as if each was holding its breath until Steven’s return. Of course, she understood she was projecting her feelings upon the cream-colored walls, but they seemed to reflect her emotions with an unaccustomed intensity.

The hours wore on at a tedious pace, each second punctuated by the ticking of the mantel clock. For once, it came as a relief when it was time to collect the mail. It gave her something to do besides think about Steven. But the little box contained nothing of interest. Even the newspaper seemed filled with the same reports she’d read the day before. There was trouble in the Middle East, the economy was in a slump and the politicians were hurling accusations at one another as the coming elections approached. Each day’s turmoil seemed indistinguishable from the last. If one were to depend upon world affairs as evidence of time’s passage, she grumbled, one would be lost.

The hour of noon was approaching when Geraldine, having nodded off, was awakened by a rustle at the door. A key was turning in the lock and she heard voices, one male and the other female. Rising from the settee, she had just enough time to give her reflection a quick glance in the mirror over the mantel before she heard that dreadful nickname being called out.

“Hello, Gerry?” Enid’s voice entered the hall before her followed by Steven’s deeper tones. Soon after, the pair entered the parlor, the nephew carrying an armload of groceries. He greeted his great aunt cheerily then headed for the kitchen with his burden while Enid flopped down on the settee. Her lips twitched with her approval of the new man in residence but she said nothing, as if she expected Geraldine to crumple beside her like a giggling school girl.

Geraldine did nothing of the kind but slid into one of the overstuffed chairs, taking a moment to observe her friend’s apple green dress with its white piping at the collar. The color struck her as unbecoming but far worse, the garment was sleeveless and exposed Enid’s wrinkly arms. Though Geraldine’s appendages were smoother, she never made that mistake. No matter the weather, she always wore long sleeves or draped a silk scarf over her shoulders. How like Enid to be oblivious of her defects her friend thought.

It was true. Enid had no notion of the poor impression she was making and seemed all too eager to discuss the new arrival. She leaned toward Geraldine as if to share a secret.

“What a handsome young man this nephew of yours turns out to be, Gerry, and how wicked of you to keep him all to yourself… though I can’t blame you. I’d probably do the same thing…”
“I’m not keeping him to myself,” the dancer objected. ‘He’s just arrived…”
“Yes, yes. Never mind that,” Enid interrupted. “Tell me all about him. How old would you say he is? Twenty-four? Twenty-five? And, oh, what a gorgeous pair of dark eyes — so sad and melancholy, as if he were harboring a tragic secret, perhaps the loss of a great love. Women will absolutely swoon for him, I warn you.”

“Don’t be so silly, Enid.” Geraldine crossed one leg over the other and looked annoyed, though it troubled her that her friend had seen that same haunted look she’d observed from the outset. Was her relative hiding something, after all? Had he come to Paris for a reason but refused to tell her? She tried to distract her doubts by staring out the window. “He has an interesting face.” That was the only truth she was willing to concede.

Edith gasped. “‘An interesting face?’ Are you blind? He’s utterly gorgeous. Don’t pretend you haven’t noticed. I’m sorry, Gerry, but I can’t allow you to keep him to yourself. There’s a younger generation that must have a peek at him. You’ll soon see I’m right.

“Please, Enid, don’t take him under your wing…”

“Too late, darling, I’ve invited him to the theatre this evening…”

Geraldine said nothing but uttered a loud and prolonged sigh. Seeing that she’d ruffled feathers, her visitor spoke apologetically.

“I don’t see the harm in it. I met him outside the concierge’s offices and guessing who he was, I introduced myself. Why not? As we were both coming here, I had to make conversation. He’s very easy to talk to, more friendly than his brooding look might suggest. Handsome men are usually far too pleased with themselves to take notice of anyone else. But this darling nephew of yours…”

“I’ve decided to make omelets for lunch.” Steven stuck his head into the room, unaware that he’d been the topic of conversation. “I’m pretty good at it, so I hope you plan to stay, Enid. You won’t be disappointed.”

“Dear boy,” Enid purred, “I can’t imagine ever being disappointed with you.”

“Yes, well, the trouble is, I can’t find a frying pan. You do have one don’t you, Geraldine?” He cast an appealing glance in his great aunt’s direction. Disarmed by it, she sat for a moment, thinking.

Of course she had a frying pan. But where did she keep it? She hadn’t a clue. Ah yes… she remembered. “I think it’s in the pantry beside the cooking oils.”

“In the pantry?” Steven raised one eyebrow in disbelief. “That’s an odd place for it.” He didn’t wait for an explanation but hurried from the room as if making an omelet had something to do with preventing World War III.

Enid tossed a cat-like grin in her friend’s direction. “And he cooks, too.”

Rabbitheart – Part 1


Click here to continue on and read Part 2 of Nicole Tanquary’s novella Rabbitheart


“Come ON!” came a shout. Gut’s voice, deep and growly. Wait, what? Was it morning already?

Gut banged a sheet of dented metal with a mallet, filling our heads with dull ringing sounds. “Come on, get up, the vie are asleep, its almost dawn out there! We’re behind in our quota!”

Gut said that every morning. No one ever told us what our quota was; no matter how much Ventine we mined from the blue hills, we would always be behind. Damn sorcerers couldn’t get enough of the stuff.

“Move it, Rabbitheart!” I had been slow to get out of bed, and now Gut’s mallet was by my ear, going BANG! BANG! BANG! like a hammer against a steel wall. I floundered, almost falling off of the mattress before I could catch myself.

“Yessir!” I squeaked, making a mad dash for the closet where the rest of my thirty-or-so roommates were swarming. You had to get there fast, or you’d end up with ratty old pants and a shirt with holes, both of which probably hadn’t been washed in months.

Back at home, my little brother had problems believing that girls ever did things like sweat and fart and go to the bathroom. If I could have found my way back there, I would have brought along one of our uniforms and thrust it under his nose for evidence. You could smell the girls before me that had worked inside the suits. The stench was soaked so deep into the denim that one whiff would be all it would take to change his mind.

If I could have gone home, I would have, but I couldn’t. I had been working around the Ventine too long. I couldn’t remember the way back.

Marie Eau-Claire: Parts 1 – 3

Part I

Geraldine Hoffman was an American who had lived in Paris over forty years, having become an expatriate in 1966 when she was thirty. While she retained a dual citizenship, she’d always thought of herself as a guest in France. She enjoyed the country’s slower pace, a place where people put a value on art and culture. Some might have said she was a snob, but she didn’t agree.

Unmarried, the former principal dancer with the Oregon Ballet Company and later with the Paris Opera Ballet, she’d lived for her art and when, at the age of forty-three, dancing was no longer a joy, when she feared she could no longer attain the perfection she demanded of herself, she left the stage and turned her hand to writing poetry. But living for art didn’t make her an elitist.

To be honest, her writing was of modest quality but she did publish in several journals, and had one slim volume of her works released when she was in her fifties. The book attracted the positive attention of a few critics, but she suspected the praise was more a transfer of allegiance from those who admired her as a dancer than to her skills as a poet. She recognized her talents were limited and, over time, she fell more to reading — a habit which led her to a life of quiet solitude.

The Purifier

I was one of three foremen who ran the Purifier for the General Secretary before and during the upheaval. Those were dark days for all of us, and anyone who can sit in a rocking chair by the fire, warming his fingers and talking about those times, is lucky. Lucky to be alive, lucky to have his fingers still, lucky to have his tongue. But not everything about those times was evil. Like all times, in all places, I suppose, some bits of light make life worth living, grim as things might get.

The light for us, back before the Upheaval, was the Secretary’s Science and Projects Liaison. Now, I’ve been accused once or twice of being a bit of a dreamer. But understand, everything I have to say about the Liaison is pure truth. Heaven knows how a woman like that ended up with that position. She wasn’t dumb, exactly. In fact, as models go you’d consider her rather intelligent. She was in her mid twenties, and we all recognized her from various men’s interest magazines that were in circulation before the Secretary took full power and the presses were shut down. I guess that put her out of work. Maybe the Secretary hand-picked her for the job, maybe he felt guilty for putting her out of business. You’d think that picking a beautiful woman with no scientific background for Science and Projects Liaison would be a terrible mistake, but really what her job entailed was keeping us workers in line. And that was something she could do with a flick of the wrist and a bat of the eyelashes. She even was able to keep the women workers hard at work with barely any effort at all. It wasn’t just her beauty, she had an aura about her – call it charisma, or leadership, or maybe just confidence. Anyway, we saw her about once a month, which was more than most other facilities and projects could say. The Purifier was very important to the Secretary.

The Purifier was a marvel of human ingenuity and engineering. I wish, now in the twilight of my life, that I could claim I had helped to build or design it. But I didn’t. I just came on after it was finished, with my wrench and my hammer and the rest of my toolkit, and I made sure the other mechanics didn’t screw anything up. Not to say that this wasn’t hard work. A number of my men died or became too sick to work because of leaks in the reactor. The fact that I’m still alive, after all the years I spent at the Purifier, is a testament to something. Probably my great reservoir of dumb luck.

I never used to believe in luck until I got stuck in the elevator with the Liaison. The elevator was on the side of the Stack, which was a fifty story, eighty foot radius chimney stack. This was how the Purifier released the water back into the atmosphere. This was how we made the clouds. The Liaison and I were riding up to check on some repairs that were underway two thirds up the Stack. Most of the deaths were from people being knocked off by gusts of wind, so needless to say, being that high on the Stack, once you got out of the elevator, was dangerous. But the Liaison never shied away from danger. She was utterly fearless in fact.

99-Cent Dreams

After some deliberation, Libby decided to buy the ability to draw. “This one,” she said. “I’ve never been able to manage anything more than stick figures. This would be nice.”

Alfred Corrigan smiled at her. “Yes. Very good.” He coughed before continuing in his high, papery voice. “Let me remind you, however, that this only guarantees the ability to draw recognizable pictures, not the talents of a master artist. These are only–”

“–ninety-nine cent dreams,” she finished along with him. It was the name of the store, and he had given her the patter when she had first come in. Ninety-nine cents could only buy small dreams, not miracles.

“Precisely. That said, your satisfaction is guaranteed. You shouldn’t find yourself reverting to, ah, stick figures. One moment, please.” He shuffled through the door in the back. Libby kept her eyes on the catalog, not wanting to watch the way he moved. He was a young man, clean-cut and broad-shouldered, but his slow, fumbling movements reminded her of her grandfather; the way he’d limped toward her when she first entered the store had almost caused her to mumble an excuse and go outside again.

She flipped through the pages idly, glancing at the glossy stock pictures of laughing, photogenic couples and families. All items just 99¢! Make your partner a dog person! Item 13A. LIMITED TIME ONLY! Maintain weight over the holidays–LOSS NOT GUARANTEED. Item 13B. Have the baby sleep through the night once a week. Item 13C.

That picture was of a sleeping baby, his little mouth relaxed into a faint pout. Libby bit her lip–she’d been doing a lot of that in the past month, and it was starting to taste chapped and bloody–and rested her fingertips on the baby’s face. In the back of her mind, she could hear Sasha screaming, “If you want kids so fucking much, find a man! I’m not your goddamn brood mare!”, could hear the glass bowl shattering against the wall behind her head. Sasha had apologized in tears the next day, of course, and Libby had forgiven her, of course, and they had made desperate love and promised that they would never fight again, just as they always did. But that time it had been true, because now Sasha was gone.

She had to turn the page. Blindly, she flipped to the tab in the back. FREE SAMPLES!

“Here you go.” Corrigan’s dry voice made Libby jump. She turned and saw him holding a cobalt blue bottle about the size of her little finger. “Stir this into a beverage and drink it just before going to bed. I’ve found the flavor complements an English tea wonderfully.”

“Great. Thanks.” She gestured at the page of samples. “What are these?”

Corrigan peered over her shoulder, and she saw his eyes go bright. The eyes were old, too, she thought; it wasn’t just his gait. There was a tired, stretched look around the edges, and she hadn’t even noticed until that eager brightness took it away. “Ah. These are from my new supply. Ninety-nine cent dreams fill a necessary niche, but my current stock is rather, ah, modest. I’m hoping to expand. I haven’t dealt in larger dreams in a long, long time.”

“Can I look?”

“Of course.”

She turned the page. This was more what she had expected when Corrigan had explained to her that he didn’t run a fancifully named dollar store, but a shop dealing in dreams themselves. Regain sight for the blind! Item 47A. Recover a missing heirloom! Item 47B.

She turned the page again, and her heart swelled to a huge size in her chest. She couldn’t move. All she could do was stare at the page, hands trembling. It was a generic photo of a man and a woman embracing in front of a sunset. Bring back the affections of a lost love! Item 47C.

Sasha. She could bring Sasha back. Oh, God, if this place was for real. . . . She imagined the faint, spicy smell of Sasha’s shampoo, the way she hummed in the back of her throat when she was falling asleep, the rich alto of her voice as she sang along with Libby’s cello. All the times in the past month with she’d felt frightened and she’d known that having Sasha near her would make her brave, because without Sasha she was just a timid little mouse. All the times she’d seen bridal magazines or women with strollers and thought, That’s not for me, that’ll never be for me; it’s what drove Sasha away, but she’s the only one I’d ever want to have any of it with.

It could have been a thousand dollars and she would have taken it. But a free sample…

“Ms. Morell? Did you find something of interest?”

Libby had almost forgotten that Corrigan was there. She looked up and saw him smiling benignly. “This.” She pointed to the picture. “This is free?”

He glanced down. “An excellent choice. A simple modification of Item 7D, stop your lover’s passing attraction to another. It should run wonderfully.”

“Great. I’d like to buy it also, please.”

Corrigan twiddled his tie between two fingers. “I should warn you, Ms. Morell, that the word ‘free’ is misleading. There’s no monetary cost for these dreams, but . . . well, I have to get my supplies from somewhere, especially if I want to upgrade. It’s a trade. A dream for a dream.”

“So you’d stab out my eyes so a blind person can see?” It would almost be worth it.

“No. A dream, Ms. Morell. You don’t dream of sight. You take it for granted. I’d want a dream from you.”

Libby bit her lip, tasting blood again. Sasha… “Let me–let me try this one and come back if it works.”

“Of course you may. And it will work, I assure you. I sell no monkey’s paws.” He punched a few numbers into the chunky gray cash register, and it thought for several seconds before displaying “$1.05” on its screen. “Tax, you understand.”

“Right.” Libby fished through her purse and placed the money on the counter.

Corrigan smiled blandly, a smile that didn’t touch his old, old eyes, and handed her a receipt. “Thank you, Ms. Morell. Enjoy your dream.”

The Death Of More

THE PRISONER

Shadows danced around the sparsely furnished cell as his candle guttered in a draft. It was a large room, and thankfully above the worst stink and grime of the lower tower, but a cell nonetheless. The tattered, threadbare robe he had worn for the past fourteen months fluttered about his legs as he shuffled across to the bed.

He lowered himself down onto the straw pallet pushed up against the wall. For most of his life he had lived in palatial homes, and slept on massive four-poster beds with feather mattresses swathed in silk sheets. Servants lit fires to drive away the slightest chill, and the kitchen was always ready to accommodate him. My goodness, he thought, how things have changed. At least it was summertime, and the brutal heat of the day had surrendered to a warm, humid night.

This cell had been the abode of some of the most famous and wealthy prisoners ever to find themselves confined in the tower. The conditions of their stays largely depended upon their ability to curry favor or mercy from the Crown. Many were allowed to furnish the cell as if it were their own home. The most privileged prisoners could walk about the tower grounds, and even host guests with dinners of roasted capons, puddings and wines. Thomas had no illusions about his standing with the King. He had been allowed only the most rudimentary comforts, those which his family could beg, buy or smuggle in to him. A short, three-legged stool, a chest for his small possessions and provisions, and the straw mattress for which he was immensely thankful; it was the only soft thing in the stone chamber.

In the end though, we are all prisoners here, he mused. Fine furnishings did nothing to change that, evidenced by the hundreds of scratched pleadings in the stone walls. They were perhaps the only lasting memorials to the poor souls who had languished out their last days here. Thomas had read them all. Some were simple protestations of innocence, some were whimsical poetry, and still others were fervent pleas for succor or salvation. The sheer desperation of the etchings was enough to destroy the morale of any man. He was not just any man though; Sir Thomas More was a knight of the realm, and until his conviction of high treason, had held the post of Lord Chancellor. One of the most powerful men in England and a favorite of the King himself, and yet now he was sleeping on straw in the Tower of London. That was not the worst of it though. Today was July 5th, the year of our Lord one-thousand-five-hundred-and-thirty-five. On the morrow, he would lose his head.

The Homeless Man of Greater Zimbabwe

The fish were made of silver. So were the terns. The fish swam in the clear blue sky, leaving little ripples as they weaved a course through the heavens. Beside the school of fish, the gleaming birds flapped in formation. All of them moved with singular purpose to a silver half moon that was bright despite the day, a moon that matched the creatures’ ethereal gleam.

Smack! The fish, the terns, the moon, it all unraveled.

Mums was in the shop, rubbing the back of his woolly head, his daydream supplanted by dull pain. Fat Man was giving him that stern look, pointing at him with a long ebony finger.

“You’ll be sixteen in a week, a man by any nation’s measure. You must stop these flights of fancy; those things are for boys and liars.”

Stupid Fat Man, Mums thought. He nodded.

“Keep your eyes about the shop. If someone as much as steals a sausage, you’ll find food missing from your plate tonight.”

There was no one even in the shop. He could argue that but it would likely earn him another smack to the head and a stern lecture about due diligence. So he nodded again.

This was the worst time for diligence and the best time for his mind to wander. It was right after midday, so very few shoppers came into the store looking for dinner meats until later.

Fat Man’s shop was a typical zimba, larger than most but still built of the mortarless granite stones that gave the city of Dzimba-dza-mabwe its name. And while Fat Man had painted the granite walls and ceiling of his zimba with festive blues, yellows and greens “to pull the customer’s eye,” as he put it, it did little to make Mums feel festive. He was not a customer; and any joy he had once gotten from the design was long gone after spending most of his childhood in here looking after rows of various meats.

Mums put his elbows on the counter and propped his face into his brown fists, getting comfortable while he watched over the gazelle steaks that were advertised on sale.

“No no no, boy,” Fat Man said. “That’s how I found you when you earned that smack. Now earn your board and daily bread. Check the temperatures.”

Mums grumbled but did as he was told.

The Nightmare Eater

The dim overhead light intensifies the shadows beneath my eyes until they become like bruises. Little pockets of darkness I carry my nightmares in.

I want to sleep, but I cannot. The few hours a night when my eyes are closed bring me visions of Japan and my last days there. The face of my patron twisted in pain haunts me. The feeling of his blood seeping over my fingers will not leave.

I yearn for rest—for peace.

The war between my country and the United States is over. The war inside me rages on.


Storm of Change by Karim Heatherington

There are two men at table three, with dates. They are the only customers in the Good Luck Bar, and I am the only waitress. The girls look at me with narrowed eyes, suspicious. The men have the cocky bearing of sailors, but only one of them seems to undress me as I set down their beers.

“Hey there, Miss Saigon,” the one with the roving eyes says. “My buddy here just got back from the far East. Hey, Jerry, how do you say hello in Nip-speak? Coneychee? That right?”

“You sound like an idiot,” Jerry says.

Baka no hito.

“Konnichiwa,” I say. The first man guffaws, slaps his thigh. His other arm slips around the girl’s shoulders.

“Did you hear that? Say something nice for my girl.” He looks at the girl. “How about it, honey? What do you want her to say?”

“Come on, Pete,” Jerry says, fingering his bottle. “My beers getting warm and my foods getting cold.”

“I’m a paying customer,” Pete says. “Go on, hon. Tell her what to say.”

The girl chews on her lip, leaving flecks of red lipstick on her teeth. “Tell me how pretty I am.”

Pete pulls her closer, laughing. “That’s my babe. Always fishing for compliments.”

“Uma ni niteimasu. Kamiga kusso mitai ni kusai desu.” Sugar drips from my words as I describe the girl’s horsey features and dung scented hair. She giggles. Jerry covers his mouth to hide his own laughter, and my stomach twists. He understood me.

His eyes catch mine; his smile softens and then turns dark. I turn away and hurry back to the bar, feeling exposed.

I tuck my tips into my bra: two dollars and ten cents—half my weekly rent. It still feels strange, paying for my own living. In Japan, when I was young, the geisha house took care of me. Then, my patron—but I do not think of him.

George grunts a goodbye as I walk out of the bar and into the cool night air. I pause for a moment to take a deep breath. Car exhaust, cigarette smoke; it is nothing like home. My heels click on the pavement as I walk.

The cigarette smoke comes from a man leaning against the wall, a few feet from the bar entrance. My heels click faster; my heart begins to flutter. His cigarette glows red as I approach.

“Hey,” he says.

“Bar is still open.” I say, not stopping.

“I’m not looking for the bar.” His fingers brush my sweater. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

I turn, and recognize him: Jerry, without his friend or his girl. My heart flutters again, but not in fear.

I realize I’d been hoping to find him, too. He drops his hand away from me, and I follow him down the street.

The Songs of Eridani – Part 2

Read The Songs of Eridani – Part 1 by clicking here.

Chapter 8

We pushed into the jungle above S’uval the next morning, my mind focusing on that special inner spot that had always centered me: I’m nothing but a man who tracks other men for pay; that is what I am, it’s what I do, and nothing else. I seek men who don’t want to be found–whether for reasons of crime, sin, personal disgrace, or some sort of queer, unknown psychological imbalance. Men who have slipped off the net, and have to be netted again so as to answer to others. That is all I am, that is all I need to be.

And I’d dealt with all those types, all those reasons. Yet never had I engaged in a commission as flaky or as suspicious as the one I now pursued. And why did I accept it? I certainly didn’t need the money,
not at this point in my career. For all I cared, Dr. Kline could have fallen down a rat-hole and been eaten by Eridani maggot-analogs.

And yet, I pictured those maggots as wearing the faces of the Directors of the Church of the Holy Psychological Redemption. There was something else going on here, and I was determined to wrench it to the surface.

I removed my field cap and swiped the sweat off my scalp with my hand, turned and waited for Laura and Pete to catch up.

"Hold up a minute, T’aylang! You hanging in there, Pete?"

Pete was panting, trying to catch his breath in the steamy air. "Is the . . . pope . . . a bear?"

"Time for a break, folks," I said.

I was suddenly aware of T’aylang by my side, studying Pete. "This man is not well-adapted to the environment or to the task at hand," he said. "Will we be required to carry him for the balance of the journey?"

"No, just give us a few minutes to rest here, Big Guy. Pete’ll be all right."

I looked sternly at Pete when I said that, hoping to drive that veiled admonition into him.

The Eridani raised his head to an erect vertical position. "This is not a safe place to stop. We are traversing a pyloc’s game trail. Similar to what you refer to in your language as a ‘big cat.’"

"So, are you seeing any?" I unclipped the holster of my firearm.

T’aylang pointed to one of the porters and barked a short command. The other Eridani began to sing, a strange polyphonous song whose ultrasonic overtones made me wince in pain.

"We will persuade any nearby ones to take an afternoon nap. But only a short one. It would be best if your colleague gets his breath back soon, so that we may continue on our way."

Pete gasped and nodded, apparently agreeing in principle with T’aylang.