Thursday, May 21, 2015

Lest I Strike the Land

Lest I Strike the Land 

Official Release Date:

June, 6th 2015


Lest I Strike the Land is finished. This novel is a labor of love, the result of hours of work while sitting awake at 2am eating protein bars and wishing I didn't have to get up for work at 7. I barely slept and listened to the Decemberists on repeat for three weeks. However, it's done and I am now holding a copy. It's an uncorrected proof, so the novel is still not available for sale, but it's a real, tangible thing.
So to get you hyped for the release, here's the synopsis. Just so you know what you get yourself into when you buy it.

Lest I Strike the Land chronicles a tumultuous time in history: the depression of 1893 and the havoc it wrought in Denver, Colorado. Seen through the eyes of a father and his two sons as they struggle against impending prohibition and poverty, Lest I Strike the Land is a family drama of an often forgotten time in America.

Jesse Griffin, a prominent businessman in downtown Denver, finds his strong stance against prohibition pushing him into a volatile political scene. Handsome and silver-tongued, he becomes a dynamic presence in Denver, holding the working class on a string. Unwilling to be involved, his son, Jack, attempts to find normalcy and healing after the death of his wife. However, as Jesse manipulates the city, Jack becomes entangled in his father’s anti-prohibition sentiments. Jesse’s adopted son, Michael, finds himself becoming a key player in Jesse’s protest for the rights of Denver’s working-class. The three men work and scheme under the shadow of the powerful Police Chief, Harris, a strong advocate for prohibition.



Monday, April 13, 2015

Traveling the World with Youtube


As long as I can remember, I've been fascinated by other cultures, people, and places. When I was little I told my parents I wanted to live in China, and then it was Ireland, then Argentina, and so on. The truth is that I don’t want to settle in any of those places, but rather soak them in and try to understand them. I want to see, smell, taste, study cultures until I've been steeped in them. Culture deserves time and appreciation. It’s not meant to be taken at the pace of a person going through a revolving door. Flashes of people and things aren't enough to satisfy any more than a few snacks in a day constitutes three meals. What does the earth in India feel like? How does it taste to buy food from a fresh market in France?

Unfortunately not all of us are blessed with the opportunity to travel the way we want to. Whatever capacity I end up in, it will always be a mobile one. I cannot sit still, and nothing makes me happier than being on the move. But while I wait, I've found a way to feed my desire to travel. Youtube.


Below I've listed some of the best YouTube channels and videos to help keep you happy until you load up and hit the road. 

Jacksgap

This quirky travel/lifestyle channel has a positivity and charm to it that has kept me watching over the last few years. Jack, and sometimes his identical twin brother, Finn, record their adventures. From the Rickshaw Run in India to spending twenty-four hours in New Orleans, it's a fascinating channel with some pretty profound things to say.


FunForLouis 

Far and above my favorite Youtuber, Louis Cole's zany adventures are recorded and uploaded every day for your viewing pleasure. If you like casual awesomeness, it's the perfect channel for you. Peace out, enjoy life, and live the adventure. 


Mr Ben Brown

Athlete turned vlogger, Ben Brown, uploads a daily video packed full of fantastic visuals. I think he's also currently based in South Africa right now, so his videos have been pretty epic lately. He's also friends with both Jack and Louis, so you'll see them on his channel occasionally. 


Nicole Eddy (Blog)

South African blogger Nicole Eddy runs one of my favorite blogs, for those who would rather read than check out a video. She's just plain brilliant at writing. Highly recommend.  





Wednesday, April 8, 2015

'Jamison' Preview


Readers,
Even though I've been hard at work getting 'Father and Son' edited and ready to be published, I've had this story nagging at me for a while. I never had much regard for fairy tales retold, but I figure that sometimes it can be interesting. That is what this is. I'll be releasing parts of 'Jamison' every month or so on this blog. It's a retelling of Aladdin, set during the great depression/prohibition era in south-eastern Tennessee'. I hope you enjoy this preview.



***
Jamison

He put the brown linen sack in the back of the truck and shut the tailgate. A puff of dust rose and the hot wind carried it away. The sun had beat down on the land since first light. Now it was beginning to sink below the horizon and he knew he didn’t have much time left. He needed to get back to the house before night fell. He pushed his waist band lower on his hips, one thumb digging into his lower belly. He was skinny and the flesh of his stomach stretched from rib to rib without so much as a muscle between. His arms were wiry from throwing straw and shooting. He was stuck someplace between a boy and a man, and at twenty-three, it was a difficult thing.

He kicked the tire of the Ford with his boot and went to the door and jerked it open. The truck creaked as he slid behind the wheel and reached for the flask in the consul. He needed to make a stop in town before going home and he was burning daylight. The truck started and he put it in gear and pulled out of the field. The road kicked up a lot of dust, reminding him of the merciless drought that had stretched on forever.

Back at the house his mother, Sarah-Jane, would be bent over the stove. Her lank hair would be pasted to her neck with perspiration and she would be wiping it away with her forearm. Baby Susan would be laying on the floor, trying to soak up some coolness. He ran a hand over his face to clear the sweat from his eyes and slowed the truck as he pulled into town. He parked it before the Methodist church and got out, rounding to take the sack from the bed. Before he pulled it out he scanned the road to make sure no one watched him. Then he walked with the sack into the general store.
Bertie Jones was seated behind the counter. He was a large man with a walrus mustache and a stubbled jaw. There was always a thick layer of foamy perspiration gathered in his fat neck that kept him smelling like sour milk. The young man crossed the wooden floor and laid the sack before Bertie, who pulled his heavy body from the stool.

“Hey, you, Jamison, what you think bringing that through the front,” he said.

“I don’t got time to wait for night,” Jamison said. “Ma is expecting me and I got to get back.”

“How much?” Bertie asked, thick fingers feeling at the bag.

“Ten quarts,” Jamison said. “Purified.”

“I don’t need no purified,” said Bertie. “No man in this town cares about that. But I’ll take it.”

“How’s the other suppliers?” said Jamison. Bertie counted out the money into his dirty palm and he pocketed it.

“Not good,” said Bertie. He stowed the back behind the counter and leaned uncomfortably close to Jamison.

“Johnston boys? They out of business?” Jamison said. He kept his neck craned and one eye on the door in case they were interrupted.

“Sheriff busted them up. Said the hand of the Lord reformed him or some such,” said Bertie. “You and Nell’s kids are my last suppliers, but demand is up. Can you get me more than this?”

“Crops are coming in and I can’t leave Ma,” said Jamison.

“Is your Pa back?” said Bertie.

Jamison ran a hand under his nose to clear the sweat and shook his head. “Oil fields can keep a man out a long time,” he said. “I ain’t considering no other possibility.”

“Listen, I need my spirits,” said Bertie.

“Listen, I gotta take care of my Ma and my sister until my Pa gets back. I will try and get you more, but I ain’t promising nothing,” said Jamison. He turned and walked towards the shop door, but turned before stepping outside. “Nothing, you hear. And I want my bag back next time I’m through here.”

“You’re a hard man,” said Bertie.


Jamison bummed a cigarette off the man sitting on the curb and headed towards the post office. No one was on the street except for vagrants, of which there were plenty. The depression had hit hard in south-eastern Tennessee and Jamison had been hard-pressed to find any work. His father had left a year after the stock market crashed, heading out west to work in the oil fields. Jamison didn’t know much about oil fields, but he didn’t see any other men shipping out. His mother had him stop by the post office each night to check for a letter from her absent husband, but Jamison never returned with one. His mother might be optimistic, but Jamison held out little hope that his father would return. It had made him angry when he had realized his father's abandonment. Now he didn’t care. He was man enough to care for his mother and sister.

Thanks for reading! Please share.

Sunday, February 15, 2015

A Chicken in the Hand

 
 
 
 
 
A Short Story
 
 
What's that supposed to be?”
The girl turned around and met the eyes of a young man standing behind her. She looked back at the window where the advertisement was pasted, blaring out into the street. The woman portrayed was thin and angular with a full head of glossy hair. Her eye had been altered to look bruised and her eyebrows were screwed into an anguished expression. Underneath her was written, Don't Let Taxes Knock You Out. She didn't understand the undertones, but the man did. He tilted his head and bent forward, his turned-up nose inches from the glass. Then his jammed his finger against the woman's black eye and snorted.
I don't get it,” he said.
The taxes knocked her out,” said the girl.
It's domestic abuse,” said the boy. “Who the hell buys things after seeing an ad like that?”
The girl didn't understand but she kept her mouth shut. Instead she focused on his reflection in the store window. He was tall, over six feet, with a rounded face and a mop of brown hair. He had the stretched look of someone who had grown a lot in a short time. His eyes were light blue and his lashes were thick and dark, like feathers against his cheek. He had an angsty look, as if he smoked and threw eggs at cars just for kicks. The girl decided right away that she did not like him.
What's your name?” she asked.
Ceaser Augustus,” he announced. He pushed his hands in the pockets of his dark wash jeans.
The girl was unimpressed. “I'm not stupid,” she said. She walked past him and started down the hot sidewalk, her sandals slapping against the pavement. The town was empty because it was a Sunday, and the dust had settled on the street. As she walked little sand devils whirled around her feet, the sweat between her toes making mud in her sandals. Behind her Caeser Augustus started after her, his expensive blazer flapping against his sides. She lifted her nose in the air and ignored him as she ducked into a dime store.
What's your name?” he said.
She picked up a pack of strawberry bootlaces and went to the checkout. “Mary Jane,” she said. She slapped a quarter on the counter and took the bag and left the store. He followed her as she unwrapped it and wound the strawberry candy around her neck and inserted the end in her mouth.
Like the sweet?” he asked.
Yes,” she said.
She began twisting and braiding the bootlaces, making a lasso. When she was younger she had spent a good deal of time pretending she was a cowgirl and she was proficient at snagging wooden horses. She hung the noose around her neck and continued biting down at the other end. The candy gathered, sticky and sweet, in the back of her teeth. Behind her the young man was following at a safe distance.
They were almost to the woods when he saw the chicken. It was round and orange, it's feathers fluffed like a down pillow. He started laughing and kicked a pile of gravel at it, making it squawk and dance aside. Its tail fanned out as it skittered back, skinny legs peddling.
It's a chicken,” he said.
She stood, staring at the chicken. “Stop it. Don't kick it,” she ordered.
Why?” he demanded.
Cause it ain't your chicken, dummy,” she said. She unwrapped the bootlace from her neck, the noose hanging from her limp wrist. Then she swirled it over her head, around and around, until she let it fly through the air. The chicken darted out of the way, aiming a savage peck at the bootlace. Then it ruffled its feathers and headed towards the woods.
Mary Jane gathered the bootlace and started after it. Caeser was right behind her, leaves crunching under his expensive, leather shoes. The woods were cool and moist in contrast with the town, the trees empty of birds until high afternoon was over. She kept to the path, the chicken just in sight, and swung the bootlace back and forth.
What the hell do you think you're doing with that chicken?” said Caeser.
I'm catching it,” said Mary Jane.
Why do you want that chicken?” said Caeser.
So I can make Chicken Caesar salad. Ha!” said the girl.
Wee hawkins,” said Caeser. “You're a funny little squirt.”
Where are you from? I haven't seen you around here?” said Mary Jane. The chicken began skidding down a hill, heading towards a mossy creek. She planted the edges of her feet into the loose soil and scrabbled down. Mud smeared the sides of her legs and hitched her skirt up to her thighs. She stumbled to a stop on the slippery rocks of the creek and watched the chicken hop through the water.
Do you need that chicken?” Caeser asked. “I'm from the good side of town. There isn't chickens up there. We keep our birds cool and processed.”
You haven't seen a real, live chicken?” she asked. They started up the hill, pushing through the ground cover of ferns. Caeser took the lead this time, long legs eating up the distance. He put a cigarette between his teeth and lit it, shaking his head as if to get the smoke from his lungs.
Smokes will kill you,” she said.
So can chickens,” he said. “You go to the supermarket and buy a frozen chicken and it's got salmonella all over it. Then you don't cook it well enough and you're a goner.”
I want that bird,” she said. “I need it for later.”
What happens later?” he asked. They had arrived at the crest of the hill, the chicken already heading down the other side. It seemed to have sensed that it was being followed closely and it had picked up its pace.
If I need it later, I'll have it,” she said.
But you don't need it now,” he said. She glanced at him, noticing that he had dark circles underneath his eyes. Down his cheeks were faint scars, as if he had had acne and had scraped open the blisters too many times. He filled his scarred face from the cigarette and blew it out, making her cough as the smoke hit her. Then he smiled, the corner of his mouth turning up, and began walking down the hill. She scowled at him and looked around, trying to locate the chicken. It had disappeared.
She took off running, long hair flying behind her. “Where is it?” she howled. “What have you done with it?”
He stopped. “I don't know. How could I when I can't even catch it same as you?” he said. “It's gone now and you're not going to find it. Let's go.”
You go, I'm not leaving,” she said. She blinked rapidly, unwilling to cry in front of him.
I'll help you find the stupid chicken,” he said. He scowled and pushed his hair from his eyes. She hiccupped and wiped her face, putting the bootlace back in her mouth. He waited, cigarette hanging from his lips, as she squared her shoulders. There was a stick jabbing her foot, tangled in the strap of her sandal. “Take off those shoes. You don't need them.”
I need my shoes,” she said. She pulled the stick out and threw it away and he scowled again. “Now where did the chicken go?”
Probably to lower ground,” he said. “Chickens mostly spend their time on lower ground.”
They set off, the thin, pale girl with a mess of brambly hair following the tall, young man. The woods were quieter than they had been, and the ground under their feet was dappled with yellow and white. They kept going for at least an hour, treading in silence as the girl chewed the bootlace. He asked for a piece eventually and she broke one off, handing it over. Her palms were sticky, but he didn't seem to mind.
My father owns that store,” he said. “The one you bought the bootlaces at.”
Good for him,” she said. “I don't see no chicken.”
Why are you so obsessed with this chicken?” he said. “It's better if you just forgot about the chicken. If you need a pet to play with, just find some bug or something.”
No, I got to have that bird,” she said.
The woods cleared and they paused at the edge of a clearing, a sheer drop below them. The girl peered over the edge and gave a sharp cry, waving her arm. “There it is,” she said.
The young man frowned, squinting over the edge. He could see that something was different. The feathers on the bird were red, not orange, and it was a rooster. He looked at the girl, bending closer to inspect her face; her eyes were red and strained. She needed glasses. He opened his mouth to tell her that it was the wrong bird, but then he stopped. She wanted a bird and he wanted to go home, so this bird was as good as any.
Let's go down,” he said.
They found a roundabout, a trail squashed by many tramping feet. He kicked in disgust at the empty wrappers and Popsicle sticks, feeling repulsed by the trash. He did it himself, flicked cigarette butts on the edge of the highway and spat tobacco out the window. She barely seemed to notice, her eyes alight and her gummy fingers holding the tangled bootlace. They skidded into the dry valley, dust rising from their feet. The chicken was sitting still, watching them with its head turned sideways. He held the cigarette partway under his tongue, the burning tip near his lips. She indicated that he stop, and he crouched down, his hands hanging between his knees.
She lifted the bootlace above her head and swung it around. He watched with bated breath, hoping she would not realize it was the wrong chicken. The bootlace noose flew past him and fell around the bird's neck, jerking tight. The girl crowed, jumping forward and seizing her captive chicken with glee. The bird didn't make a sound, its neck stretching higher until it looked her in the face. He waited, expecting her to recognize her mistake. Instead she pulled it tighter, feathers ballooning around her arms. He headed back to the trail, and she followed after him. She thought about the chicken, warm in her arms, and he thought about how she had left her sandals behind.

 
 
 
The END.
 

Thursday, January 29, 2015

Reckless Creatures: An Essay on Wilderness

     

Reckless Creatures
An Essay on Wilderness


       There's a place for each person where they can go and feel comfortable surrounded by things that are loved and familiar. Many people I know find that place within their homes, others find it in their city, still others find it deep in the wilderness. I grew up running through the hilly forest behind our log cabin so the place where I feel the deepest connection to my childhood is the eastern Ohio woodlands. I grew up watching the seasons change, and I remember vividly how slowly this happened. The great anticipation of spring, building like the roaring culvert in the corner of our yard, our excitement as powerful as the water pushing through the melting ice. The summer was hot, full of bee stings and endless cicada songs resonating from the cherry tree in our back lawn. Me and my two elder sisters spent hours, days, in the creek at the edge of the trees, observing the fish, frogs, and snakes that cowered underneath the edges of the stream. The trees would burst in a great flurry of color and send mountains of leaves spiraling through the early fall breeze, and some years there would be a cold snap and death came for the trees on silent feet. They would be green and living one night, then the cold would set in overnight, like a biblical thief in the night, and the leaves would fall silently to the ground. Winter was normally icy, wet, and brown, but some years we would be gifted with satisfying, glittering snowstorms. Those turned the muddy yard into something new that prompted us to wrap warmly and tumble out the back door, spending hours in the fresh snow. If it was cold enough we could walk on the frozen creek, although more often than not we fell through and became soaked.


Our woods were full of wildlife, more than I see anyplace now. We knew the local whitetail deer population so well that we had names for the distinctive ones. The bird population was of even greater value to us, being that my eldest sister is a passionate ornithologist. I did my fair share of birdwatching over the years. During my early teens years I never missed a spring, warbler migration. When I was twelve my family moved from the cabin to a large farm, which was deep in the heart of the backwoods, undisturbed by much human contact. In the early spring I would rise before the sun, snatch my binoculars, and head down the winding driveway. I crossed the road and settled myself underneath the tangle of crab-apple trees to wait. As the sun came above the horizon, melting the crisp frost away, the trees would come alive. Warblers were, and have always been my favorite bird, and I still contest that those little birds are pure magic. They would rise from the trees, squabbling and singing among themselves, of all shapes and sizes. It is a sight that has to be seen to be really appreciated, but it is one that I suggest everyone try to experience. I held my breath, surrounded by too many birds to number, and simply took in the pure vibrancy and aliveness of them.


I went to Cabela's recently and the many displays of deer, birds, turkey, and other animals made me think. Not long ago James Audubon wrote that the sky was black with passenger pigeons, and yet I have never seen one. In a matter of about twenty years, those birds, which were so numerous once upon a time, are simply gone without an echo. The familiar faces that I saw while perusing the displays at Cabela's represent a living presence, the deer that fill our woods, the fox, the turkey. Yes, they are numerous now, but it is always possible that our grandchildren will only read about them in history books. This is a worry that presses on me when I return home and I see the rise of industrialization in my Ohio Valley, the worst of it being the natural gas drilling that has swept the area. Just down the road from the cabin where I grew up there is a large, fracking pad, surrounded by a chain link fence. It has filled a field that I remember once held Whitetails, trees that once were full of birds. Sites like these are springing up with alarming regularity, and it makes me wonder, even as I turn my stove on, using the same gas that they are drilling for. We are reckless creatures, humans, and we build and expand with impunity, but we are compassionate despite our apathy. There are still those who wonder if one day they will wake up and find that no warblers rise from the trees as the sun warms their feathers. Yes, many of us know that there is a great chance that we will one day have a 'silent spring'.


All photos in this post are from: http://www.pexels.com/ and http://www.freestockimages.co.za/