All Categories - Bascomb James

Small Press Award for Best Short Fiction 2017

11/21/2017

Please join me in congratulating Neil James Hudson and Third Flatiron Publishing for their Honorable Mention in WSFA's Small Press Award 2017 for Best Short Fiction. Neil's story, The Mytilenian Delay, was published in Third Flatiron's "Hyperpowers" anthology. Third Flatiron publishes three or four anthologies each year. To learn more and to review their open calls for stories, visit ThirdFlatiron.com.

Paranormal Physician Series

10/10/2017

Here's an early look at the Paranormal Physician series. It's very much a work in progress so comments and criticism are appreciated.

Fred Johnston was dying. His body was failing but he was cheery, grateful for his family, his friends, and his threescore and eight years. He wasn’t showing us a brave face, it was his face--the face of the optimist, the good friend, the caretaker. Fred was making his passing easier for everyone around him.

I sat at his bedside and listened to the stories, waiting for punchlines I knew by heart. My inner despair and frustration were boundless. I could cure his illness. I could restore his vitality. I could, but I couldn’t. It’s not allowed.

Yes, the Order of Merlin has reasons for the prohibition, but the pleading eyes of his family were almost too much to bear. “Please, can you do something?” his wife and daughter asked. I could only shake my head, adding to my feelings of guilt and betrayal.

#

It was sleeting when I left the nursing home for the last time. I stood under the portico and listened to the icy precipitation as it bounced off the roof and the ice-crusted snow. The landscape, glistening in the orange-tinted security lighting. might have been pretty under different circumstances.

My car was in the visitor lot at the end of the long low building and I resigned myself to a miserable slog to reach it. As I stepped out from under the roof, the sleet attacked my skin like a swarm of biting insects. I pulled up my collar and hunched inside my coat to protect my face and ears. The snowy slush splashed with each step.  Another wonderful night in paradise.

As I turned down the main aisle of the parking lot, a short broad man wearing a dark watch cap and parka stepped out from a row of cars. I altered my path to give him a wide berth but he moved to cut me off.

I really don’t need this tonight.

I raised my shields and stood in the middle of the aisle, waiting for the inevitable confrontation. At least the shields protected me from the sleet. I sighed loudly and activated the recording system. The paranormal device in my coat would capture full video and audio even under these crappy conditions.

The man stopped a few paces from me and glared upward, radiating fierceness. I waited, hoping the sleet would freeze his eyeballs.

We stood there, mano a mano for a minute or so before he broke the silence. “Gimme your wallet and car keys.”

I sighed again and shook my head. “You don’t want to do this.”

“The hell I don’t!” he challenged. “Hand them over or I’ll shoot your sorry ass.”

“Look, don’t screw with me tonight. I’m cold. I’m tired. And my friend just died in there,” I said, nodding toward the low building.

The man pulled a black automatic from his parka, holding it sideways, ‘gangsta’ style. “You’re gonna join your friend in about ten seconds. Wallet. Keys. Now!”

I considered several options for ending the confrontation peacefully but this guy was pissing me off.  Screw it, he can choose his own fate.  I gestured and a shield spell blocked the pistol barrel just in front of the cartridge. I shook my head and walked away.

The enraged gunman pulled the trigger and the pistol disintegrated with a red-orange flash. The man staggered as flying steel carved bright red gashes across his parka and face. He stood there for a moment, stupidly staring at his ruined hand before collapsing in a heap. Blood and hot metal steamed in the slush.

“Another Darwin Award winner!” I muttered as I resumed my uncomfortable trek toward the car. As I walked away, my thoughts oscillated between guilt and grim satisfaction.

As I crossed the next aisle, my shields were rocked by a blast of paranormal fire. Shield tattoos flared in crimson fury as the flames washed around me, vaporizing ice and blistering paint on the nearby vehicles. Flashing auto lights, shrieking alarms, and the newly created fog created a surreal tableau. When I turned to confront my attacker, I was surprised to see a wand-wielding teen hurling bolts of fire and lightning against my shields. I watched her curiously, evaluating her efforts to turn me into charcoal.  Level three ability. Not much control. Excellent stamina, though. Why hasn’t the Order found her?

I used a spell to silence her wand and the girl looked at it impatiently, flicking her wrist to make it work again. I couldn’t help but laugh. “Shaking it won’t help.”

The startled girl realized things weren't going as planned and she turned to run. I shook my head and created a patch of black ice. Feet flew backward and her yell of frustration cut off abruptly when she slammed into the back of an SUV.

I moved quickly across the aisle and grabbed the back of her coat, dragging her upright. She was a foul-mouthed fury, punching and kicking at my shields. I slapped away a flip knife and slammed her against the SUV to quiet her down. “Are you stupid? Blasting at me will earn you a mindwipe in any paranormal court!”

“You killed my brother!” she yelled, pointing to the gunman.

“He’s not dead, you twit! And you should be helping him not fighting with me.”

“I don’t know how,” she said defiantly, still kicking and fighting. I stood there, holding the furious teen as she continued to curse and struggle.

I considered her words. This unlicensed adept was clearly living outside the strictures of the Order.  Could this be an opportunity to bring paranormal medicine to the Normal population? I released the girl and she landed in the slush with a yelp and a curse.

“Grab your stick and follow me. It’s time you learned a socially acceptable skill.”

I turned and walked toward the gunman. The girl picked up her wand and moved in the opposite direction.

“If you run, your brother could die.” I said without turning. “Your choice. Your conscience.”

The girl hesitated then followed resignedly.

Inspiration and Tech Used in Disposal, Inc.

9/22/2017

Inspiration
The inspiration for Disposal, Inc. came from two things. The first bit of inspiration is the 2011 disaster at the Fukushima Daiichi Nuclear Power Plant in Japan. The second source is the Canadian Government's plan to store nuclear waste in a bunker just 1.2 kilometers from Lake Huron, one of the largest fresh water lakes in the world; the lake that just happens to be the source of my drinking water. The blithe disregard of community concerns is all the more aggravating when you consider that some of the waste and dismantled reactor parts they intend to store will remain radioactive for more than 100,000 years. I mean, what could possibly go wrong in a hundred millennia?

"Wouldn't iit be great,"I thought, "If I could teleport all the nuclear waste to the Moon for disposal?" Who knows, maybe that single act might make nuclear power a little safer. On the remediation side, maybe we could decontaminate the Chernoble and Fukushima sites without creating problems somewhere else on Earth.

Technology
Given this premise, I started thinking about transporter technologies. Like Bones in the original series, I have real concerns about Star-Trek inspired transporter technologies. The thought of disassembling (aka, killing) people and sending them through space as a pattern, then re-assembling them at the destination makes me wonder about the nature of humanity and the value of human life. Are transported individuals natural or artificial entities? Heck, you can probably use the pattern buffers to create soldiers, slaves, or organ donors. In the real world, people and organizations are trying to patent genetic sequence information. In the future, who would own your pattern once you stepped through the transporter? What would/could they do with that pattern?

The very thought makes me shudder so this story won't use Star Trek-based transporter technologies. Instead, I plan to use a fold-space transporter. In my imaginary world, the device would fold space so that the two quantum-entangled units are permanently connected through subspace. The units act as if they are adjacent to one another, but separated by a wall. Once the mechanism is activated, the matter transmitter acts like a lazy Susan, rotating a defined volume of space from one side of the subspace wall to another. At the same time, the volume over the far unit is rotated to this side.

Think about it. We could colonize Mars by sending a large and a small matter transport pad to the red planet. Once the pad is on the ground and functional, people could step off the Moon and onto Martian soil. (We don't want to bring Mars bugs to Earth.) If something happens to the large platform, you could send a repairman through the small door. We could also send a spacecraft to Alpha Centauri, popping in in every now and again to see how things are going.

That"s it for now. Next time we can discuss the story arc. Leave a comment if you have ideas or comments.

The Perils of Writing after Midnight

9/20/2017

I was feeling good about my WIP, stringing words into sentences, sentences into paragraphs when I hit quicksand. I struggled to escape, to find firmer ground, but every action pulled me deeper into darkness. My heart pounded like a jackhammer. My throat closed. I couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. I was in over my head.

Sharp writhing shapes pressed against me, their claws tearing at my flesh as they worked their way toward the page. I was helpless; terrified and appalled by the darkness. Manic madness emerged from my fingers, the pulsing stain oozing across the page, desecrating the virgin white space, creating a trail of darkness and despair.

Fear. My fear makes them stronger. The rising gorge of horror and desolation threaten to consume me. I fight grimly, but my strength...God, my strength and focus are failing. Thousands more press against me. My struggle attracts them. It fuels their frenzy, their hunger. I'm...I'm losing control. My

Sneak Preview: Disposal, Inc.

9/13/2017

Here is the first chapter of my science fiction story, Disposal, Inc. Your comments and suggestions are welcome and appreciated. Thanks for reading.

Disposal, Inc
by Bascomb James

The technical team was placing field generators around a 70 ton MACSTOR-200 unit when the com unit chirped.  Damn it, not now! I cursed silently as I reached for the secure phone. Generator positioning is an exacting task. Even tiniest inconsistency could rupture the containment vessel and spill tons of nuclear waste throughout the building.

I glanced at the caller ID; Ari Kiltonen, the General Manager of my company. “Damn it Ari, this had better be important!”

“Chief, I have an army colonel on the phone demanding to speak with you. He says it’s a national emergency.”

Not this again. Every government on the planet seems to think I should handle their special transport emergencies.

“Which army?”

“Ours, sir. He says he’s calling from the Pentagon.”

“Tell him I’m busy saving the world. If he wants to talk he can get his green-clad ass up here for a face-to-face. I’ll make some time at 9 PM. In the meantime, notify Ontario Power Generation Security about the visit and get me some background information on the Colonel or whomever he sends.”

“OK Chief. We’ll go over the arrangements later.”

I clicked off and squelched the urge to throw the phone across the room. “Tom, adjust generator number seven outboard 1.5 centimeters and left 9 centimeters.”

It took the team another hour to position the generators to my satisfaction. The flow was looking good and the field dynamics were smooth and predictable across the entire displacement volume. The crew was watching me intently, waiting for instructions. Their quiet anticipation gave way to smiles when I looked up from the monitor gave them the “thumbs up” sign.

The air horn sounded three times, the sound echoing endlessly in the cavernous space. OPG workers, Canadian Nuclear Safety Commission officials, and the International Atomic Energy Agency inspectors headed toward the exits while the crew began moving the delicate positioning sensors and instrument consoles behind the blast baffles.

With things well in hand, I went through a door into the adjacent room. The large room dwarfed the displacement console and monitors. The console area was separated from the rest of the space by waist-high traffic pylons with yellow and black striped tape strung through the handles. The laughingly inadequate barrier was reinforced by three heavily armed guards.

Cable runs and chases radiated outward from the circumscribed equipment. Monitor stands made the area look like a NASA launch center. Everything had its place and the purpose-made system could be broken down and packed for shipment in two hours.

Two of the monitors showed the transshipment room with rib-like displacement generators surrounding the massive 22 meter long by 8 meter high concrete containment vessel. Each generator was mounted on a heavy duty trailer with outrigger supports. Other monitors showed the radiation counts and the harshly lit displacement site.

After checking the field dynamics one last time I grabbed the virtual reality headset and performed a visual sweep of the displacement site. Neat rows of containment vessels and equipment radiated outward toward the horizon.

Tom Quiñones, the team foreman, spoke through the com unit, “The room is secure and all personnel are accounted for. We’re ready for displacement.” He inserted his key into the slot in his console and turned it to the “Ready” position.

“Transponder is active and returning the correct code.” The IAEA inspector reported from his console. The inspector turned his activation key and a second green light appeared on my panel.

“IAEA is ‘GO’ for transshipment.”

I could feel the tension build. All eyes were on the monitors.

The Canadian official turned his key and the final green light appeared. “CNSC is ‘GO’ for transshipment.”

I pulled a security chain over my head and inserted my activation key into its slot in the displacement panel. The blue status light changed to amber as I rotated the key to the MASTER ARM position. “I have three green lights,” I announced. “We’re ready for transshipment.”

No matter how many times I do this, there’s always a nervous knot in my stomach at this point. This has to be perfect every time. There are no Mulligans when dealing with nuclear waste.

I looked to my left, and Tom gave me nod from his console. I inserted my right hand into the security scanner and punched in a hidden code that activated the palm/fingerprint reader. The unit beeped and the amber light changed to red. The automatic klaxons sounded throughout the building, alerting everyone within earshot that something big was about to happen.

This is it! I took a calming breath, counted to five, then depressed the ACTIVATE button with my left thumb. A thunderclap shook the room as air rushed to fill the 1300 cubic meter void created when the nuclear waste containment vessel disappeared from the transshipment room.

A puff of snow and fog appeared on the destination monitors as the moisture in the displaced air froze then sublimated. The scene slowly resolved to show a MACSTOR unit with the proper sequence number parked on the floor of crater Antoniadi in the lunar Southern hemisphere.

“Chief, the displacement room is clean. No ruptures. No radiation,” Quiñones reported.

I deactivated the panel and turned to the inspectors.

“Dr. Richards, we have confirmed the transponder is now on the moon. We also note that your cameras show a container with the proper sequence number in crater Antoniadi.”

I nodded and picked up the com unit. “Get the next unit in here while I do the paperwork.”

“OK Chief, we’re on it.”

I glanced at the destination monitors and noted that the teleoperators were moving a mobile crane toward the containment unit. The crane will carry the MACSTOR unit to the unpacking yard where the carbon steel containment cylinders will be removed from the concrete outer shell. Without hydraulic or convection cooling, the nuclear degradation within the fuel rods will eventually heat the cylinder’s contents until the cylinder melts.

As part of an internationally sponsored project, Disposal, Inc. is creating a China Syndrome event by layering the containment cylinders into a small crater--a crater whose bottom is approximately 9 kilometers below the surface of the moon. Lunar scientists calculated that the molten materials will eventually burn through the crust and melt the partially solidified lunar core. With a spinning molten core, the moon should be able to regenerate its protective magnetic field. Thus, the whole transshipment project has a two goals; safe removal of radioactive waste from the earth while making future lunar habitats a little safer. It was my kind of project.

#

There was a knock on the door and Ari Kiltonen stepped into the nondescript office OPG assigned to us while we were on-site. Ari was of medium height with china blue eyes and close-cropped brown hair. A dark blue Kevlar vest covered his muscular chest. The Glock pistol and tactical holster were extensions of his persona.

“Captain Katheryn Macrae is here to see you.”

I nodded and closed the background file on the Captain. “Post one of the security detail in the outer office then bring her in. I want you to be present for this briefing.”

Ari nodded and left. I flipped switches to activate the audio and video recording equipment.

Ari ushered the visitor into the office a few minutes later. Captain Macrae was a trim dark-haired woman wearing a black, one-button skirt suit with high-necked silk blouse. Even in heels, she moved with the controlled athleticism of a dancer or a martial artist.

I came around the desk and extended my hand. “Captain Macrae, what brings a Cyber Warfare expert to OPG Darlington?”

Her grip was warm and confident and she projected the cool competence of a professional who had nothing to prove. Tall for a woman, she nearly matched my 5’11” height. As I shook her hand, I was surprised by my reaction to her. I wonder what she looks like in uniform, or out of it, for that matter.

I gestured her to a supplicant chair and reclaimed my seat behind the desk. Ari leaned unobtrusively against the wall where he could watch her face and hands.

Macrae looked at Ari pointedly and said, “I didn’t think the Canadian government allowed armed bodyguards and security personnel.”

Nettled by her opening gambit, I responded in kind. “Did you come down from Ottawa to critique my security arrangements?”

She frowned and said, “I was instructed to speak with you alone.”

I felt my eyebrows rise and I glanced at Ari who shrugged. “That’s not gonna happen,” I said shaking my head.

“Allow me to introduce Ari Kiltonen. Ari is the General Manager of DI and the person responsible for the day-to-day operation of this company. In his previous life, Captain Kiltonen was a Delta Force unit commander. When Ari leaves, you leave. Capisce?”

Macrae’s eyes flashed with anger and her face flushed. “They told me you were an arrogant bastard…”

Something in her demeanor really pushed my buttons and my temper flared. I waved my hand contemptuously toward the door. “We’re done here. Ari, have someone escort the Captain back to her car.”

Macrae flushed again and held up her hands in surrender. “Wait! I apologize for my remark. Before I provide a brief, both of you must sign Defense Secrets documents. The information I’m about to give you is classified and compartmentalized for national security purposes. You cannot disclose this information without the written consent of the US government.”

I shook my head again and glanced at Ari. Here we go again. This is what happens when agencies don’t share information.

“First of all, I would like to inform you that our conversation is being recorded to prevent misunderstandings. Secondly, you are hereby notified that Disposal Incorporated, its owner, employees, and contractors do not wish to be privy to national secrets and as such, we are not responsible for dissemination of said secrets. Before you deliver your briefing, you will sign an affidavit stating that any and all information provided by you as an agent of the US government, is exempt from the Defense Secrets Acts at the time of disclosure and in perpetuity.”

Anger and frustration flashed across Macrae’s face but she quickly regained her composure. “I can’t sign that affidavit. Mr. Richards, let me remind you that this is a national emergency involving thousands of people.”

“So you say. . . and it’s Doctor Richards,” I said peevishly, just to piss her off.

The rebuke had its desired effect. “Your obstinacy is deliberately placing US citizens at risk and it constitutes reckless endangerment of the public. We could have you arrested and jailed!”

I laughed at the thought. “Are you planning to invade Canada to make me sign your damned paper?”

“American lives are at stake! How can you be so uncaring?”

This woman continued to push my buttons. I was wondering if she was deliberately goading me to make me make some sort of mistake. “Captain, Disposal Incorporated has only one purpose—to protect you and the rest of this planet from the nastiest and most persistent poisons mankind has ever created. A thousand years from now, an unprotected human will die horribly after a half-hour exposure to the radioactive materials we generate today. Don’t tell me I’m uncaring."

Macrae’s eyes flashed at the rebuke. I leaned back in my chair and tried to ease the tension. “I feel no concern for your ‘at-risk’ citizens because I have no evidence they exist and you refuse to provide any information or proof. If I have any culpability, it’s for refusing to give strangers unconditional oversight over what my group says, where we go, and who we interact with for the rest of our lives.”

An awkward silence filled the room as I struggled to master my anger and outrage. I had been through similar conversations on four continents and the experience was getting old. I sighed and decided to stop shooting the messenger. “Let’s begin again. What do you want from us?”

Macrae opened her mouth to respond then reconsidered. After another uncomfortable pause, I held up my hand and spoke quietly. “Captain, your superiors sent you into the lion’s den with an incomplete brief. Let me explain my position.”

“Nearly every government in the world considers me and DI to be a potential threat. They have tried to acquire my displacement technology through force, guile and legislation. The security establishment is also pissed because I sell shield technologies to all governments and to private citizens. More importantly, I refuse to provide a back door that would allow the government or anyone else to remotely inactivate those shields.”

“I am still in business because I provide a useful service, I don’t challenge the political status quo, and thanks to my matter transporters, I have more money than God. In order to continue this work, I cannot sign secrecy documents with any government, corporation, group, or citizen. All my deals and activities must be fully transparent and above board.”

“Talk to your superiors. If this situation is truly a national emergency, they will find a way to speak to me openly and on the record."

I gestured toward Ari. "Please give Ari your contact information. He will send you a release affidavit for review. You can contact him if you want to schedule another meeting.”

Macrae stood and walked briskly to the door. Ari shook his head and followed her into the outer office.

I was forwarding the meeting video to the last of the secure data locations when Ari returned to the office. He went to the sideboard and poured two neat Bourbons. He handed me a glass and settled into recently vacated chair. “Jason, I wish you would learn a little tact.”

“I was within my rights,” I huffed.

“Doesn’t matter. Losers keep score. Losers want payback. You made Captain Macrae and her boss look bad. They’re going to make our life difficult.”

“Look bad? Hell, I thought she looked damned good.” I gave him the boyish grin. “You know,” I think we had a special moment there.”

Ari shook his head and laughed, “Yeah, that special moment just before you opened your mouth.”

Seven Story Prompts for Romance Writers

9/9/2017

In her article for Writers Digest, Leigh Michaels lays down "The Essential Elements of Writing a Romance Novel." This nice overview concentrates on the following requirements:

A hero and a heroine to fall in love
A problem that creates conflict and tension between them and threatens to keep them apart
A developing love that is so special it comes about only once in a lifetime
A resolution in which the problem is solved and the couple is united

Point number 2, the problem and conflict must also include the context in which the conflict happens. In providing this context, the reader often learns about new places, businesses, or fields of inquiry, making the story both educational and emotional.

Think of the context as the cup that constrains and shapes the story. We all want to consume goodness that lives within the cup, but the experience is enhanced by presenting that goodness a pretty or interesting vessel.

The goal of this post is to describe several different storytelling vessels that could be used to shape your next romantic story.

Boxers and Briefs
The protagonists include a sports attorney and an injured boxer or mixed martial arts fighter. Lots of room for backstory, contrasting worlds, intrigue, and conflict.

What the Frack!
The protagonists are an oil-field geologist and an environmentalist. They initially square off during a fact-finding meeting run by a state oversight committee. Thrown together during an Oklahoma earthquake, their personal interaction reaches the smoking point and eventually catches fire.

Altering Your Genes
Set amid the raging controversy on human genetic alterations, this story has many potential protagonists including single parent(s) whose child(ren) is/are impaired by a genetic mutation, the genetic purists who believe we shouldn't play God with the genetic code, the scientific team who developed methods for making the genetic changes, and political appointees have their own agenda. Look at CRISPR/Cas9 news articles for more background information.

Three Sheets to the Wind
The protagonists are a crusty marine racing engineer and a female racing captain. The woman is struggling to get ahead in this high-stakes, male-dominated field.

Mechanical Advantage
The protagonists in this story are a psychologist and a mechanical engineer. They are part of a team working with Gulf War veterans to develop better artificial limbs. They disagree on the ultimate goal of the project. Should they strive to create a prosthesis that mimics the flesh and blood version or should they push the envelope, giving the recipient enhanced strength and durability? How would these changes affect the injured soldier? Cyborg controversy. Would you be willing to have a normal arm amputated if replacement arm gave you enhanced abilities?

Backstory
A research librarian takes a historical fiction novelist to task for inaccuracies in his/her newest work. Respect and love blossom during their public/private arguments. The couple find they have more in common than they initially thought.

The Woollie Womb
With the recent sequencing of the woolly mammoth genome, there is an increasing desire to bring back these extinct animals. The protagonists are a genetic engineer and a large animal zoologist specializing in elephants. To bring back a woolly, the embryo would have to be carried in an elephant womb. This could have disastrous consequences for the host. Heated arguments turn into another kind of heat as the story progresses. Follow the link for more information. http://bit.ly/2xlKAPO and http://bit.ly/2xW5Pov

Well, there you have it-- seven settings for building your next romance story. Let me know how you like them.

Writing With the Blood of My Enemies

8/26/2017

"He's writing with the blood of his enemies," a co-worker explained to the group as I cleaned the grip of my fountain pen with a damp paper towel. I had filled the converter with Noodler's Antietam ink the previous evening and there was a small amount of residue on the grip. My finger was red and the damp towel wicked the color, making it look like I was bleeding profusely. Working in a clinical laboratory, the first reaction from the staff is to attack the problem with bandages and bleach. Fortunately, I needed neither.

I cleaned the offending spot and put the towel in the hazardous waste bucket. The ink isn't hazardous but I didn't want a colleague to worry that blood had somehow been discarded into the normal waste stream. That would be a serious Biosafety violation.

Antietam, blood of my enemies; I thought of those things as I initialed documents, batch records, and quality assurance forms that morning. I was using a Lamy Vista demonstrator pen and the fine cursive italic nib was laying down crisp bloody lines on the crappy paper we use in our laser printers. It seemed somehow fitting that a clinical scientist would use an ink resembling dried blood to mark-up documents. The color is distinctive, dark, and saturated, and it reproduces well in the copier.

Writing with the blood of my enemies. The phrase seems poetic and horrific. I wouldn't be surprised to find it in the Game of Thrones or a horror fantasy novel. The phrase and the ink appeals to the writer in me.

Backstory: Antietam Fountain Pen Ink
Nathan Tardif, the founder of Noodler's Ink likes to create commemorative and classic ink colors for his company. Always on the lookout for new ideas, he purchased a vintage 1800s inkwell and rehydrated the dried ink to discover a brown-red fluid that looked like dried blood on the written page. Nathan reproduced the color using modern ink components. Because of the color, he named it Antitam (see below).

The behavior of Antietam fountain pen ink is variable depending upon the paper type and the width/amount of ink applied to the paper. The ink feathers on cheap paper, producing a dried blood appearance. Broader nibs produce more shading as the ink absorbs and dries. This characteristic is valued by writing and drawing aficionados. On less absorbent papers, the ink has a more unified, red-brown coloration.

Fought on September 18, 1862, the battle of Antietam was single bloodiest day in the history of the United States. There were 23,000 casualties and at Burnside Bridge, the casualties were so high that survivors said that Antietam Creek ran red with blood.

WSFA Small Press Finalist

8/19/2017

I am really geeked to announce that Neil James Husdon's story, The Mytilenian Delay, is a finalist for the WSFA Small Press Award. Neil's story first appeared in the Hyperpowers military and space opera anthology published by Third Flatiron Publications.

In his Tangent Online review, Steve Johnson described The Mytilenian Delay as follows:

"The Mytilenian Delay by Neil James Hudson posits a tradition of blowing up entire inhabited worlds to maintain an Empire. Partly technical, partly traditional, a delay is built into the destruction ritual, to give the Empire time to change its mind. In real life, Mytilene was spared because Athens countermanded the destruct order just in time. Will the Captain spare a possibly-innocent world this time? The twist, when he reaches his decision, is delicious, reminiscent of Eric Frank Russell."

Neil and the other finalists will be honored at the WSFA award ceremony on Saturday, October 7, 2017 at Capclave (http://www.capclave.org ) the annual Washington (DC) Science Fiction Association (WSFA) convention. Capclave will be held October 6-8 in Gaithersburg, MD.

Congratulations to Neil James Hudson and publisher Juliana Rew for this well deserved honor.

Hyperpowers
Edited by Bascomb James
Series Editor: Juliana Rew
Publisher: Third Flatiron Publications
Publication Date: May 15, 2016
Available at:
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/630060
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B01EBBVCZK

Moonlight Lovers

8/19/2017

Classic poetic form with rhyme. I wanted to write something with rhythm while maintaining the ethereal feeling. I hope this works.

Moonlight Lovers

She walks in misty moonlight
Wearing a gossamer gown
Fourteen steps away, her lover
Fourteen steps of hallowed ground

Each step, anticipation
Builds with nary a sound
Fourteen steps to arms that hold her
Fourteen steps to hearts that pound

She pauses with ardent trembling
Gossamer pools on the ground
Fourteen steps she traveled to find him
Fourteen steps and loving is found

Catalyst Chronicles - A Serialized Story

7/15/2017

I would like to introduce the Catalyst Chronicles, a contemporary urban fantasy presented in weekly installments. The story describes the struggles of Colin Mercer and Natalia Bremmer who live near me, in and around Ann Arbor Michigan. Colin is an under-employed engineer working as a copier repairman. Natalia is an up and coming university physician. They share a bond and a secret--a secret that could kill or enslave them.

Colin is the main narrator and he's a geek. Geeks can be adorable, but they are geeks, first, last, and always. Natalia is a strong fiery physician who would do anything to protect Colin and their future. Trained since childhood to live hidden lives, these high school sweethearts are together yet separate--their relationship defined by their nature and training.

The story will be revealed in weekly installments and you, the reader are welcome and encouraged to let me know how it's going. Each episode is about 1000 words so they should be fast reads.

Every journey begins with the first step so here we go...