Let's Try This Again

Way back in the spring of 2005, I began my first attempts at querying agents and publishers in the hopes at finding representation for my first novel, Fenicus Flint & the Dragons of Berathor.  My head was filled with all kinds of pipe dreams, thinking I wrote a brilliant novel and that I was destined to be the next J.K. Rowling.  Ah, the innocence of youth combined with inexperience.  Classic tragic flaws for a writer.

Countless edits (over 130 total pages trimmed and a complete reworking of the narrative perspective) and conquered insecurities later, and I finally gave in to the uncertain world of independent publishing.  I knew my work was of a high caliber, and I had a unique story.  It was only logical that I needed to prove myself before anyone would invest in an unknown commodity.  And though I barely broke even financially, my critical success was worth far more than any financial gains I could have achieved.  Publishers Weekly's glowing review of my manuscript alone provided enough ammunition to possibly open up some doors with my new go around.

Now armed with a 70% finished manuscript and a little bit of critical acclaim, I am ready to stick my neck out again in hopes it doesn't get chopped.  I am wiser now, I think, and have a much more realistic sense of how things work out in the unsteady publishing world.   I'm a stronger writer and story teller now, so I know my chances of success have risen a smidge.  Miles Away is far less of a fringe fantasy novel than FF&TDOB, so it's readership would be wider.  Perhaps it will all work out this time.

So, let's raise our glasses and toast to taking risks and believing in ourselves.  I'm ready to take the journey again.  Just hope my compass is true.

MILES AWAY: CHAPTER FOUR

June 15^th, 1613

           

            A gentle, drumming knock interrupted Gaius Lloth’s evening nourishment.  His gaze broke from the pale-gray, boiled haggis that lay dissected on his porcelain plate to the man who stood silently beside him.  With a nod of his head, Gaius sent the man across the room to an oak door that separated the manor’s dining room from the foyer.  Jerking the doorknob, he slowly opened it to a chorus of groans from the ungreased hinges.  Through the door walked a tall, slender man with salt and pepper hair and aged features.  He wore brown britches, a white shirt, leggings, and brown startups, covered in mud.  His feet scuffed along the floor at an intolerably languid pace as he approached. The height of his gaze never rose above floor level.  He stopped a few feet short of where Gaius dined.  “M’lord.”

            “What is it now, Brutus?”  Gaius wiped at his ginger beard with a dark brown handkerchief, brushing away bits of food that lingered there.  He wondered how any human could find such fare delectable.  But he had no choice.  Though he didn’t need to eat, the meat sack he inhabited needed nourishing and satiation.  One downside of possession was being subject to the host’s natural inclinations for food.  Though he supplanted their consciousness and essentially their soul, wisps of what made them who they were still lingered.  They were essential to assuming their identity, but next time he vowed to select a human host with better hankerings.

“M’lord,” Brutus croaked with a gravelly voice, “a traveler seeks an audience with you.”

            Gaius slowly closed his eyes and breathed in deep.  With ethereal fingertips his consciousness transcended his human form and reached out.  Like an invisible fog he swirled down the leg of the chair, poured across the knotty floorboards, slid beneath the chamber door, and expanded out into the foyer where the supposed traveler awaited.  The man wasn’t much to speak of at first blush.  But once the demon’s essence closed in around him, he was certain this man was whom he claimed to be.  Though he appeared to be a mere twenty or so years old, his body told a different story.  Like a mind, a physical form has memories, a record of all the experiences that have come its way.  This shell had seen some seventy odd years.  And the presence of a chronoperpetua on him sealed the deal.  With a jerk, Gaius reeled in his consciousness and opened his eyes.  “Bring him to me.”

            The manservant nodded deep and fast, his movements indicative of his eagerness to leave Gaius’ presence.  He passed through the door without looking back.  Seconds later, a young man stepped through the doorway and into the room.  From head to toe, this man reeked of confidence.  While he wore clothing tailored of the finest cloth and equipped with ample room in the right places, his attire did not portend opulence or even the slightest hint that he appeared in Elizabeth’s court—quite typical of a chronoshifter.  They always seemed to possess ample financial means, but their pathetic ilk avoided power and influence, preferring to lurk in the shadows and avoid making marks on history as it unfolded.  Where they chose such a life, Gaius had no choice but to hide.  He knew from previous run-ins with other shifters that if he made too grand an effort to seize power and means that he would find himself quickly on the run again.

The chronoshifter cast back the hood of his cloak with one deft movement, letting the light of the room fall on his features.  His relatively short black hair lay pressed forward and together at the apex of his scalp in a manicured coif.   The etched cheekbones, pointed nose, and strong chin game him a smoldering look.  Then he adjusted the fall of his cloak lapel to reveal the pommel of a rapier he carried at his hip.  A series of elaborate guards, encrusted with silver, gold, and emeralds, encircled the handle. 

Gaius narrowed his eyes at the traveler and then stood abruptly, the chair he sat in groaning painfully as it shot out from under him.  The young man who stood before him reacted impulsively, dropping his weight into a defensive fighting stance, one hand grasping his rapier and the other the scabbard.  The demon laughed haughtily.  “Oh, you are a nervous fellow, aren’t you?”

The traveler shook his head and sneered at Gaius.  “And you’re too trusting, demon.”

“Quite the contrary, sir.  You’re not here to kill me because you can’t.  Yes, you’ve come into my home, armed for combat, but only to defend yourself if necessary.  Unless of course you’re an utter fool, for you know if you kill this vessel,” Gaius spread his arms in a welcoming gesture, “I’ll walk out of here in your skin.  Just think of the damage I could do if I took over one of your kind, freed from the shackles of time.” 

“Enough,” the traveler yelled, jerking his hand away from his saber and letting his cloak fall back upon his frame.  “You’re right, I’m not here to fight.  I’m here to talk.”

“So then tell me your name, traveler, and by all means, talk.”  Gaius used a breath of his power, reached out with spectral hands, and drew out a chair for his guest to rest upon.  He gestured with his physical form for the young man to take a seat.

“Traveler,” he uttered coldly as he settled himself down upon the oak chair with a quite uncomfortable grimace.  “That’s the name you get for now.”

“Fair enough.”  Gaius brought his chair back to the table, sat down, and willed a goblet and a bottle of liquor to cross the table toward the man. 

“No, thank you,” the traveler refused. 

“Have it your way, it’s perfectly good bottle of ale.”  Gaius took a mouthful from his own goblet.  “So, talk.”

The man appeared pained by the thoughts that swam in his mind.  The demon wished to rape his mind of all thoughts and cut to the chase, but it was a power he’d yet to reconstitute since being summoned all those centuries ago.  So he waited and watched.  He had his suspicions, but he needed to hear this traveler say the words himself.

“I’m here to make a deal.”

“A deal?  Of what sort?  I’m a simple creature.  I find contracts and agreements don’t suit my purposes.  I generally just take what I want.  But I’ll hear your offer.”

The man closed his eyes, exhaled deeply, and groaned, “I’m tired.  Tired of fighting.  Tired of watching those I love grow old and die while the rest of us try to find a way to stop you.  It’s all useless.”

Gaius cocked a curious eyebrow at him.  “Useless you say?  I think you’re order has done a fair job of keeping me in check all these years.  You must have seen something, something to make you question your piety.”  It leaned toward him, a hunger brewing within to hear the traveler pour forth his deepest pain and secrets.  The demon fed on hurtful emotions and agony, more so than any morsel of mortal sustenance it could ingest physically.  And when such succulent fare was freely divulged, its taste brought pure ecstasy.  Gaius sensed the human vessel it inhabited struggling to maintain shape and contour against its hideous form, eager to break free and devour its victim.  Bringing itself under control, it drew a sleeve across the gaping human mouth to wipe away a tendril of spittle seeping from within.  “What did you see?” it rasped eerily.

The traveler seemed taken aback by the feral persona that peered from behind the demon’s mask of flesh.  He sneered and replied, “No matter what we do in the end, you win.  Every action we take, every time we think we’ve stopped you, the end result doesn’t change.  When you’re immortal as long as we are, you forget what happens when time catches up to you.  I had to watch someone very close to me grow old and die.  I’ve had enough of being on the losing side.”

Gaius leaned back in his chair, narrowed his eyes, and took measure of the man before him.  Everything about the traveler—his stench, his demeanor, his resigned calm—spoke to the demon’s instincts.  There was no attempt to deceive.  It made the negative energy pool generated by the man all the more succulent.  Gaius simmered in the sauce, quietly gleeful; this time it was careful to not show its intent.  Cooly, clamly, Gaius inquired, “So what is your bargain?”

His eyes locked on some knot or other detail in the woodwork of the table, though they didn’t seem to be looking at anything in particular.  His fingers drummed uncomfortably.  He looked like a man struggling with the words he wanted to say.  For several seconds he sat silent, before he spoke.  “There are others, like me, who want out of the Order.”

“How many?”

“Enough to swell your ranks,” the man answered quickly, snidely.  He sneered at the demon and spoke with deliberate emphasis.  “Enough to put an end to the Order.  And they’ll agree to join you in exchange for something only you can grant.”

The demon cocked his brows with intrigue.  “And just what is that?”

“Immortality.”

Gaius guffawed, “You’ve already got that, traveler,” and took a swig of ale.

“No, not truly immortal.  Our lives can still be taken.  We’re still mortal, flesh and blood, unlike you.  In the meantime, we lose track of time and the passage of years, and before we know it, time catches up to us.  And then we start to age, while the rest of our loved ones have to watch us grow more fragile and helpless until we die.  We want immortality that doesn’t come with a caveat.  If you want our help, it’s the price you must pay.  A small sacrifice of your power.” 

A small bell lay on the table next to the demon’s hand.  He lifted it and shook it, letting out a high pitched cacophony.  A door behind Gaius, much like the one that the traveler entered by, creaked open and another servant came in from the kitchen.  He lifted the half-eaten plate of food from the table and quickly ducked away.  The door clunked shut behind the servant.  Gaius rose from his seat, walked the length of the table opposite its guest and stopped across from where he sat.  He leaned over the table, hands supporting his weight, and responded, “But you do know that’s a power I can’t grant in my current state.”

“We’re well aware of that.”  The traveler reached into his waistcoat and removed a crisp piece of parchment.  He unfolded it and slid it across the table to Gaius.  “We can get you the object of power you need, if you will give us what we ask.”

Gaius lifted the parchment and examined under the flickering candlelight.  It was a drawing of a sword, an ancient sword, Celtic in origin.  Below the sketch, a cypher comprised of numbers, letters, and symbols lay written in black ink; none of it sense to the demon.  “What is this?” 

“A promise,” the man snickered.  “That’s the object you need.  The encryption below it is its location.  But without my help, you never find it.”

“Making me jump through hoops will only delay your prize.  Tell me its location and I’ll give you what you want tonight.”

“I could, but it would also leave me no bargaining chip.  And frankly, if I told you how to break the cypher, you’d have no use for me.  I’d prefer to walk out of here alive when our business is completed.”

Gaius, recognizing the sound strategy of his unlikely visitor, nodded respectfully.  “Very good.”

The traveler rose from his seat and pulled a pair of black riding gloves from his cloak.  He swung the pair with his right hand into his left palm with a clap.  “To be honest, the encryption has yet to be solved.  I’m not sure where the object is yet.  But I’ll have it soon.”  The man locked eyes with Gaius as he tugged the gloves over his fingers.

“So why should I trust you?” the demon inquired reservedly.  “Other than a boastful claim that you can help me find one of the objects of power, tell me why I shouldn’t have you torn limb from limb right now?”

The traveler crossed his arms and leered at the demon.  “Because we can also help you blend in and hide from the Order.  You’ll be able to move about freely and reconstitute all your power without their interference.  It truly is a win-win situation for everyone.”

“An interesting bargain.”  Gaius nodded, thinking over the proposal.  “I’ll agree to your terms, but you must do something for me first.  We demons aren’t the trusting sort.  You don’t appear dishonest, but this sack of meat I’m trapped in prevents me from properly reading you.  I require proof that you’re what you say.”

“What kind of proof?” he asked, his body posture and attitude were aloof, confident.

Gaius smiled menacingly.  “The next generation.  I want them eradicated.”

The smugness that hung on the man’s shoulders crumbled away.  He looked visibly shaken, perhaps unprepared to accept such a term of agreement.  His voice cracked, “Why?”

“The prophesy.  If there’s even the slightest possibility one of those progeny are the foretold deliverer, I want them wiped out.”

“But there’s no proof that any of them are the deliverer.  No twins have been born of our Order.”

The demon shook his head and clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth in protest.  “You’re beginning to sound like a man whose bluff has been called.”

“No,” the traveler gestured with a pointed finger at Gaius, “not at all.  It’s just that what you ask is no easy task, Gaius.  There are hundreds of thousands of permutations of each of them living throughout time, and only one true, living version of each.”

“I know you have ways of finding them.  Bring me their heads, and I’ll promise you what you seek.  Betray me and watching your loved ones grow old will be the least of your worries.”

“Alright,” he nodded with worried eyes, “It’ll take some time.”

Gaius laughed warmly.  The irony, it thought.  “What else have we got? 



Hurry up and wait...and wait...and wait

If you've got the desire to be a published writer, you will need to cultivate patience and be ready to play the waiting game.  What kind of waiting game do I mean?  Here are several different versions that take place in the publishing world:

1.  Waiting for a response.  Whether you are submitting your unpublished manuscript to agents and publishers, hoping you will land the big contract, you better be ready to wait.  Most publishers/agents make writers wait a minimum of six weeks to get a response, but it's usually closer to three months.  The worst part of the waiting is that when you finally get that kiss off letter, it is usually a form letter that is not directly addressed to you or refers to your manuscript by title, clear evidence that they never really read your work.  Yes, it is possible that they have read it over, rejected it, and are far too busy to write a letter to specifically tell you why they rejected it.  But it is far more likely that they are far too busy to either read your manuscript or respond to you in a personal manner, unless you've already got a name or were referred to them by a client.

2.  Waiting for a review.  Your novel has hit the open market, been sent off to reviewers who requested review copies, and now you must wait to hear the good (or bad) news.  Now this is where you need to be really patient because reviewers receive piles of review copies each month, many unsolicited.  To read the novels in the order they are received, write a meaningful review, submit it online or in print, and notify the author and publisher of its completion can take months.  Not a month, months.  More like three.  So don't pester them.  When it's done, if it's done, they'll let you know.  In the meantime, Google the Hell out of yourself and watch your work spread over the Internet.  And when you get your reviews back, be sure to thank the reviewers.  If you are a gracious author, the reviewers will want to read your next novel and the ones after that.

3.  Waiting for sales.  As a new author, one of the most painful things you can do is track your sales numbers using any of the Internet tracking services.  This is a great way to sink yourself into a depression.  Unless you have a major publisher and public relations service backing you and pushing your work commercially, you need to wait patiently and occupy yourself with something else.  Go write another book, perhaps.  I have had to stop watching all my sales tracking services because sales have been slow.  I have almost two hundred and sixty Facebook author page "likes", but commercially I have not sold a large number of copies.  Is it frustrating?  Yes.  Will things change?  Yes.  Not everyone will buy a copy.  Support comes in all forms.  Some emotional, some financial.  If you are patient and you keep pounding the pavement with book signings and readings, your sales numbers will increase eventually.

Writing a novel and getting it published is no get rich scheme.  Only the most diligent, prolific writers find success.  Keep at it, be patient, and don't get discouraged by how long you'll have to wait for things to move.

MILES AWAY: CHAPTER THREE

This chapter is the last of the three that will be shipped off to agents near the end of the summer.  If you've read all three, how do you feel about the story?  Are you drawn in?  Are there any major areas that should be overhauled as I continue the drafting process?  Honest thoughts and feedback only.  Thank you.

            Miles watched through the glass partition as his foster mother, Carol Lyle, strode angrily and with purpose through the outer double doors, into the high school lobby, and toward the main office.  Her teal nursing scrubs hung upon her gaunt body like burlap sacks on a scarecrow’s frame.  The brunt of her brunette hair hung in a ponytail out the back of a surgical cap.  It snapped back and forth from the briskness of her movements.  Miles looked to her feet.  She still wore her shoe covers.  He knew he was in for it now.  They pulled her out of surgery to get him.

            With a violent yank, Carol opened the door to the office.  The aluminum blinds clanged against the wire-reinforced safety glass.  Her eyes locked on Miles, and she stalked toward him.  A foot from him she stopped, glared, and shook her head with displeasure.  The smell of cigarette smoke wafted from her clothes.

            “Mrs. Lyle,” Mrs. Clancy, the principal’s secretary, interrupted.

            Carol quickly composed herself and faced Mrs. Clancy.

            “Ms. Dempsey is expecting you.”

            His foster mother turned back to him.  “We’ll talk in the car,” she grumbled low.  The veins in her neck bulged.  Miles knew she was really holding back.  She whipped around and walked down a short corridor and into Ms. Dempsey’s office. 

            He waited a good half hour before his foster mother finally emerged.  While she looked pissed before, she now seemed despondent, unsure of what to do.  The wrinkles around her eyes appeared more distinct, pronounced.  In her hand he saw the pink carbon copy of his referral.  Calmly, Carol drew near Miles and resignedly said, “Let’s go.”

            Miles stood up, grabbed his bag, and followed her out the door.  Through the lobby, the outer doors, across the parking lot, and into the car, she didn’t utter a word the whole way.  The rumble of the Dodge Caravan coming to life seemed to be the only sound that hit his ears.  He could swear even the birds stopped chirping.  It was an unnatural silence.  The moment the van left the school grounds, Carol lowered the driver’s side window and lit up a cigarette.  She took long, concentrated drags.  With a half inch of ash dangling from the glowing tip, his foster mother finally broke the silence.

            “I’m trying, Miles.  I’m really trying to understand you.”  Carol shook her head with a look of despair.  “Why would you do that to another kid?”

            Miles tried to not show any emotion.  He stared out the window, not making eye contact with her.  “He deserved it,” he uttered flatly.

            “Deserved it?  Miles, you sent him to the hospital.  Who deserves that?”

            “You wouldn’t understand.”

            “Try me.”

            Miles lost himself in the blur of emerald pastures and sweeping hillsides passing by.  He couldn’t admit why he beat Jack to a pulp.  The thought of exposing a weakness to her, of telling her that other kids abuse him would let the sturdy wall surrounding his emotions crumble.  Besides, what could she do?  Talk to the principal?  Talk to Jack’s parents?  That would only make things worse.  They’d feign ignorance and then Miles would be made out to be a bigger liar than they all already thought he was.  The volatile persona and the dangerously short temper he put on display today, he decided, would serve him far more than opening up to his foster mother.  She’d be pissed for a few days, just like his foster father would be once he found out, but their anger would subside.  The added ridicule and bullying he’d suffer as a result of whining about being picked on far outweighed any benefits he might reap. 

            “You can ignore me all you want, Miles, but your father won’t stand for it.”

            He glared at her out the corner of his eyes.  “He’s not my father.”  Miles drew his earphones up over his ears and pressed play on his mp3 player, shutting her out.

            Carol took a long, hard drag of her cigarette and puffed out the smoke in exasperation. 

            As the fairly short drive home passed, Miles couldn’t help but try to make sense of what he felt back in the hallway outside the locker room.  Jack deserved what happened.  For as much as he terrorized and ridiculed Miles, he wasn’t the only victim.  Like a quintessential bully, Jack fed on the weak, the smaller, and the insecure.  No one dared stand in his way for fear of what Jack or his parents might do.  Rest assured, sooner or later he was bound to mess with the wrong person and be put in his place.  Maybe, Miles thought, Jack was lucky it happened now when he was still a kid rather than as an adult.  Kids can only do so much damage.  Adults are another story.  Jack never counted on someone smaller than him fighting back.  But through all his rage and anger at Jack and even his foster parents, Miles’ true hatred, the root of his anger stemmed from his real parents.  Why did they give him up?

            Before he could entertain that thought any further, Miles saw the Lyle’s raised ranch roll into view.  With an aggressive turn and a squealing of the brakes, the van came to a stop.  Miles reached for the door handle and popped it ajar.  The firm grasp of his foster mother’s hand on his arm kept him from jumping out.  With a frustrated yank he pulled his headphones down off his ears.  “What?” he snapped at her.     

            “I have to get back to the hospital,” Carol replied with a calmer, measured tone.  “We’ll talk about this tonight.”

            “Whatever,” he replied apathetically.  He pulled himself free of her grasp, hopped out of the van onto the damp asphalt, and slammed the door shut.  Within moments the van was out of sight and Miles was alone in the house.  He descended into the pitch black basement and to the small walled-off space he called his bedroom.  The flimsy door opened and a flood of light washed over him from the lone window that revealed the outside world.  Posters of Bruce Lee, Cam Newton, and bikini bimbos washing sports cars covered the meager bit of wall space.  In the corner opposite his bed sat a worn-out, dial-tune television and a collection of retro video games he haggled from neighbors at garage sales.  His foster siblings had a nice HDTV upstairs in the living room and all the newest gaming systems.  It was okay though, these were his.  After all, things could be worse; he could live in a closet under the stairs.

            Miles threw his backpack across the room where it landed on his duck-taped bean bag chair.  Then he moved over to the edge of his bed, knelt down, and pulled a tattered cigar box from under the frame.  Turning and sitting with his back against the bed, Miles lifted the top off the box and laid it on his lap.  Inside rested an odd collection of items that he had collected in his travels.  Miles had lived with so many families and in so many homes over the years, he kept a memoriam of sorts from each.  Most of the items meant little or nothing to him in the grand scheme of things.  A few, however, held special meaning: a tattered John Franco baseball card, a few seashells from the Outer Banks, and a ticket to Busch Gardens.  In his sixteen years of life, these three moments stood out, mainly because they were the only true happy times.  He spent the better part of his life feeling unwanted and alone.  Family after family passed on him after a few years of care, not ready to “adopt” him.  By the time he was ten, he stopped letting himself get too vested in his foster families or hope that someone might offer him a permanent home.  He kept his distance and wouldn’t let anyone in. 

            But it wasn’t those happy memories from the past that Miles sought at that moment.  His heart ached—not because he had to listen to the taunts of a bully or because he brutally repaid that bully in kind (deserving or not), but because the people who could have prevented him from ever having to listen to such heartless insults had cast him out into the cold world, naked and vulnerable for vultures to pick over.  It was their picture for which he dug through the contents of the cigar box.  Sliding it out from under the weight of all the other trinkets, the photo came into view.  It was from one of those instant cameras, a Polaroid he was told, with its white paper border surrounding the developed picture.  Small creases and discoloration marked the picture, but he could still see his parents clearly despite the wear and tear.  He held it at arm’s length and studied the two strangers he saw.

            Miles’ father looked no more than twenty, maybe twenty two, with closely cropped brown hair, the very hint of a moustache, a distinct, pointy nose, and a small scar over his right eye.  He had the look of a rugged man, the kind that worked with his hands, and that work made him tough.  Yet the smile on his face showed sincere love for both his wife and the small son she held wrapped in her arms.  His mother, on the other hand, had shoulder length, curly red hair, high cheekbones, and an equally beaming smile.  She had a chubby, childlike face, probably from carrying him for nine months.  Examining the picture for the thousandth time, he wondered if they were so happy, how could they walk away and leave him behind.  Through her smile, his mother had tears streaming down her face.  Did she know that she would never see her son again?  Is that why she was crying?  How could they do it?   Not knowing made the hurt inside Miles all the more unbearable.  In the quiet safety of his room, he let all his pain out in a crescendo of agony.  He clenched the fist of his right hand and swung it brutally against the side of his bed, pounding it over and over again.  The mattress bounced and lurched at the power of the blows.

            “Son of a bitch!” Miles bellowed as his hand struck the edge of the metal bedframe.  He rose from off the floor onto his knees, clutching his throbbing hand.  The photo fell from his hand and the box of trinkets spilled across the rug.  “Why did you do this to me?” he screamed, pressing out every molecule of air in his lungs.  He began to hyperventilate from the sobs that racked his body and the thunderous pumping of his blood.  Like an angry hammer, Miles brought both fists down hard upon the thinly padded, carpeted floor.  This time he felt no pain.  His sense of self and connection to reality left him in his rage.  He recklessly slung the spilled belongings from his box to the walls, putting as much power and malice into his movements as he could.  With both hands he snatched up the last to pieces, two crystal spheres with letters etched upon them and squeezed them in both hands as he howled.  Miles closed his eyes and focused his thoughts on his parents; all his anger, all his pain, all of his loneliness he cast at their memories and squeezed the seemingly fragile orbs as he wished he could strangle his parents and to turn them into nothing.  Yet he heard no cracking, felt no sting of glassy shards rending his palms.  Instead he felt something, something he couldn’t explain; a tingling of sorts akin to sticking his tongue to a 9-volt battery.  It raced up his arms and held them tight like a squid squeezing his forearms to bursting.  He fought the sensation, gritting his teeth, hoping that what he sensed was splinters of glass deepening into his nerves and flesh so his physical pain might equal his mental anguish.  But Miles could take it no more.  His hands opened from the unbearable discomfort and the spheres fell with a clunk.        
            Opening his eyes, Miles immediately perused his arms. He looked them over, front and back, and felt utterly befuddled. Though he didn’t know whether lightheadedness made his eyes play tricks on him or if he actually saw something real and tangible, he did see minute threads of blue energy pulsing along his forearms and then fade into oblivion. His breathing slowed, and the storm within him subsided. What his parents did to him had taken a back seat to this mystery. Miles rubbed at the ache that began to nibble once more at his now bruised right hand. He ruminated over the event.
            “What the fuck!” Miles mumbled. He scratched at his head and shrugged. Miles didn’t realize just how much of a mess he had made until he stood surveying the carnage. With a burst of energy, he gathered up all his valuables, placed them back in the cigar box, and thrust it under the bed. Then he threw himself down on the bed and stared at the ceiling, no longer obsessed by demons of the past. A new one had taken its place.    

PROMETHEUS: WHO MADE WHO?

PROMETHEUS REVIEW

Ever since 1982’s Blade Runner, Sir Ridley Scott has kept his distance from science fiction motion pictures, content to apply his masterful gifts to other projects.  As if in an answer to the prayers of many genre enthusiasts, Sir Ridley has returned to both the director and producer’s chair to helm Prometheus, a definite but loosely connected prequel to his 1979 classic Alien.  The film has opened to mixed reviews, the majority of which have been positive.  The few reviews that have been negative have had one thing in common—a preconceived notion that Prometheus would carry the same plot DNA and feel as Alien.  It does not.  These two films are diametrically opposed to one another.  Alien was a claustrophobic, deep space nightmare that introduced one of the most frightening monsters in cinematic history.  Prometheus, on the other hand, is a gruesome yet philosophical adventure that offers up clues to the mysteries that underscored the first film without outright answering them.   The viewer must be savvy enough to piece the puzzle together for themselves.  Of course the film also offers up a whole new set of questions that look to be answered in the next installment of Prometheus. 

Warning—Spoilers to follow:

As far as positives are concerned, the film itself is a visual spectacle.  If you want eye candy, this is the film for you.  From the intricate design of the Prometheus space craft to the powerful beauty and menacing stature of the Engineers, there is no visual aspect of this film that is not perfected.  Additionally, the use of 3D is nearly flawless.  Unlike other films that use this cinematic technique, Prometheus is smooth throughout, even in violent action sequences that usually fall victim to the shudder effect (the image falls apart and is hard to focus on).  After a short while, you forget you’re wearing the dorky yellow glasses and become totally immersed in the film.  It’s especially impressive when watching it after the 3D previews for the new Amazing Spiderman, which is not only choppy, but the rendering of the effect is tantamount to a child’s pop-up book.  Not very impressive.  Prometheus is the best use of the new 3D technology to date, surpassing Tron: Legacy and Avatar.

While most of the characters in this film (there are upwards of seventeen crew members aboard the Prometheus as opposed to the seven crew members aboard the Nostromo in Alien) are shallow and otherwise fodder for grisly deaths, there are a few standout performances from the characters we are meant to care about.  The most impressive/memorable is Michael Fassbender’s portrayal of David, the Weyland predecessor to the Ash and Bishop android models.  We are given a few glimpses of David’s daily routine while the crew rests in cryostasis and are left to wonder for a short time if he is harboring deadly, secret programming or if he is more childlike in his curiosities and views, much like Data in Star Trek: TNG.  We quickly learn that he is a blend of the two.  He portrays the role to perfection.  Even when his choices lead to the demise of certain characters (who we don’t really like because they are gigantic a-holes), we are glad that he survives, albeit in pieces, to help the lone human crewmember continue her search for answers across the cosmos.

Lastly, the plot is ambitious.  It offers several complex themes that we are forced to grapple with over the course of the two-plus hours of footage.  Most of them are dealt with in their entirety.  A few are left open-ended with the hope that they will be resolved in the next installment.  This is where a few of the plot weaknesses appear.  The biggest weakness comes from the Engineers themselves.  There is some confusion as to why they were looking to return to Earth and destroy the very life forms they created.  Now did they have this plan when they met their own demise at the hands of the cargo they stored in the primordial ampules?  If so, why did the last Engineers go into cryostasis instead of launching the craft to finish their mission at that time?  Why did only one Engineer survive stasis?  And what the Hell was the convenient video replay system utilized by David to watch the Engineers operate the bridge of the horseshoe spacecraft?  Some of this will be answered later, I hope, but some just seemed like convenient planning to help cover up plot holes. 

Additionally, when the crew first opens up the ampule chamber where the giant head statue stands, they somehow “disturb” the atmosphere in the room, causing a massive windstorm and the ampules to bleed genetic-altering material.  Now I get how this might happen, but then why does the same thing not happen later on when David opens the sealed cargo bay of the spacecraft?  Those ampules remain unchanged by the unsealing of the chamber.   Seems like an oversight to me.

Generally, Prometheus is a strong film that held up its end of the bargain, for the most part.  Some of the film’s shortcomings are due to vital information being left on the cutting room floor in order to trim the film down to a more reasonable runtime and plot elements meant to be dealt with later on in the next film.  But one thing is for certain--Prometheus is powerful, engaging, and forces the audience to grapple with questions of both our origins and how far we might go to meet our makers.

Four out of Five stars. 

STARRING: Noomi Rapace, Logan Marshall-Green, Michael Fassbender, Charlize Theron, Idris Elba, and Guy Pearce

WRITTEN BY: Damon Lindelof and Jon Spaihts

DIRECTED BY: Ridley Scott

STUDIO: 20th Century Fox

RATING: R

RUN TIME: 124 minutes

MILES AWAY: CHAPTER TWO

For those of you who read the first chapter I posted of Miles Away a few days ago and are interested in reading the next chapter, here's the next part of the story.  Miles is confronted by the high school principal for his actions and fearlessly gives it right back to her. 

Miles' knuckles were raw and torn.  He picked off the loose tags of skin and hissed when the salt of his fingers burned at the exposed flesh underneath.  With his thumb and index finger, he rolled up the strips of skin and flicked them across Principal Dempsey's office while he waited for her to interrogate him.  He bounced the rolled up wads off of her furniture and even landed one well-aimed shot into her coffee mug that said, “World's Greatest Principal.” 

A muted voice outside the office brought his clandestine aerial assault to an end.  Trying to look innocent, Miles browsed over the familiar surroundings.  The inside of her office was a testament to her lifetime of hard work and dedicated brownnosing.  Miles had spent so much time in there over the years that he had memorized the unchanging landscape like it was his own room.  Elegant frames filled with a myriad of objects covered the walls: staged photo ops of her glad-handing Senator Jim Webb and Dr. Patricia Wright, Virginia Superintendent of Instruction, degrees from the College of William & Mary and the University of Virginia, along with other assorted educational certificates and awards.  Absent from the whole scene, however, were any pictures of friends or family.  She had no husband, or children for that matter, that anyone knew of, and she became quite flustered whenever anyone referred to her as Mrs. Dempsey instead of Miss.  Miles loved to push that button, especially when passing her in the hallway.   

Behind Miles, the click of a door latch sounded.  Through the door walked Ms. Dempsey with a very determined, calculated gate.  A low rumble of thunder traveled through the floor with each movement of her thick, curvaceous body.  Her hips were a good three feet across, stacked upon short, cellulite laden, triangular legs and a rear end that matched her hips in width and surpassed them in volume.   The top half of her wasn't much different—thick upper arms and breasts atop a disproportionate waist.  Combined, they gave her the appearance of two enormous arrowheads being stacked, point down, on top of each other.  She resembled the patch arrows on a Boy Scout uniform, only jiggly.  Her thick, ruddy, chubby cheeked face sat atop an equally stout neck.  She had a soft, grandmotherly look to her face without the deep wrinkles and cracks of old age.  Wisps of gray streaked her dark brown hair that was styled in a short bob that framed her face. 

Ms. Dempsey's outfit swished as she crossed the office floor to her desk.  She wore her typical administrator attire—a black skirt and business jacket over a white button-down blouse, sheer pantyhose and black flats.  Taking hold of the armrests of her chair, she wedged her hips between them and settled in.  Then she tossed down a referral on her desk.  Her eyes scanned over the details scribbled upon it.  She pursed her lips in a disgusted frown, flared her nostrils, and looked up to glare at Miles.  Her hands sat clasped together on her desk 

Miles attempted to return her cold glare, but she would have none of it.

Ms. Dempsey leaned forward aggressively in her chair.  “You're about this close,” she pinched her fingers nearly together, “to getting an expulsion hearing before the superintendent and the board of education.” 

Miles slumped back in his chair, trying to act tough and disinterested.  He folded his arms and huffed, “Whatever!”

Ms. Dempsey didn't act impressed by his show of bravado.  She countered by leaning back and yawning.  She stared at him for a moment with through narrowed eyelids, studying him.  Then she shifted forward in her seat and asked, “So you want to tell me why you attacked Jack or should we just sit here and stare at each other all day?”

“What do you want me to tell you?” he questioned sharply.  “Jack's an asshole and I finally got sick of his shit.”  He thought back on the foul epithets Jack threw at him in the hallway.  They reverberated painfully in his mind.  It wasn't bad enough he had no real family of his own, but cruel kids like Jack thought it was fair fodder for amusement.  Over the years, he came to understand why kids snapped and went into schools with guns and hit lists, ready to make their tormentors pay for their transgressions.  Miles wasn't that crazy, however, nor did he have a grandfather in the militia with a small arsenal from which to select his tools of destruction.  And now that Miles finally fought back against the most popular kid in school, he was going to have to pay for it.

“Watch your language,” Ms. Dempsey corrected him, pointing a corrective finger his way.  She shook her head and glanced down at referral and scanned it over.  She shrugged her shoulders and looked back at Miles.  “Well I don't know what Jack did to you but the referral says the attack was completely unprovoked.”

Miles gasped.  “Unprovoked?”

“Yes.  And apparently you beat him so bad that his mother had to take him to the emergency room with,” she paused and picked up a report from the school nurse.  When she was finished reading, she continued, “With broken ribs and suspected internal injuries.”

Miles, unconcerned for Jack's injuries, continued his own investigation.  “Who said it was unprovoked?”

“Umm,” Ms. Dempsey groaned as she looked down at the referral again, “Mr. Hannigan.  He said you jumped Jack without cause or provocation and, even after he was in a prone position, you continued to hit and kick him.”  She tossed the referral aside like a card dealer at a Texas Hold'em table.  It was one of her many signature gestures he had become familiar with over the years.  It was her way of acting aloof when she was really pissed.  Miles, however, could not disguise his anger. 

“What?” he protested.  His voice raised several octaves out of sheer disbelief at what he just heard.  “So Hannigan didn't bother to mention what Jack does to me in class every day?”

“No, he didn't.”

Miles sensed that the “good'ol boy network” was at play.  Hannigan was protecting Jack.  That much was certain; like the dirtbag needed any help.  Miles clenched his jaw, grinding his teeth with displeasure.  “Then he left out quite a bit.”

“Really?” she asked with an unmistakable air of doubt.  “Like what?”

“Oh, let me see,” Miles said sarcastically, as though he needed to really think of reasons.  The list seemed endless.  “He jabs me in the neck with pencils, flicks my ears, kicks me, calls me a fag, loser, dirtbag, oh and his new one today was telling me that my real parents were so poor they sold me for a bowl of soup.  That's just the highlight reel of course.”

Ms. Dempsey wore a doubtful smirk beneath narrowed, probing eyes.  “That doesn't sound like the Jack I know.”  He could feel her looking through him, trying to find an angle of attack.  Her features relaxed again and she said confidently, “So why should I believe you?  If that was really happening in his class, Mr. Hannigan wouldn't overlook it.”

He locked eyes with her and snapped back, “Yes he would!”  Miles felt his composure slipping away.  “Think about it.  Hannigan's the varsity football coach and Jack's his star running back.  The last thing he's going to do is write him up in-season, especially with the playoffs coming up.  Instead, he goes out of his way to nail me on everything I do wrong and lets his little golden-boy get away with murder.”

Her next line of questioning completely ignored the connection that Miles attempted to make.  “How many referrals have you gotten so far this year, Miles?  Fifteen?  Twenty?”

Miles shrugged his shoulders.  “I don't know.  What's your point?”  He knew where this interrogation was headed; he was a troublemaker, there was no mistaking it.  It was the only way he got attention from anyone.  His grades sucked, he had few real friends, and his foster family was beyond lame.  So he caused mischief, so what, it was the only fun he had in this world.  But his mischief making had earned him a bitter reputation that now stood in the way of finding any justice.  One of the fastest ways to tear down a witness or accuser was to bring their character into question.  It was a perfect strategy and Miles knew it.   

Ms. Dempsey unbuttoned her jacket and sat back in her chair.  “My point is that you do nothing but cause trouble around here.  I don't know how you can expect me to take you on your word.”  She picked up her coffee mug and took a sizeable swig. 

Miles cracked a wry smile.  He breathed out a muted laugh through his nostrils at the whole situation, let alone his discarded flesh the principal no doubt just ingested.  “I don't know.  I guess I don't expect anything.  But Hannigan isn't telling the whole story.”

Ms. Dempsey leaned forward and clasped both hands together.  She smiled at Miles.  “So you say.”

Miles looked down at the floor, despondent, shaking his head.  He huffed out an exasperated breath.

“Look, without a report from Hannigan, there’s nothing I can do.”

“Bullshit!” he spat back at her.

“Watch it, Miles,” she pointed threateningly at him again.  Her voice dropped several octaves.  “You've got a short leash on this one.”

“Just talk to Hannigan,” Miles whined, his arms wide in an expression of exasperation.  “Look into it for yourself if you don't trust me.”

“Even if you're right, which I doubt, it doesn’t excuse what you did to Jack.  There are other ways to deal with bullying.  Besides, I don’t think you have anything to worry about after the beating you put on him.” 

“Oh yeah,” Miles scoffed, “I've got it made.  Now all I have to do is worry about all his roided-out friends coming after me.”

Ms. Dempsey clapped both hands down on her desk.  “Hey, all I can do is look into it.  I’ll talk to Hannigan and see if he can corroborate any of your story.”

“Oh,” he replied sarcastically, “I’m sure, you’ll look into it.  Just like when he pulled the fire alarm last spring or when he was caught throwing a beer bash over Christmas break.  The whole school knew he was guilty, but he managed to slither out of it with a slap on the wrist.”

Dempsey gasped audibly.  “Are you insinuating that I had something to do with that?”

“Who's insinuating?”  Miles leaned in and pointed at her menacingly.  “You let him off easy.”

“Easy?  He was suspended for two weeks from school and extracurriculars once we put it all together.”

Miles rolled his eyes.  “You mean when you conveniently decided to punish him during the break between basketball and baseball.  God forbid something gets in the way of him getting a sports scholarship or our school being splashed across the sports page.”  Miles could see he was getting the better of her.  He knew he had gone too far this time and was ready to finish what he started.  If he was going down, he was going down hard.  He slurred the words at her with intent, with an accusation of impropriety.  “Everyone knows you’re his bitch.” 

“I've had about enough of you for today.”

But Miles wasn't finished.  Determined to say his peace, he cast the final stone.  “His parents have money, power, and influence.  Everyone knows it.  And he plays you like a fool.”

Ms. Dempsey launched from her chair, her hips popping though its arms, her face turning bright red.  She shrieked, “That's it, Miles!”  Dempsey seethed with fury, clenching her jaw.  “Get out of my office.  Go sit yourself out by Mrs. Clancy's desk and wait for your mother.”

“She's not my mother,” he shot back with equal intensity.

“I don't care.  You can tell it all to the superintendent.  Your fate's in his hands now.”

“Fine,” Miles retorted.  He stood up and slammed the chair backward with a violent thrust of his hand, knocking it into the wall with a thud.  “Fat bitch,” he muttered under his breath.

Dempsey glowered at Miles as he opened her door and threw it shut behind him.

MILES AWAY: CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER ONE

Miles Draven watched the clock, willing each minute to tick by so that his agony might pass.  While Mr. Hannigan’s world history lessons dripped the kind of ennui that might lead one to slit their wrists, the stinging jab of a needle-sharp pencil at the back of his neck is what truly stirred his need to flee.

Miles spun around in his desk and sneered at Jack Warren.  The super-jock stared back with a wry, knowing grin perched on his metrosexual face.  With his sinewy, muscled forearms and massive hands, Jack grabbed the sides of the desk, leaned forward, and whispered, “Turn around, asshole.”

“Is there a problem?” Mr. Hannigan barked from the front of the room. 

The whole class went silent and stopped to gawk at Miles and Jack.  Miles had a sinking feeling, the kind he always felt in these situations.  He wasn’t going to win, no matter what he said or did.  Jack was the prodigal son, or something like that, and everyone looked the other way when he broke the rules.  Miles, on the other hand, had a notoriously bad reputation.  He liked to mouth off, pull pranks, and didn’t care much about his school work.  He spent the better part of his days in in-school suspension or the principal’s office.  This little tussle had all the earmarks of turning against him.   

“Miles?” Hannigan called him out specifically this time.  He spoke in a slow and deliberate manner.  “Is there a problem?”

Jack fell back in his seat, blasé about the whole situation.  He ran his fingers through his obnoxious blond hair.  Each strand fell back into place like strangers in a crowd coming together at the start of a flash mob.  Every aspect of him irked Miles to his very core.

Miles spun back around in his seat to face Mr. Hannigan who glared at him from his desk at the front of the room.  He clenched his fists so tight that each knuckle popped aloud.  “No,” Miles, defeated, shot back.  “There’s no problem.”

Beeeeeep!

A firm hand slammed across the right side of Miles’ head as the bell sounded.  The force of impact nearly knocked him out of his desk.  His skull throbbed and a ringing sound deafened his right ear.  The whole classroom spun and tilted around him like some sort of nauseating amusement park ride.  Seething with anger, Miles stumbled to his feet only to find Jack out of reach, mingling with his crew out the rear door of the classroom. He held the side of his head and fought to focus his wavering eyesight.  His feet faltered beneath him, his legs rubbery.  Maybe he was better off not confronting Jack at that moment. 

Miles steadied himself against the desk, gathered up his books, and clumsily slid them into his backpack.  He made his way into the congested throng of students.  They pressed close together in conversation and moved from the room in sloth-like clusters.  Head down, Miles threaded around them and out the front door of the classroom.  Amidst the flow of bodies, he decided to take the long way around the media center and down the guidance wing to avoid going past Ms. Mitchell’s math class.  That’s where Jack would be.  Gym was one of the few classes where Miles wasn’t forced to deal with him.  Many of his cronies, however, made up for his absence with crass comments in the locker room and unnecessary roughness on the field.

Having made it around the media center without incident, Miles took a right turn at the main lobby and headed down the pallid, windowless guidance wing.  A few offices broke the monotony: the office of the athletic director, the faculty lounge, and of course, the guidance suite.  A quick sharp left at the end and Miles would be in the clear.

As he reached the final hallway intersection, Miles slowed in his gait and stopped.  His head seemed clearer now, his footing more firm.  He snuck a glance around the corner and down the hallway to the right to see if Jack was out there with Kyle White and Dennis Green, his henchmen.  A sigh of relief escaped him as they were no where to be seen.  Without looking to his left, Miles turned to head toward the gym and ran into a large, muscled body.  He knew that smell—Drakkar.  It enveloped Jack like a cloud.  To Miles it reeked of cat litter, but it somehow made the girls melt in all the right places. 

Don’t look up, Miles told himself.  Not only was Jack far stronger, but he also stood about a foot taller than him.  If they locked eyes, then a confrontation would ensue.  Desperate to get away, Miles brushed past Jack and kept walking as if his nemesis wasn’t there. 

Jack, however, seized the moment to tenderize his favorite chew toy.  He clamped a powerful hand around Miles’ neck from behind and shoved him brutally into the brick wall that lined the corridor outside the gym.  His face scrapped across the rough stone.  His body thudded against the wall.  Miles began to crumple from an ache that radiated down his side, but he steadied himself with his hands and continued walking on unsteady feet.  A swipe of his palm across his cheek made him suck in breath through clenched teeth.  Searing pain shot through his face.  Looking at his palm he found a fresh smear of blood.  He began to feel a bit dizzy.  Then the taunts began.

“Hey, faggot,” Jack shouted at him, “can’t wait to get in the locker room so you’ve got something to jerkoff to later?” 

Oh, that’s original.  Miles just shook his head and kept on walking, ignoring the taunts.  He tried not to bite at the bait laid out before him.  Giving a response would only give Jack what he wanted.  Besides, Miles heard the same old bullshit day-after-day, making him kind of numb to its effects. 

Then Dennis chimed in. “Yeah, homo, gonna get all hard watching the boys get sweaty?”

Miles had nearly made it all the way to the locker room and to relative safety.  He passed by the trophy cases and watched Jack and Dennis’s reflections in the glass.  Their long strides closed the distance between them.  Along the hallway, students stopped to watch.  The girls snickered nervously, the guys waited for action.

“Bet your parents abandoned you because they knew you were a freakin’ queer,” Jack laughed as he jabbed with an exceptionally sharp barb.  “Probably sold you for a bowl of soup.”

That one hit the mark; Miles had no family, no real family that is.  He had a foster family, the Lyle’s, but his own parents had abandoned him at a hospital just after they brought him into this world.  Once the other kids got hold of that bit of news, especially the cruel ones who felt great joy at making others feel like shit, the relentless taunts began.  It was the one thing he couldn’t ignore.  He stood at the brink of snapping.  All he needed was a little nudge.

“Freakin homo,” Jack barked and shoved Miles in the back, sending him lurching forward.

  All the jokes, all the heartless taunts filled his mind and clouded his thinking.  A deep, primal rage surged through him from his brain down through his body.  The pain, the discomfort he carried vanished in a breath, and his blood surged with adrenaline.

Whipping about to his rear, Miles swung his textbook laden backpack off his shoulder and hurled it like a basketball chest-pass straight at Jack, who never saw it coming.  His anger poured forth with a thunderous war cry.  The bag struck Jack in the chest, knocking the wind out of him.  He teetered backwards on unsteady legs.   

Though Miles’ foster parents never paid for him to take martial arts lessons, he somehow gleaned enough knowledge from all of the old Van Damme and Bruce Lee movies he watched to do damage.  Miles rushed at Jack and planted a violent front kick where his school bag landed, totally knocking his nemesis off his feet and flat on his back to the hard tile floor.  Jack’s head hit with a crack.  He winced with a pained expression and grabbed for the injured area, leaving the rest of his body unprotected. 

Miles subjugated his will to the beast that lurked within and let go of all control.  He brought up his leg and stomped on Jack’s stomach.  The crushing blow doubled him up.  And when Miles’ foot hit the floor astride his enemy, he pivoted on the balls of his feet and drove his fist downward with a perfectly aimed left cross to Jack’s eye that hit with a loud crunch.  Without breaking stride, Miles continued to land a flurry of punches to his chest and face.  Then Miles felt someone grab a fistful of his shirt and drag him backwards, off of Jack. 

“Get the fuck off him!” an unidentified voice growled in effort. 

Miles stumbled over Jack, steadied himself, and Miles rounded on Dennis with a quick spin and swung his foot straight up into his balls.  The force of the strike made him crumple to the floor like a paper doll in a moaning, achy heap.

Miles stood, chest heaving, scanning his surroundings for other deserving targets to unleash his fury upon.  His heart, which thumped like a piston beneath his ribcage, began to slow.  The rush of adrenaline that fueled his onslaught receded.  All that remained were subtle tremors that tickled their way along his body and a sudden clarity of thought.  He felt as though he had suddenly awoken from some kind of dream.  A makeshift audience of still bodies stood in a misshapen circle around him.  They all wore contorted grimaces of shock, gawking at the carnage he had wrought.  Miles looked down at his fists, splashed in blood.  Beyond them laid his handiwork.   Dennis lay on his side, moaning like a dying heifer, his hands cradling his battered balls.  And next to him lay Jack; a bloody, unmoving mess.  Oddly, the deliciously gratifying sense of victory he always believed would accompany his revenge, of having vanquished his foe, did not surface.  Instead, a frightened helplessness filled his thoughts.  What did I do?   

Miles’ message was evident; he was done taking their shit.  He moved from the moaning, bloodied figure beneath him and surveyed the damage.  Though he hated them all, the release of all his hurt spilled forth as tears.

From a deep well of power, Miles bellowed, “Fuck you!”  He then made a mad dash down the hallway and through the gathered crowd, knocking students out of the way whom blocked his path.  The teachers on the scene let him pass and focused their time on the injured bullies.