Tag: aliens

Therapied!

So, at around 119,000 words, I realized Mason Fowlkes was a pivotal cast member with a relatable story. Oops. Time to shuffle chapters and fill in backstory. It's therapy, for both of us. Maroli Tango, in progress.

Community Resources was headquartered on Residential Deck 5 (RD-5). Day care. Classrooms. Crafts center. Fitness center. Jump Ball court. Thrift Exchange. Library. Meeting rooms. Etcetera.

There resided the Family Services department, under the direction of the distinguished Anye Samudri elder Brian Lama, no relation to Dalai Lama, although possessing similar bearing and rectitude.

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Space War!

Yet another teaser from Maroli Tango. Enjoy!

The first chapter of a story is always the hardest to finish, even when last words have been written.

Anuraga Media’s first installment of Unseen was burdened by an elephant in the room, a twist if you will, motivation to rush the backstory with documentary footage, the void of space, the glitter of stars, a giant spaceship firing lasers, subtitled communications chatter.

Visceral. Trust the audience to get the idea. Jump right in.

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Bar Fight!

A favorite action scene reprised from the Maroli Tango first draft, later in the narrative as a consequence of re-structuring the book, colorized for your enjoyment.

Arlington, Virginia

The landing zone was a dumpster farm behind a strip mall, half a block from a franchise bar and grill. Citra, Mason Fowlkes’ 9-meter spaceboat, was parked inconspicuously alongside a semi-trailer with a flat tire.

The sun had been down half an hour. A dusk-to-dawn fixture above a mattress store loading dock was the only ambient light source. Somebody, somewhere, was smoking a cigarette.

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Psyched Out!

Another teaser from Maroli Tango. Now that I know who the cast is, I'm moving ideas forward in the manuscript and writing new material. I've thrown away almost 10,000 words, but the count is only down 2,000. I don't know if that's good or bad. Yes, it's still a Science Fiction book. No, I'm still not serializing it.

Titan Pass, Nevada

The Clover hab Mason Fowlkes shared with his sister was set apart by a bricklayer’s trowel fastened to a mailbox post, and a girl’s bicycle on a kickstand, propped up by a strategically located chunk of shale rock on the ground.

 Erin Fowlkes appeared with her also-ten-year-old friend Kelly, who said her name, shook everyone’s hand, and rode her bike away as fast as she could.

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Space Soap Opera!

I'm STILL not serializing this book.

White House Marine Guard commander Daryl Price appeared in time to witness Colonel Clarke’s wife Lorretta arriving in an aircar on the Oval Office patio.

Lorretta’s on-call CH Banks bodyguard pulled Brandon and Captain Price into a pow-wow on the topics of anticipated threat level, distribution of fighting drone assets, and whether to eat lunch now or later.

Captain Price told Brandon, “I don’t mind tagging along for the party, but I thought you were functioning as the President’s shadow.”

Brandon said, “I’ll be right there, and that was my intention, but I’ll leave it up to you. She and I are on a date.”

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I’m not serializing this book, okay?

Just having fun with exposition for the first time in a while. Maroli Tango. A second editing pass on early chapters. Pulling material from later chapters, consolidating, foreshadowing, boiling it down, turning up the pace. I hope it's good for you, too.

Pulina Nava, Planet Jivada

It was Wednesday morning on the east coast of the United States, Friday on the west coast of Jivada’s main continent, offset sixteen minutes, deviating further every day on a twenty-seven-year cycle.

Offshore of PN, a stately Tuscan Renaissance villa drifted at a thousand meters altitude, aimless, nudged along by the wind, meandering on gravitic tensors as though sliding on ice.

SagGha House, circa 1438, the work of Italian/AjJivadi architect Mechelozzo, a prototype for Palazzo Medici, Florence, Italy, circa 1444.

Erected nearly six-hundred years in the past atop a surplus grav-lift marine construction barge, commissioned as an owner-managed airborne luxury residential complex, then serving as a monastery, a college and a reform school.

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Expositated!

I'm not much of a wordsmith when it comes to exposition. I rely on that fly-on-the-wall third-person-limited view, where the story is told by action and dialogue, without a narrator whispering in the reader's ear.
But sometimes you just gotta prep the scene, especially in first chapters where motivation might be a little fuzzy. Damn. I'm pretty sure it's something I'm not very good at. Regardless, here goes.

A back-handed compliment often given to Carmen Benequista by her enemies was that she won the senior-citizen vote on a resemblance to Sophia Loren, if only the actress had been two f-stops more photogenic.

Sour grapes, repeated by the entitled super-rich, their minions and thought-slaves, unions, associations, financial institutions, industrial conglomerates, the Mafia, the cartels and so forth, ad infinitum.

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Maroli Tango

A possible final title for the novel. On the cover, I'm thinking we dress Pascal in a sash and do-rag, holding a long-stem rose in his tertiary tentacles.

On Tuesday, Secretary of the Treasury Norbert Donaldson denounced President Carmen Benequista as a “Reckless tyrant, having no understanding of fundamental economics, willing to wreck the world financial system to settle her petty grievances.”

Angela Moss, Carmen’s Chief of Staff, said, “You should go ahead and dump him in the ocean.”

Carmen loitered in an Anodyne corridor, natural body lying comatose on her bed, speaking with her friend virtually, from the Virtuality. “He obviously didn’t believe I’d do it.”

“It’d be nice if we had intel about his situation.” Angela arranged papers on her desk. “Who do you think’s leaning on him? CIA? East coast mob?”

“Enforcing policy for central banks? Has to be the CIA.”

A door at the end of the hallway changed color from red to seafoam green. On the other side of the door, an oval opening waited, the sort of thing one might find on the back of a gorilla costume.

Carmen took three steps into an abrupt scene change. Angela Moss snapped into clear focus, in Super 3D Ultra-Vision, delivered by her maroli valet’s high-resolution sense array.

The aroma of lavender filled her nostrils. She said, “Pascal; did you take a shower in my quarters?”

Pascal replied, “This one has never felt so fresh.”

Angela said, “You guys are creeping me out.”

Carmen bounced on phantom legs, feet barely connecting with the floor. She wiggled a tentacle. “Give me a pen.”

With a few delicate strokes, the Treasury Secretary was fired.

Angela grumbled. “Let’s not tell anyone we’re signing documents this way.”

Carmen pedaled her legs, invoking flight mode, soaring to the ceiling. She said, “I won’t if you won’t.”

Her chief-of-staff retreated to a corner. “You could swoop down on Norb Donaldson in his back yard. Nobody would see it.”

Hovering in front of a mirror, Carmen attempted a shrug. A maroli has no shoulders. It didn’t translate. “I could, couldn’t I?”

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Space Soap Opera

Another teaser from work-in-progress

Espinho, Portugal

Portugal’s time zone was an hour behind Serbia, the sky still illuminated by the last rays of a setting sun; making it imprudent to land Advaita Vedanta in an alley, invisibility technology notwithstanding.

Brandon Lopez should have flown the van, a mistake painfully evident upon deboarding, unremedied by sending the spaceboat off to a parking slot in orbit.

Maryanne Orsa’s one-hundred-eighty-two-year-old English/Norwegian/AjJivadi mother, Lisbet Porter, met him at one end of the alley with a tiny dog on a leash and an admonishing tone in her voice. “Did I just see you land a spaceboat seven blocks from where I’m living?”

He cringed. “I’m an idiot.”

“That’s what you are.” She gestured. “Let’s get moving before the neighbors show up.”

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