Another teaser from Maroli Tango. Third editing pass. A lot of revision and shuffling around of narrative threads. The writing's getting better, I hope.
Nashville, Tennessee
Conservative pro-wholesome-values commentator Mark Washburn sat at a dining table in what might have been his home.
He said, “There’s a new sheriff in town; a Zirna Zapha NGO that goes by the name of Osadhi, in recent weeks beating up on organized crime in an effort, they say, to choke off the money and muscle that keeps Earth’s most toxic powerbrokers in business.
Our guest pilots the spaceboat Sthiti Osadhi on raids. He describes himself as a bus driver, roadside mechanic, locker room attendant and more recently, publicist. This week, Mason Fowlkes launched a new streaming service, Classic Cosmic TV, delivering vintage content from the planets Vidura and Jivada.”
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.
I’m recently enticed by a call for submissions issued by The Dark London and Transmission Roundhouse entitled “A curation of audio works from new producers”, serendipitously appearing the day I joined a podcasters support group.
It’s fate, right? I’m thinking about podcasting a novel, and some outfit throws out an opportunity to practice. May 17 deadline. Not impossible.
Now to make a decision — straight-up reading, dramatic reading, or full-on radio play?
Maybe you can help with that. Short story draft appended. Comments invited.
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.
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.”
Seriously. I’m at 43,000 words and I don’t have a title.Here’s a teaser from Chapter 109.
The White House, Washington DC
It was four miles from the White House to a bar and grille in Arlington, where an Ivy League educated economist had been ensconced for the past hour-and-a half.
Carmen boarded the same housekeeping maroli she’d used twice, once earlier in the day, for the purpose of signing documents in her own hand. The machine was off-duty, in a dark closet, sipping nutrition through a straw out of a crushable plastic box.
She wiggled her avatar into the maroli’s form factor, arms operating two large tentacles on the top row, saying, “Hello again. Are you finished with supper?”
It tossed the box into a waste bin. “This device has eaten.”
An evocative adventure/love story from the author of The Illusion of Gravity.
In 1966 Manila, an American teenager courts a CIA recruit several years his senior. It’s a mismatch, a scandal. When she ships out, it’s over. Maybe.
An uncommon spin on the coming-of-age theme, informed by the author’s upbringing in mid-century Asia. Mature content, Young Adult appropriate. Value-positive, about good character as a strategy for creating a successful life. An immersive journey to a time and place now gone forever.
Reincarnation! It’s not just for Buddhists anymore!
In the solitary middle of his years, Glenn Mehrenholz begins to dream about the temple of Hera at Paestum in the old, old days when southern Italy was part of Greece. There, standing upon a shiny marble floor (not a ruin, like it is today), a furry, foxlike lady speaking Sanskrit says she knows him by another name.
Spooky, right? You might wonder, “Why Sanskrit instead of Greek or Latin?” If so, high marks. You must have paid attention in eighth grade.
Things happen. Exciting things. Things you’ll want to know about. For instance, aliens from another planet get themselves outed by the U.S. Air Force, whereupon they confess to having colonized Earth during the last Ice Age — although not in a bad way.
“Surprise!” say the furry aliens. (Remember the lady in the first paragraph?) “We’re here! Always have been. Sorry. It was a secret.”
In due time, the concept’s existential threats are trotted out. (1) Impending cosmic disaster. (2) A power struggle on nearby Jivada. (3) The Unseen are stirring in their nest, which could be a problem for everybody. According to authors I follow on the Internet, every tale needs tension. I made sure to include plenty of it.
So, by way of explainment, I refer you to what happened to the Dalai Lama, who was recognized as the reincarnation of the previous Dalai Lama when he was two years old. Right there, in real life, a person’s normal existence was replaced with a noble quest, whether he liked it or not.
This is what’s happening to Glenn. He’s a ghost of ancient Vidura, an instrument of destiny, a man with worlds to save.
Don’t say it’s preposterous. I just demonstrated, with facts, how it isn’t.
It’s an epic story. I should know. I made it all up myself. Are you shopping for books with happy endings? Our hero marries a neurologist ten years his junior, although that’s not actually how it ends. You still have to read the book.
Notwithstanding what I just said, Ghosts of Ancient Vidura really is literary Sci-Fi. All my titles are #kindleunlimited. Click below to read a few chapters for free!
After a few weeks working on the ninth (and presumably last) volume in the Anye Universe books, I’ve decided to give it a rest. The fourth book has lain fallow long enough for a fresh restart, so that’s what I’ll do until inspired to switch horses again.
Here’s a look at the first chapter of Vacuum Forged after some brutal cutting. Who knows what it’ll look like a month from now.
Part 1 – Chapter 0
First House, Planet Vidura, 70,000 BCE
Upon the sixth anniversary of First House’s instantiation, Master Sa summoned his three most important cub-school students to tell them what they were.
Spring was early in the Northern Reach. The scent of young blossoms drifted through parlor doors. Birdsong rang in the air. Tree pollen tickled noses. It was all, said Master Sa, an artful deception. “We call it the Anodyne Virtuality.”
John Dyer Writes 
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