The west coast of Jivada’s large continent from Pulina Nava south was fifth-pass reclaimed land mass, less than 5,000 years old.
In contrast, much of the Northern Reach was nearly as old as the Anye migration’s arrival in-system. There, California redwood trees poked at the sky, branches laden with eagle nests, roots drilled into manufactured soil that was, even given an extra 20,000 years, barely knit together well enough to support them.
Which was why Jivada was buying all its lumber on Earth, and a good reason not to park your space yacht next to a tall tree on a windy day.
Motivated by belated news of my brother’s passing, a cousin who I have not seen in 20 years tracked me down via LinkedIn, a rare benefit of my participation on that platform, but here we are on the first paragraph and already I digress.
That’s what reconnecting with distant family is all about, isn’t it. Lots of digressing, an exchange of photographs, an opportunity to re-tell stories to folks who haven’t heard them before.
I learned that one of my relations was a figure in the The Tri-State Crematory scandal in Noble, Georgia in 2002, and immediately thought, “Oh, no. Aunt Alice was an embezzler” only to find out she was an improperly disposed corpse, which might be a better tale, depending on the audience.
Cousins Joan and Jean ordered one of my novels, which they promised to read. We started planning a get-together in Texas. Jean says I can have an heirloom coffee table, built by my natural father, who died when I was a baby.
I’m up at 4:00 AM with Bruno, who acted like he needed to go out. We went downstairs, after which he showed zero interest in making a wee-wee.
He’s sitting on my feet. I’m grateful. I have family.
The menfolk were smoking cigarettes in the castle driveway, accompanied by a non-elevated size-two fighting maroli named Quill.
Quill was 1.75 meters tall, with 2 heavy-lift primary tentacles, 4 lesser ungula, 6 grav-lift pucks around the skirt, 6 more on the capsule, eye dots all the way around, and a shock wand clipped below the plug cavity.
Carmen Benequista gave the machine a wide berth. Marie Jourdain stepped in for a closer look.
She said, “Can I get one of these?”
General Thorson fished a gas-station butane lighter out of a pocket.
He told Colonel Clarke, “You should see if Incredible might come to work for her.”
Clarke nodded. “I’ll ask him.”
“Well, like I was saying …” Thorson lit another cigarette. “Makes a lot of sense. Two forces. Cadre does political and military. Zirna Zapha handles policing and civil order. Good cop, bad cop; only you don’t tell the troublemakers which is which.”
Carmen reached for the pack of smokes. “It worked on Vidura.”
“And see here, it doesn’t matter whether it works on Earth or not.” He tucked the lighter into her palm. “It’s precedent. We get to tell my constituency we’re going by the book.”
Carmen tapped a cigarette on her thumbnail. “Who shall we cast in the role of space pirates?”
Thorson made a possum grin. “I’m looking at your boyfriend here.”
Brandon rubbed at his nose. “CH Banks is a business. We don’t do policing for free.”
“The Cadre doesn’t do military for free.”
“Who’s my customer?”
“Adopt a Zeze militant enterprise model. You know, like Boschert GMBH Zurich.”
“That’s not in our portfolio.”
“You have 3600 employees, old son. Maybe you could be a little more flexible.”
Marie Jourdain said, “It’s after 10:00 PM in France.”
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, built 1438, the work of Italian/AjJivadi architect Mechelozzo, a prototype for Palazzo Medici, Florence, Italy, 1444.
Erected 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.
Until occupied by SagGha Prefect Samuel Orsa — priest, scholar, family man. A furry Anye Mahat Limar, 138 years old, bearlike in appearance, sometimes referred to on Earth as the Space Pope.
Mom was the artist of the family. Philippines, 1967. Norma Jean Roberts Dyer Razovsky posing at her easel, mid-blink, in the company of Alan Maury Razovsky (Dad) and little Johnny Dyer (me).
We can’t tell what she was working on due to harsh lighting, but it had to be amazing because Mom was good at it. However, in the acorn-tree department, yours truly once drew a circuit diagram on posterboard for a science fair project (1963), and to this day, that is the extent of what I can do with a drawing instrument.
I am, however, an advanced novice on Adobe Photoshop — and what a great tool that is, especially when reinforced with a dollop of AI software IP theft facilitator, or whatever the kids are calling it these days.
Turn away in disgust if you must, but that’s how I did this.
Now that you’ve noticed creepy fingers on the right hand, you can’t look at anything else, can you? AI is notorious for glitches — Mason’s neck is too long, the lighting is off, color balance is iffy, and it looks like a paste-up job, which it is.
Never mind. This is just a placeholder for the actual cover, which will be developed by an artist, unless I attend a seance during which Mom teaches me how to paint.
In the meantime, this illustration will get me through the pre-release phase, during which authors traditionally leak WIP chapter excerpts into the ether, a tried-and-true means of inciting readers into an anticipatory frenzy — such as you might be experiencing right now.
May I suggest you visit my catalog to satisfy your cravings until publishing date. July perhaps, unless I perform another massive rewrite, which is not out of the question.
So, answer me this: Does my first mockup cover elicit comparison to Japanese tentacle erotica?
I completely forgot such things existed; and by the way, I have discovered services that animate illustrations for free, and worth every penny of it.
Maroli Tango cast members posing for a promo. You can’t get a maroli to stay still.
Mason Fowlkes out of costume. Mind you, I have no idea how this happened. Might have been something I said.
Did I mention you should buy my books? Also, are you an artist? Are you aghast at my brazen use of AI? Do you know how to paint hands? Tell us in the comments.
Teddy was ten weeks old the day we met him at foster care. There was so much joy in his eyes when I picked him up, I knew he wanted to be mine.
I don’t remember which of us spoiled him the most as a puppy, but as an adult, he’d always sleep in our bed curled into the pocket at the back of my knees. We thought it meant he was my dog.
He was 15 ½ years old In January. We’d fought his illness as a family for fourteen months. On Thursday, the veterinarian gave us a circular entitled, ‘How to know when it’s time.’
Linda took this photo while we were deciding what to do. She made the appointment on Saturday morning and we grieved for another two days. The pain was unbearable, but I don’t regret the time we spent letting him know how much he was loved.
We held him in our arms until the very last, tears flowing, breath caught in our throats. Linda kissed his face. I told him he was safe; his daddy was there; he could finally be free of suffering. When the veterinarian confirmed his heart was still, we allowed an attendant to take him from us.
He will never be separated from us in spirit. His full name was Theodore Von Fledermaus; from t’ adore, meaning ‘I adore you’. It was a good name for a sweet, loyal friend. We loved him. He loved us. We belonged together. We will always miss his presence in our lives.
John Dyer Writes 
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