“...Deal mercifully with any whose wounds are too serious to treat. Put tomahawks in their hands before you send them to Valhalla. We’ll escort the wounded to town before we continue the chase. First we’ll construct a pyre.”
--The last words we hear from the Supreme Commander in chapter one of the sequel to Threading The Rude Eye (Tentatively entitled, Power to Hurt)

All of which means that not only is the first book available, the sequel is underway with the first chapter nearly complete--and serious carnage happens. (Serious Carnage -- should be a cartoon character name).

I spent about 5 hours Friday night and Saturday morning working on the paperback version -- I got an email last night or this morning telling me that the paperback is now also live for purchase. I'll order my copy tomorrow and post a picture when I get it. I went to significantly more effort getting this one into paperback than I did with Smoke. It looked fabulous on the screen. I hope the finished product is even better.

I said I was nearly done with the first chapter; that's correct. The new books is at 4K--it would've been double or triple that word count but for the fact that the flu fairy paid me an unsolicited visit and I thought it unwise to allow my fevered brain and trembling limbs to venture into the fictional world of my creation and thereby inflict the characters with tribulations any more severe than I have already planned for them: Things will get bad--very bad--for Alex and the crew. No point in giving them the flu too.

***

Finally, two unrelated items. 
First, from H.D. Thoreau:
"We are sometimes made aware of a kindness long passed, and realize that there have been times when our friends' thoughts of us were of so pure and lofty a character that they passed over us like the winds of heaven unnoticed; when they treated us not as what we were, but as what we aspired to be."

Second, for no particular reason, a partially painted woodland Indian

Picture taken a week or two ago during actual game play of A Song of Drums and Tomahawks. The woodland warriors were victorious over my frontier fighters.

Pain. With each step a horned demon hammered jagged spikes deeper into my thighs. All the while a lesser imp blew new fury into the coals beneath the burgeoning blister behind my toe. Later I found new agony. I'm no medical doctor but I'm pretty sure that there are places upon the human body that are not supposed to surge with electric pain at every step. I have located what I believe should be one of those places--but it does. I believe the root cause of the affliction can be attributed to the men and boys who forced me to attend the ten mile hike. A mountainous route would have resulted in the acquisition of demons far less dedicated to their work than those who joined me along the graveled road upon which we trod. It's only the demon of the surging voltage of torment that troubles me. That fiend didn't make its presence felt yesterday until well after the 21K plus steps had been completed. I'm hoping to lose it in some labyrinthine dream tonight.

I tried exorcising (unsuccessfully) the demons last night by watching this:

This 1955 film is a tight little tale of love, hate, and murder--the three sides of the love triangle. Vera Clouzot is particularly good as the weak-hearted wife Christina who joins the mistress played by Simone Signoret in a plot to kill her abusive husband. The film is in black and white and in French with English subtitles. Signoret plays the hard-as-nails Nicole, mastermind of the plot. Paul Meurisse plays the brutal husband and schoolmaster Michel. (Every time he moved or spoke, I thought of Jack Webb).

The other characters at the boarding school are solid characters even though they don't get much screen time. Clouzot and Signoret are the stars.

It's a five-star film in my opinion. If you don't mind subtitles (or you like to hear some French that's spoken fairly clearly) you'll enjoy this superb piece of film history. If I had the time, I would enjoy doing a reframe with the black and white images to accompany my own made-up story.

I have no time to do such a reframe because my writing time is dedicated to the sequel to:

which is available on the big river site for only 99 cents. (Click the image to go to the site). The tentative title to the sequel is Power to Hurt--but that could change. The sequel takes up right where Threading The Rude Eye ends.

I include the dedication from TTRE:

Dedication

Mere words fall short of expressing the gratitude that is due to all those who have helped me along the way in bringing forth this book. Those who instilled in me a love of both history and fantasy should bear most of the blame. However, those who have engaged in the lesser crimes of encouraging and enabling me along the way must share a portion of guilt. I will refrain from naming names lest I incriminate those who persist in considering themselves but innocent bystanders or reluctant witnesses. While the ultimate product is my full responsibility, my wife (who allowed me time to write) and my children and friends (who read samples and provided half-hearted criticism) must live with a knowledge of their complicity in that which follows.

***
In the reading in progress, I'm part way through S. Michael Law's The Founders Revolution and I could resist no longer the call of Sanderson's Oathbringer. Both are excellent so far.

Cover for the new novel. Any thoughts?

“Arise, arise, Riders of Théoden!

Fell deeds awake, fire and slaughter!
spear shall be shaken, shield be splintered,
a sword-day, a red day, ere the sun rises!"

Saturday was a red day. Stalwart shield maidens arose in their flamboyant gladiatorial war skirts and vibrantly colored tops, armed with flashing pom-poms and crowned with ornate oversize bows to clash above the painted hardwood on a drab gray foam battlefield in a fierce no-quarter contest of talent, skill, and will. Fell deeds indeed; heroes fell. Hopes fired and dreams slaughtered. Wills were shaken. Hearts splintered. A glory day, a red day, the sun rises on new champions!

In other words, Saturday was the state championship cheerleader competition. Among the tremendously talented athletes, in one division two teams stood out: the blue team and the red team. Blue, the returning champions, may have been the best team in any division in the state; the red team had imbibed of the sweet succulent vintage of victory in the past; they returned to the battlefield with a thirst for that transformative taste of triumph. Every other team yearned to garner those same laurels but only one had a chance to topple one or both of the titans. The fantastic fight and strenuous struggle to vanquish competitors and capture the title played out throughout the afternoon and evening upon the gray mat.

At the end, after the battlefield with its invisible wreckage of damaged dreams, ghosts of wounded pride, and memories of hallowed heroes had been rolled up and removed from the hardwood, the shield maidens gathered to await the casualty count. Most of them knew that they had taken wounds but hoped that they had given as good as they had got and then some. These were the moments of inner tension, the battle with the turmoil within, self-doubt, apprehension, and a recollection of how superbly the other competitors had performed. Would the blue team walk away with that title that seemed theirs for the taking in spite of the best efforts of the other contenders? It seemed so as the various categories within the competition were being announced. In the three events that determined the championship, blue took two firsts; red had a first and a second. Blue was headed toward a repeat victory. If blue took first or second in the final announcement, they would walk away once more with the championship trophy. It seemed a foregone conclusion...until the moment when the voice introduced the blue team as the third place team in the event. 

A sudden uncertainty reverberated through the scene as if a grand hammer had struck the gong of possibilities. Could red reach the victory crown or had blue still finished ahead? As the announcer gave the second place finish in the event to the spoiler, a brightness dawned upon the red team as of the first light on the fifth day at Helm's Deep; they could win; they could win it all if they finished first in the event. They would have two firsts and a second against blue's two firsts and a third. A mighty grasp  of Fate's unseen hand gripped the throat in that limbo between the ecstasy of triumph and the dark despair of defeat. Hopes longed to fly skyward on victorious wings but remained chained to the leaden possibility of disappointment.

The proclamation of red as the event winner dissolved the chains of doubt. Red soared to victory, to triumph, to the pinnacle of success. Red had seized the championship by virtue of hard work, skill, dedication, luck, and willpower. Blue (as well as other teams) had all those things as well in as much abundance. Somewhere along the way little things made the difference. Little things add up--there are a lot of little things. They say, "Don't sweat the small stuff," but it's the small stuff that determines those narrow margins of victory between champions of the highest caliber. Can you calculate ability by the blister, skill by the sweat-soaked shirt, or talent by the teardrop? No magic formula can render the intangibles that coalesce to make champions anymore than a hammer can forge a cloud. Although there can only be one champion of the day, every competitor wins a bit of courage, a ration of character, and whiff of victory's aroma for having struggled and strained to reach for the prize.

This week I discovered Bobby Hackett sort of in the way that Columbus discovered America--it was something that was already there but I hadn't known about it. In this case, I do not get to claim it for anything other than my own nonexclusive enjoyment. James Lileks at Lileks.com mentioned listening to Bobby Hackett. I was intrigued. I searched youtube and found some of his stuff available at the big river site.

After a bit of listening I must liken it to musical silk chocolate (I see that silk chocolate could be taken to refer to soy milk. I take back that analogy.) dark chocolate, smooth with a hint of honey. In my youth I played the brass horn and learned to appreciate its robust metallic sound. I've enjoyed Louis Armstrong and Doc Severinsen and recognize their great talent. However, my favorite must be Hackett (now that I've discovered him for myself). I can almost hear the words gliding out of that horn in undulating-but-unwrinkled tones with the pleasantness of a cool summer breeze.

Listen for yourself while you read the rest of this post.

I finished reading Andy Peloquin's Trial of Stone this week.

I picked it up for $0.99 at the big river site. I think it's still offered for that price. Let me say that I think it should be a big success among YA readers. Peloquin delivers on the action and describes the conflict with the keen edge of an Indomitable's Blade in high definition. The story follows Issa, Aisha, Evren, and Kodyn to the city of the god of the dead. There's a lot going on in the story; it's all interesting.

***

On the opposite end of spectrum, I watched Outcast starring Nicolas Cage and Hayden Christensen.

Once again we see a story that begins with war weary soldiers discovering that their participation in the crusades has made them very good warriors but not very good people. Fast forward a few years to China where there is turmoil within the kingdom, horse riding, fighting, and a struggle to protect the child emperor from his murderous brother. Unfortunately, that's all a sideshow. The main theme of the film is a bitter and hard-fought contest between Cage and Christensen for the worst actor award. Hayden's character spends most of the time in some kind of mental fog. Cage counters that with a terrible accent and delivers the poorly written lines with the subtle finesse of a professional wrestler's ringside persona. Every other actor (and actress) in this show (including the horses) gave a better performance than the two stars. While the Asian actors took the project seriously, the two big names stumbled through the scenes with the grace of water buffalo on skates. As for the award for worst actor, it's just too close to call.

***

Finally, I present a draft of the description for the new novel, Threading The Rude Eye (Tomahawks and Dragon Fire Book 1):

When the dark commander captures Lucette, she must find a way to keep Cartier's map to the ancient cache of vast power from the dark commander and the British in order to save both America and France. The strange pair, Iago and Atu, may help her save the map but they can't save her from the commander and his ability to compel obedience.

Alex's life changes abruptly when the commander's pursuit of Cartier's map obliterates everything that he knows and loves. If Alex can overcome his repugnance for the American rebellion, he may learn to use the power that will allow him to defeat the destroyer of his dreams. Alex needs time that the commander has no intention of granting him in which to master the mysterious essence of the dragon stone.

Cat and her dragon hunters seek their prey with a commission from the king but even they don't know the true purpose of their task. They will discover that dragons are not nearly as difficult to find as they have been led to believe--and the beasts are much more difficult to defeat than they ever imagined.

Captain Charles Rip and his first mate Antonio have enjoyed great success as smugglers. When they agree to add some desperate passengers to their cargo, the profit or loss figures may be written in blood--their blood.

Alex, Lucette, Charles, Antonio, Cat and the dragon hunters will have to make decisions that will determine not only their fate and whether they can work together but they will also drastically shape the course of the rebellion among the American colonists. They will all receive a baptism of fire in Boston.

Naturally, I'm looking for some criticism of the description. Is it too long? Too boring? Confusing? Does it pique an interest?

Melun: Fly, noble English; you are bought and sold.
Unthread the rude eye of rebellion
And welcome home again discarded faith.
Seek out King John and fall before his feet,
For if the French be lords of this loud day,
He means to recompense the pains you take
By cutting off your heads. Thus hath he sworn,
And I with him, and many more with me,
Upon the altar at Saint Edmundsbury,
Even on that altar where we swore to you
Dear amity and everlasting love.

(King John, Act 5, Scene 4)

I present the above as the inspiration for the possible title of the new novel. The title I'm currently contemplating is: Threading the Rude Eye (Tomahawks and Dragon Fire Book 1). Having written the book and nearly completed the preliminary editing before sending it to a more seasoned eye for proofing, I thought it would be nice if the book had a title. Many books have titles; I understand titles are useful in helping a book to stand out from the others and in aiding potential readers to identify a specific book. I think my proposed title is better than say, That One Book By Wheeler in the Series with Dragons, Gryphons, Magic, and The Revolutionary War. I could be wrong but I don't think that last idea is as catchy. Besides, the mention of dragons and gryphons is enough stop most people from even looking at the book; if the dragons and gryphons aren't enough to turn people away, the Revolutionary War angle is sure to do the trick. Is there anything more I could do to keep potential readers from even considering this book? Indeed, I am some kind of genius.

***

Death at last accepted Cecil's invitation. He had waited many years for the scythe to enter him into the ranks of the harvest. He would've said that it had taken much too long. He was in his 90s. His wife had passed away before I met him some ten years ago. His good friend Jim with whom he had spent most of his time passed away about four years ago. Although he had many friends, one could tell that he wore a hole in his heart the size of his lost wife through which a lonely breeze would constantly whistle. Cecil continued to attend church functions, including service projects, for as long as he was able. He was a man upon whom one could count. If only two people showed up to help pick apples or move someone into a new place, one of them would be Cecil; he would be the happier of the two. On some of my last visits with him during the summer when he still lived in the mobile home, he kept the thermostat set at 90 degrees, which was about the same as or slightly cooler than the outdoor temperature. I'm confident that the lonely breeze no longer whistles and the temperature is always comfortable for Cecil now.

***

In addition to writing, editing, and digging a trench* (I don't want to talk about the trench), I also got these 6 woodland Indians assembled, mounted on bases and primed. I'm unreasonably proud of the bases. The particularly observant might note that those bases are actually the lids from water bottles--which are much cheaper (free) than the standard 25 mm gaming bases and they're nearly the same size. I'm sure that I'll eventually discover a reason why it's not a good idea to use water bottle lids for bases but until then: I'm winning!

*The writing and editing did not apply to the trench but to the new novel. Perhaps the Oxford comma was sufficient to convey the idea but fastidiousness is next to or perhaps situated well within obnoxiousness, and a bit condescending; it's a win-win.