Last posts on fiction

Story

2009-04-10T22:53:00+02:00

I have decided to start releasing some of my stories online under a Creative Commons licence. Feel free to download it, store it, print it and forward it as you please. If you are an editor and would like to reprint any of my stories in your publication, please contact me before doing so. Other stories will appear here as I post them.

Found a Good Article

2008-12-20T03:11:17+01:00

I found this article and thought it was a good piece of information for writers.

Some Thoughts on Crafting Fiction

Like any idea you conceive in life, fiction starts and ends in the mind; first in the conscious, then the subconscious, and finally digging deeper into the labyrinth of ageless wisdom; the subconscious, the ever-lasting fountain of imagination and inspiration.

I will not attempt here to teach you how to write fiction because quite frankly I do not believe it can be done with modular instruction. Crafting invented stories and converting them into novels and novellas is a highly personalized art form which writers approach in a myriad of disparate ways.

What I will do on the other hand is provide you with some personal thoughts on crafting fiction; thoughts derived from my own experience.

WHY I WRITE FICTION

While I have a preference for non-fiction I also write fiction with a modest but nonetheless marked degree of success.

Some writers take one route, some the other; I take both - but only after I managed to master the first: non-fiction.

Why should this be so?

I discovered early on in my writing career that coming to terms with the disciplines of crafting non-fiction dramatically improved my ability to create fiction and to attract proposals for publication of my increasing output.

So why do I write fiction?

Quite simply, to amuse myself, to stretch my reach, to challenge my imagination - and when my offerings are published and other people tell me they like what I create, so much the better.

Having proposals for works of fiction accepted for publication is never easy but with contracts in my pocket for all ten outpourings to date, I am not complaining…

HOW I WRITE FICTION

Drawing on the disciplines of one genre I apply them to the other - and so - my golden rule on crafting fiction is to operate solely within the confines of what I know. That is why before tackling a fictional project I visit my subconscious to establish levels of interest, knowledge, and above all expertise.

Functioning in scenarios where I feel comfortable, relaxed, confident, and at ease makes writing fiction a joyous occasion and provides me with a sense of fulfilment.

Writer Info: JIM GREEN is a bestselling author in the realms of both fiction and non-fiction. http://how-to-write-cutting-edge-fiction.com

News on Jewel and What's Happening

2008-11-15T00:22:00+01:00

Hi Everyone,

I have been in hiding the last few months, at least it feels that way lol and I plan on changing that condition. Thank you all for your support, your well wishes were a wonderful pick me up.

Oh, I do have a lot of news. I've been writing again, whew! Sometimes we just need a break. I would love to share that I have finished my new Time Travel, SCARLET RAVEN!

What a wonderful adventure and love story, my goodness but Corin and Rogan do warm up those cool waters in the Carribean lol. You know, I've been writing/researching this pirate adventure story for nearly 8 years, started it long before Pirates of the Carribean came out. I have to say that I think my pirates are a wee bit more realistic and those kisses don't stop there, LOL.

SCARLET RAVEN is now out in both print and ebook formats. I have a new publisher and my novels are now out there for my readers. I have posted all my books so that you can find the excerpts and have fun reading.

See what you think of SCARLET RAVEN...

SCARLET RAVEN by Jewel Adams

Corin McCloud stows away on a refurbished schooner—the Raven. The journey barely begins when a violent storm rolls over the schooner, throwing her world upside down and lands her in Charlotte Amalie, 1725.

Rogan Drake spent the last two years building his reputation as the infamous pirate—Dragon, in order to revenge his brother's murder. He forgoes following the pirate Billings, to keep an eye on a girl that just entered the city. She certainly wasn't from here, not dressed so…openly. "Brave little woman, but hardly wise." The exotic shape of her eyes reminded him of a wild cat. Add in the sensual blend of amber and chocolate, and a man could drown in their depth. "Are you untamed my little stranger?"

Can Rogan give up his quest to revenge his brother's death in order to keep Corin safe? Will she accept her new life as his wife? Can they both survive the anger of Black Diamond, the most notorious pirate in the Caribbean?

SCARLET RAVEN is an adventure in Time that will fill your heart with love and your soul with life that once roamed the open seas!

You can read the excerpt on my Coffee Time Romance Author page:

http://authors.coffeetimeromance.com/jeweladams/

On Beauty

2008-10-12T19:40:00+02:00

Loved Zadie Smith's On Beauty: A Novel, which I finished last night.

It's funny and compassionate, true to the complexity of human (particularly family) relations, mildly mocking of most everyone -- suburban kids trying to be urban, more down with the righteous brothers; the differing biases and squeamishness of liberals and conservatives; intellectuals who know not what their bodies desire or do; the heroic scenarios we rehearse in our heads; pragmatists and romantics; Christians and atheists; militant feminists; those who intuitively believe that things have meaning and those who studiously don't; artists and critics; the posturing of academics; and so on. It's about marriage, memories, families and generational differences, the paths we choose and which choose us, and primarily, I think, the similarities among people who believe themselves to be very different from each other.

A few bits that especially delighted me:

"The experience of listening to an hour's music you barely know in a dead language you do not understand is a strange falling and rising experience. For minutes at a time you are walking deep into it, you seem to understand. Then, without knowing how or when exactly, you discover you have wandered away, bored or tired from the effort, and now you are nowhere near the music. You refer to the programme notes. The notes reveal that the past fifteen minutes of wrangling over your soul have been merely the repetition of a single inconsequential line. Somewhere around the Confutatis, Kiki's careful tracing of the live music with the literal programme broke down. She didn't know where she was now. In the Lacrimosa or miles ahead? Stuck in the middle or nearing the end? She turned to ask Howard, but he was asleep. A glimpse to her right revealed Zora concentrating on her Discman, through which a recording of the voice of a Professor N.R.A. Gould carefully guided her through each movement. Poor Zora -- she lived through footnotes. It was the same in Paris: so intent was she upon reading the guide book to Sacré-Cœur that she walked directly into an altar, cutting her forehead open."

"'I got me champagne in one hand and chicken in the other,' said Kiki, excessively jolly as penance for her thoughts. 'What can I do for you?'

"'Oh, God,' said Christian. He seemed to know a joke should go here but he was constitutionally unable to provide one."

"To women like Lydia, women like Claire made no sense at all. Everything Lydia had achieved in her life had come as a result of her prodigious organizational abilities and professionalism. There wasn't any institution in the country that Lydia couldn't reorganize and make more efficient, and in a few years, when she was done with Wellington, she knew in her heart of hearts that she would go on to Harvard and from there to anywhere she liked, maybe even the Pentagon. She had the skills, and skills took you places in Lydia's America. ... Lydia knew how she'd got where she was today, and also where she was going. What she didn't get was how Claire Malcolm had got where she was today. How was it possible that a woman who lost her own office keys sometimes three times a week and did not know where the supplies cupboard was after five years at the college could yet hold a title as grandiose as Dowling Professor of Comparative Literature and be paid what Lydia knew she was paid because it was Lydia who sent out the pay stubs? And then, on top of it all, have an inappropriate workplace affair. Lydia knew it had something to do with art, but, personally, she didn't buy it. Academic degrees she understood -- Jack's two Ph.D.s, in Lydia's mind, made up for all the times he tipped coffee into his own filing cabinet. But poetry?"

"Kiki laughed her big lovely laugh in the small store. People looked up from their specialty goods and smiled abstractly, supporting the idea of pleasure even if they weren't certain of the cause."

"In January, at the first formal of the year, the tremendous will-power of Wellington's female students is revealed. Unfortunately for the young women, this demonstration of pure will is accredited to 'femininity' -- that most passive of the virtues -- and, as a result, does not contribute to their Grade Point Average. It is unfair. Why are there no awards for the girl who starves herself through the Christmas period -- refusing all sweetmeats, roasts and liqueurs offered to her -- so that she might appear at the January formal in a backless dress and toeless shoes, although the temperature is near to freezing and the snow is heavy on the ground? ... They all looked like princesses -- but what steel must lurk within!"

"'I could jump that fence like that,' said Levi, pulling at the vertical iron rods as they walked beside them. 'You wait in line, you're a fool, seriously. A brother don't need a gate -- he jumps the fence. That's street.'"

"'Again, please?' said Howard.

"'Street, street', bellowed Zora. 'It's like, "being street", knowing the street -- in Levi's sad little world if you're a Negro you have some kind of mysterious holy communion with sidewalks and corners.'

"'Aw, man, shut up. You don't know what the street looks like. You ain't never been there.'

"'What's this' said Zora, pointing to the ground. 'Marshmallow?'

"'Please. This ain't America. You think this is America? This is toy town. I was born in this country -- trust me. You go into Roxbury, you go into the Bronx, you see America. That's street.'

"'Levi, you don't live in Roxbury,' explained Zora slowly. 'You live in Wellington. You go to Arundel. You've got your name ironed into your underwear.'

"'I wonder if I'm street ...' mused Howard. 'I'm still healthy, got hair, testicles, eyes, etcetera. Got great testicles. It's true I'm above subnormal intelligence -- but then again I am full of verve and spunk.'

"'No.'

"'Dad,' said Zora, 'please don't say spunk. Ever.'

"'Can't I be street?'

"'No. Why you always got to make everything be a joke?'

"'I just want to be street.'

"Mom. Tell him to stop, man.'

"'I can be a brother. Check it out,' said Howard, and proceeded to make a series of excruciating hand gestures and poses. Kiki squealed and covered her eyes.

"'Mom -- I'm going home, I sewar to God if he does that for one more second, I sweat to God ...'

"Levi was trying desperately to get his hoodie to cover the side of his vision in which Howard was persisting. It was surely only second before Howard recited the only piece of rap he could ever remember, a single line he'd mysteriously retained from the mass of lyrics he heard Levi mutter day after day. 'I got the slickest, quickest dick --' began Howard. Screams of consternation rose up from the rest of the family. ..."

Heaps of New Contracts!

2008-09-29T23:43:41+02:00

It's been such a busy year! I've been focusing on novellas, and have managed to contract several paranormals and shapeshifter, plus one action/suspense sequel to The Elf Chronicles. I'm now with Red Rose (repeatedly) and Cyberwizard Productions. My strategy this year was to put my work out there with as many publishers as possible. I have 8 publishers now, and hope to acquire a few more before the end of the year, bringing the number up to 10.This may be a poor strategy, but I am hoping having my work in a number of places will cause new readers to find me! I am posting a excerpt from one of the books released this year. This one was by my alterego, Melody Knight:

The sequel to ~In Trysts~

REVIEWS

In Flames

1 - "Fast paced and edgy tension highlights this passionatethriller. In Flames is a rollercoaster ride of secrets and ghosts and sizzling sensuality. The plot line issolid and kept this reader guessing to the dramatic end. Marco and Sophia arelikable individuals that I felt an affinity with from the opening. MelodyKnight is an author whose back list I look forward to reading."

Lettetia Elasser

Affaire de Coeur July/August 2008

2 - "Her combustibility and the secrets of her past form the basis for this intriguing mystery." Literary Nymphs http://literarynymphsreviewsonly.blogspot.com/2008/07/in-flames.html

EXCERPTS

She’d gone down maybe a dozen stairs, following always that acrid smoke smell, her keen sense of smell guiding her. She wound through a maze of tunnels and intersections, Ys, in the dark, arms flailing, trusting to stink and instinct—and all the while dreading what she would find at the end of it.

She had been right to dread. The incinerate glow leached out into the darkness, staining the corridor red and orange. She knew, when she felt the heat emanating from within, that she’d reached Hell.

It was hot and holed and cavernous, and inhabited by maybe a dozen robed figures. The wall lengths were broken by alcoves; flattened bottoms with rounded arches above. A New World solution to Old World catacombs. The roof was a giant rock chute, and the smoke churned, eddied and swirled upwards and out.

The center was an inferno—a stone altar alternately orange, yellow, blue, red, black. Flames licked it, dancing like the wood-coal which fed it. Dying wood which glowed with that peculiar animacy of searing orange and bred in the efforts of sweating men in motion. Their robes flapped and their hoods slipped, as they fought to sustain illusion in the face of toil. Crackle, snap, branches flung and logs thudding against the base. The searing heat made the scene wobble in waves of molten air, and already heated tempers flared to incandescence at the pyre's demands for fuel.

Sophie stood there blankly, wobbling on her feet, blood leaking down her legs. She looked from the altar to the arched crevices around the walls. The dancing orange light picked up the dull dark brown of carbonized bone.

Carbonizing bone.

She was seen…of course. By Damian and not-Damian. They were both there, but only one was hers. The other one, she decided later in her nightmares, had been present only to show her there was more than one demon in Hell.

Damian and not-Damian had hit her, kicked her, pounded her, again and again.

Smoke, fire, flames, corpses.

And the demons danced on.

AND

Sophie lost him in the smoke and steam. She screamed, choked on soot and swallowed water—then it was all gagging, paddling, churning her way through the wash. The surge was relentless, all troughs and waves, floating wood and falling stone. She was slammed against the wall and felt her shoulder give. Sophie shrieked and fought for air. “Marco!”

He had her. Marco grabbed her, and clung. She held onto him weakly, and opened her eyes to find he was smiling.

A death’s head grin. It was Gerald Beaumont.

“Sophie!” he cried, clawing at her head, her shoulders, climbing her like a bobbing tree. She was going under, down, when Marco snatched her out of Gerald’s grasp and flung him aside.

But Marco’s hold on her was tenuous, and Beaumont’s frantic antics cost him. Scratch, tear, rip, fling, but in the wildly swirling muddle, of dirt and bone, ash and wood, filthy foam and churning backwash, Sophie was jarred loose from Marco’s grasp once more, out of his reach. He heard her choked off “Marc-!” as she vanished beneath the rising waters.

http://www.lindenbayromance.com/product-inflames-144-149.html

AUTHOR WEBSITES: N. D. Hansen-Hill | Melody Knight

Lamenting the Bestsellers

2008-08-20T17:40:00+02:00

Tom Shone, in Intelligent Life's Summer 2008 issue, laments bestsellers lists in the UK and the U.S. The NYT bestsellers list looks pretty erudite compared with the UK's top sellers, which consist mostly of books by celebrities and reality-show has-beens, until we realise that the NYT shunted off the self-help and advice books to a separate list more than 20 years ago. When those are merged back in, the U.S. non-fiction bestsellers list is littered with books such as Stop Whining Start Living, Does This Clutter Make My Butt Look Fat?, How Come That Idiot's Rich and I'm Not?, and books with "you" in the title, such as Become a Better You, You: Staying Young: The Owner's Manual for Extending Your Warranty, Are You Ready! To Take Charge, Lose Weight, Get in Shape and Change Your Life Forever. Then there's the wildly popular The Secret, whose main message is to think positively. ("To those who object that they have been thinking positively ever since Norman Vincent Peale's The Power of Positive Thinking in 1952, you haven't really been trying. Really concentrate: 'Look at the back of your hands, right now. Really look at the back of your hands: the colour of your skin, the freckles, the blood vessels, the rings, the fingernails. Take in all those details. Right before you close your eyes, see those hands, your fingers, wrapping around the steering wheel of your brand new car...'")

(This article was written a couple of months ago. Now topping the NYT bestsellers lists are two books decrying presidential candidate Barack Obama as an extreme leftist, at least three books decrying the Bush Administration as liars and killers, a book about actress Tori Spelling by Tori Spelling, a book about Madonna by her brother, a John Grisham book, another "you" book -- Just Who Will You Be? by celebrity Maria Shriver, and of course, The Secret.)

Noting the celebrity-heavy UK list, Shone suggests that narrative fiction can no longer hold a candle to reality and the squalid details of real life. He speaks of "the weakened power of fictional story lines to hold the public's attention," contrasting story and storybook characters with the punch-power of in-your-face life and death: "Say what you like about someone whose first instinct on seeing her dead grandmother is to whip out her camera-phone and take a picture of her in the casket, she certainly registers more vividly than the wan lawyers and downy movie stars who troop through the fiction of John Grisham and Danielle Steele." For those of us who get lost in some works of fiction, I'm not sure this is true.

Favourite Lines from Nancy Mitford

2008-07-30T21:25:00+02:00

From The Pursuit of Love (1945)

"'Oh, you are the cousin I hear so much about,' she said. 'You'll want to see the baby.'

"She went away and presently returned carrying a Moses basket full of wails.

"'Poor thing,' Linda [the child's mother] said indifferently. 'It's really kinder not to look.'...

"I did look, and deep down among the frills and lace, there was the usual horrid sight of the howling orange in a fine black wig."

"'Isn't she sweet,' said the Sister. 'Look at her little hands.'

"I shuddered slightly and said, 'Well, I know it's dreadful of me, but I don't much like them as small as that; I'm sure she'll be divine in a year or two.'

"The wails now entered on a crescendo, and the whole room was filled with hideous noise.

"'Poor soul,' said Linda. 'I think it must have caught sight of itself in a glass.'"

"Christian always assumed that people were all right unless they told him to the contrary, when, except in case of destitute, coloured, oppressed, leprous or otherwise unattractive strangers, he would take absolutely no notice. He was really only interested in mass wretchedness, and never much cared for individual cases, however genuine their misery, while the idea that it is possible to have three square meals a day and a roof and yet be unhappy or unwell, seemed to him intolerable nonsense."

[This, when I read it, brought immediately to mind the line from Hair's "Easy to Be Hard": "Do you only care about the bleeding crowd? / How about a needing friend?"]

From Love in a Cold Climate (1949)

"She had all the sentimentality of her generation, and this sentimentality, growing like a green moss over her spirit, helped to conceal its texture of stone, if not from others, at any rate from herself. She was convinced that she was a woman of profound sensibility."

"First of all we talked about the wedding. Lady Montdore was wonderful when it came to picking over an occasion of that sort. With her gimlet eye nothing escaped her, nor did any charitable inhibitions tone down her comments on what she had observed."

"The many dislikers of Lady Montdore said that she kept [her daughter] Polly too much in the background, and this was not fair because, although it is true to say that Lady Montdore automatically filled the foreground of any picture in which she figured, she was only too anxious to push Polly in front of her, like a hostage, and it was not her fault if she was forever slipping back again."

"The success or failure of all human relationships lies in the atmosphere each person is aware of creating for the other."

Book of the Living

2008-07-29T19:00:00+02:00

A short story by Anne SmithDear Lawrence,This is a letter of confessions and observations and here is my first.A confession: I am thirsty.Sometime in mid January while the chilliness of an unusually cold season was confusing the long term residents of Arizona, I was busy eating oysters on the half shell in the courtyard of Chateau Sonesta in New Orleans. I came here in the hopes of becoming unusual. Everyone here seems to be unusual but I can’t help feeling normal. I have decided, while swallowing that last of my oysters and wishing I had purchased a hard drink, that many of my mistakes lie in the avoidance of making mistakes altogether. AL-TO-GET-HER: How my mother taught me to spell the word; they were al(l )- [out] –to – get – her. So in the court yard of a tritely named hotel near Iberville and Bourbon, next to the club La Chat Noir with a stunning vampyric looking piano player, I’ve decided to write you my final letter. Lawrence, I have learned certain things since my decision to leave you in the back of that pick up truck after spending an afternoon recovering apples in the orchard where you told me, Devon…I am leaving you.An observation: I know now that the word esoteric is esoteric in itself. I figured that out today when the gentleman in the bookstore told his employee, he was being esoteric with customers. My mother once told me never to write anything down that you wouldn’t want the world to read. I didn’t listen and began writing all the names of the men I had decided to love for whatever reason it may be, along with what I most enjoyed about their bodies. One afternoon while writing in my diary beside a pond, the wind lifted it from me and cast it into the water. To this day, I imagine overworked fathers and forelorn stay-at-home mothers, stumbling across the soaked, sun damaged pages of that diary to read comments like:Keith had a lovely clavicle. Adam had a courageous chin. Eric had soft fingers.A confession: There is a destination inside a woman that locks and unlocks the door to her spirit. It takes centuries to get there. Even she rarely makes the trip.My feet are sore and bleeding from walking this dark city so many times. I empathize with Anderson and think, at one point in life, does not everyone’s feet bleed from taking too many steps in the same direction? I am infused with you now. I try to sleep but you pulsate against my throat. You bend me in half, creasing me with your innocent wisdom and laughter. I wonder if those apples tasted good now. I wonder if you even bothered eating them. To understand the heart is too difficult so I diffuse you with science. We are limbic, Lawrence. Limbic.Last night I tossed beads from the balconies at obnoxious men and grandmothers revising their plan of action in their older years. And beads are tossed at me despite my refusal for immodest actions. Then I think of when you told me, you have such lovely breasts. I remember thinking, all breasts are lovely for the fundamental purpose they serve to off spring—I hate how sexualized they are now. They should be comforting, calming and respected, not groped and slobbered on in anticipation of screwing.I recall the messages:1.Do you miss me?2.Because I miss you.3.Call?4.What do you want?5.Stay.Today I met a man in a golden dress who bowed to me, but never spoke. He wore a mask and stared at me for a long time, then cackled and walked away. It was then I decided to write you a letter full of dissent and digression…regression too…and all those words that you mimic at two in the afternoon on a Wednesday when you are lying awake with the sun spilling across the floor of your home. Lawrence, I still swim with your against me, hoping the tides of chlorine will wash you away. The memory is like the sound of two metallic surfaces meeting, jarring and edgy. Devon, I am leaving you and going in search of my soul. I think I lost it as a child. Why is it that those words bothered me so much? I thought for all those years, I held your soul in my hands and you knew that which is why you stayed. You trusted me with it, and knew you couldn’t manage it well enough on your own. When you told me you were still missing it, I felt void of purpose and point. Tonight I will walk the streets again, limping no doubt and looking for the perfect place to sip wine and smoke cigarettes. The two things you hated me doing the most. I will be the girl reaching towards the stratosphere, trying to dip my hands into it and find the satellites to beckon you home. A confession: Apple seeds have cyanide.Devon-

Favourite Crime Novel Websites

2008-07-28T13:40:00+02:00

A few websites that offer excellent comprehensive and/or in-depth information about crime novels.

LISTS

Stop, You're Killing Me! lists more than "2,500 authors, with chronological lists of their books (nearly 29,000 titles), both series (2,900+) and non-series." Also offers indexes by location, jobs and professions, historical time period of series character, and diversity (ethnicity, age, etc.), as well as category read-alike lists and lists of mystery award winners.

Clerical Detectives maintained by Philip Grosset: Excellent and expansive website offering information about authors and in-depth summaries of books in more than 50 series featuring clerical detectives -- 'any detective with a significant church or religious background' including priests, ministers, monks, nuns, ex-nuns, rabbis, church administrators, a church organist, and the clerk of a Quaker Meeting. Also has 'A Beginner's Guide to Detective Nuns.'

BiblioMystery: Mysteries Involving Libraries and Librarians, maintainted by Candy Schwartz at Simmons College in Boston: Extensive list of library-related mysteries with their publication info and one-line synopsis of plot. These include "mysteries in which books, manuscripts, libraries of any kind, archives, publishing houses, or bookstores occupy a central role, or mysteries in which librarians, archivists, booksellers, etc. are protagonists or antagonists (and preferably the location or occupation is important to the plot or theme). Not academic mysteries or mysteries which happen to be about journalists, authors, or literary figures unless libraries, books, manuscripts, archives, and so on, are important to the plot." Excellent. Look also at their Wishlist of similar books.

Thrilling Detective, a website specialising in private eyes and tough guys (and gals). Besides the regular magazine they publish, they also offer a "never-complete listing of private dicks and janes, and selected other tough guys and gals, listed by character, with all appearances in novels, short stories, film, television, radio and other media."

Euro Crime offers an extensive bibliography (works listed chronologically, series in order) for European crime writers. "Currently includes authors born in Europe and only lists their crime novels (and not an author's other types of novel)."

NEWS and REVIEWS

** For current crime novel news and annotated links to current reviews, Sarah Weinman's Confessions of an Idiosyncratic Mind blog is excellent, a must-read.

Cluelass Bloodstained Bookshelf, listing books recently published and forthcoming (up to almost a year in advance).

Euro Crime blog offers "snippets about British and other European crime fiction, tv and film."

Reviewing the Evidence offers weekly crime fiction reviews as well as an archive of past reviews.

Overbooked offers ongoing listings, synopses, and reviews of crime fiction, mysteries, suspense novels, and thrillers that have received good reviews from Kirkus, Booklist, Publisher's Weekly, and/or Library Journal.

January magazine reviews crime fiction and offers interviews. They also have a blog that covers crime and other genres.

Rap Sheet is a blog of crime fiction-related news.

DISCUSSION LIST

Dorothy-L is an emailed "discussion and idea list for the lovers of the mystery genre." Topics include announcements by authors of forthcoming crime fiction; reviews, criticisms, comments, and appreciations of mysteries in the form of books, plays, and films; mention of great mystery book shops; and info on mystery awards and events.

House Rules Booklist: If You Like House MD ...

2008-05-27T12:00:00+02:00

... you might like these books, suggested by members of various library listservs.

The query I sent out was:

I'm looking for fiction that will appeal to someone who likes the FOX TV show, House MD, starring Hugh Laurie. The appeal factors could include medical diagnostics or medical mystery, interesting dynamics among medical professionals, cynical smart doctors, close co-dependent friendships between male doctors or men generally, an underlying belief that 'everyone lies,' and so on.

Here are the suggested authors, series, and titles. I haven't read any yet. I'd love additions, and comments if you have read them:

Ariana Franklin (pseudonym for Diana Norman). New historical thriller series set in the 12th century about cynical, smart female physician Adelia Aguilar who is brought to England to solve murder mysteries for King Henry II. She's a coroner. First in the series: Mistress in the Art of Death (2007). Last (and second): The Serpent's Tale (2008).

Eileen Dreyer. Standalone medical mystery thrillers featuring cynical, world-weary nurses and EMTs. Also writes a series featuring Molly Burke, forensic nurse and death investigator in St. Louis, MO. First in series: Bad Medicine (1995). Last: Head Games (2005).

Sequence (2006) and The Silent Assassin (2007) by Lori Andrews, medical thrillers featuring geneticist and forensic specialist Dr. Alexandra Blake, described as smart and edgy. (Reviews compare the books to the popular TV series NCIS).

CL Grace's series featuring Kathyrn Swinbrooke, a female doctor in medieval times when only men could be doctors. Titles: 1. A Shrine of Murders (1992); 2. The Eye of God (1994); 3. The Merchant of Death (1995); 4. The Book of Shadows (1996); 5. Saintly Murders (2001); 6. A Maze of Murders (2003); and 7. A Feast of Poisons (2004). Some romance. (Grace is a pseudonym for writer P.C. Doherty.)

Echo Heron's medical thriller series featuring nurse Adele Monsarrat, who has a quirky sense of humor. Titles are Pulse (1998), Panic (1998), Paradox (1998) and Fatal Diagnosis (2000).

Lifelines (2008) by C. J. Lyons. Set in a Pittsburgh hospital, involves the new attending physician whose first night doesn't go well. When she's accused of negligence in the death of the son of the Chief of Neurosurgery, she starts investigating to save her career.

The Bugman novels by Tim Downs: 1. Shoofly Pie, 2. Chop Shop, and 3. First the Dead. The main character, Dr. Nick Polchak, is a forensic entomologist in North Carolina who helps solve crimes based on what the bugs say. He has a wry sense of humor. The books are marketed as Christian fiction but are not preachy; values are implicit, not explicit.

Anthology News, Excerpts, Nocturne Bits and Bites

2008-04-04T00:12:00+02:00

News & Networking

It's been a busy week as usual. Of Dragons was released by Red Rose last Thursday, and it's been full on ever since. I have to admit I've learned a fair bit about promotion this week, and networking with other authors and author sites. Some of the romance sites, like Simply Romance , are extremely generous with both their time and their space. I finished the first round of edits on Gray Beginnings, and will be hastily contriving a suitable blurb. The edits for GlassWorks should be in the Inbox shortly, too. In a few minutes I'll be posting on Tales of the Trade. My blog post is due there today.

WIP & Other Things: Only a thousand words added this week to my "Nocturne Bites" effort, but I did submit a blurb for Art & Soul to the open call at Nocturne. This is a quick in effort, with decisions being made by April 16th. I love these mini subs and competitions because they spur me on either to try new genres or venues or to finish what I began months ago. The Nocturne "call" only lasts until the 8th, I believe, so it's time for a quick decision if you're a paranormal pennist.

A new, and quite exciting, Yahoo loop opened this week called "Paranormal Monday". Enthusiasm by authors, with excerpts being greeted enthusiastically by readers.

Oh, wrote an interesting poem this week entitled, "Fragile". I'm in the finals for the Poetry.com Editors' Choice competition, and to qualify, I needed another poem. It was the second poem for the week—the first being the one for Gray Beginnings. I was waxing poetic all over the place, LOL!

Authors of Note: Today's Author of Note/Publishing-Promotional Guru of Note is Jean Lauzier. Jean introduces us to an anthology entitled, Return of the Sword. About the book—"Return of the Sword is a brand new anthology of blood-pounding, spine-tingling stories by some of fantasy's most critically acclaimed Sword and Sorcery authors.

Stacey Berg, Bill Ward, Phil Emery, Jeff Draper, Nicholas Ian Hawkins, David Pitchford, Ty Johnston, Jeff Stewart, Angeline Hawkes, Robert Rhodes, E.E. Knight, James Enge, Michael Ehart, Thomas M. MacKay, Christopher Heath, Nathan Meyer, S.C. Bryce, Allen B. Lloyd, William Clunie, Steve Goble, Bruce Durham, and Harold Lamb present you with enough fast paced adventure to keep you reading for hours.

A hand painted, wrap around cover by fantasy artist Johnney Perkins ensures that Return of the Sword will not only be enjoyable to read, but also look good on your coffee table or bookshelf.

Too long have the halls of fantasy been dominated by packs of weak-kneed elves hunting goblins and doughty dwarves mining for gold. Return now to the days of true adventure. Unsheath your sword and enter if you dare!"

And, an excerpt, of course—this one from from “The Red Worm’s Way: A Tale of Morlock Ambrosius”—by James Enge

Morlock's interest in gold was slight indeed; he made it by the boxful whenever he needed some, which was not often. But, as a maker of things, he had once had some interest in coins. He glanced instinctively at the discs in her hands.

They were of a type new to him. Each design was different, and some were horrible – he could see headless corpses and hanged men on a few of the gold cartwheels she held out to him. The coins might be solid and perhaps they were gold, but he doubted they were good in any generally accepted meaning of the word. They stank of evil magic.

He was about to say as much when one of the coins, showing what appeared to be a crow or raven wearing a crown, winked at him. It could have been a trick of the light, but he didn't think so.

"What will you take for that one?" he asked, pointing at the crow-coin.

Guile entered the eyes of the grieving woman. "That is an especially valuable one, sir. They say the Crow King will do any service for the person who holds this coin."

Morlock grunted skeptically and said, "How much for it?"

"I am not selling these coins, sir. I'm offering them to pay for a service. You cannot buy this coin; you may earn it."

"By keeping the Strigae from chewing up your husband's corpse tonight."

"Please do not speak so disrespectfully of the Sisters of the Red Worm (I summon them not!). But that is the general idea."

Morlock thought idly about knocking her down, taking the coin and running away with it. But his conversation with the woman had drawn a crowd of interested listeners; he doubted he would get away clean. Besides, stealing magical gold often had unintended consequences. On the other hand, he could just say, "No," and walk away. But it occurred to him that he wasn't going to do that.

"All right," he said. "Keep the others; I just want that coin with the crow."

"I will give it to you tomorrow morning."

"If I keep your husband's corpse intact."

"Oh no. Not at all. If you stay on watch through the night I will give you the coin, even if the Unnamed Ones violate poor Thelyphron. But . . ."

"But?"

"Our law says that whatever parts are missing from a dead body after a vigil must be made up by the watcher."

"So if poor Thelyphron's nose is missing in the morning, he will be buried with mine? Likewise liver or testicles?"

"Yes. That is only fair, wouldn't you say?"

Morlock considered the question briefly. "No. Where do I stand, or sit, this wake?"

BUY LINK

Teasers (interesting facts that might stir a story some day soon): Those shiny and reflective fish which so draw our eyes, and frequently take a starring role in our aquariums? A new study has determined that the unique shape of the skin's guanine crystals is what provides that intense reflectivity. This is an anti-predator camouflage response, for fish which swim near the water's surface. There's no point denying that these are flashy fish! I went to the zoo last weekend, and in the penguin enclosure, where wee penguins were swooping after their food, it was the food—flashy fish—which kept catching my eye! It should have been birds that fly underwater, instead! For more information, visit http://www.sciencedaily.com/releases/2008/01/080114100008.htm.

Save Your World: Free rice (learn new words and donate rice as you do it! Always a favorite!) http://www.freerice.com/index.php

Excerpts: From Gilded Folly

It was no longer dark, but Dacey was beginning to wish it were. A subsonic hum vibrated her eardrums and her teeth, the resonance rising into audible range, where it shook her body.

Like a microwave. The cooked scenario entered her head, but she wouldn’t let herself think it. It was enough of a prod, though, to get her moving. Her unseen adversaries weren’t entirely stationary. She would like to believe that was more mechanical action, too, like the hum, but the sounds were far too restless"like a multitude of boots grinding and crunching on gravel.

Alive. No inanimate pistons or gears. Claws and teeth, restlessly gnawing away at rock...

Stop it! Dacey swore right then that no matter what, she wouldn’t give up without a fight.

She ran for the steps"for where she hoped they’d be. You fell down them"landed on your knees.

Get it right, Girl...last chance...

The light was so startling she tripped over her feet and went sprawling. It wasn’t coming from the walls or the ceiling. It was coming from her skin.

Her own body was brightening the room, like a white shirt under black light.

The sight was so shocking Dacey froze. All kinds of thoughts were running through her head. She was so caught up in confusion, that she almost missed the movement.

The walls were losing integrity, as man-size pieces detached and dropped limply to the stone floor. Rustle-thud, rustle-thunk. Now, the pieces shivered and shook, then arose, finding their whole within the fallen tangle of limbs. Skeletally thin beings, with a near-human cast...

...arising out of rock.

Dacey backed away, and headed once more for the steps"only to find they’d beat her there.

They’ve been in the dark so long...

It was almost as though she could read their thoughts. Her light was a lure, to draw them in. They wanted light...and heat.

...but mostly, they wanted food.

Dacey opened her mouth and began to scream.

www.NDHansen-Hill.com
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Thanks to www.mikesfreegifs.com and www.wilsoninfo.com for the use of the animated gifs!

Enemy Women - Notes

2008-01-12T15:00:00+01:00

I just finished reading Enemy Women, a novel by Paulette Jiles (2002) about women -- really, a particular woman -- in the American Civil War, for my book group this month.

I liked it more than I thought I would, but I will never read it again because it is too harrowing. The writing is eloquent, spare when it needs to be, poetic when it needs to be. The characters (two primary characters) are well-drawn. I did root for the protagonist, a 17-year-old girl named Adair, whose family and southern Missouri home are ripped apart at the start of the novel, midway into the U.S. Civil War, and who spends the rest of the novel wandering, then imprisoned as a "secesh" (successionist), and then trying to find her way home again as she suffers with consumption. Adair is engaging; she is, as another character puts it, "a brave and charming girl." The novel is a bit of a romance, and the male lead, a Union soldier, Will Neumann, is also brave, a sympathetically drawn hero.

The graphic scenes of violence and cruelty, many involving animals (dogs, horses, mules), are nauseating, disturbing, heart-breaking, and no doubt accurate to the truth of that war and war in general. In fact, each chapter begins with actual newspaper clippings, letter excerpts, coroners' reports, historical notes, etc., from or about the time, and many attest to atrocities. (I skimmed most of those after a while because I couldn't make the connection between some of them and the fictional story.)

The note that begins chapter 30, near the end of the book, seems oddly incongruous to the narrative (perhaps it's intended to be). From a 1997 book about why men fought the Civil War, the excerpt says that "soldiers ... meant what they said about sacrificing their lives for their country. ... Our cynicism about the genuineness of such sentiments is more our problem than theirs, a cultural/temporal barrier we must transcend if we are to understand why they fought. And how smugly can we sneer at their expressions of a willingness to die for their beliefs when we know they did precisely that?"

Whatever cynicism I may have had before reading this novel was only multiplied many times over as the characters exhibit every motive for fighting other than any belief about the rightness or wrongness of slavery. In fact, we learn, Adair and her kin and community in southern Missouri were not likely to have even had slaves. The motives for fighting and killing imputed to characters in the novel, while they by and large don't include strong belief in a moral cause (that is mentioned only once, when Neumann is trying to persuade Adair to confess false crimes and admit the rightness of the Union's cause, the last of which she readily does), do include hostility towards foreigners and perceived invaders, the opportunity to bring down the heretofore socially high and mighty, opportunity to make money nefariously (trading black market goods, stealing from the dead, taking bribes, etc.), revenge for spying, revenge for simply being on the "other side" or for trying to remain neutral, spiralling revenge for prior killings, and most strikingly and consistently depicted, a simple desire to make the "other" suffer, to inflict punishment and pain because one has the power to do it and because the "other" is other. Contrasted in roughly equal measure to those famous, feared and wantonly destructive men and women with a blood and power lust are the many folk who are living ordinary lives until they are essentially and violently conscripted by one army or another, who must kill or be killed unless they can hide in the hills or perhaps run a necessary convenience like a tavern for 5 years.

In another factual note, it's reported that "For northerners ... the enemy was neither the plantation-owner nor his slaves but poor southern white trash -- 'Pukes,' as northerners liked to call them. Northern whites feared that they too could be compelled back into a perceived impoverished barbarism, as they thought of the Pukes, away from the increasingly mature prosperity and moral tidiness by which northern freemen justified their individual existence and purpose of their society" (from Inside War: The Guerilla Conflict in Missouri During the American Civil War, by Michael Fellman, 1989). If this is so, it suggests to me that perhaps for many, the 'moral cause' for war, the thing worth dying for, was the protection of a comfortable lifestyle rather than, or at least as importantly as, a liberation of fellow humans.

My prime complaint about the book is that it reminds me too strongly of Water for Elephants, with its likable heroine and hero who emerge wounded and scarred but alive, and who, once clearly in self-defense and in a few other instances not so clearly or not at all, bring about what the reader is supposed to feel is "justice" towards despicable, loathsome characters. I don't like to feel manipulated in this way by a story, and if there is manipulating of my emotions to be done, I would prefer it to lean towards grace and mercy, not the kind of "justice" that satisfies lynch mobs. I don't need more practice in that kind of reaction.

The only part of the story that doesn't conform to this pattern is actually held outside the story, when one of the chapter notes tells us that a homegrown southern militia leader (whom we've heard about in the factual notes but met only very briefly in the novel), who has killed and terrorised many on both the north and south sides, stolen horses and food from those who need it, destroyed families, and so on, was held for murder but was "eventually released and returned to his pre-war occupation as a Baptist preacher."

A few excerpts from the book:

Jessie (the "witch") says to Adair: "We are in the middle of many changes, and this endless changing is become disorder and people cannot long endure disorder. They'll do anything rather than put up with it. Desperate things. Things that they don't want to remember later." p.40

Neumann considers: "The world was indeed made of jackstraws. The world was very combustible, the human body was partible in ways heretofore unimagined. What held the civilized world together was the thinnest tissue of nothing but human will. Civilization was not in the natural order but was some sort of willed invention held taut like fabric or a sail against the chaos of the winds. ... Neumann has seen some truth that was completely out of his power to put into words. But he has come away knowing that even though the world of civilization was made of straw and lantern slides, he must live in it as if it were solid. Even when the heat of the lantern itself burnt away the illusions and a black hole appeared in the middle of the slide." p. 297

One note, starting chapter 31 (p. 309) says:

"The people of the southern highlands would become famous in the nineteenth century for the intensity of their xenophobia, and also for the violence of its expression. In the early nineteenth century, they tended to detest great planters and abolitionists in equal measure. During the Civil War some fought against both sides. In our own time they are furiously hostile to both communists and capitalists. The people of the southern highlands have been remarkably even-handed in their antipathies -- which they have applied to all strangers without regard to race, religion or nationality." -- from Albion's Seed by David Hackett Fischer, 1989.

A wonderful review from Harriet Klausner! An excerpt from In Trysts

2007-11-30T18:30:00+01:00

This is my new cover from Cerridwen Press for The Hollowing. Isn't is gorgeous? I can't wait to see it on a book!I was surprised this week to receive an absolutely amazing review from Harriet Klausner, who, according to Time magazine, "is one of the world's most prolific and influential book reviewers". She reviewed my February 2008 release from Five Star, ErRatic. I'm always nervous when reviews come in, particularly the first one on a soon-to-be released title, but according to this review, "ErRatic is a fantastic horror thriller..." and "N.D. Hansen-Hill provides an entertaining powerful ghost story that will gain entry to fans’ keeper shelf." OMG! Have to say I'm absolutely thrilled!Other things - GlassWorks has been picked up by Red Rose Publishing. That's really exciting news for me. RRP has a wonderful reputation. On the home front:Auckland is really showing its late spring colours. Flowers and greenery all over. Auckland's pretty green anyway, but the sunny days are lengthening. I love this time of year! Soon, the regattas will be out in the harbour. Great stuff! Makes me feel like painting!I'll leave you with an excerpt from In Trysts. In Flames, the sequel, is being released 1 January, so enjoy! These are written under my pseudonym, Melody Knight.Cheers,ND | MelodyFrom In Trysts...Everything, from the marble sarcophagus, to the sculpted angel... “We’ve been had!” At Sophie’s expression, Peri elaborated, “Conned, swindled, duped.” Sophie still looked confused. “This isn’t Hannah!”“That damned Marco! Ya think he switched the names? Maybe he doesn’t trust us,” she said resentfully. “Unless...” Sophie’s eyes widened, and she peered nervously at the wrapped figure. “Are you sure, Peri?” Sophie gulped. “Not that ah want to see what’s in there...but are you sure it’s not her?”Peri shook her head. The truth was—no, she wasn’t. But then, even though there were no descriptions of Hannah, it would have taken a strong woman to manage young Charles-William. Maybe the cerecloth was a throwback—a sign of respect for a traditional female.Peri sighed, and set the flashlight down on the cloth-wrapped chest, letting it rest in the crook of one folded arm. Her shaking fingers cast wiggly shadows as she took her scissors and snipped at the cloth near the corpse’s throat. The moment she exposed flesh—flesh that was still firm and resilient, instead of brown and withered, she knew something was grievously wrong. Shit...shit...shit...shit.Peri took no more care now. She clipped the cloth upwards, to expose the chalk-white flesh. You can read more at Linden Bay Romance.

By the Lake - Excerpts

2007-09-17T18:45:00+02:00

I finished John McGahern's novel By the Lake over the weekend. It's not exactly the story of a couple's year in rural northwest Ireland; it's more a series of scenic, farm-life snapshots and a record of selected human interactions during the period, punctuated slightly with brief philosophical thoughts.

A book review by John B. Breslin in Commonweal (17 May 2002) describes well the quiet mood, the poetic cadence, and the subtle thematic movement of By the Lake. And as Breslin says, "To say that nothing happens in the novel would be both an understatement and a failure to observe its rhythms. What happens is simply life itself."

It's one of the few fiction books I've read with a soft glow of pleasure this year.

A few passages particularly affected me, rendering me tearful, grateful, profuse with indefinite yearning:

1. Kate has been offered a good job back in London, the place she and Joe had left several years before to try to make their living in the Irish countryside. She's considering whether to take the job:

"A second bottle of wine was opened. Excitement and holiday entered the afternoon. The prospect of London in all its attractiveness was laid out in squares and streets and parks, shops and galleries, the winding river and the endless living stream of its people. It could be enjoyed with the lulling wine without the sharpness of the knowledge that it would only become their same lives again in different circumstances in a different place."

"As he listened to the two voices he was so attached to and thought back to the afternoon, the striking of the clocks, the easy, pleasant company, the walk round the shore, with a rush of feeling he felt that this must be happiness. As soon as the thought came to him, he fought it back, blaming the whiskey. The very idea was as dangerous as presumptive speech: happiness could not be sought or worried into being, or even fully grasped; it should be allowed its own slow pace so that it passes unnoticed, if it ever comes at all."

3. A late born black lamb, whose mother has kept him very close since birth, is accidentally trampled to death when the sheep are separated from the lambs in order to be doused for fluke:

"In the silence they could hear the loud calling of the mother at the back of the house.

"'One good thing. They're not like us. She'll have completely forgotten him in another day. Tomorrow it will be as if he never existed.'

"In spite of the knowledge that it was indulgent and wasteful, they were not able to ward off a lowering cloud. It was as if the black lamb reached back to other feelings of loss and disappointment and gathered them into an ache that was all out of proportion to the small loss.

"Jamesie came without knocking, calling out softly, 'All work, no play -- finding it much easier; take a break.' He was halfway across the room to the big armchair beneath the window with his head held low when he stopped. 'What's up"' he asked.

"'We had a bit of bad luck.'

"'What sort?'

"'There was a late black lamb,' they said.

"'You can quit that,' he said. 'These things happen. Anybody with livestock is going to have deadstock. There's no use dwelling. You have to put all these things behind you. Otherwise you might as well throw it all up now and admit that you're no good.'

"As he spoke, the black lamb became an instant of beauty, safe by the side of the young ewe on the bank in the sun, and was gone. The beauty of that instant in the sun could only be kept now in the mind."

Industry Standards: Fact or Fiction?

2006-12-10T03:36:02+01:00

This phrase has puzzled many authors for years. What are the “industry standards” for a writer? There are many con artists who use this term to lure in unsuspecting writers and there are agents and editors who use this without offering any real explanation. Even authors who have written for decades can become puzzled when this phrase is tossed around without elaboration.

Aside from submission requirements (double-spaced, appropriate margins, last name and title in header, etc.), there is no set “industry standard.”

When you edit your work until it looks perfect, you have brought your manuscript up to industry standard. It will be up to industry standard when it is ready to submit to agents. There is no magical editing formula or method to guarantee publication or acceptance with any company. Your work is already “standard.” Writers work with their material, they constantly work to improve as a writer, and they produce the best piece they can. It is their own, “industry standard.”

That is all this term means. It isn’t a secret or mystery. Writers all differ and the work they produce is equally diverse. What is your standard will be different to the standards of others. This is precisely why there are no specific rules for the publishing industry. Every editor will differ and every agent will differ. Their personal preferences create what we know to be, “industry standard.”

In closing, you never have to wonder exactly what “industry standards,” are. The only rules are creating the best work we can and following submission guidelines wherever we query.

MY NAME IS SHERRY by VIKRAM KARVE

2006-12-01T08:50:47+01:00

MY NAME IS SHERRYByVIKRAM KARVEMy name is Sherry. I am a naughty young girl, I’m over seven months old and I live with my family in a lovely spacious bungalow surrounded by plenty of greenery. I wake up early in the morning, jump off my sofa, go to my father’s bed, rub my cold wet nose against his hand and give him a lick. He grunts and growls and opens his sleepy eyes, and the moment he sees me his face lights up and he lovingly caresses me and says, “Good Morning, Sherry,” and gets up from bed and opens the main door to let me jump out into the garden, do my ‘little job’ at my favorite place near the mango tree, generally dig in the soft morning mud a bit and sniff around to find out if there are any new morning smells, not forgetting to run and welcome the milkman the moment he comes on his cycle. When I return I find that my father is back in his bed and my mother is up and about. She pats and cuddles me and goes about her business making tea in the kitchen while I loiter around the house. She surreptitiously sneaks to the bedroom and slyly hands over a tidbit to my half sleeping father under the blanket when she thinks I am not looking. I pretend not to notice, as I do not want to spoil their fun. Earlier, when I was small and impatient, I used to snuffle out the tidbit from my father’s hand, but this spoilt his fun and he became grumpy, and now that I am a mature young girl well experienced in the ways of the human world I have realized that it is better to act dumb and let these humans think they are smarter than me. So I go outside, sit down and put on a look of anticipation towards the gate and pretend not to notice my mother hiding and peeping through the corner of the window and giggling to herself.The moment the newspaperman comes on his cycle and shouts ‘paper’, I rush to the gate and fetch the newspaper in my mouth, gripping it just right between my teeth, and hold it up to my horizontal father, who gets up, takes the paper from me and gives me the dog-biscuit he’s been hiding in his hand, as my mother, who has rushed behind me, watches me with loving pride in her eyes. My brother and my sister, who till now were fast asleep in the other room, call out my name, and as I dart between their beds wagging my tail, they both hug and cuddle me all over saying, “Good Morning, Sherry. Sherry is a good girl!” Everyone is cheerful and happy and my day has begun! I love my family, even though they are humans; and I love my house, my surroundings, the place I stay, the life I live – but before I tell you all that, let me tell you where I came from.My ‘ birth-mother’ is a ferocious Doberman who lives in a bungalow in Kothrud and my ‘dog-father’ is unknown, though they suspect it may be the Labrador next door (but the vet wanted proof, so in the column against breed he wrote ‘Doberman X’). I was a sickly weakling, hardly a month old, the only girl, last of the litter of eleven, and the owners were wondering what to do with me. Nine of my handsome brothers had already been selected and taken away, and the owners wanted to keep the tenth, the most beautiful and healthy of them all. They had kept me all alone separated from my ferocious Doberman mother who was growling menacingly in a cage nearby. No one wanted me and I could hear people whispering how ugly and weak I was and I wondered what fate lay in store for me. It hurt to be unwanted and when I heard people wanting to send me away to a farmhouse, or ‘dispose’ me of, I felt frightened when I wondered what was going to be my destiny. One evening a few people came over and a gentle woman with kindness in her eyes looked at me, and on the spur of the moment lovingly picked me up, and the way she tenderly snuggled me I felt true love for the first time. This was my new mother. They got into a car and drove across Pune, past Aundh, across the river, till they reached a bungalow. The kind woman was wondering what her husband’s reaction would be. It was dark. I was scared and cuddled up snugly my mother’s arms to feel safer. Suddenly I found a tough-looking bearded man staring at me. Shivering with fear I looked back at him in terror as he extended his hands towards me. But the moment he held me in his large cozy hands, caressed me lovingly and put his finger tenderly in my mouth, I felt protected, loved, safe and secure. This was my new father and he had already decided my name – Sherry – the same name of his earlier canine ‘daughter’. [‘Sherry’ means ‘beloved’ – not the wine drink you are thinking about!].“She was destined to come here,” my mother said.“Yes,” My father said feeding me warm milk.They made a nice warm bed for me in a basket and put it below theirs. And as I drifted into sleep, they both fondled me with their hands. I felt so wonderful and happy for the first time in my life. I had found my true home and my family.I am feeling quite sleepy now and I’ll end here and have a nap. If you want to know more about me, my delightfully mischievous life, and the naughty things I do, please let me know and I’ll tell you all about it! To be continued…VIKRAM KARVECopyright 2006 Vikram Karvevikramkarve@sify.comhttp://vikramkarve.sulekha.com

Metamorphosis

2006-07-21T13:30:16+02:00

METAMORPHOSIS (a fiction short story) By VIKRAM KARVE “I want to go home!” the father, a redoubtable looking old man, around seventy, shouts emphatically at his son. “Please Baba. Don’t create a scene,” the son, an effeminate looking man in his mid-forties, says softly. “What do you mean don’t create a scene?” the old man shouts even louder, waving his walking stick in a menacing manner. “Please calm down! Everyone is looking at us!” an old woman, in her mid-sixties, pleads with her husband. “Let them look! Let everyone see what an ungrateful son is doing to his poor old parents,” the old man says loudly, looking all around. “Ungrateful?” the son winces. “Yes, ungrateful! That’s what you are. We did everything for you; educated you, brought you up. And now you throw us out of our house into this bloody choultry.” “Choultry! You call this a choultry! Please Baba. This is a luxury township for senior citizens,” the son says. “It’s okay,” the old woman consoles her husband, “we’ll manage in this old age home.” “Mama, please!” the son implores in exasperation, “How many times have I told you. This is not an Old Age Home. It’s such a beautiful exclusive township for senior citizens to enjoy a happy and active life. And I’ve booked you a premium cottage – the best available here.” The mother looks at her son, and then at her husband, trapped between the two, not knowing what to say as both are right in their own way. So she says gently to her husband, “Try to understand. We’ll adjust here. See how scenic and green this place is. See there – what a lovely garden.” “I prefer Nana-Nani park. My friends are there,” the old man says. “You’ll make friends here too,” she says. “Friends! These half-dead highbrow snobs?” the old man says mockingly. “Okay,” the son intervenes, “you both can take long walks. The air is so pure and refreshing at this hill station.” “Listen you! Don’t try all this on me. I’ve been walking for the last fifty years on Marine Drive and that’s where I intend walking the rest of my life.” He turns to his wife and says peremptorily to her, “You pack our bags and let’s go back to Mumbai. We are not staying here!” “Try and adjust,” his wife beseeches him, “you’ll like the place. Look at the facilities here – there’s a modern health club, gym, library, recreation; everything is here.” “Gym? You want me to do body building at this age? Library? You know after my cataract I can hardly read the newspaper! And I can get all the recreation I need watching the sea at the Chowpatty.” “Please Baba, don’t be obstinate,” begs his son. “This place is so good for your health. They give you such delicious nourishing food here.” “Delicious? Nourishing? The bloody sterile stuff tastes like hospital food. I can’t stand it – where will I get Sardar’s Pav Bhaji, Kyani’s Kheema Pav, Vinay’s Misal, Satam’s Vada Pav, Delhi Durbar’s Biryani, Sarvi’s Boti kababs, Fish in Anantashram in Khotachi wadi next door…” “Please Baba! All you can think of is horrible oily spicy street-food which you should not eat at your age! With your cholesterol and sugar levels, you’ll die if you continue eating that stuff.” “I’d rather die of a heart attack in Mumbai enjoying the good food I like rather than suffer a slow death here trying to eat this insipid tasteless nonsense.” The old man looks at his wife and commands, “Listen. Just pack up. We are not staying here like glorified slaves in this golden cage. One month here in this godforsaken place has made me almost mad. We are going right back to our house in Girgaum to live with dignity!” “Please Baba. Don’t be difficult. I have to leave for the states tonight,” the son pleads desperately. “I’m trying to do the best possible for you. You know the huge amount I’ve paid as advance to book this place for you?” “You go back to your family in America. I’m going back to my house in Girgaum! That’s final!” the old man affirms to his son. He looks at his wife and says, “You want to come along? Or should I go back alone?” “Mama, please tell him,” the son looks at his mother. The old woman looks lovingly at her husband, puts her hand on his arm and says softly, “Please try to understand. We have to live here. There’s no house in Girgaum. Our tenement chawl has been sold to a builder. They are building a commercial complex there.” “What?” the old man looks at his wife as if he is pole-axed, “you too!” And suddenly his defenses crumble and he disintegrates; the metamorphosis in his personality is unbelievable as he meekly holds his wife’s hand for support and obediently walks with her towards their cottage. VIKRAM KARVE vikramkarve@sify.com

My Story

2006-07-19T12:04:00+02:00

MY STORY (a fiction short story) by VIKRAM KARVE It all started when God took my baby brother away. Poor thing! God took him away even before he was born. And Mamma was never the same again; she changed forever. We were so happy then. My Papa, my Mamma, Granny and me. We all lived in a cute little house in a place called Madiwale Colony in Sadashiv Peth in Pune. In the morning Papa caught the company bus to his factory in Pimpri and Mamma walked me down to my school nearby on Bajirao Road. And the evenings we all went to the Talyatla Ganpati temple in Saras Baug, played on the lush green lawns, and if Papa was in a good mood he would treat me to a yummy Bhel prepared by the man with the huge flowing beard at the Kalpana Bhel stall on the way back. On Sundays we would go to Laxmi Road for shopping, Misal at Santosh Bhavan, Amba ice cream at Ganu Shinde and, maybe, a Marathi movie at Prabhat, Vijay or Bhanuvilas. And once in a while, Papa would take us on his Bajaj scooter to Camp, or a ride on the Jangli Maharaj Road, or to picnic spots like Khadakvasla and Katraj lakes, or up Sinhagarh Fort, and once we even went all the way to Lonavala; Papa, Mamma and me, all riding on our beloved and hardy scooter. It was a good life, and we were happy and content. Two things are a must for a happy home – firstly, you should love your home, and always want to go home (your home should be the best place in the world for you); and, secondly, your home should love you, want you to come, beckon you, welcome you and like you to live in it. Our cute little house in Sadashiv Peth with all the loving people in living in it was indeed a happy home. And I had lots of friends all around. One day they all said Mamma was going to have a baby. Being a girl myself, I wanted a baby sister to play with, but Granny scolded me and said it must be a baby brother, so I said okay – I would manage with a baby brother. And suddenly one day, when Mamma’s tummy was bloating quite a bit, they rushed her to hospital, and God took my unborn baby brother away. And Mamma changed forever. I sat beside Mamma in the hospital and consoled her, “Don’t worry. God will send another baby brother.” And on hearing this Mamma started crying and said she would never have a baby again and I was her only baby. She looked pale and had a sad look in her eyes for many days even after leaving hospital. Most of the time she would sit alone brooding by the window or moping all alone in her room. “She’ll go crazy sitting in the house all day. She must do something!” everyone said, but Papa was adamant : “Who’ll look after the house, my mother, my daughter?” he asked. “Don’t worry, I’ll manage everything,” Granny said, so Mamma joined a Computer class nearby. And soon she started becoming normal again. “She’s a natural programmer,” everyone praised her, and when she finished the course she was offered a good job in a top software firm. “No way,” said Papa, “I’m the breadwinner. I don’t want my wife to work. I want her to look after the house.” “MCP,” said everyone to Papa. I didn’t know what MCP meant, but it made Papa very angry. “Let her work. I’ll manage the house,” Granny said. “Don’t worry, Papa. I’m a big girl now and can look after myself. I’ll study regularly and come first,” I promised. And so, Mamma started working. And when she brought her first pay and gave it to Papa, he said proudly, “I’ll be the last person to touch my wife’s money, to live off my wife.” So my Mamma gave the money to Granny and Papa didn’t say a thing, he just sulked for days. Life was hectic now. Mamma got up very early, cooked the food, did the housework, got ready and then both Papa and Mamma caught their respective company buses to their faraway workplaces – he to his factory in Pimpri and she to the IT Park. And after that Granny made me ready and I walked down Bajirao Road to my school. One day my Mamma’s boss came home with Mamma. He said the company wanted to send Mamma abroad to the US for working on a project. He had come home to convince Papa to let her go. I thought Papa would argue, and hoped he would not let her go, but surprisingly he meekly agreed, probably thinking it was futile to argue, and Mamma went away to the States for three months. That was a turning point in our lives. There was an IT boom and Mamma started doing better and better. Papa felt jealous that she was earning more than him, so he took VRS and started a business selling spare parts. And then a competition started between them, and soon they were making so much money that Sadashiv Peth wasn’t a good enough place to stay in any longer as it did not befit their new found status! So we moved to a luxury apartment in a fancy township in a posh area of Pune, and I was put in a school known more for its snob appeal than studies. Our new house was in a beautiful colony, far away from the city, with landscaped gardens, clubhouse, swimming pool, gym and so many facilities. It was so luxurious and people living there so elite that Granny and I were miserable. “It’s like a 5 star prison,” she would say. She was right in one way. For the whole day when we were away she was trapped inside with nothing to but watch soaps on cable TV. I too missed our cute old house in Sadashiv Peth, the Bhel, the trips to Saras Baug and Laxmi Road and most of all my earlier friends who were so friendly unlike the snobbish people here. Oh yes, this was indeed a better house, but our old place in Sadashiv Peth was certainly a better home! But Granny and me – we managed somehow, as Mamma increased her trips abroad and Papa was busy expanding his flourishing business. And suddenly one day God took Granny away. Mamma was abroad in the States on an important project and she just couldn’t come immediately. She came back after one month and for days Papa and she kept discussing something. I sensed it was about me. And tomorrow morning, I’m off to an elite boarding school in Panchgani. I don’t know whether what has happened is good or bad, or what is going to happen in future, but one thing is sure: If God hadn’t taken my baby brother away, I wouldn’t be going to boarding school! VIKRAM KARVE vikramkarve@sify.com

LPO

2006-07-03T08:35:00+02:00

LPO - LIFE PROCESS OUTSOURCING

( a fiction short story )

VIKRAM KARVE

On the morning of New Year’s Eve, while I am loafing on

Main Street

, in Pune, I meet an old friend of mine.

“Hi!” I say. “Hi,” he says, “where to?” “Aimless loitering,” I say, “And you?” “I’m going to work.” “Work? This early? I thought your shift starts in the evening, or late at night. You work at a call center don’t you?” “Not now. I quit. I’m on my own now.” “On your own? What do you do?” “LPO.” “LPO? What’s that?” “Life Process Outsourcing.” “Life Process Outsourcing? Never heard of it!” “You’ve heard of Business Process Outsourcing haven’t you?” “BPO? Outsourcing non-core business activities and functions?” “Precisely. LPO is similar to BPO. There it’s Business Processes that are outsourced, here it’s Life Processes.” “Life Processes? Outsourced?” “Why don’t you come along with me? I’ll show you.” Soon we are in his office. It looks like a mini call center. A young attractive girl welcomes us. “Meet Rita, my Manager,” my friend says, and introduces us. Rita looks distraught, and says to my friend, “I’m not feeling well. Must be viral fever.” “No problem. My friend here will stand in.” “What? I don’t have a clue about all this LPO thing!” I protest. “There’s nothing like learning on the job! Rita will show you.” “It’s simple,” Rita says, in a hurry. “See the console. You just press the appropriate switch and route the call to the appropriate person or agency.” And with these words she disappears. It’s the shortest training I have ever had in my life. And so I plunge into the world of Life Process Outsourcing; or LPO as they call it. It’s all very simple. Working people don’t seem to have time these days, but they have lots of money; especially those double income couples, IT nerds, MBA hot shots, finance wizards; just about everybody in the modern rat race. ‘Non-core Life Activities’, for which they neither have the inclination or the time – outsource them; so you can maximize your work-time to rake in the money and make a fast climb up the ladder of success. “My daughter’s puked in her school. They want someone to pick her up and take her home. I’m busy in a shoot and just can’t leave,” a creative ad agency type says. “Why don’t you tell your husband?” I say. “Are you crazy or something? I’m a single mother.” “Sorry ma’am. I didn’t know. My sympathies and condolences.” “Condolences? Who’s this? Is this LPO?” “Yes ma’am,” I say, press the button marked ‘children’ and transfer the call, hoping I have made the right choice. Maybe I should have pressed ‘doctor’. Nothing happens for the next few moments. I breathe a sigh of relief. A yuppie wants his grandmother to be taken to a movie. I press the ‘movies’ button. ‘Movies’ transfers the call back, “Hey, this is for movie tickets; try ‘escort services’. He wants the old hag escorted to the movies.” ‘Escort Services’ are in high demand. These guys and girls, slogging in their offices minting money, want escort services for their kith and kin for various non-core family processes like shopping, movies, eating out, sight seeing, marriages, funerals, all types of functions; even going to art galleries, book fairs, exhibitions, zoos, museums or even a walk in the nearby garden. A father wants someone to read bedtime stories to his small son while he works late. A busy couple wants proxy stand-in ‘parents’ at the school PTA meeting. An investment banker rings up from Singapore; he wants his mother to be taken to pray in a temple at a certain time on a specific day. Someone wants his kids to be taken for a swim, brunch, a play and browsing books and music. An IT project manager wants someone to motivate and pep-talk her husband, who’s been recently sacked, and is cribbing away at home demoralized. He desperately needs someone to talk to, unburden himself, but the wife is busy – she neither has the time nor the inclination to take a few days off to boost the morale of her depressed husband when there are deadlines to be met at work and so much is at stake. The things they want outsourced range from the mundane to the bizarre; life processes that one earlier enjoyed and took pride in doing or did as one’s sacred duty are considered ‘non-core life activities’ now-a-days by these highfalutin people. At the end of the day I feel illuminated on this novel concept of Life Process Outsourcing, and I am about to leave, when suddenly a call comes in. “LPO?” a man asks softly. “Yes, this is LPO. May I help you?” I say. “I’m speaking from Frankfurt Airport. I really don’t know if I can ask this?” he says nervously. “Please go ahead and feel free to ask anything you desire, Sir. We do everything.” “Everything?” “Yes, Sir. Anything and everything!” I say. “I don’t know how to say this. This is the first time I’m asking. You see, I am working 24/7 on an important project for the last few months. I’m globetrotting abroad and can’t make it there. Can you please arrange for someone suitable to take my wife out to the New Year’s Eve Dance?” I am taken aback but quickly recover, “Yes, Sir.” “Please send someone really good, an excellent dancer, and make sure she enjoys and has a good time. She loves dancing and I just haven’t had the time.” “Of course, Sir.” “And I told you – I’ve been away abroad for quite some time now and I’ve got to stay out here till I complete the project.” “I know. Work takes top priority.” “My wife. She’s been lonely. She desperately needs some love. Do you have someone with a loving and caring nature who can give her some love? I just don’t have the time. You understand what I’m saying, don’t you?” I let the words sink in. This is one call I am not going to transfer. “Please give me the details, Sir,” I say softly into the mike. As I walk towards my destination with a spring in my step, I feel truly enlightened. Till this moment, I never knew that ‘love’ was a non-core life process worthy of outsourcing. Long Live Life Process Outsourcing! Life Process Outsourcing (LPO) (a fiction short story) by VIKRAM KARVE vikramkarve@sify.com

A short story by Vikram Karve - the possibilities are endless

2006-06-28T12:30:53+02:00

THE POSSIBILITIES ARE ENDLESS

(a fiction short story)

VIKRAM KARVE

The Mysore Race Course is undoubtedly the most picturesque race course in India. The lush green grass track, the verdant expanse right up to the foot of the rugged Chamundi hills which serve as a magnificent backdrop with the mighty temple atop, standing like a sentinel. The luxuriant ambience is so delightful and soothing to the eye that it instantly lifts one’s spirit. And on this bright morning on the first Saturday of October, the atmosphere was so refreshing that I felt as if I were on top of the world!

“I love this place, it’s so beautiful,” I said.

“And lucky too,” Girish added. “I have already made fifty grand. And I’m sure Bingo will win the Derby tomorrow.”

Girish appraisingly looked at the horses being paraded in the paddock, suddenly excused himself and briskly walked towards the Bookies’ betting ring.

I still can’t describe the shock I experienced when I suddenly saw Dilip, bold as brass, standing bang-on in front of me, appearing as if from nowhere. “Excuse me, ma’am,” he said. “I think you have dropped this.” In his hand was tote jackpot ticket.

He was looking at me in a funny sort of way, neither avoiding my eyes nor seeking them. I understood at once. I took the tote ticket he proffered, put it in my purse and thanked him. He smiled, turned and briskly walked away towards the first enclosure.

I felt a tremor of trepidation, but as I looked around I realized that no one had noticed in the hustle-bustle of the race-course. As I waited for my husband to emerge from the bookies’ betting ring, in my mind’s eye I marveled at the finesse with which Dilip had cleverly stage-managed the encounter to make it look completely accidental.

It was only in the solitude of my hotel room, after lunch, that I took out the jackpot ticket and examined it. I smiled to myself. The simplest substitution cipher. A last minute resort for immediate emergency communication. That meant Dilip wasn’t shadowing me; he hadn’t even expected me at the Mysore race-course. But having suddenly seen me, wanted to make contact. So he had contrived the encounter, and left further initiative to me. The ball was now squarely in my court.

I scribbled the five numbers of the jackpot combination on a piece of paper. For racing buff it was an unlikely jackpot combination which did not win and the ticket was worthless. But for me it was contained some information since I knew how to decipher it. To the five numbers I added the two numbers of my birth-date. I now had seven numbers and from each I subtracted Dilip’s single digit birth-date and in front of me I had a seven digit combination. I picked up the telephone and dialed (Mysore still had seven digit telephone numbers). It was a travel agency – a nice cover. I didn’t identify myself but only said, “Railway Enquiry?”

“Oh, Yes, madam,” a male voice answered. I recognized it at once. It was Dilip, probably anxiously waiting for my call. “You are booked on our evening sightseeing tour. Seat no. 13. The coach will be at your hotel at 3 in the afternoon. And don’t carry your mobile with you. We don’t want to be tracked.”

I looked at my watch. It was almost 2:30. Time for a quick wash. I tore up tote ticket and scribble paper and flushed it down the toilet. It was too dangerous to keep them around once their utility was over. And should ticket fall into the wrong hands, one couldn’t underestimate anybody. For human ingenuity cannot concoct a cipher which human ingenuity cannot resolve.

The tourist bus arrived precisely at 3 o’clock and soon I was in seat No. 13, a window seat. I had hardly sat down when Dilip occupied the adjacent seat No. 14. He was carrying the ubiquitous tourist bag, but I knew what was inside - the tools of his tradecraft.

“Thanks for coming, Vibha,” he said.

“I was scared you’d do something stupid, indiscreet.” I scolded him.

“You haven’t told your husband about your past?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“Tell him now. There’s no place for secrets between husband and wife”

“I can’t. I don’t want to. It’s too late now.” I was getting a bit impatient now. “Listen, Dilip. This is dangerous. What do you want? My husband…….”

“He’s gone to Ooty. It’s a four hours’ drive. Should be half-way by now,” Dilip interjected looking at his watch.

“He is coming back tomorrow.”

“I know. In time for the Mysore Derby. Your horse Bingo is running, isn’t it?”

“How do you know all this?”

“It’s common knowledge. Besides I make a living prying into other people’s lives.” Dilip paused for a moment. “Don’t worry, Vibha. The races start only at two tomorrow afternoon. We’ve got plenty of time together. He won’t know. I promise you.”

The bus stopped. We had arrived at the Mysore Palace.

“Come, Vibha. Let me take your photo,” Dilip said, talking out his camera.

“No,” I snapped.

“Okay. You take mine. I’ll stand there. Make sure you get the Palace in the frame.” He gave me the camera and said, “Have a look. It’s a special camera. I’ll focus the zoom lens if you want.”

I pointed the camera in the direction of the palace and looked through the viewfinder. But the palace wasn’t in the frame. The camera had a ninety degree prismatic zoom lens. I could see the tourists from our bus crowding around the shoe-stand about fifty meters to my left, depositing their shoes.

“Who?” I asked.

“Lady in the sky-blue sari, long hair. Man in the yellow T-shirt and jeans, still wearing his Ray Ban aviator.”

I happily clicked away, a number of photos, the target couple not once realizing that it was they who were in my frame.

“I don’t think they are having an affair,” I said, once we were inside the cool confines of the Mysore Palace, admiring the wall paintings of the Dasera procession. “The boy looks so young and handsome. And she’s middle-aged and her looks- so pedestrian. A most improbable combination.”

“That’s why the affair is flourishing for so long!”

I gave Dilip a quizzical look.

“Three years,” Dilip said. “It’s going on for over three years. The woman is a widow. She gets a maintenance from her in-laws’ property. They want to stop it.”

“I don’t understand,” I said.

“The right of a widow to maintenance is conditional upon her leading a life of chastity.”

“What nonsense!”

“That’s what the lawyer told me. The one who commissioned this investigation,” Dilip said. “They’ll probably use this evidence to coerce her into signing-off everything. Maybe even her children.”

“What if she doesn’t agree ?”

“Then we’ll intensify the surveillance. A ‘no holds barred’ investigation. Two-way mirrors with installed video cameras, bugs with recording equipment,” Dilip paused, and said, “In fact, in this case I’m so desperate for success that I’m even considering computer morphing if nothing else works.”

I was shocked. “Isn’t it morally disgusting? To do all these things. Extortion. Blackmail. To what length does one go?”

“Once you have the right information, the possibilities are endless,” Dilip said softly, “It’s not my concern to worry about moral and ethical issues. I never ask the question ‘why’. I just state my fee. And even if I do know why, I’ve made it a policy never to show that I understand what other people are up to.”

“What are you up to? With me?” I asked.

Dilip did not answer. He just smiled and led me towards our bus. I was glad I had not married Dilip. I had never known he could sink to such depths. I hated him for the way he was using me. Taking advantage of my fear, my helplessness. The bastard.

Nalini, my elder sister, had been right about Dilip. But for her timely intervention, I would have married Dilip. Even eloped with him. I shudder to think what life would have been like had I married Dilip.

“It’s beautiful,” Dilip said, looking at the famous painting - ‘Lady with the Lamp’ - at the Mysore Museum.

“Yes,” I answered, jolted out of my thoughts.

“Remember, Vibha. The last time we were here. It’s been almost ten years.”

I did not answer, but I clearly remembered. It was our college tour. And Dilip had quickly pulled me into a dark corner and kissed me on the lips. A stolen kiss. My first kiss. How could I ever forget?

“Vibha. Tell me honestly. Why did you ditch me so suddenly, so mercilessly?”

“Nalini told me not to marry you,” I said involuntarily, instantly regretting my words.

“And then she forced you to marry Girish, your brother-in-law.”

“Girish is not my brother-in-law. He is my co-brother.”

“Co-brother indeed! He is the younger brother of your elder sister Nalini’s husband. So he is your brother in law also isn’t it?” Dilip said sarcastically.

“So what?” I snapped angrily. “It’s not illegal. Two brothers marrying two sisters. And it’s none of your business.”

“Business!” Dilip said. “That’s it. Two sisters marry two brothers. So it’s all in the family. The business. The money. The tea estates and coffee plantations. The industries. The property. Everything.”

“So that’s what you had your eyes on, didn’t you? My father’s property!” I knew it was a cruel thing to say and I could see that Dilip was genuinely hurt. Instinctively I realized that Dilip was still in love with me. Maybe he was jealous of my successful marriage, my happiness and probably my wealth, my status in society and that’s what had made him bitter. But seeing the expression on his face I knew that Dilip would not harm me, for he was indeed truly in love with me. “I’m sorry, Dilip. Forget the past and let’s get on with our surveillance,” I said looking at the ‘target’ couple.

And so we reached the magnificent Brindavan gardens, posing as tourists in the growing crowd of humanity, stalking the couple, taking their photographs as they romantically watched the water, gushing through the sluice gates of Krishnarajasagar dam, forming a rainbow admits the spraying surf.

After sunset we enjoyed the performance at the musical fountain sitting right behind the ‘couple’. Suddenly, the lights went out, everyone stood up and started moving. Trying to adjust our eyes to the enveloping darkness, we desperately tried not to lose track of target couple as they made their way, in the confusion, towards “Lovers’ Park.”

It was pitch dark. But through the lens of the night vision device I could clearly discern two silhouettes, an eerie blue-green against the infrared background. The images were blurred and tended to merge as the two figures embraced each other, but that did not matter since I knew that the infrared camera would process the signal through an image intensifier before recording, rendering crystal-clear photo quality pictures.

“Let’s go,” Dilip whispered, and we stealthily negotiated our way out, but in hindsight, there was really no need to be clandestine about it since we were just another couple ostensibly having a good time in the dense foliage of “Lover’s Park” as it was known.

Pondering over the day’s events I realized how right Dilip had been. Surveillance involves hours of shadowing and stalking training and tracking your target, sitting for hours in all sports of places like hotels, restaurants, parks, cars etc, hanging around airports, railway stations, bus stands or even on the streets, waiting and watching. A man and a woman would appear for less conspicuous than a single man or a pair of men. And if they look like a married couple it’s even better for the cover.

I wondered why I’d agreed to do all this. Maybe because I felt a sense of guilt, a sort of an obligation that I owed Dilip. Any girl always has a feeling of dept towards a decent man who she has ditched. Or maybe because I wanted to find out what life would have been like had I married Dilip. Or maybe because I was scared that Dilip would blackmail me. Dilip was the only secret I had kept from my husband – a skeleton I wanted to keep firmly locked away in the cupboard. I guess it was a combination of all the above reasons,

The tourist bus reached my hotel at precisely 9.30 p.m. Before getting down from the bus, Dilip handed over the bag containing the infrared device, special cameras and all paraphernalia to a man sitting right behind us.

“Who was that man?” I asked after the bus drove away with the man in it.

“Never mind,” Dilip said leading me into the foyer of the hotel.

“No,” I insisted. “I want to know.”

“It is sometimes important for an operative conducting surveillance to put himself under observation.”

At first the sentence sounded innocuous, but gradually comprehension began to dawn on me, and as I realized the import of those words I experienced a chill of panic. All sorts of thoughts entered my brain. Photographs of Dilip and me. The man may even have bugged our conversation. The possibilities were endless. I looked at Dilip. Didn’t he have any scruples? My impulse was to run to my room and lock myself up. But when Dilip invited me to have dinner with him in the restaurant I knew I dared not refuse. I had no choice. Dilip now had me at his mercy. He had his manacles on me. The only way to escape Dilip’s clutches was to tell Girish everything. But could I? Especially after today! I couldn’t even bring myself to imagine the consequences.

After dinner I invited Dilip to my room for a cup of coffee. I knew it was suicidal but I had decided to give Dilip what he wanted and get rid of him, out of my life, forever.

The moment we entered the room, the phone rang. It was for Dilip- a man’s voice - probably the same man sitting behind us in the bus.

Dilip took the receiver from my hands and spoke, “I told you not to ring up here……… What?........But how is that possible ?......... Oh, my God! I am coming at once.”

“What happened?” I asked him.

“We got the wrong couple on the infrared camera in Lovers’ Park. Couldn’t you see properly?”

“No, I said. “Just blurred images.”

Instinctively I rushed with Dilip to his office-cum-laboratory. He told me not to come, but I did not listen, a strange inner force propelling me.

I looked at the blurred images on the PC monitor. Then as Dilip kept zooming, enhancing the magnification and focus, the images started becoming clear, and as I watched something started happening inside me and I could sense my heartbeats rise.

It was Nalini and Girish. Or Girish and Nalini. Whichever way you like it. It doesn’t matter. Or does it? Nalini, my elder sister - the very person instrumental in arranging my marriage to Girish. And Girish - my beloved ‘faithful’ husband. Their expressions so confident, so happy, so carefree. So sure they would never be found out. So convenient. How long was this going on? Living a lie. Deep down I felt terribly betrayed. I felt as if I had been pole-axed, a sharp sensation drilling into my vitals, my stomach curdling as I threw up my dinner.

It was extraordinary how clear my mind became all of a sudden. “Listen, Dilip,” I said emphatically, “I want a full-scale comprehensive surveillance. Two-way mirrors, bugs, video, audio - the works. A no-holds barred investigation. And dig up the past. I want everything.”

“No, Vibha !” Dilip said. “I can’t do it.”

“You can’t do it or you won’t do it?” I asserted. “Listen, Dilip. You have to do it. I want you to do it.”

“Why, Vibha. Why?”

I smiled and said, “Dilip, remember what you said in the afternoon; your motto : You never ask the question ‘why’. You just state your fee.” I paused. “So Dilip. Just state your fee!”

“But, Vibha. What would you do with all this information?” Dilip protested.

“The possibilities are endless,” I said, almost licking my lips in anticipation as I could feel the venom rising within me. “Yes indeed! The possibilities are endless!”

THE POSSIBILITIES ARE ENDLESS

(A fiction short story)

VIKRAM KARVE

vikramkarve@sify.com

THE POSSIBILITIES ARE ENDLESS

(a fiction short story)

VIKRAM KARVE

“I love this place, it’s so beautiful,” I said.

“And lucky too,” Girish added. “I have already made fifty grand. And I’m sure Bingo will win the Derby tomorrow.”

Girish appraisingly looked at the horses being paraded in the paddock, suddenly excused himself and briskly walked towards the Bookies’ betting ring.

“Thanks for coming, Vibha,” he said.

“I was scared you’d do something stupid, indiscreet.” I scolded him.

“You haven’t told your husband about your past?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“Tell him now. There’s no place for secrets between husband and wife”

“I can’t. I don’t want to. It’s too late now.” I was getting a bit impatient now. “Listen, Dilip. This is dangerous. What do you want? My husband…….”

“He’s gone to Ooty. It’s a four hours’ drive. Should be half-way by now,” Dilip interjected looking at his watch.

“He is coming back tomorrow.”

“I know. In time for the Mysore Derby. Your horse Bingo is running, isn’t it?”

“How do you know all this?”

The bus stopped. We had arrived at the Mysore Palace.

“Come, Vibha. Let me take your photo,” Dilip said, talking out his camera.

“No,” I snapped.

“Who?” I asked.

“Lady in the sky-blue sari, long hair. Man in the yellow T-shirt and jeans, still wearing his Ray Ban aviator.”

I happily clicked away, a number of photos, the target couple not once realizing that it was they who were in my frame.

“That’s why the affair is flourishing for so long!”

I gave Dilip a quizzical look.

“Three years,” Dilip said. “It’s going on for over three years. The woman is a widow. She gets a maintenance from her in-laws’ property. They want to stop it.”

“I don’t understand,” I said.

“The right of a widow to maintenance is conditional upon her leading a life of chastity.”

“What nonsense!”

“What if she doesn’t agree ?”

I was shocked. “Isn’t it morally disgusting? To do all these things. Extortion. Blackmail. To what length does one go?”

“What are you up to? With me?” I asked.

“It’s beautiful,” Dilip said, looking at the famous painting - ‘Lady with the Lamp’ - at the Mysore Museum.

“Yes,” I answered, jolted out of my thoughts.

“Remember, Vibha. The last time we were here. It’s been almost ten years.”

“Vibha. Tell me honestly. Why did you ditch me so suddenly, so mercilessly?”

“Nalini told me not to marry you,” I said involuntarily, instantly regretting my words.

“And then she forced you to marry Girish, your brother-in-law.”

“Girish is not my brother-in-law. He is my co-brother.”

“Co-brother indeed! He is the younger brother of your elder sister Nalini’s husband. So he is your brother in law also isn’t it?” Dilip said sarcastically.

“So what?” I snapped angrily. “It’s not illegal. Two brothers marrying two sisters. And it’s none of your business.”

Life of Pi

2006-06-13T16:05:00+02:00

Life of Pi by Yann Martel is the kind of book you can’t talk about without revealing the whole plot or what the book is all about.All I can say is that Life of Pi is a fascinating story. It is a classical survivor story (a teenage boy stuck on a lifeboat) but it has many intricacies and surprises.I enjoyed it very much!Now that I think about it, it is an interesting book to study with a Terminale (last year of Hig School), literature speciality. Because it is not too long, it is not too difficult (well maybe the vocabulary would be a bit challenging) and above all, it is very interesting to discuss the book with others! Because it raises many questions and doubts – above all towards the end. I am sure the students would enjoy it ! Life of Pi has received the Man Booker Prize 2002.

If you read the book, you’ll understand why I’ve put this image ! ***************** SPOILER ****************For those who’ve read the book and want to talk about it, I have to say that at first, like everybody I guess, I thought the story was true, as the author makes us believe. When I came towards the end, I really started to think that it was an extraordinary story. But I still didn’t question the reality of it. Yes, I am a bit naive !!!! The end left me puzzled. I started to doubt. After a quick search on the internet, my doubts were confirmed: it is indeed a work of fiction.Wow. And shit. I wanted to believe it. But the trick is good. For more reading:http://www.powells.com/fromtheauthor/martel.htmlHow the author got inspired.http://www.book-club.co.nz/books/13lifeofpi.htmA good review.Extracts from the review:“Martel's talent combines both suspense and beauty, horror and philosophy, gritty reality and quirky allegory. It is imaginative, it is strange, it is profound. It surprises you and makes you wonder. Above all, its haunting questions linger with you. I highly recommend it. Martel is a master of creating a fiction."Liz Fraser"Should fiction be believable?"Good question. I've still not made my mind up about the questions the book raises concerning fiction and reality. I would be glad to share them with you in comments.

Demon Seed:: Dean Koontz

2006-02-05T09:00:00+01:00

Book Review: Demon Seed

Let me start this book review by saying that I am a Dean Koontz fan. I used to be hardcore, but ever since having my kids, I dropped the Koontz books and opted for Miriam Stoppard instead. But now my kids are a little bit more independent, I am back to Koontz. Now, the book….Demon Seed, eh?

Hhmmm…an artificial intelligence program gone awry. A psychopathic, maniacal computer malfunctioning causing mayhem within the house that it (he) controls. A woman spending her life trapped and abused by men…and then now, a computer (also a man, it seems to believe).

I admit, the concept of a psychopathic computer trying to manipulate the feeble human race is nothing new. There has been movies and books…and songs written about it. The concept itself is intriguing – although at times laughable, I assure you. But it’s all in good fun. You’ve just got to leave everything behind, logic, facts, doubts, everything behind. Pretend you’re not smart at all.

Demon Seed is indeed revolutionary by virtue of the fact that the book was first published when I was born…(that’s 1973, by the way) and when I was born, the smartest computer probably weighed about 10 tons! So, for Dean Koontz to write something like this in complete detail is probably quite a bit of a challenge. But Dean Koontz rewrote it in 1997, 20 years later, adding some newer gadgets and technology bits into it. The Internet, intranetworking systems, genetic engineering…blah blah blah…like I know the difference.

The most interesting thing about Demon Seed is that Dean Koontz wrote this in the first person voice. Which means to say that the entire book is a narrative from the computer. Often you’ll find the psychopathic computer trying to reinforce a point by repeating itself…like I am a kind soul. I am a kind soul. I really am a kind soul. I am a really, really, REALLY kind soul. Pretty much the way a psychopathic computer should act – I suppose. Or perhaps even child of 2 who is trying to get an extra lollipop. Who knows?

But the fact that the book was written in the first voice is very fresh and interesting. It gives us a very refreshing look into the purported behavior of a computer that malfunctions and begins to develop what it (he) thinks are feelings and emotions. However, this advantage is also the DISadvantage. Miss Susan Harris, the lead female character in this story, lacks a voice. Very little chance is given to the female lead to tell us, the readers, what is going through her mind except through the computer’s narrative about what he sees.

The innocence and confusion of the computer is also quite intriguing. In fact, its attempts to be sexy and as humanly as possible is hilarious! I don’t want to spoil your fun but then there was a point where the computer wanted to appear sexy (duh!?) to Susan and the only data it (he) could gather on sexiness is from books and whatever that is published on the Internet. Therefore, he often said things like…. “I think your breasts are really pretty”. Guffaw!! Guffaw! Choke! Ssssseeeeexxxxyyyyy…….

I have very few complaints about this book but one of the biggest complaints about it is the fact that the ending was so rushed I didn’t have the time to absorb it, no time to feel anything apart from….it’s ended? When? My suggestion would have been for Dean Koontz to have given the last few paragraphs or the last chapter to Miss Susan and tell us her side of the story.

It would have been perfect then.

It would have been perfect.

It would.

Really, it would have been perfect.

Simply perfect.

Book review published on Friday the 13th!!!

2006-01-12T11:35:00+01:00

I am not a very superstitious person and sometimes can be quite aloof when it comes to things like stepping over cracks and under ladders….but still!

My book review for “The Star” on the book ‘It’s called a breakup because it’s broken” is published on FRIDAY the 13^th (hear the Twilight Zone song yet?)

So far, nothing untoward has happened to me today…yet...partly due to the fact I've been sleeping the whole day because of late night working on client’s website and is still kind of groggy right now. Touch wood, touch wood.

But sometimes I think the famous Friday the 13^th is all fiction and no fact. Why would it be bad luck day only on Friday the 13^th? Fear of Friday the 13^th has a scientific name, by the way, and it’s called paraskevidekatriaphobia. (I dare you to try to pronounce that!)

Points to ponder:-

If Friday the 13^th is an unlucky day, the whole world will suffer at the same time and nobody will win lottery on this day.
Friday the 13^th is really all fiction because it’s a complete national (International?) unfounded trepidation
The stock market will crash on Friday the 13^th
It’s all in the mind. Ever heard of THAT one? If you think Friday the 13^th is going to be a bad day…by golly, you’ll get nothing but bad luck all day. But if you snub your nose at the notion, you will have none of the ill fortune
Nobody should go to work on Friday the 13^th because nothing will go right. The printer will not work, the coffee machine will explode, virus will penetrate the intranet, files will be corrupted, clients will leave, documents and legal agreements will be lost…etc
Nobody gets married on Friday the 13^th
Nobody will ever give birth on Friday the 13^th
Nobody will go to the doctor or dentist on Friday the 13^th
Nobody will start a new job on Friday the 13^th, lest they get fired on the spot for no apparent reason.
Nobody will buy insurance or shares on Friday the 13^th

Imagine, the world would have complete stopped spinning because…it’s black Friday.