One Great Reason to Buy a Book this Winter

  The early Kindle release of my new novel Jury Rig is now available from Amazon.  If you're interested, just follow this link to purchase the book for only $4.48.  That’s over 60% off the cover price.  The Kindle edition can also be downloaded for iPhone and Android.  If you are enrolled in Amazon Prime, you can borrow the book for free.  All around, it's a pretty good deal, and in addition to all of this, you're going to love the book.  You can read the summaries that go along with the book, but I'll add a little more personal detail here.
  I once read a wonderful story about Dostoyevsky that goes something like this:  In a letter to Ivan Turgenev, Dostoyevsky began to describe a book he was just beginning to write.  He had in mind to write a story about the most pure man that had ever lived.  Someone like Christ.  He accomplished this by penning The Idiot, which is great, because that sounds like the punchline to a joke.  But I was intrigued by the idea that Dostoyevsky would begin one of his five great novels in such a way.  So when I had finished a novel a few years ago, I asked myself what I would like to write next.  I'm not sure why, but an idea crept into my head.  I wanted to write a book about a criminal who didn't want to pay for his crimes, but he wanted society to forgive him for his crimes.  That sounded pretty odd, so I sat down for six months or so, in between the actual chaos of life, and I crafted what turned out to be a very entertaining book on this subject.  (I can say it is entertaining due to the always positive response I hear from anyone who's read it.)  There was actually a pretty serious hurricane that interrupted the work I put into this.  Which, as you'll find out if you read the book, is quite apropos.
  So now the book has been through the difficult process of editing, polishing, polishing it more, with even more polishing after that.  My family is a little sick of it, and all I can say is thanks to each of them for all of their help and ideas and opinions.  And after all of this time, Jury Rig is now available for all to see and enjoy.
  I could be lazy and simply tell you that Jury Rig is just a Mystery.  Or I could say the same thing by switching out the word mystery and replacing it with Thriller.  Or even Courtroom Drama.  I could actually say Pirate Adventure story, and I wouldn't be lying.  It's all of those things, and yet really it's a comedy, too.  I'd like to tell you why pirates take over a boat full of whining, bickering, and generally unpleasant people.  But if I did, you might later wish I hadn't so that you could enjoy the book much more with less foreknowledge.
  There's plenty for everyone in this mixed up adventure.  About the only things I left out was vampires and zombies, which is good, since the world at large has got to be getting tired of those guys.
  Jury Rig is not yet available for purchase at online bookstores.  However, you can actually buy this book early.  The print version is now available from CreateSpace.  Just click here.  For a limited time, you can purchase it with a 20% discount using this code: CLWN677V.
In February, the print edition will be available at Amazon, and you will be able to buy it in brick and mortar stores, though you'll likely have to ask for it. 
  I hope you enjoy the book, and that you let me know what you thought of it when you've finished it.

My View of Hitchcock's Coffin

  Living with a poet, I am exposed to a great many books of poetry.  With so many of them lying around the house, and with my habit of picking up and reading anything I find near at hand, I can say that I've read a great deal of poetry, though I rarely ever set out to do anything of the kind.  Now, let me be the first to say that I'm not drawn to poetry.  Most of it leaves me wondering what I've just read, or worse, it leaves me with the faint impression that the poet has just insulted me or at the very least judged me and found me lacking.  That's a bit of an old joke with my dear wife, who has often showed me a new poem of hers, which after reading I'll say: "Well, that's obviously about me, and you're mad at me."  She usually insists that I'm wrong, though I have a feeling that's not always true.

  If you have read any of my posts you'll know that I'm a big movie buff.  Sure, I enjoy modern movies, but nowhere near as much as older movies.  So you can imagine how intrigued I was to find a copy of Kim Bridgeford's latest book, Hitchcock's Coffin on our living room coffee table.  Hitchcock anything will catch my eye.  The subtitle, sonnets about classic films, transformed the intrigue into a full-blown plot line.  Like a character in a Jules Dassin Noir, I surreptitiously slipped the book behind my back and tried to make my way out of the room without attracting attention.  (Cue the Dmitri Tiomkin mood music.)  I failed.  My wife asked, "Are going to read that?"  There was a pause; I'd been caught attempting to take a book of poetry.  "Well, yes.  It seems this is all about old movies, and Alfred Hitchcock, and Billy Wilder," I mumbled.  "You'll love it," she said.  The only thing left unsaid was the fact that I was actually going to read a book of poetry.  I tugged at the collar of my trenchcoat, glanced furtively along the street, and disappeared into an alley, still clutching the book in my sweaty palms.

  All drama aside, I did in fact sit down to read the book.  And while I'm no professor of poetry, American literature, or even a professor of Gilligan's Island, I would like to take this opportunity to say a few things about Ms. Bridgford's book.

  

As the lights went down, the curtain came up, and the titles flashed across the screen, I was immediately taken in by the first sonnet in the book.  Simply titled Hollywood, it let me know right away that Bridgford is a true fan of film.  Like me, she too sits "alone, outlined with dark," and that together--

     ...we believe: in large imagination,

     The swell of orchestra, the railway station,

     With lovers kissing in the hissing steam;

     A moment's sadness is recast as dream.

  That was all I needed to know I'd like the rest of the book.

  There are three sections to the book.  The first focuses on Hitchcock, the second on Billy Wilder, and the third takes a look at close to twenty of the American Film Institute’s 100 Best Films; a journey that takes the reader from suspense and terror to love and comedy and finally ending with greatness.

  In one of the strongest poems in the first section, Hitchcock and Poe prods us to recognize that this book is not just about movies--it is also about artists who were just as creative and important as the literary giants of the past.  The author makes this clear when she says, "They want to reach inside, to seize the heart/They want the pounding restlessness of art."  There are wonderful commentaries here on Hitch's most popular films: Psycho, The Birds, and Vertigo.  Among the other choices she pleasantly surprised me by choosing The Wrong Man, a movie I'd recently seen.  Don't look for her to highlight the more sensational details of Hitchcock's work.  Instead, most of her focus is on the man behind the camera.  Something we might have thought a magician like Hitchcock wouldn't have liked, since he was always trying to keep the audience from paying attention to the man behind the curtain with all of his smoke and mirrors.   His cameos, Bridgford notes, indicate this is not entirely true.  As she states in her sonnet Hidden, "He hid himself in order to be found."

  The next section, on Billy Wilder, continues to look at the artist more than his art.  A friend once remarked that it always seemed as if Wilder's films wandered off course towards the latter parts and he never got the ending right.  Bridgford's view throughout this section can be summed up in the opening lines of her sonnet The Fortune Cookie:

     This movie is both smart and cynical,

     And it's the latter thing that gives us pause,

     For while we know he's right, it doesn't sell.

     We feel too bad.  We wince from Lemmon's lies.

  Perhaps some of his cynicism has worn off on the poet as she asserts in Billy Wilder's Grave that the throngs at his funeral did not just come to see the witty epitaph on his marker.  Rather, "Marilyn's the one the bereft/Come to see: extravagant and late,/Her skirt a lavish orchid gone adrift."  Wilder could not have shot that scene any better.

  The last section touches on so many great films (To Kill a Mockingbird, A Streetcar Named Desire, Citizen Kane, to name just a few) that I won't try to comment on most of these satisfying sonnets.  There were a few that I was not expecting a female poet to take a shot at.  But she did.  And I'm glad she did.

  The Third Man is a favorite of mine.  It stars one of my favorite actors, Joseph Cotton, and it is one of the most iconic film noirs you'll ever see.  Bridgford beautifully captures its dark intrigue and bleak ending.

  In Lawrence of Arabia, she again displays the power that film has over those of us sitting in the dark:

     It is about the way we want a film

     To take us by the eyes and overwhelm,

     To take our little lives and stretch them thus,

     So that each moment is miraculous.

     For those who'll never ride in vivid color;

     For those for whom the moments are far duller.

  I can still remember such a feeling as a seven-year-old sitting in the dark as that first, awe-inspiring Star Destroyer flew over our heads in the opening scene of a little sci-fi movie that once had the simple title Star Wars.  Grand movies like David Lean's Lawrence of Arabia certainly do overwhelm.  Bridgford's commentary on Lawrence's tragic end manages to do the same: "And even he, our hero, in the end,/Is not so beautiful, and starts to blend."

  The biggest surprise in the book was the sonnet written about one of my favorite westerns of all time: Unforgiven.  As if saving the best for last, the second to the last sonnet in this book really puts a bullet through your heart.

     Clint Eastwood in a role of hesitation

     Confuses us.  We want to watch some justice;

     We want some blood, the carnage that released us

     As a nation.  We want our liberation.

She deftly reveals not only the subtleties of this anti-western, but she turns the camera around and points it at all of us watching; all of us who yearn for Eastwood to throw off his cloak of guilt and newfound religion, all of us who want Dirty Harry to just get on with the killing, all of us who weren't ready to follow Clint down into this ambush of our personal desires of vengeance that had been forged in the Hollywood of old.  But she joins us in the end, sitting there in the dark, the camera on her as well as the rest of us.

     We're meant to think about the Western's cost.

     Yet we'd prefer to revel in what's lost.

  I've had to give the book back to my wife now, since it is, after all, her copy.  But like any classic movie, I'm sure I'll enjoy catching it again late at night when I can't sleep.  I hope that Ms. Bridgford realizes that there are still over eighty titles left on the AFI's list of 100 Best Films about which she could write.  If she did, I would look forward to the chance to sit yet again in the dark and watch more moving pictures with her.

 

My View of the Best Movies of 2011

In honor (dishonor?) of the Oscars, which just announced their nominees, I would like to offer an opposing view.  In as much as they are called the Oscars, I'll call mine the Felixes.  (Which seems so appropo, since Oscar was a cultural opposite of Felix.)  Now, I'll have to apologize, a bit.  First of all, I have not seen all that Hollywood had to offer this year, thank God, and so I may be missing a few gems out there.  And my view is merely that of a midwesterner-turned-southerner who, as Barak Obama once said, is clinging to my guns and religion.  This can only mean my choices will not coincide with the bigwigs in Tinseltown.  Again, thank God, I say, as I cling to Him.

I watched 32 movies that were released in 2011.  A few of these are listed as 2010, though they did not reach wide release until 2011.  I do not include movies I saw on DVD that were officially released in 2010.  So, limited though my view is, here are my nominees for the 2012 Felixes.  (I will only nominate three in each category.)

Best Picture:

The Debt
The Lincoln Lawyer
Midnight in Paris

Best Director:
Woody Allen, Midnight in Paris
George Clooney, The Ides of March
John Madden, The Debt
 

Actor in a Leading Role:

Bradley Cooper, Limitless

Ryan Gosling: The Ides of March

Owen Wilson, Midnight in Paris

Actress in a Leading Role:
Diane Kruger, Unknown
Helen Mirren, The Debt
Zoe Saldana, Colombiana

Actor in a Supporting Role:
Clancy Brown, Cowboys & Aliens
Cliff Curtis, Colombiana
Corey Stoll, Midnight in Paris

Actress in a Supporting Role:
Kathy Bates, Midnight in Paris
Jessica Chastain, The Debt
Elle Fanning, Super 8

Admittedly, I don't see too many movies that are mainstream other than action movies, which I like to catch on the big screen.  Most of my movie watching is older movies.  It was not a good year for movies, and I had to really jog my memory to recall any actors worth mentioning here.  Mostly, you can say Midnight in Paris for any category, other than special effects.  And special effects is a funny category now.  Is the category about great filmed effects?  Or simply the best computer wizardry?  I watched two dozen action films this year and none of the whiz-bang special effects caught my eye.  About the best effects I saw last year were on the movie Apollo 18. 

As you can see by this list, I most heartily recommend Midnight in Paris as well as The Debt, and The Ides of March.

One Reason I've Been Remiss in Writing Posts

Lately I've been remiss in getting posts up on this blog.  I have a few good reasons for this; here is one of the more pronounced reasons: 

The New Look

  I have been extremely busy editing and preparing a manuscript for publication.  My novel, Jury Rig, will soon be out, and I've been polishing it as well as working on the design of the book, including the art work.  This takes a great amount of time, since no matter how many times I seem to proofread a manuscript of 79,000 words, I can open it right back up and find a mistake without the slightest effort.  It makes me doubt my eyesight (which is certainly worse than it was ten years ago) and my brain (which should be in better shape than ten years ago solely because I'm older, and supposedly wiser.)
  One of the bigger time consumers has been a design overhaul.  The original novel had a different title, design theme and artwork.  The art department came up with a new idea just one week ago, and much time was spent bringing this idea to life.  I received fantastic help from my talented daughter Kathryn during this redesign.
  Once the print book design was done, I then had to prepare the book for Kindle, which has been an adventure since the method is new to me.  I'm getting better at it, and it should take less time the next time around.  As a bit of a perfectionist, I can now say I'm well acquainted with saving, converting, saving, uploading, rendering, saving, converting, checking, saving, searching the web for help, waiting, drinking coffee...
  Jury Rig is a comedic novel, somewhere in the neighborhood of a mystery/courtroom drama/action thriller: think Agatha Christie meets Donald Westlake.  That's not boasting, as if I've cleverly created a highly complex story that fits all of those genres.  Rather, it is an attempt to describe the odd story line that eventually develops in the book.  Hopefully, readers will find it entertaining, with plenty of chances to laugh and even a few chances to stop and think about a thing or two.  
  The Kindle edition will be available this Friday (the 27th), and the print edition is scheduled to be available on Feb. 1st.  I hope everyone who is kind enough to take the time to read it will be thoroughly satisfied.  You can visit Rocket Fire Books to learn more about it.

My View of the Quick and the Dumb

   I have been working on a project for several years now.  It started with a book I picked up: Charles King's The Black Sea: A History.  This was a fascinating little overview of that region's history since the early ages of man up until our modern age.  One of the more interesting nuggets I mined from this book was a discussion of the use of lazarettos in port cities.  I admit I'd never heard of them.  They were kind of bizarre.
   A lazaretto was a quarantine station in which newly arrived travelers (by sea) were placed, to wait out a specified time in order to prove they exhibited no symptoms of infectious diseases.  What caught my attention was the fact that if you were found to be sick, you were often refused entry into the city, and there were precious few ships that were willing to take you anywhere else in the Mediterranean.  Simply, you could be stuck in the lazaretto for the rest of your life.  It was a daunting prospect, to say the least.
   Intrigued, I began to think of what would happen if a space-faring society set up a lazaretto on a central planet and forced all travel between planets to pass through this system.  The real catch was that I imagined that if you were found to be sick, you were left in the lazaretto, with no chance of ever leaving.  It would be a dark world, indeed.
   So I set about writing this story.  I didn't just write a story, I wrote a novel.  Then I wrote a second one.  I'm writing the third one now.  I've pestered my family with it, as well as a few others.  Those who have read it have been more than kind with their praise.
   There are just a few problems with it.  The kind that get me in trouble with today's publishers.
   The novel is longer than your typical thriller.  Most books today run from 80,000 words to around 120,000 words.  That is something in the neighborhood of 250 to 400 pages for a paperback.  The common advice to writers now is trim, trim, trim.  The idea being that a book must read as fast as possible.  You skim from one page to the next, and you finish in time to buy the next, quick-paced volume in the series.  Don't waste time with any text that doesn't rush you to the end.  People just don't have the attention span for anything else.
   And speaking of people, let's move on to the next bit of advice that is handed down from on high: dumb it down.  Seriously, editors actually use that phrase.  They advise that we look at the lowest common mind set out there and write to their level.  No one wants to read anything that forces a man to use a sizable portion of his brain.  Smaller ideas and smaller words sell.  We're living in an age of idiots.  Pander to them.
   These guidelines can be defended, depending on the type of book written and the sales goals of the publisher.  I have decided, however, that for my story about the lazaretto, it just won't do.  What I really want is to believe that there are readers out there who still care about a good story, and don't just want a fast food novel to consume on their way to the next little snack.
   I am encouraged, from time to time, to see that there are exceptions to this dismal publishing outlook.  Susanna Clarke's Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell is a wonderfully long and evenly paced adventure that is far longer than nearly every book available at the chain bookstores.  Dan Simmons has published several long books that don't fit next to the other genre novels on the shelf.  And of course, Tolkien's Lord of the Rings books certainly would have to be trimmed down and sped up by today's standards.
   So I will not give in.  I understand not everyone has time to read lengthy novels, though they seem to have time to watch hours and hours of television series and sporting events.  I also realize not everyone has the education to handle every level of writing.  I have trouble reading Henry James.  I'm serious.  I don't seem to understand half of what that man is saying.  But I do think that most people could take the time to read something that is written on at least a high school level.  Remember, most newspapers are written on a sixth-grade level.  We get used to that.  We must work to keep our minds exercised with something heavier.
   If you've taken the time to read this post, you might just be the type of person who has the attention span and desire to read something more than the usual fare offered in the marketplace.  If so, you might want to check out my Lazaretto books.  The first one will soon be available.  I'll update everyone when it does.  Now, go on and read something that requires your full attention and the use of your wonderfully complex mind.  You'll be happy you did.
  

My View of a Book I've Never Seen

   It started out like this: I was online, reading a review of a book on Bloomberg.com. The book was about the building and design of our American Highway systems. The book, The Big Roads: The Untold Story of theEngineers, Visionaries, and Trailblazers Who Created the American Superhighways,by Earl Swift, was right up my alley. Or maybe right up my road. You see, I was sort of raised on the Interstates and U.S. Highways. For a time, when I was a kid, we didn't have a house; we simply lived in a van, then a motor home, while traveling from town to town. That was it. On a day-to-day basis, I was able to sit at a window and watch the Interstate roll by. Oddly enough...I loved it. And so, after reading the review, I knew I wanted to read this book.  I mean, it was a book about the design and construction of my boyhood backyard. Now, I was not at home at the time I read the review, so I emailed the name of the book to myself, so that when I arrived at home I could look it up on Amazon and buy it. What troubled me, when I did find it, was that it was too close to Christmas to buy it with a clean conscience. I really should have waited in case someone might buy it for me. So I added it to my Christmas wish list, and waited.

   I love books about building things. I read a book on the building of the Erie Canal, and one about the building of the German Dreadnoughts. I once read a book about the design and publication of the King James Bible. These kinds of things fascinate me. Mainly because I could never be the guy who says...hey, I think we could dig a tunnel from England to France. Okay, I might think of it, but I'd have no idea how to go about it. I mean, I still think that when my wife and I climb aboard that Air France flight to Paris this Spring, it will be sheer magic that gets that big, heavy, lump of metal off the ground and into the air. Magic! That being the case, I love to watch Modern Marvels, and I enjoy reading these types of books.

   Now, let's ignore all the patient waiting I endured, and certainly ignore the shaking and nervous ticks I performed as I forced myself to sit still and not click that buy-with-one-click button on Amazon. Suffice to say, I was a good boy and did not spend money on myself so close to Christmas.

   The good news is that Simon, my youngest, came through for me. He bought me the book, and it was nicely wrapped and waiting for me under the tree. Only the book was not really under the tree. I received a picture of it. You see, my son was fully aware that my wife had bought me a Kindle reader for Christmas. So, with great joy, I downloaded my new book.

   Within two days I was finished. Cover to cover. The book was a complete marvel. I would recommend it to anyone who has an interest in major engineering feats as well as a nod to the nostalgic. I could not have enjoyed it any more than I did. It blew the scale away.

   But here is the part that has me taking a step back in deep thought:

   At no time had I ever held this book. I'd never hefted it with one hand to test its weight. Never flipped the pages to take in the new-book smell while checking to see just how many pictures were in it. I had never set it on the table in front of me where I could look upon it with that simple joy that comes from buying a new book and seeing it in your home. Surely this meant I had not been able to enjoy it like I would have if I had physically bought the book.

   Maybe. That would be hard to prove. Difficult to disprove. I'll leave wiggle room here.

   However, I do know for certain that I loved the book. I couldn't put it down. It was a real page-turner. I was sorry to reach the end of the book. Even though it had no pages, and it was not a book, it fit all of these clichés. But at no time did I feel like I was missing anything. This was a surprise, since I was a scoffer when I first heard of the Kindles. I'm an old book-lover who just can't get enough of that old book smell. I love to hold a book in my hands, and all that sentimental hoo-hah. I mean, since I was about nine I've collected books. I was really proud of my old, dusty, hardback edition of Oliver Wendell Holmes The Autocrat at the Breakfast Table even though I had no idea what an autocrat could possibly be. It didn't matter. I had the book. I would often pull it off the shelf and page through it, despite the fact that I couldn't follow any of what was being said. Then I'd gently replace it, my eyes shining with admiration for it. I'm that kind of book lover.

   From time to time, I like to sit and look at the books on my shelves. I read the spines, and remind myself just how great or not so great each book was to read. They are like old friends to me. Will it be the same for this new book I downloaded? I don't know. Perhaps I'll begin to browse my list of books that I've read on Goodreads as a substitute for looking over my bookshelves.

   It is too early to tell. But for now, I can say that I think I'll transition into this brave new world of digital books without too much discomfort. Who knows? Perhaps I'll never buy another physical book again. I doubt it.

   I do worry about what I'd do if my Kindle died and I had no way to power it back up.

   That would transform this sci-fi story into a horror story.

My View of a Winter's Night in Troubled Times

The following encounter could have happened as I wrote it, in Russia about one hundred and thirty years ago.  It could also have happened today.  Nights are still cold.  People are still rich.  And some people are still desperate and hungry.  I live near a casino, and this idea came to me one day while I was driving home from work.  Enjoy!

A Chance Meeting

Armand Gustave Houbigant's

Horse and carriage on Sledges from

 Customs and Habits of the Russians

(from Wikigallery)

            Porfiry Semyonovitch Merschenko was a rich man.  And as rich men often are, he was a big man.  He was rich by no act of his own.  In fact, his wealth, handed down from one Merschenko to another Merschenko many times over, came by no act of any of his family members, save the act of heir making itself.  All true acts of wealth making came by the acts of hard working peasants bound to Merschenko lands.

            No Merschenko peasant, however, could ever hope to compete with their master’s proclivity for largess.  In true aristocratic fashion, Porfiry never had trouble finding a substantial dinner, even in the coldest winters.  The only passion he held as dear as his time spent at the dining table was his time spent at the gaming table.  It was there he found the challenge that he lacked in everyday life.  Spending an evening away from his estate at the tables of his gambling friends was the only excitement he had ever really come to desire.  Chance was the one last facet of his life of which he had no control.

            After one such night of gambling, Porfiry headed home.  He was not half way along the forest road from Novgorod to his own estate when his driver pulled hard on the reins and stopped.  He was talking out loud, to whom, Porfiry knew not.  Resting his head against the side of the carriage, Porfiry had nearly fallen asleep, but he now lifted his head and tapped on the roof of the carriage.

            "Driver!  You—Goladki!  Why have we stopped?"

            There was no response.  Instead, Porfiry could hear the low, measured tones of his driver still conversing with an unknown voice.  Confident in his driver to handle whatever trouble had arisen, Porfiry sat back on his cushions and pulled his lap blanket closer about himself.  Since the carriage had ceased its rhythmic sounds of travel, Porfiry could hear the winds howl mournfully through the tops of the trees.  And hearing them seemed to make him feel them all the more.  Though there had not been any snow yet, it was late in the season, and they were due to get a large amount sometime soon.  The rich man looked out at the trees, mysteriously lit by his carriage lanterns, and thought he could feel the snow in the air, that it would come that very night.

            His curiosity was raised when he felt the carriage sway under the weight of the driver, who was disembarking from his front perch.  He then heard more murmured words, and the sounds of harnesses and tack being fussed with.  The reins must be twisted, or some other such nuisance, he thought.  Certainly it was something not worth looking into.  Yet, for all that, Porfiry could not remain inactive.  His image had to be thought of, so as not to encourage laziness, or insolence in his driver.

            "Goladki!  Speed up, you Tartar imp!  I'm watching you!"  Porfiry pulled up the fur collar of his long coat and smashed his plump head in the warmth of the sable.  He was watching nothing.  He thought briefly of jumping out and lashing the man, but the thought of the cold kept him in his place.

            Only a few moments passed before Porfiry briefly heard a sound like rumbling thunder.  It was, to his great surprise, the sound of one of his horses running off down the road.  The noise faded, and he realized the voices outside had ceased.

            "Goladki!  What are you about out there?"  Porfiry's voice sounded small and child-like in the empty night.

            The door to his carriage burst open, and a strange man stood silhouetted in the light of the carriage lanterns.  "Hello" he said curtly, leaping into the carriage and slamming shut the door.

            Porfiry sat with his mouth open, stupefied to silence.  He tried in vain to demand the identity of his visitor, but could not speak for a full minute.  In the silence, the visitor was pleased to sit in the warmth of the compartment, rubbing his hands vigorously.  He was a tall man, and sat hunched over the front seat with his extensive legs folded awkwardly.  In this way, he was forced to lean forward, partially over the reclining figure of Porfiry.  The combination of Porfiry's bulk and the visitor's height made an uncomfortable fit in the small carriage.

            The visitor was unshaven, dressed in a tight linen blouse and baggy trousers.  Over the blouse was a tattered vest of dirty material difficult to recognize, though it once may have belonged to a wool suit long ago.  The visitor wore no hat, and in consequence, his cheeks, nose and forehead were red with cold.  His black hair stuck out at various points, as did the hairs of what was becoming a beard and mustache.  His eyes glittered with a sort of playfulness that contrasted with his otherwise hard and determined face.

            "Where is Goladki—my driver?"  Porfiry was finally able to stammer.  "And who are you?"

            "I am a friend.  I have been waiting for you for quite awhile.  You're late."

            "I'm what?"

            "You've been gambling much longer than I thought you would.  I hope that won't be a problem.  Your driver, by the way, has wisely decided to travel on without us.  I explained we might be awhile."

            "Get out!"  Porfiry commanded, fully expecting the peasant to comply with his demand.

            "No, I won't.  Not yet.  This was your fourth night in a row at the gambling house, ah?  I can't say I understand that.  It escapes me, the allure it has on men like you.  You see, anything I have must be used to feed my family.  I've not had the opportunity to throw money, or anything really, around for my own entertainment.  That's not to say I would not enjoy a good game of cards.  That's what I'm curious about, if I would enjoy that sort of thing."

            Porfiry sat listening to this speech in fear of the imposing man who loomed in front of him.  But as he recovered his senses, his indignation rose, and grabbing for his oak cane, he tried to swing it within the confines of the compartment.  The visitor's hand grasped the cane, cutting short Porfiry's swing.

            "You like to gamble."  He easily pulled the cane from Porfiry's grip and set it down between them.  "I'm glad you do.  The odds were decent that you might have hit my head.  And with me unarmed, the odds were good that I would not strike back.  Now, I will raise the odds…in my favor."

            The visitor produced a long revolver, from where Porfiry could not see.  His face paled.

            "Don't look so afraid, Master Merschenko; I just want to protect myself.  I know you're name, ah?  Of course I do.  You owned me, as well as the factory I worked in.  Of course, now it is closed."

            "What are you talking about?  I haven't closed any factory."

            "Tell that to your people in Ruzhnik."

            "Ruzhnik?  That's not my village."

            "Yes, you're right about that.  You lost it in a card game last year, didn't you?"

            "What of it?  It’s no concern of yours."  Porfiry defended himself boldly, trying not to cower before the gun.

            "It was my concern when the new owner shut down the factory.”

            “So, now you turn to robbery.”

            “Robbery?  No.  Not for Onufry Chezerov.  I was aiming for something a little more legal—gambling.”  The visitor reached into the folds of his vest and withdrew a small cube made of bone.  “To begin with, I am very cold.  Waiting for you out in this weather has been unbearable.  What do you say we roll for your coat?  It looks very warm.”

            “Roll...?  I will not.”

            “Come, come.  You like to gamble.  You’ve been gambling for hours, over large sums.  This is only a little bet.  If I win, I get your coat; if not, I’ll leave.”

            Chezerov tossed the die onto the floor of the carriage.  Porfiry reluctantly peered over his belly to see the result.

            “A two!”  Chezerov read the number aloud and smiled.  “Maybe we shouldn’t roll after all, ah?”

            “Wait.”  Porfiry reached out to grab the die.  “I have thought about it, and you are right, it is only a little bet.  Why not?”

            He hardly shook the die before dropping it to the floor, between his boots.

            “One!  Incredible!”  Chezerov announced.  “Who could believe I would win with a two?  But I should easily have lost.  This gambling is risky—very risky.”

            Porfiry stared blankly at the cube with its single black dot.  Chezerov shook himself, still holding the pistol, and with his free hand rubbed himself and smacked himself for warmth.

            “So, I won the coat, ah?  Why stare so?  As you agreed, it was only a small bet.  Surely you are used to losing, more so than I.  Its better I won.  You still have the warmth of the carriage.  But you haven’t taken off the coat.”

            Porfiry stammered in hesitation.

            “You keep looking at the die.  As if it were an old friend who has risen up to betray you.  Maybe you are thinking you would have better luck a second time around.  What about your boots?”

            “What about my boots?” demanded Porfiry, aroused from his reverie.

            “Look at my feet.  What a poor excuse for shoes.  No good in this wet cold.”  Porfiry looked and found evidence to the statement.  “You, Master Merschenko, have an excellent pair of boots.  So maybe you want to roll for them.”

            “What would I get if I won?”  The words escaped Porfiry’s full-lipped mouth before he could stop them.

            “You keep the coat, of course!”  Chezerov sang out as he dropped the die.  It rattled to a stop.  “Beat that, and I leave empty-handed.”

            Porfiry could not help himself.  Scooping up the die, he tossed it eagerly.

            “One!” exclaimed Chezerov.  “Even to a newcomer like myself, I think it is remarkable to roll a one twice—in a row, at that.  But that is the fun of the wager, ah?  Who knows what will happen.  Your coat and boots—” Chezerov reached out a hand.  Porfiry pulled himself back against the wall of the carriage.

            “Get out you rascal!  You’ve no right!”

            “I have no doubt,” Chezerov said with a sudden glare, “that you paid all of your losses earlier this evening.”

            “Out!” Porfiry trembled.

            Chezerov stared at the large man.  He still sat leaning forward, and appeared for all the world as if he were going to spring upon his prey.  But to Porfiry’s amazement, Chezerov reached for the latch of the carriage door, and leapt out; slamming shut the door behind him.  Porfiry sat in stunned silence.  He had just concluded that the man Chezerov had complied from the ingrained habit of following orders, when he heard the jingle of harnesses.  He sat still, trying to understand what he was hearing.  His suspicions deepened as he watched the light of the carriage lanterns cut a dance across the windows.  A crash of glass sent flames from the lantern against the top portion of the carriage.  Porfiry sat immobile with horror.  The carriage was burning.

            Shaking in fear and terror, he fought frantically with the latch of the door, fumbling badly with it from panic.  Smoke curled into the compartment from unseen cracks in the walls, and Porfiry whined aloud.  With a determined push, he managed to broach the door.  In desperation, he dumped himself out of the carriage, through the angry flames, rolling his bulk onto the forest road.

            Chezerov was still with him.  Standing beside the burning carriage, his black hair highlighted with the glare of the fire, he appeared to Porfiry as some wicked forest devil—as some evil thing penned in a Pushkin epic.  Porfiry rose to his feet, the heat of the flames burning his face, and the cold of the mud clinging to his hands. 

            “Now, Master Merschenko, pay what you owe.  And be thankful I have only destroyed the carriage.”

            Porfiry grabbed clumsily at the coat, suddenly eager to be rid of it.  The boots he removed in the same manner.  Chezerov threw the coat over his shoulders, but left the boots on the road in front of him.  Without the coat, Porfiry noticed for the first time the extent of the cold night.  It was getting colder, and snow was beginning to descend in big flakes like falling leaves of the forest. 

            “You look rather excited, Master Merschenko.  Was I right?  You have enjoyed our gaming tonight?”

            Porfiry turned his face towards the fire in order to keep himself as warm as possible, ignoring Chezerov at the same time.

            “There is one other thing.  I was hoping to play for the horse.  Although I did unhitch it from the carriage before I started the fire, I still feel he is your horse.  But he is a fine horse, and would fetch a nice price from a trader.  Shall we?”  Chezerov held up the die, which he had apparently taken from the carriage floor, although when he did it, Porfiry did not remember.

            “Roll for the horse?”  Porfiry echoed mournfully.  “I’ve no coat, no boots, no shelter—and you want the horse?”  His voice rose in anger as he listed each item.  “You might as well roll for my life!  What chance would I stand out here?  If you take the horse, take my life!”

            “It is the same if I lose,” answered Chezerov.  “If I roll with you again, and lose the coat and boots back to you, what chance do I have?  A small one, but I am willing to wager on even a small chance like that.  No, if I lose, I do not want you to take my life.  But of course, if that is what you want... it is agreed.  We roll for the horse, and your life.”

            “The bet is no good, you devil!  You’ll kill me either way.  I know you, and can turn you in to the constables.  The roll means nothing.  If I win, you can’t let me go.  You will seal your own fate.”

            “No, whether I lose, and you report me, or I win and become a murderer, nothing will have changed. Fate has sealed me.  Long before this night.  A roll of the die can never change what life I’ve been given.  Now, let’s be done with such unhappy talk, and enjoy the thrill of the game!”

            “You’re mad!  I won’t do it!  No!  Oh Blessed Mary—a five!  I’m lost... you’ve rolled a five!  Help me!”

            Porfiry stood next to the shrinking fire, wringing his hands in fear.  He sunk to his knees, as if his great weight were suddenly too much for his shaking knees. 

            Chezerov stood beside him and pointed the gun at the sobbing man.

            “You’ve gamble enough with the lives of my people.  For this one time, you gamble for your own.  Roll.”

            Porfiry’s ramblings ceased as he scrambled to retrieve the die. 

            “I cannot look.  God in heaven have mercy!”

            He threw the cube onto the frozen mud and collapsed beside it.

            The cold woke him some time later.  The fire had consumed the majority of the carriage; a soft glow was all he could see.  Porfiry still lay in the mud.  Opening his eyes, he saw his pair of boots standing empty near his face.  His coat draped across him where he lay.  Lifting himself, he saw his horse standing tethered to an oak.  He could not see Chezerov anywhere.  As he reached to collect the boots, a small object caught his eye.  Chezerov’s die was stuck in the snow-encrusted mud.  In the dying light of the embers, Porfiry could just barely see six black dots.

Two Reasons to Read a Short Story This Week

   This month, those of you who like to read short stories get two chances to read stories that I have written.  Next month you will get another chance, but that's next month, so don't worry about it right now.  Let's just concentrate on this month.



Image from Bewildering
Stories by
Christine Cartwright



   First of all, one of my earliest written stories is appearing in the online journal Bewilderingstories.com.  The story is entitled Timeless in Winter, though it was not written under that title.  Please surf on over to Bewildering Stories and check it out.  All you have to do is click on the title above to go directly to the story.  It recounts the tale of a group of Russian soldiers in WWII who find a farmhouse full of German soldiers.  Though at first the Germans appear to be dead, the Russians soon discover that things are not what they appear to be.  I hope you enjoy it, and if you do, all I ask is that you tell your friends about it and pass the link along to them.  Also, please let me know what you think of it, since I love to hear reactions to my work.  Even if it is negative, I find all forms of criticism constructive.



This even has the fancy
"look inside" feature,
in case you want a sneak peek.



   The second story available this month can be found at Amazon.com, at their Kindle ebook webpage.  What's really cool about this is that you can type my name in the search window at the top and the new story will appear.  This story, The World that Slid Downhill, is a novelette that is available on the Kindle ebook reader.  Don't worry, it is also available to download to your iPhone, Android, or to your PC (with free Kindle emulator) if you do not own a Kindle.  This little novel (really just a little too long to be called a short story) is a fun adventure about a man who slowly begins to realize that the back yard of his home is slowly beginning to slide downhill.  I would like to think it is written in the style of a Roald Dahl story, though I may be a bit deluded on that point.

   Once again, I ask that if you do me the honor of reading this story, please let me know if you enjoyed it, or even write a review about it on the Amazon site at the bottom of the sales page.  And then tell your friends about it, tell your enemies, tell strangers, tell anyone who will listen.  Also, tell your friends in Germany, in Denmark, in France and Italy.  The story is available on all of Amazon's European websites.

  And that's about it for this post.  Today is mostly shameless self-promotion.  But I have it on the good authority of many well-known writers (who I will not name since I have not spoken to them previously to obtain their permission for the use of their name) that these stories are well worth your time.

   One more thing, today is the birthday of one of the greatest guys I've ever known: John Reeser, my father.  Happy Birthday, Dad!  As you can see in this picture, he's got that movie star look.  What a heartbreaker!