My Top Ten Writing Pet Peeves

This is one of those blog posts where I offer nothing all that informative other than insight into what makes me tick.  In particular, this blog is devoted to what I consider to be the cardinal sins of writing.  Okay, so they aren't that bad--more pet peeves of mine.  As writers, we all have--at least I hope--our own styles of writing.  With those styles come opinions and perceptions of what is right, wrong and just plain annoying.  My list of the just plain annoying--keeping with my whole sin theme--is presented below:

1.  Thou Shall Not Write A Paperweight-I LOVE vivid descriptions...when they're warranted that is.  Some authors, however, like to riddle their works with as much unnecessary detail as possible resulting in a book with the capacity to kill someone if it were to fall off a shelf.  If I owned Atlas Shrugged and The Fountainhead in hardcover, for example, I'd make for darn sure they were on the bottommost shelf. Detail is great; detail is the icing on an otherwise satisfactory baked good.  Nevertheless, too much of a good thing will eventually make you sick.

2.  Thou Shall Not Begin A Sentence With The Word "And"-Let me make this clear, there is nothing grammatically wrong with beginning a sentence that way--unless of course you happened to have been one of my Language Arts teachers.  In Water For Elephants, many sentences begin this way garnering a reponse from me akin to someone running their nails down a chalkboard.  Even though I have reluctantly allowed myself to commit this act, it's just unnatural to me--which I guess is the very definition of "pet peeve".

3.  Thou Shall Refrain From Naming Thy Characters Either "Edward" or "Jacob"-I don't think I have to mention what book series includes these two names.  Unfortunately, they're also the names of two characters in Water For Elephants (which makes the fact that Rob Pattinson is playing "Jacob" that much more amusing).  There are other old school names besides "Edward".  For example, Harry, Peter, Rufus, Delbert...okay, I can see why Edward would be the  first choice.

4.  Thou Shall Focus On BOTH Plot AND Character Development For One Is NOT Better Than The Other:  I've read a few novels where there were incredible characters with a very narrow plot for them to traverse through (and vice versa, although not as often).  This is your novel, your attention to detail and perfection should shine throughout ALL aspects.

5.  Thou Shall Not Recycle The Same Story Over And Over Again-I've addressed this in my other blogs if you want a true rant on this little gem read my post on query letters.  As an aspiring author, I understand that pleasing your readers is immensely important, but if you've developed a devoted enough following, I think they'll understand if you mix things up a bit.  Instead of just a romance, perhaps include a smattering of mystery or suspense, for example.  I've read works by authors where it seemed like all they did was change the character's names and setting, but left the rest like everything else they've ever written.  Too often, I believe authors become so wrapped up in what has made them successful that they feel they've grown all they can.  This leads me to my next peeve;

6.  Thou Shall Travel Out Of Thy Comfort Zone-I'm the perfect example of this.  Not too many women dabble in science fiction (high five to my sisters who do).  In fact, if you would have told me five years ago that I would actually write a science fiction novel, I would have thought you crazy. When I first began writing, I toyed with romance, YA and works of a dramatic nature (just short stories, nothing big).  It was only after my novel refused to leave the crevices of my cranium that I finally decided that I would write it down just to eliminate the headache.  Sure, it was uncomfortable and required some research on my part, but not only did I get a novel out of it, I now have a series in the works.  If I would have stayed with romance, I may still be stock on a plot line.

7.  Thou Shall Not Question Thy Reader's Intelligence:  If your readers are surprised to learn that a school bus is a brilliant shade of maize encompassing a bulky metallic structure built for the transport of small humans, chances are they won't have the mental capacity to even pick up a book let alone read it.  Don't be overly descriptive of trivial things, it's both unnecessary and unfortunate.  Your readers know how to brush their teeth, you don't need to provide them with step-by-step instructions in your novel.

8. Thou Shall Not Overuse Punctuation:  I've never purported to be the Queen of all Grammar.  Lord knows--during the revision stage--I've often questioned my own comma misusage.  Don't place commas, semicolons or em dashes willy-nilly as though you're decorating a Christmas tree.  Take time to learn how they're used.  I know, I know I need to take my own advice on this one.

9.  Thou Shall Try To Maintain Unpredictable Dialogue:  This is, unfortunately, something I also need to work on.  All too often, I come across dialogue--mainly a parent talking to a child--where I don't even need to read the page to know what's being said.  Conventional dialogue doesn't always translate into good parenting.  Surprise the reader, make your characters say something completely unexpected or new.

Finally, the biggest one of them all:

10. Thou Shall Deliver On One's Promises:  I recently read a book that promised an epic battle; the battle of the century, in fact.  Well, maybe it didn't literally promise that this was going to happen but the build-up throughout the first 500 or so pages was really making me anxious.  About ten pages away from the ending, I'm thinking to myself, is there another book in this series?  Sadly, there was no such book...and no such battle.  Had there been one perhaps that series could have been saved in my eyes.  Instead, I was just pissed.  FOR THE LOVE OF GOD stay away from being anticlimatic.  For those of you who fail to heed this suggestion, you better begin readying yourselves for your readers to rally around your home with pitchforks.

There you have it, my ten Pet Peeves.  Now it's your turn to leave some of your own.  For the purpose of my blog is for writers to come together to vent, advise, debate and confer over the one passion we all have in common.

My next post will stick to my usual, informative format and will address the proper usage of semicolons and em dashes as I too could use a refresher course.

Don't Let Your Genre Define You; Define Your Genre

A good writer improves upon an existing genre; a great writer defines it altogether (this is either a moment of sheer genius for me--one that comes around even less frequently than Haley's Comet--or I've heard this somewhere that I can't quite put my finger on).


One of the very basics in writing is genre selection.  We all have that one niche in the literary world that enthralls us, grasping our attentions without letting go.  Whether it be romance, paranormal, chick lit, faith-oriented, fantasy, or, in my case, science-fiction; we all have that one special piece of literature that inspires us enough to put finger to keyboard.  When I first started writing, I had absolutely no idea what genres were.  All I wanted was to write stories that people wanted to read and didn't understand why writing for a specific audience was so important.  Well, one novel down, a second one in the works and a slew of rejections later, you could say I'm more or less being forced to see the light. 


Which brings me to my blog for today:  Why must writers be forced to stick with the stringent guidelines and boundaries genres bind us to?  What ever happened to creativity?  After all, the genres of today were once, themselves, defined by someone or some piece of literature.  Why are the genre police seemingly stepping in now?  And exactly where is  Jimmy Hoffa?


Enough of my mindless ponderings--although, I'm officially claiming dibs on the superhero-science-fiction-dystopian genre in lit form.  The point is that there was once a point in time where a defined genre was rendered virtually undefined with its very definition skewed by works never before seen (and sometimes panned).  If it's one thing I hope to accomplish, in my literary career, it's to produce work never before read by the public or, so clearly different that my story stands out from the pack.  I realize that these are all very grand dreams, but if you don't try to shoot for the stars how do you ever expect to land amongst the puffy white clouds of greatness?  I don't want to nor do I need to be catapulted into the stratosphere, I just want to be recognized.  To have my work admired and its meaning pondered like so many clouds in the sky would be the biggest high a writer could achieve.


This blog is going to kick off a series of blogs wherein I showcase those pieces of literature that, at their time, not only defined their genres, but created an entirely different sub-genre in their wake.  Not surprisingly, I will kick off my first blog in this series with those works of science fiction.  For this blog, I am incorporating the article "Science Fiction Books That Launched Their Own Genres" written by Charlie Jane Anders from the website ww.io9.com  (a link to this specific article will be included below).


Military Science Fiction-(Book:  Robert Heinlein's Starship Troopers)-Despite the popular works of H.G. Wells, the book that seems to be given the credit for the institution of military science fiction is Starship Troopers by Robert A Heinlein (yeah, this perplexes me too).  With it's futuristic setting and incorporation of interplanetary warfare involving the inclusion of the military, Henlein's 1959 novel Starship Troopers, as Fandomania's survey stated, "put Military Science Fiction on the radar."


Cyberpunk-(Book:  William Gibson's Neuromancer)-Althought there's some debate over who really came up with Cyberpunk as a genre (several sources have noted Asimov to be the first writer to consider the ramificaitons of artificial intelligence seriously).  Bruce Sterling's 1986 anthology Mirrorshades helped shaped the genre.  However, it was Bruce Bethke who invented the term "cyberpunk" with his 1980 short story aptly entitled "Cyberpunk", but even he admits:


 "I never claimed to have invented cyberpunk fiction! That honor belongs primarily to William Gibson, whose 1984 novel, Neuromancer, was the real defining work of "The Movement." (At the time, Mike Swanwick argued that the movement writers should properly be termed neuromantics, since so much of what they were doing was clearly Imitation Neuromancer.)


 Neuromancer, by William Gibson, helped to popularize brain-computer interfaces and dystopian paranoia which few could only come close to imitating.


Gothic Science Fiction-(Book:  Mary Shelley's Frankenstein).  To be honest, I never knew such a genre existed and I must say, I'm intrigued.  Oh the things we find out when we're tooling around online instead of working on our books.  Shelley's Frankenstein has commonly been referred to as the very first science fiction novel in general. It was also the first of its kind to meld gothic literature with abuse of science and an obsessed mad scientist.  Since the publication of Frankenstein, gothic science fiction has been affiliated with any science-fictional story that incorporates terror a horrendous monster or some other kind of scientifically engineered horror.


First contact with an alien race-(Book:  Arthur C. Clark's Childhood's End).  I'm not really sure how this is a genre, so I will let Ms. Anders explain:  "This was a tough one - even if you only define "first contact" as being a scenario where human society, as a whole, comes into contact with an alien species (and not just one solitary human explorer) you still have tons of early stories about aliens showing up. Some would say the earliest notable "first contact" novel is H.G. Wells' The War Of The Worlds. But let's say that a crucial component of the "first contact" story is that the aliens are friendly - or at least reasonably well-intentioned. Otherwise, you just have an invasion or war story. In that case, Childhood's End, with its super-advanced Overlords showing up and guiding humanity to a higher plane of existence and merger with the Overmind, although somewhat disturbing, is still a more benign story than Wells'. And thus a more proper precursor to books like Carl Sagan's Contact and Octavia Butler's Xenogenesis saga."


Utopian Science Fiction-(Book:  Jane C. Loudon's The Mummy!; Or a Take of the Twenty-Second Century).  For those of you who don't know what "utopian" means, look up antonyms for "dystopian" and you will be lead to worlds filled with rainbows, sunshine and unicorn farts (I tend to stay away from those worlds).  Utopian novels are those that present the future in an optimistic tone.  An excerpt of Loudon's book is as follows:


"The ladies were all arrayed in loose trowsers, over which hung drapery in graceful folds; and most of them caried on their heads, streams of lighted gas forced by capillary tubes, into plumes, fleurs-de-lis, or in short any form the wearer pleased; which jets de feu had an uncommonly chaste and elegant effect."


Apocalyptic Fiction-(Book: Nevil Schute's On The Beach).  The first popular novel featuring all out global fuckery features a nuclear holocaust that devestates the Northern Hemisphere leaving its survivors in Austrailia and New Zealand where they drink way too much (why wait for the end of the world for that) while awaiting their end as well.

Steampunk-(Book: K.W. Jeter's  Infernal Devices: A Mad Victorian Fantasy).  Incidently, for those of you who write based upon trends (shame, shame), Steampunk is highly in demand at the moment.

"K.W. Jeter not only invented the term steampunk, in an interview around the time this 1987 novel came out. A weird comic twist on the Victorian adventure novel, Infernal Devices stars George, a young watchmaker who discovers that his father was the greatest inventor of all time - even creating a clockwork automaton version of George. The clockwork duplicate of George plays the violin better than Paganini and has greater sexual prowess than George himself, leading to all sorts of wacky adventures as people mistake George for his automaton twin. Other books that could claim to be steampunk pioneers include Anubis Gates by Tim Powers (1983) and Homunculus (1986) by James Blaylock. But to be fair, the book that really popularized the steampunk genre was 1990's The Difference Engine by William Gibson and Bruce Sterling."->I reposted this as I'm a tad too tired to summarize  it.

Time travel-(Book:  H.G. Wells' The Time Machine).  Oh H.G. Wells, you science fiction God and inspirer of Doc Brown in the Back To The Future series, how your presence in this blog is 100% necessary.  "The best-known early time-travel saga, and still one of the best, Wells' story launched a whole flotilla of time vessels into the distant future as well as the past. Like War Of The Worlds, it has been adapted into movies and various other formats, and the Eloi/Morlock dichotomy has become a sort of shorthand for a type of future dystopia rife with exaggerated social division."

Alternate history-(Book:  Histoire de la Monarchie universelle: Napoléon et la conquête du monde (History of the Universal Monarchy: Napoleon And The Conquest Of The World.) "Screw those "Hitler wins World War II" books. How about this popular "Napoleon won the Napoleonic wars" book, published back when Napoleon was still a living memory? Louis Geoffroy imagines Napoleon's First French Empire defeating Russia and then going on to invade England in 1814. Result: Game over. Napoleon rules the world."  Okay, this was too good as it was for me to paraphrase it.

Last but not least:

Posthuman space opera-(Book:  Iain M. Banks' Consider Phlebas).  Personally, when I think of space opera, I think of Star Wars--don't ask me why....

"I have no idea what book launched the "space opera" genre originally - that might be a question for another day. And there's some debate over which book inspired the resurgence of space-opera books loosely called "the new space opera." But to me, it's probably more accurate to call this genre "posthuman space-opera," since it so frequently deals with artificial intelligences, augmented humans, beings who live for millions of years, and generally a set of characters who far exceed the capabilities of a regular human. And for my money, the first really influential star-spanning novel about a civilization of A.I.s (the Minds) and superhumans whose concerns are much farther reaching than our pathetic horizons was 1987's Consider Phlebas. I freely admit this may be a bit of personal bias showing through, since Phlebas was the first novel I read which really knocked my head off and made me see the awesome potential for this type of story."

My Wonderfully Informative Source

Now that you know entirely too much about science fiction genres, I'll conclude my post.  All of the authors above have one thing in common:  they weren't afraid to buck trends and take control of their writing.  In doing so, they singlehandedly created their own genres, re-drawing the lines in the sand in which one can cross.  Without authors such as them, genres as a whole would inevitably grow monotonous.  Therefore, dear reader/writer, I implore you to grab your genre by the reigns.  Define your genre; don't let it define you.

The Daily Inspirational Quotational

Today's Inspirational Quotational is brought to you by George Orwell, a brilliant novelist and revolutionary thinker with ideas that trascended his time. I've incorporated some of the elements of 1984 into Enigma Black:

"For a creative writer possession of the "truth" is less important than emotional sincerity."--George Orwell

A Little Slice of Awesome for Science-Fiction Nerds

Back to 1985, Doc

How cool is this!  Upon my first book sale I am soooooo rockin' the DeLorean.  I mean, come on, that should practically be a requirement for all science-fiction fans/writers. 

Of course, I would be pretty pissed if I got that bad boy up to 88 miles per hour on the highway and still remained in the present.  Oh well, c'est la vie.

Enigma Black-Chapter 4 (Oh what the heck)

Okay kiddies, this is the last chapter I will be posting.  Remember, I'm still in the editing process, so what you read is not perfect and some parts will change. 

Chapter 4

The Ledge

I’d never been through an earthquake before nor had I ever heard of one occurring on the East Coast.  Therefore, in hindsight it seemed like a fairly odd conclusion for me to have rendered as the Earth shook beneath my feet and the sky began falling in around me.

Immediately in response, I steadied myself against a railing separating the third floor from a sixty foot drop.  Discernable screams of fear and shocked surprise broke through the chaos. Intermingled with those screams were gruesome cries of anguish whose presence was silenced by the sound of concrete striking the floor.

Smoke invaded The Lakes blending in with the hurricanes of dust being generated with each explosion, three in all, creating the perfect storm. It was, in the aftermath of the final explosion, that the railing serving as my sanctuary began to buckle. The steel squealed in defeat as the piece supporting my body suddenly swung out over the center of the mall bringing me with it. In shock, I looked down at the floor below my dangling feet noticing that the majestic thirty foot fountain, and the crowning glory of The Lakes, now stood in nothing more than piles of broken concrete.

My heart raced rapidly inside my chest as my body hung over the chasm.  Tears welled inside my eyes from the fog of smoke encasing me, impairing my vision.  A sudden tremor then shook throughout the mall causing the third floor to shift once more and the portion of the railing I clung to creaked as it slowly started to break away from its foundation.  Holding on tighter to the metal bars, I knew that if I didn’t act fast I too would be in pieces like the concrete beneath me.

Taking a deep breath, I slid my body upwards to the third floor. Inch by inch I hoisted myself along the railing in a near vertical climb up the side of what had once been the floor beneath me.
　
"Keep going, Celaine, you aren’t going to die here…not like this," I repeatedly told myself unconvincingly.

Halfway to my destination further disaster struck. Droplets of water began raining down from the mall’s sprinkling system. These water droplets dripped unrelentingly down the sides of the metal railing rendering it a virtual slip-and-slide in my hands.  Any grasp I’d had on it was suddenly compromised forcing me to slide back down it.  If I couldn’t find a way to battle my way back quickly, I would be in dire trouble. Before that day, I hadn’t realized just how amazing the sheer human will to live was. At the point when I should have lost my grip, my adrenaline kicked in. With this new burst of energy came an overpowering determination that only intensified as I forced my body back up the railing. Before I knew it, I’d surpassed the point where I’d slid down.

Water poured in steadily from both the sprinkling system and the remnants of the mall’s ceiling soaking me to the bone. The bitterly cold air from the outside was also making its way inside sending my damp body into shock.

"Inch by inch," I repeated to myself.

I could feel the varietal mountain I was climbing beginning to tremble again making me fully aware of the fact that I didn’t have much longer before the final avalanche struck.  It was a culmination of every horror movie I could think of except I kept telling myself that the lifeless figures scattered on the floor below me were nothing more than mannequins.

That illusion was shattered when I saw the blood.

The railing shuddered again forcing my body to swing precariously back and forth. I looked back up the metal pole and gasped in shock upon realizing that less than an inch of steel was left binding it to the rest of the railing. Desperately, I made one last heave propelling myself away from the pole and, to my relief, my hands managed to grasp the jagged edge of the third floor foundation. Using all the remaining energy I could muster, I pulled my body safely to the floor just as the railing broke loose falling to the rubble.

I lay crumbled on the dust-covered floor, sobbing. Dust and smoke created such an impenetrable haze that, if not for the mini fires spouting from the perforated gas lines, I wouldn‘t have been able to see at all. In pain, I managed to stand up and assess myself.  There were a few minor cuts on my arms but they were otherwise unscathed. I knew that would not be the case elsewhere. As I inspected the burning pain in my thigh, I noticed blood flowing down my leg from an extensive cut leading from the upper thigh halfway to my knee. My jeans had been torn all the way down on one leg exposing my skin. These new wounds made the throbbing knee I’d experienced earlier seem insignificant in comparison.　

As my thoughts began to clear, I remembered the whole reason I was even still in the war-torn mall.  I let out an audible gasp while the tears welled in my eyes. Oh God, no, I thought to myself as I remembered that George, Carol and Jake were waiting for me outside.  Hobbling along the rubble, I ambled towards the department store that was separating me from the parking ramp. It was in this direction that the explosions had come from. 　

Above me, a sudden snap erupted. Looking up to see the source of the sound, I found myself diving out of the way to avoid a skylight as it crashed to the floor sending shards of glass flying in my direction.  Picking myself up from the floor again, I felt my skin prickle. Broken glass had cut into my hands, but neither that nor the pain mattered to me right now.  The entrance to the department store was just yards away and I was going to make it or die trying.　

I climbed over the debris making up the remnants of the department store entrance. Survivors who’d been in the store at the time of the blasts were scrambling to get out, looking at me as though I were suicidal for wanting in.　

"You’re heading to the worst of it!" a woman, covered in dust from head to toe, shouted at me.

I ignored her, continuing my climb into the department store.  To say that this was the worst of it had been an understatement.  War zones probably didn’t look much different than the sight that was before me now.  Smoke infiltrated my lungs causing me to cough so incessantly that my ribs began to ache. As I crouched down to crawl in the more breathable air on the floor below, my hand touched something that felt familiar.　 A scream escaped my lips as I realized that I was holding a hand that was no longer connected to a body. Throwing the hand off to the side, I continued my crawl to the ramp.  My stomach turned and I knew that I had to keep my eyes forward if I was ever going to make it without passing out.　

Almost there, I thought to myself.  The door was within my grasp with an almost blinding beam of light shining through it into the smoke.  It was funny how I hadn’t noticed there being a light there before. The department store had always seemed so dark in the direction of the ramp.  Even more amazing to me was that the entryway appeared to be intact.  With my target in sight, I took a deep breath using my remaining strength to spring to my feet, running the rest of the way to the door.

The automatic door was more manual than automatic now.  I banged on it with my fists attempting to do the job the explosion had been unable to accomplish.  When that failed, I braced a leg on one the side of the frame and, with my aching arms, attempted to pry the door open like a human crow bar.  No luck. After a couple more minutes of kicking, smacking and invariably flipping the door off, I realized that what I was doing was not going to work. Undeterred, I scanned the rubble for an idea. A piece of scaffolding stuck out like a sore thumb within the concrete. Lunging towards it, I prayed it would be suitable to pry the door open.  Just as I bent down to grab it, I felt a hand on my shoulder and another around my waist attempting to pull me back.

"What in the hell do you think you’re doing!" A man whirled me around to face him. His eyes were wild, his hair gray from soot. He appeared to be a security guard or an officer of sorts. It was too hard to tell based on what was left of his uniform. "There’s nothing left, do you hear me? The ramp is gone. You’re going to get yourself killed trying to go out there."

Even though I heard the words he spoke they made absolutely no sense to me.  What did he mean the ramp was gone?  It had just been there twenty minutes ago.  Deciding that the good officer was crazy I broke away from him and proceeded onward to grab the metal bar.

"No!" he screamed at me again attempting to restrain me.


I’d had enough. As much as I didn’t want to do it, I felt like I had no other option but to disable the officer as reasoning with him was clearly not going to work.  Raising my arm, I forcibly swung it back striking him in the chest. The force of my elbow to his rib cage caused him to release his grip on me enough to where I was able to break away. Once free, I whirled around swiftly kicking him in the legs as hard as I could in the hope　that it would incapacitate him long enough for me to pry the door open.

Fetching the metallic bar from the rubble, I jammed it between the seal and the frame of the doorway pushing with all my strength. At first it put up an admirable fight, but after several solid jabs, it finally conceded defeat, slowly squeaking open. Smoke poured into the store from the outside sending me into another coughing fit. Holding my breath, I gave the bar a few more solid pushes until enough room was created for me to squeeze my entire body through. Through the cloud of smoke, I took off down the crumpled concrete. On the outside, snowflakes stabbed my face like tiny daggers adding further insult to injury.

My eyes worked to focus in the direction I’d left my parents’ vehicle. I walked carefully down the pavement looking for the familiar sight of the garage. I should have been there by now. This walk was taking entirely too long. The fog of smoke slowly became less and less dense the further out I walked, until a wayward gust of wind blew past me punching a hole into the unknown. What it revealed was a scene I hadn’t expected.  Instead of the familiar ramp, I found myself standing on the edge of a cliff with the rest of the city spread out before me.  Sirens surrounded me as I shielded my ears with my bloodied hands.  A strange sound approaching from above drew my attention to the helicopter that was starting to circle around the mall. The hurricane-force wind it generated pushed my broken body in all directions.  Did I take a wrong turn?  Was I that disoriented?

No, I wasn’t.  This was where I’d left my parents and Jacob.  They had been right here.  A thought occurred to me then; a thought that rendered my delicate stomach as fragile as an egg shell.  Taking in a deep breath, I slowly walked to the edge of the pavement peering over the side only to see what I already knew would be there.

"No! God no," I screamed as I dropped to my knees and sobbed.  In anguish, I repeatedly punched the pavement over and over again, breaking my hand.  The physical pain, however, was not something I remember even feeling to this day. My body was already too numb from the emotional shock. Over the edge of the newly-formed cliff, my family’s fate had been revealed to me.  Strewn in a mass of broken pavement were pieces of steel in every shape, size and color.  Attached to these pieces of steel were tires, antennas, and license plates. My father, mother and brother were down there at the bottom of that cliff.  The parking ramp had been the epicenter of the blasts.

On the pavement of the ledge I lay; immobile and unfeeling.  I was wet, cold, broken and I didn’t care about anything anymore. From what I was told later by both my doctors and from reports on the news, I’d laid immobile on that ledge for about an hour before firefighters were able to remove me from my perch.  My motionless body was on the national news serving as the perfect illustration for the devastation that had transpired that day.　

One of the firefighters, who’d eventually rescued me from the ledge, carried me to an ambulance where EMTs stripped the soggy clothing from my body.  I must have been shaking pretty badly as they enveloped me in blankets almost instantaneously.  After I’d been secured, the ambulance fired up racing to what I assumed would be Hope Memorial Hospital.

"Poor thing," a pretty, young EMT stated while attaching various tubes to my body.

I heard the other EMT, a man, who’d obviously been the seasoned veteran of the two, with salt and pepper hair and a stare devoid of all emotion, speak as he radioed ahead to the hospital.  "Teenaged female with probable hypothermia, smoke inhalation and a possible broken right hand…possible bilateral rib fractures and multiple contusions. Estimated time of arrival is ten minutes."　

The woman EMT whose last name was "Topper"--or so I gathered from the badge dangling around her neck--soothingly caressed my cheeks. She then began humming a familiar tune I recognized from my youth and the volumes of lullabies my mother used to hum to me at night.  This instant memory of my mother sent a new wave of pain coursing through my body and a small tear formed in my eye.

"She looks catatonic," she had a worried tone in her voice.

"They’ll do an MRI at Hope Memorial," the male EMT replied un-phased.  "She’s probably just in shock.
There’s no telling what she’s witnessed today."

Topper winced continuing to stroke my cheek.

The last thing I remember that day was the ambulance pulling up in front of Hope Memorial; the hospital that’d become like a second home to me through the years.  The hatch opened and my stretcher was unloaded to a throng of trauma-hungry physicians.  It was a sight that would have made George proud.　 A handful of trauma physicians, some of whom I recognized through my frequent meanderings in the halls, rushed me through the doors into the Emergency Room.

"Oh my gosh! Is that Dr. Steven’s daughter?" one of them exclaimed.

"All pretty girls look the same to you, Scott," another retorted.

It was then that my memory cut off.

#

　
The rain and sleet came splattering down against the umbrella I clutched in my good hand in the sea of black umbrellas gathered together in a tight semi-circle.  In the middle of the circle stood three oak coffins each covered with a bouquet of roses; my mother’s favorite flower.  Standing next to me, Lucy was nearly as devastated as I was. Wanting to comfort me but not exactly sure how to do it, she simply hadn’t understood just how much her mere presence meant to me.

Everything went by in one big blur that day. I’m not sure I could recite a single word of Reverend Logan’s eulogy or any of the heart wrenching memorials given by my father’s colleagues.  I couldn’t remember the names of most of the people who attended the funeral. I couldn’t describe the faces of the individuals who embraced me while passing along their condolences.  All I could focus on were the three oak caskets sitting side by side being pelted by balls of sleet.　

Why had I been spared?  What made me so special?  These were the questions I yearned to have answered but of which I knew answers did not exist.  My father had done so much in the advancement of pediatric medicine and had so much more yet to offer.  Why him and not me?  None of this made sense; none of this was fair.  I watched as the caskets were lowered into their final resting places while the crowd dispersed to their vehicles.  With Lucy still loyally at my side, I continued watching them until they were no longer visible--half tempted to ask for a hole to be dug for me too.　

"Celaine," a voice behind me said soothingly, "are you ready?"

I turned to see my Aunt Tasha looking at me sheepishly.　

"Yeah," I replied.

"Okay. Wait here and I’ll pull the car around."

Carol’s sister, Aunt Tasha, must have drawn the short straw as it was she who would be my guardian for the next year.  This meant a move halfway across the country, but I really didn’t care.  There was nothing left for me here anymore. Lucy was devastated but I reminded her that the year would go by fast and there was always the Internet. That had seemed to appease her for the time being.

"You’re like a sister to me, you know," Lucy murmured almost incoherently through her tears.

"Don’t…don’t get all emotional on me right now Luce." Breaking my gaze away from their coffins I turned to face Lucy wrapping my arms around her. As much as I tried to fight it, I just wasn’t strong enough to keep the tears away.

"Now look who’s getting emotional."

I gave Lucy a small smile releasing her from my grip. "You’ll always be my sister too." With the sleeve of my overcoat, I wiped the tears from my eyes.

"I’ll be back, Luce. I promise."

"You’d better be."

She looked over my shoulder just as my aunt pulled the car off to the side of the drive behind us. "Well, I guess this is goodbye then?" she sighed.

"Only for now."

Giving me one last quick hug, Lucy too wiped a tear from her eye and, with a forced smile, waved to me before walking to her parent’s car. Aunt Tasha must have sensed that I wanted one final moment alone with my family.  For not being good with such "delicate situations" she was handling me like a professional.  I stared at each individual resting place, the places that would eternally hold my father, mother and brother.　

"I promise you that I will do whatever it takes to give stop whoever did this to you. You will not have died without retribution…I…I promise you that I will do what I can to stop this from ever happening again.　 Never again will anyone be made to suffer like this. I promise you…I promise you…even if I have to give up my life to do it, I will stop them. I love you."

My knees, having shaken all day, became too weak to support me. I dropped to the rain-soaked ground sobbing in my good hand.

#

It was later determined that the bombings at The Lakes had been related to the overall string of attacks occurring along the East Coast.  However, this bombing was different in that there were mass casualties; one hundred four in all. There were also witnesses this time who described seeing a mysterious male figure in black.  At least, some had thought him to be a man. Others swore this mysterious figure was more machine than human.  Thus, the story of The Man in Black was born inciting headlines on the front pages of every national newspaper.  Who what this Man in Black?  Why was he doing this? Was he human?  One thing was sure, whoever was doing this was getting bolder.

After The Lakes bombing, panic spread across the country.  People were afraid to leave their homes. They were afraid to live, afraid to die.  Many residents of the larger cities began migrating to less populated parts of the country in an attempt to feel safe again.  Rumors of a nationwide curfew along with the institution of military enforcement in the major cities, spurred talk of the end of democracy. This talk was quickly put to rest by President Brooks.

 

 

 

Enigma Black--Chapter 2

Yet another excerpt from my novel, Enigma Black:

Chapter 2

The Beginning of the End of My Life

 

Like most seventeen year olds, I’d been completely oblivious to what was going on in the world around me and the inevitable ramifications the recent string of attacks would have on my life.  All I knew back then was that I was happy in my own little world--as dull as it may have been.

On an overcast day in December nearly a decade ago, I sat in chemistry class running my fingers along the grooves of the table staring blankly at the world outside my window.  The first snow was going to fall soon, or so they said.  Hooray.  Why my parents had chosen Maryland to live and not some tropical haven, I would never understand.

Next to me, my lab partner was feverishly taking down notes.  Derek was your average run-of- the-mill science geek. Feverishly scribbled down every bit of Mr. French’s more-rambling-than-informative-lecture, he was completely ignoring the fact that his glasses were siding ever so precariously down his nose.  Despite his nerd-like tendencies, he was still a pretty good looking kid with thick, dark hair and piercing eyes the color of kiwis.  Especially evident to me, however, was the fact that his face turned various shades of crimson every time I even so much as glanced in his direction making it pretty obvious that he had a thing for me. From the beginning, I’d made it clear to him I wasn’t allowed to date. Okay, so that was a lie…a lie made all the more interesting by confiding to him that my father was an avid gun collector with a split personality.

Although my aversion to dating seemed to be somewhat of a relief to my parents, I suspected that they were nonetheless starting to wonder about their teenage daughter’s lack of interest in even broaching the subject with them. In fact, I was fairly certain that my mother was chomping at the bit for me to bring a date home to give her an excuse to take me shopping for prom dresses, makeup and all that other frilly, girly crap. Alas, it wasn’t meant to be for I had ulterior motives with my lab partner selection.

Derek was a science phenom; so, when it came down to choosing lab partners, let’s just say it was a no-brainer for me. It never ceased surprising me that, despite his academic intelligence, all it ever took for me to win him over was a simple bat of an eyelash and a lip-gloss infused grin. It’d been one of only a handful of times I‘d used my feminine wiles to my advantage. Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t as if I were incapable of passing the class based upon my own merits.  Quite the contrary, it was because I was perfectly capable that prompted me to select him. He was a genius and I was of slightly above-average intelligence which translated into me not having to do too much to ace the class.  Some would call it laziness, I called it efficiency. I’d always been an honor student without even trying. I considered it nature’s way of making up for everything I wasn’t graced with: artistic skills, athleticism, and the uncanny ability to walk into a room without tripping over my own two feet. Classes were just an unnecessary formality creating a damper on my social life.

"Ms. Stevens,"　Mr. French called my name while leaning dangerously too far over the overhead projector near the front of the classroom.  His stomach was almost as pompous as his ego. As he leaned over the projector, it brushed against the ink on the transparency smudging the glass, putting yet another stain on his two-sizes too small polyester shirt.  He’d just completed his lecture and was scanning the jungle for unassuming prey to devour with humiliation.  Today, I was his target. Oh crap.

"Ms. Stevens, what is reverse osmosis?"

I looked at Derek, giving him a big smile as I turned to face Mr. French, "Reverse osmosis is a method of producing pure water by forcing saline or impure water through a semi permeable membrane across which salts or impurities cannot pass."

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Derek giving me a thumbs-up from underneath our table. Mr. French wore a clear look of disappointment as I’d again robbed him of the chance to reprimand me for not having paid attention in class.　

"Very good, Ms. Stevens."

"Thank you," I replied in a tone peppered with a hint of smart ass.

"I think you just stole the wind from his sails," Derek whispered to me obviously amused.

It was apparent that I was becoming somewhat of a bad influence on the future valedictorian. Giving Derek a sly smile, I resumed my descent into la-la land, staring out the window as a lone snowflake fell from the sky.

#

"I have this theory," my friend Lucy announced from her aptly named "co-pilot" instead of "shotgun" position in my Taurus as we were pulling out of the school parking lot.　

I’d basically been Lucy’s chauffeur since obtaining my license a little over a year ago.　 Her parents didn’t much care for teenage drivers and weren’t about to add to the problem by allowing their daughter to join their ranks. For some reason, they had trusted me as I--in their words--"radiated maturity beyond my years".　 I supposed it was a compliment seeing as how whatever exactly it was they thought I radiated was apparently enough of a reassurance for them to leave their daughter’s life in my hands.

"Oh really? What pray tell is said theory?" I asked Lucy inquisitively.

"Quite simply, the world is ending." 　　　　　　　　　　　

Lucy’s proclamation nearly caused me to miss a stop sign forcing me to brake rather abruptly, clearly annoying the person in the car behind me.

"Okay," I replied. "You have my attention. 　I would love to know where you came up with this theory."

"Just look at all the chaos and destruction going on right now with these bombings taking place. I mean…what else could it possibly be?  There must be some reason for this kind of erratic human behavior.  All the attacks that have been going on and they only seem to be getting worse. Someone or something has to be sparking them."

"What? Because psychopaths don’t exist?  Come on Lucy. there are a lot of evil, psychotic people in this world.  The only difference between now and like fifty years ago is the fact that people now have better access to more tools of destruction.  Take the internet, for example.  There are websites devoted to the sort of chaos that has been going on lately. Plus, there’s way more media coverage than there used to be. We just hear more about everything that goes on now so maybe it’s just that it seems like there is really more happening than there truly is."

Lucy was my best friend even though she’d always been the overtly analytical, paranoid, conspiracy theory type of girl.  These traits tended to wear thin on most everyone else who knew her, but I’d become accustomed to--if not somewhat amused by them--through the years. Whenever she’d suffered so much as a cough, she’d be on the internet researching it, developing speculations as to its origin. Instead of the usual viral causes, she’d more often than not come to the conclusion that some freak pathogen had been released into the air. Over the years I discovered that if I could reason with her by providing cold hard facts, or well spoken bullshit, she was quickly brought back down to reality.

"I suppose you’re right," she finally agreed.

　

"As always."

"So what are you planning on doing over Christmas Break?"

A puzzled look must have overspread my face as Lucy immediately shot back, "You completely forgot that today was the last day of school before break didn’t you?"

"So, sue me for not owning a calendar. Besides, I finished all of my gift buying weeks ago.  I guess I just felt like I could forget about the whole Christmas thing."

"You’re one strange creature."

"One person’s strange is another person’s unique.  Now get the out of my car."

Lucy laughed, rolling her eyes at me as she opened the passenger side door of my car now in her driveway.　

"I’ll give you a call this weekend."

"Thanks for the warning."

She shook her head, closed the car door and proceeded up her driveway.  It was nice actually having a friend who understood me.  I’d made several acquaintances and quasi-friends over the school years, but none of them seemed to appreciate my dry humor like Lucy Pierce did.

Methodically, I backed out of the Pierce’s driveway, carefully avoiding the various ceramic pots and ornamental statues planted at the end of it.  A minor infraction last summer forced Lucy and I to make a mad dash into town to quickly replace a couple of potted geraniums that had somehow mysteriously ended up underneath my tires.  Narrowly avoiding another disaster, I backed out into the road driving the two blocks from Lucy’s house to my parents’ split-level complete with white picket fence.  My parents truly took the whole American dream thing to the extreme.　

By late afternoon the wind had picked up substantially, howling in sheer protest. It all but took my breath away as I opened my car door and made my way into the house.  I absolutely hated this time of year and that’s probably why I always allowed myself to forget about it so easily. The true meaning of Christmas, as far as I was concerned, had been lost years ago in the age of advertising and keeping up with the Joneses. Now, it seemed as though the holiday was becoming more of a time for parents to buy their children’s affection; after a year of neglect masked by the use of television as a babysitter and having a "headache" when asked by them to play catch in the backyard.　

Much to my relief, I was the first one home.  I threw my keys into the wooden bowl serving as a catch-all for all of our miscellaneous junk next to the front door.  There were days when I treasured solitude, a fact of which my mother and little brother never quite seemed to grasp.　

My mother, Carol, had yet to catch on to the fact that I was none too interested in the daily gossip around town. Nor did I care to partake in the standard "girl talk" with her.  Small talk for me consisted of a lively discussion of a novel or a stimulating debate about some hot topic issue.  When I tried to institute such talk with Carol it was like hitting a brick wall, inevitably prompting me to give in to her while patiently sitting and listening to her stories of how the dignitaries in town lived their lives.  I knew everything about Mayor Anderson’s extramarital exploits and Sheila from down the block’s five hundred dollar pumps.  I’d made half-hearted attempts at smiling at all of Carol’s stories as she regaled me with them and was always amazed that she still couldn’t understand why dances didn’t thrill me; why being a cheerleader never really appealed to me--I use to tell her that I wasn’t "rah rah material"; or, why I had no interest in befriending those daughters of the social elite in our town.  The answer was quite simple: I would not allow Carol to live her life vicariously through me.　

Don’t get me wrong, I’d been dealt a decent hand in life.  Carol and George, my father, always ensured that my brother, Jake, and I had everything we needed. George was head of the pediatric unit at Hope Memorial Hospital. Carol was a journalist for the local newspaper with her main expertise--surprise, surprise--being human interest stories. Landing that job had been like receiving manna from heaven for her as there was no one more interested in how others lived their lives than she was.

George was the only thing standing between me and the loony bin.  My father was a little more low-key than Carol, preferring to stay at home instead of attending social gatherings.  Carol and George were complete opposites who miraculously fit together perfectly like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.

Jake and I were the quintessential brother and sister team.  We pretended to despise each other often refusing to be in the same room for more than necessary. However, if one of us were in trouble, the other would walk on hot coals to kick the ass of whoever warranted it. After all, if anyone was going to do bodily harm to my brother, it would be me.

We lived the perfect, all-American, white picket fence kind of life until one late December day turned everything upside down.

After grabbing an apple from our fruit bowl, I plopped down on my bed, wrapped myself up in my down comforter and turned on the television.  While flipping through the channels, a news bulletin appeared on the screen quickly grabbing my attention. This particular bulletin detailed yet another bombing. This time the bomber had struck an Atlantic City casino.  That would make twice this week and four times within the last month that an attack had occurred.  There was no doubt the insanity was escalating.  Thankfully, this time the casualties were minimal since the casino was struck in the wee hours of the morning.　

I turned the channel only to find another news organization replaying the same story. 　A perky, blonde anchor woman who appeared to have had numerous cosmetic procedures therefore appearing perpetually surprised recounted the attack:

"A blast killed three people and critically injured five more at the Flamingo Resort and Casino in Atlantic City shortly after 3:00 this morning.  The blast took out the lobby of the casino damaging much of the gaming floor.  Fortunately, due to the timing of this explosion, there were minimal people on the floor at that time.　 The cause of this incident remains under investigation, but many believe this explosion is linked to similar incidences in Philadelphia, Dover and Baltimore all occurring within the last month…"

I turned off the television and lay on my bed staring at the ceiling.  What if Lucy was right?  There had to be a reason for all of this. This couldn’t just be random, could it?  Coming to the conclusion that I was becoming just as paranoid as she was, I put all thoughts of Armageddon to rest and closed my eyes.

#

"Celaine, dinner’s ready," Carol called.

"Huh?" I sat up groggily looking at the clock on my desk.  Apparently, I’d fallen asleep.  Who would’ve thought that staring at the ceiling wasn’t stimulating enough to keep a person conscious.

　　　　　　　　　　　

"Celaine!"

　　　　　　　　　　　

"I’ll be right down."

It was time for another rousing Stevens’ dinner.  I stood up slowly making my way downstairs.  Not surprisingly, they’d already started eating without me.  When it came to food, my family meant business.　

"So nice of you to join us," my father said sarcastically.　

I dished up a plate of lasagna for myself.  Besides grilled cheese and spaghetti, lasagna was just about the only other thing Carol knew how to make ensuring that we ate those three meals quite frequently. Suffice it to say, she was no Betty Crocker.

"I was talking to Claire today at work," she began. "Apparently, her and Bob are considering building a bomb shelter in their backyard what with all the mayhem that has been occurring lately."

"Is that a fact?" my dad replied with slight bemusement.

"Yeah, they’re really freaked out.  Bob says that if there’s another bombing, he’s selling the house and moving out of the city altogether."

"Bob has always been one to overreact."

"You think?"

"Yeah, why?"

"Well these attacks…they seem to be occurring more frequently…in more heavily populated areas. I mean, what if they start bombing highways or…schools."

"Carol."

I stole a glance over at Jake relieved to see him building a garlic bread town in his lasagna, completely oblivious to what was being discussed.　

"Carol," my dad began clearly exasperated. "More than likely these attacks are being carried out by copycats.  The problem is with the media…they sensationalize this crap to the point where those psychopaths tune in to see it. They think they’ll get their names in the history books if they set out to best what has already been done. It’s their attempt to instill further panic.  By building a bomb shelter or uprooting our lives we’d be doing nothing but fanning the flames they’ve created."

George hadn’t been himself lately.  His unflappable demeanor had mysteriously changed recently overnight.　 We all noticed that he seemed slightly more anxious lately but couldn’t quite pinpoint the reason for it.　 Our best guess was that it was due to more stress put on him at work.  He was extremely well-respected by his colleagues and peers. Some even speculated that he would be in the running for the chief of staff position when the current chief retired later next year.  Whatever it was, George wasn’t talking about it and repeated inquiries from Carol were doing nothing to lighten his mood.

"Well I suppose you’re right," Carol answered clearly deflated, "But still, these incidences are a little disconcerting."

My fork scraped the bottom of the plate creating a blood curdling shriek that brought me back down to reality.  Something about my parents’ discussion surrounding the attacks hadn’t set well with me.　

"Thanks for dinner mom," I said as I stood up.

"You’re welcome sweetie," she replied. "Oh, Celaine."

"Yeah?"

"We’re going to the mall tomorrow to pick up some last minute gifts. Do you want to come?"

"Darn skippy." I was happy to hear the conversation returning to an iota of normalcy.  My father chuckled.

"She’s one strange child," my mom muttered.

"You got that right," Jake announced. 

 "Jake what the heck is that?" my father asked.

"I’m building a replica of Washington DC. See, here’s the White House, the Lincoln Memorial, the Washington Monument..."

"For Pete’s sake Jake, eat your dinner."　

I could tell George wished he’d stayed at the hospital tonight instead of coming home.

"And you think I’m weird," I called out as I headed back upstairs.

"It’s not being weird, it’s channeling my creativity."

"I’ve heard that President Brooks thinks that the attacks are becoming more organized," Carol proclaimed returning to that disturbing topic.  "He believes we may be dealing with a domestic terrorist organization bent on staging some sort of a coup.  They’re talking about institutionalizing a nationwide curfew because of it."

I stopped dead in my tracks halfway up the stairs as I strained to listen.

"That will never happen," my dad countered.  "It would be like spitting on the Constitution.  The people simply wouldn’t allow it."