Unabashed

How many stories are there in a day? Every day, every one of us is a story. Some are boring, but some are fantastic. Every soul on Earth has its own story, set to the cadence of every heartbeat drumming up the words. The most frustrating thing is not knowing the stories of the lives that we intersect with. Points of interest along the route of life compile without definition: we don’t meet, we don’t know, we only move on, just as the story does. Today I met four stories, but I have no idea how they began or end, I only have the snapshot in my mind, a single page or paragraph, and the frustration and wonder at what it is that made that story fantastic.

In order of occurrence:

There was a dark-haired woman and a toddler sitting at a table in McDonald’s eating breakfast. Her arms and legs were crossed and she stared down at her food, but the little boy, with a pacifier in his mouth, watched me as I walked by. When I left, walking back by them to get to the door, I noticed a car right outside the door with New York plates, and I wondered if it belonged to her and the little boy.

A big, tall man with copper-colored long hair was walking along the side of the road with a petite blonde woman wearing short-shorts. The woman was holding the hand of a little girl who might have been five years old, and the little girl had a dolly wrapped in her free arm. All four of them stared straight ahead, without expression or conversation (at least in those ten seconds that I saw them). The man was walking with a deliberate gait, and the other two were just keeping pace as well as they could. Or so it appeared.

A woman wearing a white dress and a black backpack was standing by a patrol car with the police lights spinning, and the officer, a burly macho type with mirrored sunglasses, was standing beside her holding a book or a pamphlet of some type, staring down at it. The woman wasn’t looking at him, but past him, at nothing I could see. There was a church nearby, but the road they were on was a connector route between Centreville and Tuscaloosa. There are a lot of houses along that stretch, but not much else, so it was kind of odd to see a woman walking alone through there.

Another woman, barefoot, wearing a tee shirt that was just long enough to make it look like that was all she was wearing and with a big blonde hairdo of loopy curls, was walking smoothly across the pavement around her car, which was stopped at an intersecting road between Centreville and Montevallo. She wasn’t walking with the “I think I have a flat tire” hop, but as if she was thinking something through, something very distracting. I didn’t stop to help because she got back into her car, and I saw in my rearview that she was pulling onto the main highway, heading back toward Centreville.

All of these people were beautiful, from the burly cop right down to the little dolly. They were all people in my own story’s margin, people whose lives I’ve glimpsed but whose stories I’ll never know, no matter how boring or adventurous or scandalous or petty or eager or psychopathic or horrific or desirable or melodic or distressful or macabre or mischievous. All I know is each one of those stories was interesting, for those few words I was able to read of them. All the planets this morning were spinning out of line–or into a line–and gave me a glimpse into the eyes of ordinary grandeur, everyday wonder. And I liked it.

written by Matt Mitchell \\ tags: stories, story

I love the Big Idea series John Scalzi is doing. I like reading about the genesis of an idea, how it came to be written. If I had an opportunity to show John Scalzi my Big Idea–which I don’t, since the book is not published–I might tell him that my idea has a lot to do with bringing science to fantasy. It might look something like this:

I love stories where there are invisible worlds set within the world we live in. The idea that someone is right there, standing next to you, but you can’t see them because they’re in this other place. The first time I remember thinking about that was in high school, when we were talking about the Mayan culture that just disappeared off the face of the Earth, without a trace. While everyone else was thinking drought or war or famine, I was thinking that they must have evolved into a higher state, and then transitioned into a separate reality from the physical one we can see.

Stephen King’s Dark Tower series, Neil Gaiman, Charles de Lint…there are a lot of writers who utilize the “world within a world” plot to great effect, but they always seemed to miss one important detail that I always wanted to see expounded upon: how did the invisible world come to be in the first place? Once I began wondering in that direction, the book Modern-Day Mythica wrote itself.

The story evolved from the concept of an energy mass that encircles the globe, that flows across the surface of the Earth like a river, from north to south. That energy is called the Wash. And everywhere that the Wash touches ground it forms pockets of reality within reality, some large and some small, attainable by certain doorways which are difficult to find and even more difficult to access, unless you really know what you’re doing. But to simply go that far with the idea still wouldn’t have satisfied my curiosity of how the Wash itself came to be, in order to form these pockets of reality. And that was the point where the idea became my Big Idea. The complexity of the concept is vast, but it fits perfectly within the scientific laws of the universe, if you can accept that there is one ingredient in the universal stew that remains undetected and unaccounted for: the energy of the Wash itself, which originates from a celestial body once in orbit around the Earth, when the Earth had two moons in the sky.

The implications of this are much more far-reaching than might initially be thought of: the presence of a moon that is unaccounted for, that disappeared some ten thousand years ago and is unrecorded except perhaps in some arcane hieroglyphs drawn on cave walls, could have a devastating impact on how science looks at history. With two moons, Earth’s time line could shorten considerably. Things that might take millions of years today, such as the formation of mountain ranges, might have only taken thousands of years in an environment where there was so much more gravitational pull on the planet’s surface. The tides would have been greater, earthquakes and volcanoes much more frequent…essentially, everything that science has applied to a timeline would have to be compressed into a much tighter margin, because things would have been happening so much faster than we can account for today. This is important because it enables the scenario where the ages of mammals and dinosaurs could have overlapped, and it is entirely feasible in the real world. Indeed, this is a scenario which is entirely possible, one which I do not believe can be proven incorrect. That was the essential Big Idea of the book.

But what happened to the moon, one might ask. Well, this is the point where the story leaves the plane of the real world and delves into fantasy or science fiction. The moon, a crusty, charred satellite with a surface composed primarily of slate, is the source of the energy of the Wash. Some combination of minerals and exotic materials, in an environment of intense heat (such as the core of the moon, which happens to be molten), releases the energy, which is copious enough to encompass both moons as well as Earth. This shared energy is a fuel for magic, making the impossible possible in many ways. For instance, the cocktail of energies allow for the existence of creatures on the moon in question, which could not exist in any world where magic is not possible. And furthermore, the influence of the energies allows for those creatures to migrate to Earth, lending credence to the ancient myth of dragons.

In Modern-Day Mythica, dragons are pivotal characters, striving to reach the cool blue comfort of Earth once again. But they were banished long ago, by means of a spell woven by a man, using the inherent energies of their home moon itself. For thousands of years the dragons have been seeking to undo what was done, and once were able to expose a rift between Earth and the realm to which their moon had been banished. This rift allowed the energies of the moon to once again enter Earth’s atmosphere, forming the Wash, and enabling magic within its borders.

This work is unpublished and unagented, although it is under consideration at this time. Read the first five chapters here.
Crappy cover art was contrived by myself, with a ganked photograph from here (the cover art is crappy, but the photo is pretty cool).

written by Matt Mitchell \\ tags: Big Idea, black moon, book, John Scalzi, legend, Modern-Day Mythica, moon, myth, mythos, story

Recently (a corporation) decided to hire (a departmental manager) and sent out three questions to prospective hires. One of the questionaires fell into my hands, so I filled it out and returned it using the name Vlad Kahn. Would you hire me?

Please list your top 3-5 strengths that will make you a strong candidate for this position.

1. I am a merciless director. I lead by example. My example is rage.
2. I demand the utmost discipline from my employees (henceforth referred to as “subjects” or “minions”) and will tolerate no insolence. Insolence is a sure way to cause my rage to be unleashed.
3. I am prone to fits of rage. For example, if I am not invited to interview for this position, my rage will be unleashed. Likewise, if I am not chosen for this position, my rage will be unleashed (I am prone to “get medieval”). I have chosen this company because I see potential for advancement, and I like the neighborhood. The coffee shop near the escalator is a nice touch. They should sell muffins.
4. BAH! (–I have unleashed my rage)
5. Satisfying my appetite for blood (henceforth referred to as “bloodlust”) each day when I arrive at work is a practice that should NOT be interfered with. Any interference will be met with a severe penalty. I.E.: My rage will be unleashed.
6. Do not expect me before dusk, as the sun can be somewhat damaging to my pale complexion, and do not expect me past sunrise. I generally begin moaning in pain about two hours before dawn. (This is my “happy time” and should NOT be interfered with. Any interference will be met with swift punishment. I.E.: My rage will be unleashed.)
7. Lastly, do not touch my axe or my crown, or my rage will be mighty, indeed (and unleashed).

If you obtain this position, what do you think needs to be accomplished in the first twelve months to make this new organization a success?

My department will run at peak efficiency on very little rest and little or no food. Whippings will be applied to anyone dawdling, with punishment growing more severe with each transgression. So long as an ample supply of replacement minions (for those I have slain) is provided, my department will complete any mission we accept. I give my personal guarantee that within twelve months, this operation will be forced into submission with no patience for slackers and extreme malice for those who interfere with our operations.

Tell us why you want to obtain this position?

I am bored with my kingdom and am looking to expand. Would like to have a house in a nice neighborhood, with lots of sidewalks. And a playground. This will be provided by my employer, along with plenty of ale and grub. In time, I may bore of this position and take over the company, if I do, I may slay anyone in my immediate path (it is therefore recommended that the company provide steady and rapid advancement in order that there may be few people between me and the top). Keep in mind that I may decide to implement this “hostile takeover” at any time, so anyone around me should be ever wary of that coming moment.

Lastly: My wrath is about to be unleashed. It is much worse than my rage.

BAH!

This turned out to be a story bone for me. I ended up writing a novella based on the guy I created for this application. It will, of course, never sell, because aside from being novella-length, it’s humorous fantasy, another hard sell. But I like it. Maybe I should just publish it here…Hmmm. Maybe I will.

written by Matt Mitchell \\ tags: bone, fantasy, Fiction, hostile, humorous, Kahn, novella, rage, story, takeover, Vlad, wrath

While I’m thinking about it, I’ve had dreams before that have ended up being incorporated into various stories I’ve written. For instance, one morning I woke up with a clear line in my head, which may not make any sense to you (it didn’t to my wife), but nevertheless I liked it and I thought it was funny so I adapted it. The line was this:

“Being the first ith, he was Irmth. His name was Irmth the Eleventh.”

As it happened I was embroiled in the writing of a scifi comedy about a space-traveling zydeco accordion player named Joe Remeleaux Redmill. Irmth became the bad guy for that story, and it’s one of those humorous SciFic pieces I told you I’d really like to find a home for.

The way it finally worked out was: Irmth belonged to a race that was the result of a genome abnormality in an entirely other race, the name of which is inconsequential at this point. Irmth and his kind were called “Shifts” by those they were spun off from, and were shunned despite their evident superior evolutionary state. Irmth was the eleventh Shift to have evolved, though there are many thousands in the universe now. Shifts were art-loving Methuselahs who lived millions of years. They were born with duplex personalities and referred to themselves using 1st person plural pronouns (we, us, our). They speak with two voices and, in the bulbous, gelatinous, transparent midriff of their bodies, which is usually tinted green or blue or brown and inside of which can be seen their organs and various floating detritus, had a second face, though their physiology was otherwise more or less human in appearance. They were usually phenomenally rich, intelligent, and deviant (though not sexually, not having the necessary equipment). Irmth himself was the first Shift of a separate branch called Ith. The only difference between a normal Shift and an Ith was that an Ith was much taller. Irmth specifically enjoys cocktails, sometimes delivered intravenously, technology and information, and music. He has organized numerous events throughout the Universe, some of which were so successful that they never stopped. Irmth scours the Galaxy, looking for musical talent to feature at his events, and is currently organizing and promoting an event in the Hypersholean system called “Music Horizon,” which promises to be a never-ending event and boasts five generation seven Posi-Tek SubSpaceWoofter Platforms, release 5ZR11.32.99, AKA the GalactiBlaster, which essentially turns a moon or planet into a speaker. When Irmth hears music he likes, he usually leaves his card, which is the model of simplicity:

Being the first ith, he was Irmth.
His name was Irmth the Eleventh.

written by Matt Mitchell \\ tags: galactiblaster, ideas, irmth, ith, science fiction, scifi, scific, shift, stories, story, writing

Internet pal and fellow writer Ken McConnell’s debut story, “The Renoke,” is up at SpaceWesterns.com. It’s a nicely creepy story and it’s science fiction; you can’t get much better than that.

written by Matt Mitchell \\ tags: free, free read, Ken McConnell, science fiction, scifi, scific, spacewesterns.com, story

Queries suck. At least writing them does. The entire novel-writing process has never made me feel so futile as penning these two vexing paragraphs. I could fill this page with links to query-writing suggestions and formats and information I’ve read from various outlets all over the web, all of it very helpful in its own context, but essentially worthless in applying to my own book. Why am I re-confronting my greatest fear? Because la Gringa wants to know where all the adult fiction subs are. And I have one. And I want to send it to her. I fear her rejection, yes, but this is more than some short story that I’ve labored over for a week and a half. This manuscript represents five years of my collective creative output. It represents potential success in publishing. It represents the hopes and dreams of a writer who wants to be. It represents potential for disposable income. I’ve been well aware of la Gringa’s advent into the agenting business, and I’ve had my manuscript ready for a good while now, I just don’t have the query letter right yet. If my book represents five years of creative output, this query letter represents another six months at least. No, it’s not all I’ve been working on, but I return to it regularly, and I suffer for its potential. I tweak it, and then I scrap it and start over, and then I agonize for a little while before I toil some more. But to dedicate so much time to something that can be the realization of all the dreams of a lifetime of writing is so daunting to me that I convince myself that the query must be better than the story itself, that my story depends on this little 100-word document to be successful, that if the story doesn’t get published it will be because I didn’t write the query letter well enough. And the worst of it is that great bit of advice I keep pinned to the wall by my desk:

…the writer never gets any better than the writing you see in the pitch letter.

Ack! Such pressure! To prove I’m worthy, that my story doesn’t suck, that I’m…well, you know how it is, don’t you, Mr. Query Letter. And I’ll bet you’re the most successful and wonderful story pitch there ever was–You. Sick. Bastard. You’re enjoying my pain, aren’t you? You see this blog and you look at me and think, “Heh, he’s in the gutter now!” Well, I’m done eating your scraps, Mr. Query. I’m jumping off this bus and catching a…a train. Or a hang glider.

Or a noose.

Oh, well. On to ver. 15.9…

written by Matt Mitchell \\ tags: author, book, Fiction, query, story, synopsis, writer, writing

In maintaining this journal through the years, along with its many and varied predecessors, I’ve made one small observation about what people want from writers and their blogs. On a blog people generally don’t want fiction. They do want things that are interesting, but for fiction they read books, not blogs. On occasion I think people will read fiction if it comes in a dedicated package built just for carrying the fiction–such as Down in the Cellar, or Southern Fried Weirdness (two sites that just happen to host stories written by yours truly), websites that are built just to entertain people with their fiction. But for blogs, readers seem to want slice-of-life vignettes, informational stubs, a few essays and some news.

One reason I say this is because through the years I’ve posted numerous stories on my blogs, but for some reason, while people will read my work on another site or in a book, they don’t want to read it here. It’s not necessarily that they don’t like it, they never even give it a try. It makes me wonder if building a site just for fiction alone would be worthwhile, if people want it that way.

If you are posting fiction on your blog, I’m not telling you to stop, I’m just saying that in my opinion, that’s not where people want to read it. Maybe I’m wrong; what do you think?

written by Matt Mitchell \\ tags: blog, blogosphere, Fiction, story, writing

The Ghost of Tom Johns is now available for reading at Down in the Cellar.

This is a horror/humor bit that I’m rather proud of, and I’m glad the Cellar picked it up. Hope you enjoy it. Feedback is welcome.

written by Matt Mitchell \\ tags: Fiction, horror, publication, story

Okay. I admit it. I read Entertainment Weekly. It’s my wife’s subscription, but I do read it. And. Well. I like it. Sometimes pop culture is fun to watch. They do have book reviews and music and stuff, right? I mean: right. So…Here’s one little contribution to popular culture from me, but first let me get a disclaimer or two out of the way.

First: This bit is-at worst-rated PG. Secondly, and for the record: I like everyone in this story. I do not think Angelina Jolie is actually a witch (although she is a little creepy. Remember that vial of Billy Bob Thornton’s blood she wore around her neck? Remember the way she snuggled and kissed her brother at that awards show? She may not be a witch but she’s definitely got issues). And I definitely do not believe Shiloh Jolie-Pitt is a little devil monster. This is just a fictional story I wrote when all the tabloids were all over the Angelina Jolie vs. Jennifer Aniston non-story. It seems Jen’s been doing fine, doesn’t it? Well, not for lack of trying, as they say, because the popular media wanted nothing more than an all-out cat fight between the two of them. So here’s my little story, “Brad Pitt and the Witch.” Please to enjoy.

When he first saw her, he couldn’t believe his eyes. She was so beautiful it made his eyes water–made his temperature rise, his heartbeat flounder. He shook his head and swallowed. She had burning blue eyes, exotically slanted, full lips and thick, long brown hair. She had long legs and large breasts and his breath burned in his chest when she looked his way and smiled.

“Brad,” she breathed, and he was baptized by her gaze, her smile, her attentions.

“Angelina,” he managed. He swallowed, made uncomfortable by being uncomfortable. He did the cute thing with his mouth–open, close, open.

She laughed, and she had eyes only for him. She crossed her fingers and put them next to her heart, then pulled her hand away and pointed at him. She’d done it once before, he thought, but couldn’t be sure. His heart swelled with desire.

That night she bedded him. He never thought of Jen. Now, his eyes saw only Angelina, his angel, his True Love. She fed him fruit for breakfast. Once again, she crossed her fingers and pointed at him.

“What’s that?” he asked, seeming to remember she’d done it a few times.

“It’s a love charm,” she replied.

“What, like, to make me love you?”

She nodded, laughing.

“Whatever,” he said.

“It’s true. I’m a witch.”

“Ah,” he said, waving his hand at her and looking away, smiling.

“Look,” she said, pulling up the sleeve of her silk pajama top, revealing a tattoo. “This is a mark of a witch. See the unicorn?”

He shrugged. “You can get those anywhere.”

She showed him the sixth toe on her left foot, and he scratched his head. “I guess it’s true: nobody’s perfect.”

She showed him her third nipple. “This is for suckling the beast.”

He didn’t know quite what to say to that, but somewhere in the cloudy depths of his brain he could feel that this was an issue that he wasn’t totally okay with. But every time he almost locked in on it his emotions swelled and he swooned with love for her. She crossed her fingers, pointed at him.

“That’s just a gesture,” he said, confident that she wasn’t a witch.

“Sure it is; but there’s power in it.”

“Bullshit.”

“It’s true,” she said, laughing. “There’s power in every gesture, to some degree. I saw a woman cry yesterday on the street when a little boy waved goodbye to her.”

“Yeah,” Brad said, “but that power isn’t in the gesture, it’s in the emotion the gesture brings up.”

“Isn’t it the same? One, and the other? My gestures call up emotions as well. They just happen to be able to call up other things, as well.”

“Like love. Right!” he said, shaking his head. “Give me a strawberry.”

She fed him a strawberry. “It’s okay, lover, you don’t have to believe me. Just go to Africa with me. I want you to meet someone.”

“Africa? Whatever. I’m not real interested in culture. I’d rather hang out, drink some beer, go fishing on the yacht. What’s George doing this weekend?”

“I need you to meet a woman named Ootu. She’s the one who taught me how to capture you. Now I need a potion, to make it permanent. That way I won’t have to keep doing the gesture that seems to be bothering you.”

He shrugged, ate an apple wedge.

***

In Africa, they made love every moment they could. They met Ootu, and she blessed them and married them in her fashion, at the same time dissolving his previous marriage. They adopted several children while they were there, as payment for magics rendered.

In nine months they bore their baby and named her Shiloh, and Angelina frequently suckled the baby with her third nipple.

“People think our baby’s better than Tom and Katie’s,” Brad said one day.

“Of course they do,” Angelina replied.

Brad seemed to be thinking, something that was dangerous in Angelina’s opinion. “But what if theirs doesn’t have that birthmark?” he asked, pulling a crisp linen shirt over his head.

“What birthmark?” Angelina replied, honestly not knowing what he was referring to.

“On her head. You haven’t noticed?”

Angelina looked down and poked through Shiloh’s hair, discovering the mark there and recognizing it at once.

“Funky, ain’t it?” Brad asked. “Looks like a symbol or something.”

“She’s got six fingers, too,” Angelina said proudly.

“Well, maybe Tomkat’s baby has something.”

End.

That’s it! Hope you enjoyed this brief foray of Unabashed into the realm of popular culture. Please deposit all snark in the appropriate comments section and have a good night!

written by Matt Mitchell \\ tags: Angelina Jolie, Brad Pitt, Fiction, George Clooney, katie holmes, story, tom cruise, Witch

Suspension of disbelief is a useful tool for writers, especially to writers of speculative fiction. But how much artistic license are readers willing to allow a writer? Like most authors, I read quite a bit about the craft of writing, and I read an article sometime last year concerning the suspension of disbelief. I don’t remember where the article was from, one of the writer’s magazines, I’m sure, but in it the author stated specifically that it would be ludicrous to imagine people accepting a piece of fiction that involved humans and dinosaurs cohabitating the planet. Now, the novel I was writing at that time, Modern-Day Mythica, does not take place in the past, but some of the principles that are described in the book, things that make the amazing part feasible, depend a little bit upon the reader’s willingness to accept that humans and dinosaurs might have cohabitated the planet. So it should come as no surprise that since I read that article I’ve basically worried myself sick over it. Will the reader be able to forgive me this transgression? Ah, but there is a caveat, one which I hope will explain the how in a way that will be completely believable.

One thing to keep in mind here is the difference between fantasy and science fiction. For fantasy, especially when written in the Real World, the one in which we live, there’s usually a doorway into Another World, and that doorway is magical, it doesn’t require any exposition as to how it works, it simply is what it is, whether it just appeared, or it was created by a magician, whatever. The difference (to me) is that in SciFi, we want to know how the door works, explained as scientifically as possible.

For Mythica, as with most of my writing, my writing borrows from both genres: I like the fantasy to be explained by science, that’s why I prefer the tag “Speculative” when referring to my work. Also: when I’m writing something I want it to ring true, or possible, much as SciFi might read. For that reason I like to use modern-day (or near future) Earth for most of my settings. There are some more successful authors than me of fantasy who use modern-day settings. Authors like Stephen King, who, along with Peter Straub, wrote The Talisman, a story about a boy who travels to the “Territories,” a reality connected with ours somehow, but separate enough to be invisible unless you are among the duly initiated. But the vast majority of fantasy fiction writers write more like Tolkien, who shucked it all and created his own world to set his fantastic epic in. Nothing wrong with that, I’m just saying. Of course, those are just two examples from the many, but they are two of the most notable works of fantasy in the world. Either method, obviously, works well enough to sell piles of books. But at what point is the suspension of disbelief overpowered by the impossibility of an idea? And is it harder to write fantasy fiction based in the real world than in a fictional world? Well, uh, yeah, probably, that is, if you want it to ring true or even possible.

In my story Mythica I utilize a similar concept as King/Straub used for the Territories in The Talisman. But in Mythica, the reason for the alternate reality–the science of it–is explained. But it’s the exposition of that theme that’s got me concerned.

As science has given, modern humanity evolved into its current state about 200k years ago and didn’t populate North America until about 10k to 20k years ago. Dinosaurs, of course, were long gone by millions of years by then (unless you count the turtle and the alligator and the shark and the many other holdovers who lived through the supposed meteor strike that spelled doom for dino-nation). But me, I grew up a fan of Conan of Cimmeria and Hyboria and one of the elements I loved most was that, if you looked at the map of Hyboria that Robert E. Howard drew up for the character’s homeland, it bears a striking resemblance to our own world before the continents drifted apart, when the world’s oceans framed a single super continent we now call Pangaea:

“between the years when the oceans drank Atlantis and the gleaming cities, and the years of the rise of the Sons of Aryas” ~Robert E. Howard, “The Phoenix on the Sword,” The Coming of Conan the Cimmerian (2003)

That little map made the stories ring true for me, even though science tells me it was impossible, that humans didn’t arrive for millions of years after Pangaea split into separate land masses. It made me see possibility that civilization was older than we believe, and filled with magic and monsters and even swords and steel.

One of my challenges while writing Mythica was to make its unbelievable part somewhat believable, much the same as Howard did with Hyboria. I wanted you to be able to read it and believe that it might have been possible, and I believe I have, except for that one small point: dinosaurs. People can’t live alongside something that died out 65 million years ago. Can they? Can intelligent people–and people who read speculative fiction are, generally–suspend their disbelief long enough to accept that it’s possible?

My only defense for this is to say that, in my story, real-world science is inexact because of a number influential events that science doesn’t account for. For instance, the storyline in Mythica involves a once and second moon orbiting Earth. The second moon is smaller than the first moon, but it’s half as distant, so it appears to be larger in the sky. This single entity justifies so many things in the story:

1. There is no scientific proof that the moon ever existed, since it disappeared over 200,000 years ago.
2. While the second moon was in orbit, Earth was not a very happy place to live. Two satellites tugging at the Earth’s surface would have caused Earth’s plates to shift much faster than is currently believed. Mountains would have formed much more quickly, continental drift would have happened much more quickly. Volcanoes, earthquakes, storms, tidal waves, etc, would have ravaged the planet’s surface. Not to mention the fact that the planet might have been slower in its own orbit; days might have been longer, years, longer.

It is conceivable, in my mind, to believe that the second moon could have accounted for a sort of speeding up of time, even though its orbit was slower. If a geologist looks at the rate of continental drift today, she might say that it took millions of years for Pangaea to split apart. But if there was a second moon, it could have happened in thousands. Hundreds? I’m no geologist, but in my very basic understanding of geology, a second moon would have had a monumental impact on Earth’s surface. So, if our history involves an unaccounted-for outside influence, isn’t it conceivable that the dates we’ve assigned to certain events are erroneous? That billions of years of history, based on one single missing moon, could now be thought of as millions instead? It might not affect how we view the 15 billion-year history of the universe, but it might change the history of planet Earth considerably.

Furthermore, by allowing for this shortening of time (periods, epochs, eras), it would mean that that the age of dinosaurs and the age of man were a lot closer than we now believe. And it would allow that those ages might even overlap. We have no proof that a giant meteor struck the Earth to end the age of dinosaurs, all we have are theories and hypotheses. And I (of course) have no proof that a second moon ever orbited Earth. But, in theory, is that any less possible? As for the disappearance of the dinosaurs, my hypothesis on this is forthcoming…

So what happened to the second moon? Well, for my story, which is a work of fantasy, a magician banished the moon because he believed it to be the source of a specific scourge upon the planet. But there are other, scientific, explanations that we could consider. Perhaps the would-be meteor that supposedly hit the Earth struck the second moon instead and sent it hurtling out of orbit. There are other theories of a second moon, one with a distant, 770-year orbit, perhaps this moon was once in a much closer orbit. But while science has accepted the possibility, if not the probability or downright fact, of the presence of a second moon, as far as I can tell no one has investigated any possible ramifications it.

So, for my story, the ramifications (and the science world can feel free to adopt this theory :-) of the disappearance of the second moon is this: Time sped up. Yes, time, real time. Without two moons dragging it down, Earth’s orbit sped up allowing it to encircle the sun in the 24-hour timeframe we’re used to. At the same time, Earth’s tectonic plates slowed their constant grinding, causing the planet’s surface to change much more slowly. While the moon was in orbit it’s possible that a person could watch the formation of a mountain range in their lifetime.

1. Time sped up.
2. Planetary changes slowed down.

With those two factors in mind, it is conceivable that our comprehension of the passing of ages prior to the disappearance of the second moon might be very, very wrong, and that the ages of dinosaurs and people may have overlapped.

Now, have the history books been rewritten yet? Can you suspend your disbelief long enough to swallow that load of garbage? I’d be interested to know.

written by Matt Mitchell \\ tags: Earth, Fiction, moon, second, Slate, story, suspension of disbelief, writing

My book is written. Well, it’s actually my third book, but the first one is not good and neither is the second, although with the second I believe its a good story, it just needs major rewrites. So, anyway, the book is done. It’s called Modern-Day Mythica, it’s around 120k words, and the premise is this:

200,000 years ago, Earth’s second moon disappeared. The rest of the story is about the effects of that missing satellite on one Joe Copeland, modern-day regular guy. Oh, and the moon that disappeared was an enormous, black, magical energy-generating rock that was inhabited by dragons.

Once every blue moon (heh, it was actually a black moon) dragons could travel to Earth (the details on how they did this are worked out, but I won’t get into here right now) and basically terrorize everything that lived–including humans. But then this really old guy shows up and makes the black moon disappear. Of course, since the black moon was the magic generator and this old guy had been using magic to keep himself alive far beyond a normal life span, he died. And the dragons, who depended on magic for flight, fire-breathing, communication–basically everything that separated them from big, crawling lizards–were all killed off. At least the ones on Earth were. The ones still on the moon–now banished to a different reality altogether–were mighty pissed, and began working on a way to get the moon back into orbit.

They never figured it out, but they did find a way to open a portal, a rift, between the realities, and they sent one dragon back to see if they could figure out a way to get the moon back into orbit from here. Joe, of course, is the guy who’s supposed to stop this from happening.

The story, which I’ve tentatively entitled Modern-Day Mythica, incorporates a good deal more than just dragons in its mythos: there are werewolves, ghosts, magicians, an alligator that turns into a motorcycle, etc.

Now, as you may know, I’ve been populating a wiki over at Wetpaint.com with details of the mythos involved. It’s not complete yet, but there is a lot of detail already there. Whether this book ever sees the light of day or not I have no idea, but I’m hoping that if this blog can build a little following, gain a few more readers (this is Unabashed honesty for ya, folks–yes, I’m using you, but I sincerely love you, too), that, coupled with the already-built companion wiki might make an editor give me at least a second glance before he/she shoves me into the trash can and sends me the dreadful form letter rejection.

Here’s an excerpt, if you’re interested (disclaimer: This is gory).

Edgar Billies had owned the Duck ‘n’ Dolphin for twelve years when the stranger came through the door. The fellow looked ordinary enough, about six two, brownish blond hair, dark green eyes. He was dressed kind of funny, his clothes didn’t seem to fit, and he was barefoot, wet, and dirty. He was wearing a fag bag that actually said “FAG BAG” on the front of it. That didn’t speak well for folks in Ed’s mind. But then Ed thought the guy might be homeless. He almost threw him out on the spot but decided against it if the guy didn’t have any money, then he’d throw him out. But the guy just didn’t seem like a homeless person; he carried himself upright and proud, like a damn king or something. And he was smiling, like he was just coming in to shake everyone’s hand and get a vote. The rest of the guys, Dan, Bull, Todd, and Legs, all turned to look at him, but they didn’t pay him any mind. Edgar poured up a beer for Legs and asked the stranger what he could get for him.

“How about some whiskey,” the guy said, sitting down at one of the front tables.

The guy kicked his dirty feet up on the table. Before Edgar took him the whiskey he hollered, “Fellah, you wanna get your feet off the table?”

The men at the bar looked at the stranger, and the stranger complied with a wink. He was still smiling.

Edgar set the drink on the table and said, “That’ll be six fifty.” He’d jacked the price up special for this joker.

The stranger reached out to take the drink and Edgar, in his classic way, grabbed at the stranger’s wrist to tell him to pay up first. Only the stranger caught Edgar’s wrist instead, and the next thing Edgar knew his arm was twisted up behind his back painfully and the stranger downed the shot. The four men at the bar hopped to their feet.

The stranger threw the shot glass and hit Bull in the forehead, which just served to piss Bull off, and all four of them were an inch away from charging straight in and kicking the shit out of the monkey that was holding Ed’s arm. They backed off a step when they heard Ed’s arm crack, though. Then, through his grin that never wavered, the stranger jerked Ed’s arm straight up over his head, then kicked him toward the others. The arm was broken and out of socket and it flopped around like an empty shirt sleeve when he fell forward and cracked his head on the bar. Todd tried to catch him, but Edgar was too fat and went into the bar anyway, then he hit the floor like a rotten log.

Dan and Bull charged with a loud, human growl coming from each of them. But the stranger picked up the chair he’d been sitting on and right before their eyes it changed into a two-handed ax. The handle and head were both deep, dark green, metal or stone, they couldn’t tell, the color and texture were otherworldly, precious, like a rare, gigantic gem, something you’d actually want your head cut off with if it came to that, like something an archeologist would pull from a horde of treasure in a tomb in China that was as old as mankind itself. The head of the ax was inlaid with delicate lines of engraving, as fine as spider’s silk, which curled and swept like waves back from the sharpened edge. Near that edge, the head of the ax, the color of dark, luxurious jade, became paler and paler until it was almost white at the sharpened edge. It looked like it would be hot to the touch. Amazed though they were, they were already committed, and men like Dan and Bull commit to things only as a final option. The final option had been crossed when this faggot had come in here and broke Ed’s arm, as far as they were concerned. But the stranger brought the ax back with both hands and swung it hard and full, right through Bull’s left knee and into Dan’s right shin. Both big men fell in opposite directions, screaming. The stranger never stopped smiling, though; he drew up the ax like he was splitting wood and began making kindling out of Bull’s left arm. Then he turned on Dan, who was trying to get to his feet, and planted that ax right on his collar, between his neck and his shoulder. It sheered clean through the collarbone and into his breast, and Dan looked down at it with wonder as a stream of crimson blood shot up into his nostrils from his own chest wound.

Todd ran around to the other side of the bar and ran along the bar bent over, trying to find Ed’s shotgun. When he saw it he laid his hands on it, but then he felt an odd pain in his lower back and from that moment on, all he knew was that he was on his back, conscious, but unable to move anything but his eyes. He couldn’t talk, lick his lips, wiggle his toes or anything. He figured that when he bent over to get the shotgun the stranger whacked him with that ax right at the base of his spine and he was right. Gregg had sheared his lower spinal column cleanly in two, and then he left Todd to lay and think about what was coming next, as he set about chopping Dead Ed into edible-sized bites.

Todd heard every plunge of the ax; he heard Ed moan when the ax went into him, sounding like a softball hitting a catcher’s mitt in fast-pitch, or like a sack of flour when dropped onto a wooden floor. Todd heard every blow, and with mounting terror, knew his time was soon to come. Maybe he’ll forget about me, he thought, or maybe he’ll just not worry about me any more, seeing as how I’m incapacitated any way. He began to wonder if doctors could reattach a severed spine, or if he would have to spend the rest of his life unable to move, flinch or even blink his eyes. But then the stranger looked over the bar and Todd knew that he wasn’t going to be left alive. Tears began to flow from his eyes.

The stranger’s head was covered with bright red gore. Thick droplets were spattering down onto the bar Todd could see them almost as if in slow motion. The stranger spit and bloody spittle spattered the wall beside Todd. He walked slowly down to the end of the bar and then walked up to Todd, the ax up on his shoulder. He was standing over Todd’s feet, a bloody, gory mess from head to toe. And he was smiling; grinning like a maniac. He set the ax head on the floor and spit in both his hands, rubbed them together, and then hoisted the ax with both hands, bringing it back over his shoulder big smile still in place and then he brought it down in a swift, singing arc. Todd heard his thigh crunch and the ax struck the hardwood floor beneath it, pinning the leg down. The stranger had to pry the ax free, shifting the handle up and down to wrench it out of the wood floor and Todd’s leg. There was a sucking sound as the ax head finally came free of the leg. Todd’s eyes were running with tears he wasn’t feeling the pain of the blows, not exactly; he could feel each blow like a thud like when a dentist pulls a tooth when the jaw is full of novacane but there was no sharp pain as there should have been, only the bone-jarring thud that caused his vision to blur for a second and his head to rock from side to side slightly. All the worse, because without the pain to tell his mind to shut down he had to endure every swing of that ax, every sucking sound as it pulled free of every wound it inflicted, and he had to watch every time the stranger wrenched the ax free of the floor, with each thunderous blow. When the stranger cut off his left arm at the shoulder, Todd could hear the ax whistle by his ear, and he began to grow cold. When the stranger cut off his right arm at the elbow, and his stump flew up in front of his eyes, spattering blood across his face, his hearing went out and he could no longer hear the meaty thwacks of his dismemberment. When the stranger finally struck him in the belly, Todd saw a jet of blood spray up into the stranger’s face, right before his eyesight faded slowly to gray, and then he was blind. All he had left at that point was the feeling of each blow rocking his body, as if he was underwater and someone was swatting the surface above his head with a boat paddle. He could feel the reverberations, he could feel the thud, and in his mind he could hear the dull thump, but it was distant, echoing, and then he was gone.

As Gregg walked out of the Duck ‘n’ Dolphin Saloon, there was a chair extending from the chest cavity of the owner, Edgar Billies, as if it had just sprouted and grown there.

End exerpt.

So what do ya think? Do you like it (and are you willing to spread the good word about Unabashed so I can gain fame and fortune :-)? Or do you hate it and think my plan will fail and I’ll suffer the pain of self-publishing?

written by Matt Mitchell \\ tags: book, excerpt, Fiction, Matt Mitchell, sample, story, writing

Inspired by my new friend Steve Buchheit over at Story Bones, here’s my own story bone:

Night fell and, much like a Superball, bounced down the hallway and disappeared into the furnace.

Story Bones; an interesting idea, and an even better name. Enjoy and good night :-)

written by Matt Mitchell \\ tags: , bone, story