Today I logged onto the Huffington Post to check the latest in the news, and I saw a story where a white supremacist found out on a talk show that he’s only 86% white. The rest is 14% sub-Saharan African, which is apparently home to some of the darkest-skinned people on the planet. If I’ve done this correctly, I’ve embedded a video from NewsBreaker onto this post. If not, here’s a link to the article itself.
Shocking, right? And kind of funny, too. According to Cobb, even one drop of black clood makes you black. So sadly, he wouldn’t be allowed in his own “enclave”, were it to actually be set up.
But as much as this Cobb guy and other people who proclaim the (insert race here) race is superior, I’ve got news for them. I’ve learned something recently in my sociology class that I thought was mind-blowing. Apparently “race” as we understand it is a social construction, not a biological thing. It’s something we create in our minds to help us humans categorize, because apparently we love categorizing things.
In biology though, there’s actually little difference between humans of different races. There’s more differences between two penguins of the same species than there are between a black guy and a white guy. And the more scientists look for a biological basis about race, the more they find evidence to the contrary. Even things like melanin content, which determines skin color, and differences in susceptibility to certain diseases, something documented in the various races we’ve created, are determined by a number of traits that all humans share and could occur in people around the world at any time.
Even more mind-boggling is that definitions of race aren’t static: in Brazil, there are around 500 different races, while in the US there are about four or five. And races can changed. Someone from Mexico could be Spanish or Native American, and nobody could see the difference. President Obama could consider himself white if he wanted to, considering his parentage, but he’s black by choice. And not only are the races we define ourselves by subject to change where you go, the traits associated with races can change too:
He not only broke records, he broke down erroneous beliefs.
Before the 1936 Olympics, Americans assumed that because blacks, Native Americans, and Chinese mostly lived in poverty, they were degenerate and inferior in both mind and body (these beliefs never took into account socioeconomic situation, lack of education, or discrimination, even when statisticians published “findings” supporting these beliefs). However, after Jesse Owens took home the gold, race enthusiasts changed their beliefs in order to jibe with Owens’ success at the Olympics. They changed their attitudes to say that because African-Americans had been physically honed for strength and speed while in slavery, their physical abilities were superior, while their brains were inferior to the white man’s brain. I don’t know if Neil deGrasse Tyson plays sports, but that last part is definitely false, and it just shows how fluid beliefs about race are. And just as not all whites are smart or athletically superior, neither are all blacks, Asians, or Native Americans either of those or anything else. Everybody’s different, even as we’re all the same.
And finally, even on the genetic level there’s little to differentiate us from people of different races. If I were to get my blood typed and compare it to others in a worldwide database (and I’m actually looking into doing that, by the way), statistically speaking I’d be just as genetically similar to a Yoruban man as I would be to a Japanese woman or a child in the Amazonian rainforests. So on almost every level, race is not actually biological, but really just a product of our minds.
So why am I writing all this, besides to make fun of the Cobbs guy’s beliefs and possibly blow a few minds? Because all this relates in a strange way to my novel Reborn City. When I wrote the novel back in high school, I still thought there was at least a small basis to differences to races, and that reflects in the novel, where most of the gangs are divided up by race. I didn’t even factor in that there are different subgroups in races, like instead of just all Hispanic/Latino, there are Mexican, Cuban, Dominican, Nicaraguan, etc. I just knew I wanted to include a racially-diverse cast of characters and at the same time show how races work together would always win out over races fighting against each other.
Too bad I find out all this mind-boggling information after the book comes out, right? But now that I’m better armed, I’ll try to be a little smarter about it all. I’ll still include a racially diverse cast, but I won’t write it with the belief that races are homogenous or static or anything. I’ll just have people with very diverse backgrounds and that won’t even be a huge factor in the works I write, but instead just something interesting about my writing style.
However, that doesn’t mean one should ignore race because it doesn’t to exist, or because race shouldn’t matter. The fact is, people still see race as an actual, biological thing, and the belief is the basis of a lot of problems, controversies and discussions in the United States and the greater world. Ignoring it would be like ignoring your health in the hope you won’t get sick; it just won’t work. Instead, one should acknowledge race as a social construction, try to see through it, and if possible help others see through it.
That’s my opinion, anyway. You can agree or disagree as you like.
I’ll try and write a post tomorrow if I can. Until then, good night everybody!
Time for my Weekly Exercises (and a day earlier than promised). These flash fiction pieces are a chance to practice my craft, as well as get feedback from readers, and to possibly get them interested in my published work. Remember, the Weekly Exercises are for the readers, so if you like what you read, let me know.
This week’s Exercise is a special one, and not just because it’s the thirteenth. I’ve included a little section after the Exercise to explain why this one’s special. I’d suggest for you to wait until after you’ve read the Exercise to read that explanation, but scroll down if you want to. Just recognize it’s a much more impactful story if you read the additional stuff afterwards.
For more Weekly Exercises, please follow the link here. And if you have an idea for a Weekly Exercise, let me know. You may see your name and idea in a future Weekly Exercise.
~~~
Mark pulled the Toyota Sequoia into his usual parking spot and got out, sweaty and close to puking. Still he managed to keep his stomach down and went to inspect the front of the car. When he saw the blood, he actually did throw up.
He couldn’t believe it had happened. He’d been driving home from a party at his friend’s frat house after a few hours of boozing and a comfortable three-quarter hour with a lovely coed. He was slightly buzzed, but not enough that he thought it’d be a problem to drive. Besides, what did he care? He was doing well in his classes, he’d probably ace his exams, and he was graduating a semester early with a 3.7 GPA. What could go wrong with his life?
He’d been a block away from the intersection at Fifteenth and High, and the light turned green. He’d stepped on it, not even bothering to slow his speed or put on his turn signal as he went into the turn. It was then he’d first seen the pedestrian, a guy in a navy-blue coat and a wool hat crossing High Street. Mark saw him, but didn’t react. Neither did the pedestrian, who had just seemed to notice that a big white car was heading for him at nearly forty miles an hour.
There was a sickening crunching noise as the car’s nose hit the pedestrian head-on. He flipped -over onto the hood, rolled up to the windshield, bounced off the glass, and then off the car and onto the street. Mark hit his brakes, skidding to a stop in the left-hand lane. He looked behind him, seeing a crowd of people gathering from the nearest bar and from the street corners to see what had happened. The pedestrian lay on the ground unmoving, while people took photos with their phones and pointed. Still the pedestrian didn’t move.
Mark didn’t know how long he looked out the back of his car, but then he noticed people pointing at his car and he’d snapped back to life. He’d pressed down the gas pedal and bolted before anyone could stop him or call the cops. Mark didn’t stop driving until he was far from Fifteenth and High, and only then did he slow down enough to make it home in the narrow streets in his neighborhood without hitting anyone or anything else.
He’d killed that guy. He was sure of it. The amount of blood his car had brought with them, the poor bastard couldn’t have survived. Perhaps Mark should turn himself in—no, he couldn’t. He was going to graduate in a few weeks, and he had an interview with Safe Auto tomorrow afternoon. If he was even charged with killing someone, he could kiss his chances of graduating and employment away.
He’d have to get rid of the evidence. The window wasn’t cracked and the hood was only a little bent out of shape. If he could get the blood off his white car, nobody would know the difference. Mark turned to get a bucket and a sponge from his apartment, but standing in his way was a person. Except the person was covered in blood, his jaw nearly torn off, and his arm was bent at a weird angle. He couldn’t be a real person, could he?
Mark stepped back as the monstrous man limped towards him. It was then that Mark noticed the guy was wearing a navy-blue coat and a wool hat. It was the pedestrian he’d hit. “Hey dude.” said the pedestrian, looking at him through broken glasses. “You know, that was kind of dickish back there. I mean, you just left me in the street so that people could take photographs of me and post them to Facebook! What was up with that?”
“Stay away from me!” shouted Mark, but the ghostly vision came closer. Then it extended his good arm and pushed Mark into the front of his car. Mark felt the blood against his back, and he screamed.
“You didn’t care, did you?” shouted the spirit. “You just ran off to preserve your perfect life! My life’s gone now, it’s all over the ground and your car and your back.” Mark stared in horror as the spirit started to fade in front of his eyes. “Well, guess what? Karma’s a bitch.”
The spirit disappeared. For a second, Mark thought he’d imagined the whole thing, but then his car roared to life behind him. He turned around and saw the pedestrian’s ghost in the front seat of his car. “Hey, I never got my license.” shouted the spirit, leaning his head out the window. Do you think I can still drive this and kill you?”
Mark screamed and ran. The car followed, its demonic driver laughing maniacally. He ran, dodging the car every time the engine gunned and it tried to hit him. At some point Mark realized that the ghost in the front seat was pushing him back towards High Street. But why? Did he want him to die like he’d died, on the very same street as he did?
Finally he broke onto the open lane of High Street, not seven blocks from where Mark had hit the pedestrian. The car chased him towards Fifteenth, a chase in the middle of the busy street. People watched as Mark ran, chased by his own car. Finally between Fourteenth and Fifteenth, the car’s engine died and the car rolled to a stop in front of a closed bookstore. Mark stopped running, unable to believe he was still alive.
“Excuse me sir?” said a voice. Mark turned and saw two cops coming his way from a sea of police cars surrounding the crosswalk where Mark had hit the pedestrian. And there, unnoticed by anyone, was the pedestrian’s ghost, sitting on top of one car. He waved as the police inspected him and his car.
Now Mark’s life was over too. The spirit disappeared.
~~~
I don’t know if I’ve ever mentioned this on this blog, but back in February of this year I was hit by a car on the way to class. Luckily I got off with only a few bruised ribs and a scrape or two, but I was pissed, especially when the driver only waited for me to get up and start swearing before she tried to drive off. She didn’t get very far though, because the street we were on was not only full of cars and pedestrian traffic, but a construction site was nearby. She was arrested twenty feet from where she’d hit me!
Ever since that day though, I’ve been weary of getting hit again, and every time I cross a street, I’m watching twice as hard for anything that might hit me. Good thing I’ve been so vigilant, because last night as I was walking back from seeing the new Thor movie, I was crossing the street and a car nearly ran me over. And yes, it was a white Toyota Sequoia. If I’d taken a second longer to react, I might be a pancake in the road. And the way the driver reacted–actually, how he didn’t react at all to nearly hitting a pedestrian while driving too fast in a turn.–let me know that he would’ve just driven away as well if he’d hit me.
So as part therapy, part fun of writing, part warning to anyone who reads this blog and drives, and part imagining what might happen if he’d actually hit me and I could come back as a ghost, I dedicated a whole Weekly Exercise to what’d nearly happened to me. And now that I’ve written this out, I can say I can continue on with my life with just as much enjoyment and energy as usual.
Well, maybe with a bit more confidence and pride that my hyper-vigilance around traffic isn’t out of just paranoia and it’s actual useful. Good night everybody!
I’ve been meaning to write this post all weekend, but I’ve been crazy busy with homework (ah, the life of the busy college student with less than four weeks till finals). Anyway, this past Friday several people bought or downloaded copies of Reborn City. Before Reborn City came out, I’d sold nearly fifty copies of The Quiet Game: Five Tales To Chill Your Bones. With the additional copies of RC, I realized something: I’d sold fifty copies of all of my books, total.
Now, I know that’s not as prestigious as selling fifty or a hundred or a thousand copies of each book. But for me, it’s a big deal, especially as a self-published author. I remember very well when no one was reading this blog, let alone showing any interest in my writing. The fact that I’ve come this far, that people want to read my blog and that at least enough people for a mid-size class at my school want to read my book means a lot to me.
Still, I want to sell more copies of my books. Which is why I’m making an announcement. I wrote an article for Self-Published Authors Helping Other Authors a few days ago about how the publishing platform CreateSpace is offering new, free distribution options for its authors. I was hesitant to put either of my books through these channels though, because it would mean a higher price to buy my books. Not only did I not want to put a strain on my readers, but I was afraid new readers wouldn’t want to read my work because it cost more.
I’ve since changed my mind. My books will be available in bookstores and libraries if I were to take those distribution channels. Heck, I could reserve my own book from my local library! That would be amazing! And there’s always a chance someone will want to read the book even if it’s a bit pricier than most supermarket paperbacks. So look forward to possibly seeing RC and The Quiet Game in your local Barnes & Noble or library in the future, okay?
In the meantime, I’ve got some work to take care of. I’m hoping to get my homework done tomorrow, and to write a Weekly Exercise as well. Wish me luck, okay? Good night everybody!
A couple of weeks ago, I wrote a post about the scariest scene I’d ever written in my career. It was a pretty intense sexual assault scene, so bad that I had to go out shopping in the middle of a downpour just to find my center and write about it in a blog post (it was that bad). Two of the concerns I had with the scene was if it would deliver the emotional effect I was looking for, and was it well written?
Well, I can’t really testify as to the former question. Only readers of the story could tell me, and that novel is still in its first draft. But for the latter, I might have an answer.
The book I’m reading for class right now.
I’ve mentioned before that I’m taking a literature class that covers science-fiction literature (and a couple movies). One of the books we’re reading is called The Windup Girl by Paolo Baciagalupi, and early on it has a pretty terrifying rape scene. I found myself reading it on my couch, putting a hand over my mouth as it ended. I was thinking about it the whole rest of the day and well into the evening, trying to wrap my head around it.
And then I realized something. I felt these same emotions writing my own rape scene. Not at the same intensity, but close to it. And it was written in a similar way to my own scene as well. In fact, I thought to myself, “There are many similarities between the scene in Baciagalupi’s novel and my own draft for Laura Horn.” Now I’m not saying I’m on par with a novelist who’s won the Hugo and Nebula Awards (and besides, his scene had some sci-fi twists, making it very different from mine), but the similarities really sprung out at me, especially the emotional similarities. It made me realize that wondering whether it’s well-written–whether I included the right words, whether I was describing anything right–was the wrong thing to worry about.
Instead, I should be worrying about delivering the emotional impact that you’d expect from a rape scene. The terror, the humiliation, the pain, the anger, the crushing despair. I should be more focused on those aspects of the writing when I write those sort of scenes. If I do that, the well-written part will somehow weave itself into the scene.
So now that I’ve figured that out, I think I’ll approach those scenes very differently in the future, should I decide to do one again. In the meantime though, I think I’ll go to bed, as it’s getting quite late. Goodnight, my dear Followers of Fear (that’s what I’ve started calling people who read this blog regularly, along with those on my Facebook page and Twitter feed. Do you like the nickname?).
Oh, and for those of you who are wondering when I’m going to end this self-imposed hiatus on my writing (if anyone’s wondering that at all. I’m sure most of my readers have more important things to think about, but you never know), I promise you it’ll be as soon as my workload clears up a bit. That might not be till after final exams, when all I have is work at my job and whatever’s on TV or whatever I’m reading at the moment, but on the plus side, exams are in four or five weeks, so it’ll be soon. And then I plan on writing up a mean storm of fiction! It’ll make up for all I’ve missed during NaNoWriMo!
I was sitting on the couch this afternoon, getting in some much-needed reading. One of the books I was reading was a mystery manga involving mysteries al a Sherlock Holmes. I was enjoying the story…until one thing popped out of me as being really inaccurate. The story involved the protagonist taking on a loan shark who employed hypnotism in some of his more unsavory schemes. Now I can do hypnotism to some degree. And I’m always happy when it’s used in fiction…as long as the portrayal is accurate. And I’m sorry to say that the manga’s author was pretty far off on the portrayal of hypnotism’s accuracy.
Now I know that it’s a manga, taking place in a day when not a lot was known about hypnotism, and that the stories are modeled off actual Sherlock Holmes tales, so it could be based on a story that involved hypnotism, if rather inaccurately. And since this is a manga, I can’t very well tell how much research the author did for her manga, especially this particular chapter. But it kind of gets at me when hypnotism is used inaccurately. So let me take this opportunity while I have your attention to tell you some things about actual hypnosis. With any luck it’ll keep some other author from doing a grossly inaccurate interpretation of hypnosis in his/her next work.
1. Hypnotists can’t do anything unless the hypnotized person is okay with it. You ever see that movie where the hypnotist turns a teenager into a werewolf through hypnotism, whether he likes it or not? Neither have I, but I know of it and I know that’s not how it works. Hypnotized subjects are still conscious while they are hypnotized, and they can’t be forced to do anything unless they want to do so. Which means a subject can’t be forced to murder, do some really inappropriate act, or something along those lines unless they’d willingly do those acts while fully conscious. The only exception is magical hypnosis, and I’ve never seen an actual case of that outside of novels and manga, so forget I mentioned it, okay?
Okay, that just took out 95% of all hypnosis myths right there. And you at home or on your phone or at work or on a plane still reading this when the flight attendant has just told you to turn off your device (shame on you! They don’t tell you to turn off your device just to annoy you, you know), might just be wondering what hypnosis actually does if nefarious villains aren’t using hypnosis for evil schemes? Well, I’ll tell you:
2. Hypnosis is a form of therapy. Hypnotists will talk to a subject, gradually using verbal cues and commands to relax the subject to the point where they are in a state of consciousness somewhere between waking consciousness and sleep. They will then make suggestions that are designed to help a subject to some goal, whether that goal is to lose weight, quit smoking, cure insomnia, distress after a very long day, and everything in between. Sure, it doesn’t work for every person, and even for those whom it works for it doesn’t always work 100% of the time. But in essence, it is a form of therapy.
3. It can’t, however, be used to recall lost memories. You may have seen on TV once or twice someone having lost a crucial memory and going to a hypnotist to retrieve that memory, and then receive that memory, sometimes with aliens. Let me tell you now, memory regression through hypnosis is rarely successful. Sometimes an accidental suggestion from a hypnotist can cause a subject to create memories that never existed. And even if that doesn’t happen, memories brought up through this method may be tainted through outside sources, such as whatever you saw on TV last night or that story you read in high school that you really loved or the disappearance you read about in the news. I’m not saying that memory retrieval through hypnosis is never successful or impossible, I’m just saying it’s rare and difficult to do without unforeseen consequences. Still, it has happened before, so it could happen in a story you write. I just want you to be aware of the facts as they stand.
4. You also can’t claim hypnosis as a legal defense. The reason behind this is because most psychologists aren’t really sure what hypnosis is. Some aren’t even sure it exists, and a few are worried that hypnosis could be used in the wrong hands to cause all sorts of problems, from split personalities to causing more psychological problems. This, and the bit about the hypnotic regression is the reason why hypnosis hasn’t been used successfully in an American court for years.
5. Hypnosis is still being studied. Like I said, hypnosis is still a mystery to many psychologists. It’s not clear what causes hypnosis to work and how it works or why it works. There are studies being performed all the time and the body of literature is growing, but it’s still small. And while that’s still the case, hypnosis will still be controversial and mysterious, let alone something regulated by the American Psychological Association. Yeah, you read that right. Hypnosis isn’t regulated in the States. Better do your research before you go to see a hypnotist for something. You don’t want an actual quack, do you?
6. Hypnosis can’t be done in a single moment. At least, not always. Hypnosis is a process, and it usually takes several minutes to get someone in a hypnotic state the first time around. Sometimes a full hour, depending on the skill of the hypnotist and the goal of the session. There are only a few exceptions to this. First, you’ve experienced hypnotism enough times that a trigger has been implanted by the hypnotist (and with your permission) to put you in full hypnotic trance within a few minutes or even moments. Either that, or you know the hypnotist from a TV show or from shows in clubs, and you’re open to his/her suggestion, which makes it easier for the hypnotist to do his/her work. And finally, you may be used in a live hypnosis show, and you may be faking it for the audience. However, I’m not sure you can actually call that hypnotism, so forget I mentioned it, okay?
7. Only certain people can be hypnotized. This is one of the few things really known about how hypnotism works, and it works best for people who are easily suggestible or imaginative. So authors and artists who were very gullible in high school are at the most risk. Just kidding, but artists, children, and people who think outside the box are more likely than others to be hypnotized. It’s not exactly clear why, but it’s likely to do with how open to suggestion and trusting people without reason you may be.
8. Hypnosis is not an arcane art for an initiate few. In fact, it’s easy to learn. I learned it from a DIY book and watching several YouTube videos on hypnosis. You can learn it too, if you wish.
Well, that’s all I have to say on hypnosis right now. It actually turned out to be a few more things about hypnosis, didn’t it? Well, I said what I had to say and that’s that. I hope you found this information helpful and if you’re writing a story involving hypnotism, you can refer back to this list in order to accurately portray it. And if you’re curious in learning more about hypnotism, you can refer to a number of sources and websites for more information. I personally recommend HypnosisDownloads.com, HypnosisDownloads.org, and NLPmagic on YouTube.
Four years ago, I sat down in front of my computer and began outlining a novel about a girl named Zahara Bakur and her experiences with the Hydras. Over two years, taking many breaks for homework and an after school job and reading and a five week trip to Israel in summer 2010, I finished the novel that I named Reborn City. Then, over the next two years, I refined, edited, and polished up the novel, and finally I had my good friend Matt Williams at Stories by Williams take a look at RC before going ahead with the publishing process.
Now, after nearly four years, Reborn City is available for everyone to read. Sure, the print version is a bit more expensive than promised because Amazon said the price had to be so-and-so dollars, which I think is a little dickish, but whatever, it’s still out.
I can’t believe after so long it’s finally out, but I’m very happy and I am so glad I can finally share this novel with the world. If you are interested in reading Reborn City, you can check it out on Amazon and Smashwords. And if you want to read a preview before you commit to buying or downloading a copy, you can read an excerpt here.
Once again, thank you so very much for all your support and I hope you have an enjoyable read. If you feel like it, after you finish reading it please write a review on Amazon or Smashwords. Good or bad, I really don’t care. I’m always happy for feedback. Oh, and if you can’t find the print version on the Amazon page, most likely that’s because it’s still being processed by Amazon. Come back later today and it should be there.
Have a nice weekend everybody! Here’s the book trailer for RC, if you haven’t seen it yet.
This morning when I posted on my Facebook page and Twitter feed about Reborn City coming out three days from now, I joked that I couldn’t tell if I was shivering from excitement or from the cold (this year autumn seems to have passed Ohio by and let winter take over early). Later today when I logged onto the Internet after back-to-back classes and quite a bit of homework, I noticed that my sister Adi had posted about RC on Facebook and Twitter as well. It made me very happy and I was glad that she was my sister. It also made me wonder if she’d been replaced by an alien of some sort, which is always a possibility.
But you know, I’ve received a lot of support these past couple of days. My mother told me last night when we went out to dinner she might buy more than one copy of RC, and I’ve had friends, family, and classmates telling me to let them know when it comes out just so they can buy it.
This makes me very hopeful. I’m looking forward to seeing how RC does when it comes out, and I can’t wait to hear what everyone thinks of it, seeing as it’s my first published novel. I guess with the first one you always feel the most trepidation and excitement, because it’s your first time putting a full-length work out on the stands. And when it goes out, you wonder to yourself, will this be my big break? Will people love it or hate it? Will I have an excellent movie made out of it starring the actor from one of my favorite shows?
Okay, that last one was a bit much for a self-published writer with only one other book to his name, but you get the idea,
Anyway, thanks for the all the support, everyone. I can’t do any of this without you constantly reading, liking, commenting, and cheering me on. I hope that when RC comes out you like it and that you’re not afraid to tell me what you think of it, whether it be positive or negative thoughts.
I just read a report online that said that since the Sandy Hook massacre in December, aproximately niney-nine hundred shooting deaths have occurred in the United States. Yes, that’s correct. 9,900 deaths have occurred in the United States since the Sandy Hook massacre ten months ago. And that’s just the reported deaths. According to Slate.com, which keeps a tally of gun deaths in the United States, suicide by firearms aren’t usually reported in terms of gun deaths by police and the media, so the official number of firearm-related deaths may actually be much higher.
But still, 9,900 deaths is pretty steep. It’s over three times the number of deaths that the United States sustained during the September 11th attacks. And what has been done about it? Have any laws been passed that aim to stop gun deaths? States like New York, Vermont, Maryland, and Colorado have adopted much more stringent gun control measures in order to prevent more tragedies, and President Obama issued over twenty executive orders regarding gun control in the wake of the tragedy. However measures to fight gun violence have dried up somewhat, especially on the national level.
Why? Because a small but extremely vocal and well-funded group of people, some of whom are very out of touch with the organizations they head, believe that any measure to curb the sales or ownership of guns is a violation of the Second Amendment. Yet we still fund millions of dollars to take out terrorists overseas who in recent years have caused far less American deaths than guns have.
I’m not arguing we shouldn’t go after terrorists. But guns are causing more deaths than terrorists right about now, and it’s only going to get worse if nobody does anything. And I know that for certain Americans having a gun is a way of life. It’s consider sacred. But guess what? The United States is losing innocent lives because people are using firearms in ways they shouldn’t be used or have access to firearms that, in other nations, would be restricted to use by military personnel only.
And don’t say that gun restriction will lead to a totalitarian state. Governments are more capable of incompetence than controlling every aspect of the citizens of an entire nation. Look at the shutdown if you want proof. And don’t say gun control led to the Holocaust, because numerous factors led to the Holocaust, and so far in my Holocaust class I haven’t seen a single reference to gun control being apart of Hitler’s rise to power. And saying gun control laws don’t work because anyone determined to get a gun can is like saying traffic laws or stealing laws don’t work because people will still speed through red lights and will still take money from your wallet if they can get it.
Besides, Australia has done very well with gun control, so why can’t the United States do well? We’re both a nation that overthrew British rule, have had or still do have problems with people of certain ethnicities, and have had massacres in the past that have devastated our people.
So I’m asking anyone reading this that if you think gun violence is out of control in the United States, please say something. On your blog, to your congressman or senator, to the local newspaper or in your church/synagogue/mosque/temple/whatever. Try and make your voice heard if you’ve had enough of people dying and want the killing to stop.
We need a change. We need to be the change. And I’m not going to stop shouting about this till I see some change for the better.
I’ve decided to post excerpts of my published work on separate pages. From now on, readers can click on any of the pages for the books I have out and read excerpts from the final drafts of each novel/short story collection. So if you’re interested in getting a sneak peek at The Quiet Game, Reborn City or Snake, you can scroll above, click on any of the pages for those works, and find a link to an excerpt.
I hope you get a chance to take a look at them. Each excerpt is carefully selected to give you an idea of what you might be reading should you decide you might want to purchase a hard copy of my published work (or e-copy, as it is these days).
I’m signing off now, but I want to let you know at some point during the week, besides more countdown posts for Reborn City and the usual Weekly Exercise, I also plan to write a reflection piece or two on themes in writing and perhaps a special Halloween post. Oh, and my last review till the Doctor Who 50th anniversary special.
Until then, have a good night everybody! See you later in the week and happy reading!
I didn’t get to do this with The Quiet Game (I forget why), so I’m doing it with Reborn City. Guess what:
Yes, seven days! Reborn City will be coming out November 1st in both print paperback and e-book formats. It’s been a long process, but it’s finally almost time! And I could not be more excited. Well I could be but I’m pretty sure it would involve illegal drugs, so I’ll stay at my normal levels of excitement.
You know, it’s been over four years since I first sat down and started writing Reborn City. I had an idea for a novel–possibly one with a sequel or two–on the way home from the library while listening to a CD with a lot of rap and rock music. I stopped by a Dairy Queen for a treat and started thinking about how to develop this idea, which had street gangs at the center of it and a sci-fi twist. Then at my sister’s birthday, after the cake and presents had been put away, I started writing some notes down in a journal. Then I started researching, and typing a manuscript, and then after many breaks and a lot of painstaking work over the course of two years, I finished the manuscript. Another year and a third of editing, eight months spent emailing chapters to my dear friend Matt Williams and making more adjustment based on his suggestions and the final copy was done. Finally I created a cover on CreateSpace (which you can see above) and I sent it all off to the copyright office.
A few months pass by, a book trailer comes out, and now we’re finally at the end of this long journey. I’m hoping for wonderful things to happen with this book. I’ve poured a lot of blood, sweat, and tears into RC, and I hope people really like reading it. It’s not as scary as some of my other work, so that may appeal to less fear-loving readers. And it’s sci-fi dystopian fiction, so considering today’s market that’s good to have.
But there’s more to it than that. The novel tackles some powerful themes, like racism and Islamaphobia, drugs and gang violence, and a number of other issues. And I’m hoping its those themes that will resonate with readers and help them fall in love with characters, rather than some dashing heroine and a couple of good-looking guys rebelling against a government that’s pure evil (how many franchises did I just describe there? I think I got Twilight in there too).
So without further ado, I’m going to give you guys a treat in honor of RC coming out. The first treat is the RC book trailer, which is right underneath the next paragraph. Immediately following the video is an excerpt from Chapter One of RC, for all your reading pleasure. I hope you like the video and the excerpt and that you’ll be interested in reading the actual book afterwards.
Also, if you haven’t already read them, please see my interviews with Zahara Bakur, Rip, and Jason Price, three very important characters from Reborn City. They’re very amazing people…though two of them did threaten to kill me for various reasons.
Reborn City, former Nevada
28 Anno Bombus (2056 CE)
June 28
Zahara and her family had decided to eat out at a restaurant in North Reborn that served kosher meat, the closest they could get to halāl. “I know it’s for Jews mostly, but it’s a very nice place and the Jews were very nice to us in New York.” Zahara’s father, Emir Bakur had said when he’d suggested it. “They know they don’t have to fear Muslims anymore. And the Chaplinsky family in 4F was nice enough, right?”
However Emir had taken a wrong turn on the still-unfamiliar streets and highways and they had somehow ended up in West Reborn. The sight of the place gave Zahara chills, and it just wasn’t the reports of gang violence: the area had a grittiness that Zahara didn’t like. The cold brown houses, the rusty lamp poles, the cracked, light-grey concrete. West Reborn looked unkempt, uncared for, like the city had kept up the other areas of the city but had forgotten about this one. The only buildings that looked in any good condition were casinos, bars, and strip clubs, displaying three-dimensional holograms of cash prizes and sexy women drinking beer while looking at passerby with bedroom eyes. The sight of them disgusted Zahara.
In the front of the car Emir and Aaliyah were arguing, trying to figure out how to get back to where they were going. Zahara closed her eyes and tried to let the music from her filepiece filter into her right ear. Surrendering to the small device, she wondered if she’d ever get out of this city and get back to New York where she belonged. Somehow, Zahara had a feeling she would never come to like Reborn City, no matter how much she lived here.
After a few more minutes of her parents arguing about which direction, Zahara opened her eyes again, prepared to tell them they should just check their phones for the directions. Her eyes widened as she saw an arm swing up from the sidewalk and throw a rock at the windshield. The glass cracked as the rock rebounded off the windshield and into the road. Aaliyah and Zahara screamed as Emir braked the car and jerked at the steering wheel. The car skidded to a screeching halt, the nose pointing towards the middle of the road.
Zahara saw her father unbuckle his seatbelt and before she could stop him, stepping out to inspect the damage. “What in the name of Allah—?” he said, but stopped as he heard the click of a jackknife being opened. He turned around and saw two men, one of whom was holding a long, deadly-looking blade. Leaning forward in her seat, Zahara could make out the details of the two men: both of the men had a ruddy tan complexion, were wearing green clothes, and had looks on their faces that said they did not like making new friends. On the neck of one Zahara could make out what looked like a tattoo of a pitchfork with a sombrero hung over the right prong.
One of them, who was large and muscular, spoke to Zahara’s father. “Hand over yo’ fuckin’ money an’ yo fuckin’ car.” he said with a Spanish accent. “Ya got that?”
“Sure!” said Zahara’s father, holding his hands up defensively, looking so unlike the corporate lawyer he was. “Just take it easy, okay? Just take it easy—!”
“Hurry the fuck up!” said the other man. “Who ya think yo messin’ with, estupido?” This man was thin and gangly and had a strange leer on his face, like he would rather punch Emir than talk to him.
“Okay, okay!” said Emir, backing back up to the door and turning off the engine. Zahara’s mother Aaliyah saw this and as her husband stood back up out of the car, unbuckled her seatbelt and opened the car door.
“Mother!” said Zahara in English. Aaliyah looked behind her to where her daughter was sitting on the edge of her seat, fists balled in her lap, chewing her lower lip. “Don’t go out there!” Zahara hissed; Zahara rarely used English with her parents and she was only using it now because she didn’t know if these two men in green were fans of Muslims or not. Either way, it was not a good time to find out.
Zahara’s mother looked at her daughter as if she’d gone mad. “I don’t have a choice, Zahara.” she said in Arabic, pushing a loose lock of hair back under her hijab. “Our car is being stolen.” She opened her door and slid out of the seat. Zahara watched with disbelief as her mother closed the car door. Did her mother think things would go peacefully?
Suddenly the skinny gangster stared at Zahara’s mother and pointed at her hijab. “Hey Manny!” said the skinny gangster. “Check out the headscarf. Musulmàns!”
The fat gangster, Manny, stared at Zahara’s mother, then turned back to Emir, his expression livid. “So, you thought you’d get the jump on us, huh?” he said, thrusting the knife at Zahara’s father. “Fuckin’ terrorist! Let us jack ya car an’ explode us too?”
Zahara winced. Fuckin’ terrorist. She had been right, these two men hated Muslims.
“No, that’s not it at all!” said Emir, looking terrified as the skinny gangster pulled out a gun. “Please, you have to believe me—!”
“Shaddup!” yelled Manny, stabbing Emir in the belly. Emir went rigid as the knife plunged into his belly, then collapsed as Manny pulled the blade out. Blood poured out of Zahara’s father, pooling around him in a big red circle.
Aaliyah screamed in horror, staring at her husband as tears flooded down her cheeks. “Emir!” she cried. “Emir—!”
The skinny gangster pulled out his gun and shot Aaliyah in the forehead; her eyes rolled into the back of her head as Zahara’s mother fell lifeless to the ground. Zahara gasped, trying to keep her tears and screams inside herself. If the gangsters saw her they’d kill her too. And maybe…just because she was a teenager and a girl…they’d do other stuff to her, too. Zahara shuddered to think of what they’d do to her if they did that too.
Manny was kicking Emir’s lifeless body casually, making sure he was dead. “Think they’d play us, did they?” he said to his companion. “Fuckin’ terrorists.”
“Yeah, well they’re shittin’ in hell now.” said the skinny gangster. “Shows what happens when ya mess with Diablos.”
“Yeah.” said Manny, looking up from Emir’s body. “Come on, let’s go—wait a minute.” Manny’s piggy little eyes fixed on Zahara in the backseat of her parent’s car. Zahara squeaked as Manny took two steps towards her. “Yo, Che. Come check this out.” Manny called to his friend, followed by something in Spanish. Zahara nearly froze up as she realized she’d been discovered.
Quickly Zahara unbuckled her seatbelt, threw open the car door and ran, throwing her filepiece as a distraction. Manny and Che jumped back as the filepiece hit the ground, probably thinking it was a grenade or something. By the time they realized their mistake, Zahara already had a head start on them. They set off after her, angrily yelling in Spanish at her. Zahara turned around, saw them catching up, and ran faster, determined to get away.
As Zahara ran, bumping into people and flying past holograms, she began to cry; her parents were dead, she was miles away from any familiar place and with no familiar people to help her. The heartache she was feeling was so intense that she could just keel over and die, but she wouldn’t die here, and she would not let herself be caught by the gangsters chasing after her. She’d get out of West Reborn, find the house (she still hadn’t thought of it as “home” yet), and then she’d call New York and get help. Or maybe kill herself. Either way, she had to get out.
The gangsters were only a few feet behind her. But a few blocks ahead there was a police station. Maybe, if she was able to get there, she’d be safe. She could tell the police what was going on, they’d arrest her parents’ murderers, and then she could go back to New York—
Suddenly Zahara tripped on a shifted slab of concrete and fell. Thrusting her hands out in front of her, Zahara cried out as she scraped her hands and knees. She tried to stand up again but then someone grabbed her shirt from behind and yanked her up. Zahara stared into the faces of Manny and Che, the Hispanic gangsters who had murdered her parents. Che grabbed Zahara’s arms and twisted them into a painful armlock.
“Hello, Little Miss Terrorist.” said Manny. “Thought ya could get away so easily. Thought the po-po would help ya out. Wrong!”
Both of them laughed cruelly, and Manny brought out his knife, holding it close to Zahara’s jugular. The blade gleamed with the blood of Zahara’s father still fresh on it. Che and Manny laughed harder at the expression on Zahara’s face. “The po-po are just pussies.” said Che. “Fuckin’ pussies. They couldn’t catch us an’ throw us in the clink, an’ they would never help a fuckin’ Musalmàn. Besides, even if they would, them assholes can’t see us. It’s dark out, ya know.”
Manny pressed his face close to Zahara’s, grinning wickedly. The foul smell of his breath wafted over Zahara’s face, making her want to puke. “And the nearest streetlamp is right ovuh there.” he added, cocking his head in the direction of the lonely streetlamp.
With a great effort Zahara twisted her head away from the knife. “Somebody help me!” she screamed.
“No one’s gonna fuckin’ come to your rescue, Little Miss Terrorist.” said Manny, pressing the blade to Zahara’s neck; a little bit of Zahara’s blood trickled onto the knife, mixing with Emir’s. Zahara whimpered as Manny pressed his face even closer than before, so close she could see the pupils in his beady eyes. Behind her Zahara could feel Che’s hot breath on the nape of her neck.
Suddenly Manny’s free hand swooped down and grabbed the button on Zahara’s pants, undoing it in an instant. His hand reached into her pants and began feeling around.
“No, please.” said Zahara, tears spilling from the corner of her eyes. “Please don’t do this—!”
“Shaddup!” said Manny, looking up from what he was doing; Zahara felt the blade of the knife dig a little deeper into her neck. “Ya shaddup an’ try ta enjoy it. Maybe aftowards we’ll let ya kill yoself, got it? But no bombs; ya might hurt someone.”
Che giggled as Manny worked Zahara’s pants off, exposing her white underwear. As he did Zahara felt the fight go out of her. She was going to die and painfully too and at the hands of her parents’ murderers. She’d never see her friends again, she’d never see her parents again, and like the two men had said, no one was going to help her—
“What ya mothas doin’?” said a voice. Zahara looked away from Manny as a figure dressed in a black hoodie and jeans stepped into the lamplight. Manny paused and then stood up, pulling the knife away from Zahara’s neck.
As he did Zahara felt her energy disappear. Black edged into her field of vision as Zahara strained to discern the face of the newcomer. But the darkness took her and Zahara couldn’t see his face. The last thing Zahara thought before she fainted was that she would’ve liked to see the face of her potential rescuer.
That, and how embarrassed she was that her pants were lying uselessly around her ankles.
Rami Ungar The Writer 