Overbury Ink

What is This Thing Called Steampunk Anyway? is the question Matthew Delman asks in his blog: Free the Princess. It’s a question that is shared in this forum as well, as we explore the aesthetic in its myriad of faces.


Matthew answers his own question: “Steampunk, in its most simple definition, is a type of fiction that places contemporary technology in the Victorian Era with Coal (and thus Steam) as the primary power source instead of Gas or Electricity.” With this definition in mind, Matthew deepened the scope of his blog and shares with us the insights he has gained.


“Free the Princess was never meant to be a resource for Steampunk background. The first post — on July 17, 2009 — set out the mission statement of the first 9 months for the blog to be an avenue where I’d share my research and thoughts about writing. I’d seen a few writers use their blogs as vehicles to educate people on the subject matter they used to write their books — Gary Corby’s “A dead man fell from the sky …” is all about Classical Athens, for example — and I loved the idea of doing that so much that I decided to do the same with Steampunk technology.

I had to start with technology because, well, I’m a techno-nut for lack of a better descriptor. Of course, when you grow up as the youngest child of a Mechanical Engineer, you learn how to build things and all sorts of fun technological tricks fairly early. I blame my love of educating people on having a Teacher for a mother, by the way (my mother will tell you she had nothing to do with it, of course).

So there I am, writing more and more about Steampunk and the associated technology. I realized, after a comment from one of my blog readers, that writing the posts about writing were actually becoming harder to do on a regular basis. The tipping point came when one reader suggested I write a non-fiction primer on the background information needed to write a Steampunk story. I’d already done a bunch of research, and I could see how codifying everything would make writers’ and creators’ lives a whole lot easier.

Thus Free the Princess was reborn as a “practical literary guide to Steampunk.” My original focus on Steampunk tech has now expanded to include, well, pretty much every darn scrap of information I can find about the Victorian Age. The whole point of the blog now is to share as much of that with my readers as possible.

I call it a “practical literary guide” because I don’t discuss what does and does not constitute a Steampunk novel. My aim is merely to share what I think you might maybe, sort of, kind of possibly need to know in order to write a historically viable Steampunk story set between 1800 and 1920. If you’re writing a fantasy-world Steampunk tale, then by all means feel free to crib from my notes to flavor your world. That’s what the blog is there for after all.

As to other projects, well there’s also the speaking engagement I have at Upstate Steampunk in Greenville, South Carolina this fall, and Doctor Fantastique’s Show of Wonders, my brand-spanking-new Steampunk literary magazine. Oh yes, and don’t forget the half-dozen Steampunk novels I have kicking around in my skull.

But feel free to give me a shout if you want something covered on Free the Princess; I am always, and I do mean always, looking for ideas of areas to cover.
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Links:

http://www.matthewdelman.com

Free the Princess: http://freetheprincess.blogspot.com

Doctor Fantastique’s Show of Wonders: http://www.doctorfantastiques.com

Are you a Steampunk Artist? Writer? Designer? I want to feature you on SteamTuesday! Leave a comment for me to get back to you.
Did you like this feature? “Like” it on Facebook! Share it with your friends – support the creative community.
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This weeks blog tour:
OM Grey’s Caught in the Cogs feature:
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It’s still Canuk Steampunk month at the Steampunk Scholar’s blog. Read up on: Gaslight Dogs
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Mary Sew, from Germany, runs her own Steampunk Sunday blog feature, but we are pleased to include it on SteamTuesday: http://www.mistyillusions.org
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Number 38 is a story about the intersecting lives of a serial-killer and his 38th victim. Luca “The Rock” Marrone, the serial-killer is a character from the pages of Blank Death, the first book in the Blank Must Die Trilogy. Number 38 is a new short story from Ian Eliot LeWinter, writer and creative strategist of the duo Brothers of the Silence with his partner writer & illustrator Don Richmond. The Blank Must Die Trilogy was set in motion in May 2009 when Blank Death debuted as the first graphic novel in history to launch and be continuously unveiled on Facebook and Twitter. The story is rich with mythic iconography, psychopathic megalomania, ghosts, murder and bloodshed.





Thrusting upwards and jagging the blade left, Luca’s forearm delivered destructive force. But the stroke was off — instead of a clean, nearly bloodless thrust into Brenner’s heart, the sternum caused the knife to catch, then swing wide, slicing into muscle and sheath.


Brenner’s eyes grew big. His right hand clutched instinctively for the Taser clipped to his belt. He felt the sharp sting of the knife in his chest and a strong grip on his shoulder, holding him upright. He gasped for air. The brightness of the bathroom blazed white and then pink. Flecks of black invaded his periphery like ash.


Luca pushed again, deeper this time. Nicking rib, the force behind the blade was so great that a piece of bone snapped off and smashed into Brenner’s right ventricle, ripping his heart. There was an explosion of blood.
The movement felt clumsy. The dark, red juice erupted from the knife’s widening gash, splashing across his shirt. He jumped to avoid a second spray. His feet slipped about blindly on the slick tile.


The guard’s body started to convulse and fall backwards in the throes of exsanguination. Luca regained his balance and moved his hand to the guard’s jacket collar, slowly lowering him to the floor.


Brenner stared into Luca’s eyes. He tried to speak, tried to scream, but the knife had opened several wide rifts and blood was quickly filling his esophagus. The sound struggled under the weight of spit and blood. His cry was muffled into a gurgling, popping noise. He reached at nothing and fell limp.


Luca stared down into the guard’s eyes. “Why you?” he whispered. “I never saw your face.”


******


Ms. Grievous text: “M-a-k-i-n-g–m-e- -r-e-s-p-o-n-s-i-b-l-e–f-o-r–t-h-i-s–.-.-.–f-o-r–e-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g-“ She paused to add a dollop of preserves to the blintz. “T-h-e-r-e–n-e-e-d-s–t-o–b-e–a-n–a-d-j-u-s-t-m-e-n-t–a–c-h-a-n-g-e–i-n–w-h-a-t–c-o-m-e-s–a-f-t-e-r–.-“ She grinned.


******


Luca ran for the door and locked it fast. He looked down at his watch, but time was obscured by thick, drying blood. “Shit!” he muttered. “This wasn’t supposed to happen… you aren’t what I planned.” He looked down at his victim and frowned. The guard lay motionless, fat and bulbous like an overturned boat, white as a sail. Shipwrecked in a sea of blood.


The thoughts came rapid-fire. “Mother will be furious…The girl. All this blood… Just steps to the main entrance… the girl. I can’t lose the girl.” He dragged Brenner into a stall and sat him on the toilet seat. He removed the guard’s jacket, turned it inside-out and put it on himself. It was too small for him and the zipper was tricky. Seconds were precious and he knew it. He locked the stall door and hopped over it. He wiped the floor quickly and washed his hands. He flushed the paper towels before leaving the bathroom.


******


Mark looked at his watch and then at Frank, who was busy at the stove. “She’s going to hate us,” he winced. “Forever.” He placed his hands flat on the cold tile in front of him. There was a pleading in his voice that Frank hated. “She’s going to think we don’t trust her…that we didn’t think enough of her to be honest with her.” He looked like a cornered hare, gray and fidgeting under the florescents. “You’re absolutely sure today is the right day?”


Frank slowly stirred the bubbling red sauce and let out a deep breath. He remembered a time when he and Mark had no responsibilities. They rented a palapa on the Mexican coast and slept under the stars. Their friends had told them how to find it. “No one will hassle you there. It’s like a paradise.” He brought a book, but never read it. The tide lulled them to sleep. He dreamt he and Mark were seals, laughing and swimming, lost in the tangle of their own bodies. When he awoke, the sun drew him to the surface like a bubble.


He spoke calmly, resolved. “The longer we wait, the worse it will be and the harder she’s going to take it. Look past your fear, Mark. You know this is the right thing to do.”


******


“Mark sounded…funny on the phone earlier, I think he and Frank have been fighting. And I think it was about me.”


Savannah licked the bent tines of her fork. She looked around the restaurant. She and Ms. Grievous were seated in the back of a large room against a wall covered with photos of Charlie Chaplin. Near the front of the room was a sterile row of booths. Across from the booths were gray windows that went to the ceiling. She could see flies beating against the glass. In one of the front-side booths sat a young couple with two children, girls about Savannah’s age. The two girls were sitting on the bench facing each other. Each held a small game device and seemed to be waging a battle against the other.


Text from 847-651-5454: “Y-o-u–a-r-e–i-n–n-o–p-o-s-t-i-o-n–t-o–n-e-g-o-t-i-a-t-e-.–i-f–y-o-u–d-o-n-‘-t–a-c-t–t-h-e–c-o-n-s-q-u-e-n-c-e-s–w-i-l-l–b-e–o-n–y-o-u-.-“


“I’m sure that whatever happened to be going on with Frank and Mark,” she paused to choose the next words carefully, “they weren’t fighting…about you, Savannah.”


Savannah shot right back. “Why? Do you know something?”


Ms. Grievous shrugged, then glanced at the last text she’d received. She frowned and put her phone down. She used her finger to draw a heart on the table. “Well, I know your parents love you very much. And, yes, I know many things, dear one.” She chuckled. “For instance, I know these are excellent blintzes.” There was a happy lilt in her voice.


Savannah turned away and focused on the two girls sitting in the booth across the room. She noticed a bus shelter on the opposite side of Amsterdam Avenue. Sitting on the bench was the man from the museum, but his jacket was different and he looked worse somehow.


(To be continued)
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Dying for more? Have you read Blank Must Die? Tell us in the comments! Missed a chapter? Find Parts 1 through 5 below or in the Bookshelf page.
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6
–

Number 38 is a story about the intersecting lives of a serial-killer and his 38th victim. Luca “The Rock” Marrone, the serial-killer is a character from the pages of Blank Death, the first book in the Blank Must Die Trilogy. Number 38 is a new short story from Ian Eliot LeWinter, writer and creative strategist of the duo Brothers of the Silence with his partner writer & illustrator Don Richmond. The Blank Must Die Trilogy was set in motion in May 2009 when Blank Death debuted as the first graphic novel in history to launch and be continuously unveiled on Facebook and Twitter. The story is rich with mythic iconography, psychopathic megalomania, ghosts, murder and bloodshed.



Number 38, part 6


“Savannah. What did the guard give you?”


She had retrieved the flute from her purse and now she was turned to the side, away from Mrs. Grievous, crouched over and peering into her cupped hands, staring at the little toy. At the question she slowly turned her head just far enough to see the tall woman out of the corner of her eye. “Is it time to go?”
Savannah’s guardian looked down at her Blackberry, clicking out a seemingly never-ending text message. “We can leave if you’d like. It’s time for lunch and we can eat here in the museum or we can go somewhere else. Where would you like to eat?”


Ms. Grievous text: “T-h-i-s–i-s-n-‘-t–w-h-a-t–w-e–a-g-r-e-e-d–t-o-.–Y-o-u–s-a-i-d–t-h-a-t–I–w-o-u-l-d-n-‘-t–h-a-v-e–t-o–d-o–a-n-y-t-h-i-n-g–m-y-s-e-l-f-.”


“I don’t care. Wherever you want.” Savannah shrugged.


Text from 847-651-5454: “E-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g–h-a-s–c-h-a-n-g-e-d-.


Ms. Grievous text: “I-f–I–h-a-d–k-n-o-w-n–I–w-o-u-l-d–h-a-v-e–t-o–a-c-t-u-a-l-l-y–d-o–i-t–I–w-o-u-l-d-n-t–h-a-v-e–s-a-i-d–y-e-s-.


“That’s a poor example of both participation and communication. What do you have there? What are you hiding? Please show me what’s in your hands.”


Text from 847-651-5454: “B-u-t–c-a-n-t–d-o–i-t—w-e–c-a-n-t-“


Savannah put her left hand into her purse and turned toward her tutor, looked directly at her and smiled. “I know! Let’s go to Barney Greengrass… mmmm… cheesy blintzees, yummy.”


Ms. Grievous looked down and continued texting: “I-m–n-o-t–e-v-e-n–s-u-r-e–I–k-n-o-w–h-o-w–t-o–d-o–a-l-l–o-f–i-t-.-“


“Are you even listening to me?” Savannah asked, only half seriously.


Ms. Grievous looked up from her Blackberry and frowned. “Yes I’m listening to you, Ms. Stubbins. Blintzes sound like an excellent idea… with strawberry preserves.”


Text from 847-651-5454: “W-e–c-a-n–w-a-l-k–y-o-u–t-h-r-o-u-g-h–i-t-.”


******


“Oh shit, this sucker’s huge,” Bob Brenner said to himself, moving into the bright white room defined by 4-inch white square tiles that covered the floors and walls. Noticeable moisture released into his palms.
Bob moved quickly forward and boomed, “Excuse me, sir…” Before he could finish, Luca whipped around to face him, right hand at his side.


******


Mark set his iPhone down onto the mottled purple, slate kitchen counter.


“That was a text from Ms. Grievous. She said they’ll be home in between an hour and an hour-and-a-half.” Both of Savannah’s fathers were sitting opposite each other at the counter. Two bottles of beer sat between them, sweating icy droplets. Mark had been crying and his eyes were still red.


“Ninety minutes? That’s not enough time,” Frank suggested.


“What did you want me to do, tell her not to come home?”


“OK.” This time his voice was much softer. “I’m sorry. I’m not any readier for this than you are.” Frank stood up walked around the counter and put his arms around Mark.


“You keep saying that… but it doesn’t change anything. We waited too long and now it’s too late. We made the wrong decision.” Mark’s voice trailed off and he began a fresh round of low sobs.


“I know this isn’t how we planned it, but sometimes life dictates the outcome, not good intentions. It’s a tragedy for sure, but it’s not the end of the world — and in time all will be forgiven”


Mark pulled away from Frank’s embrace and turned to face him. “I wish I was as sure as you are. I’ve had misgivings about this since we first started talking about adoption.”


******


“I’ll have the homemade cheese blintzes with cherry preserves … and my grandmother will have the same thing, but with strawberry preserves.” Savannah said, trying to keep a straight face.


“She looks too young to be your grandmother.” the waitress said with a wink. “Are you sure she’s not your sister?” She flashed a big toothy smile, lips pulled back, gums everywhere.


“Thank you,” Ms. Grievous answered, but she stared only at Savannah, eyebrows raised, awaiting an answer from her pupil. The waitress, understanding she had interrupted, stammered out her own quick thank you and hurried off.


“Now, Savannah, tell me what the museum guard gave you.”


The two were sitting at a small table big enough for only two, attached to the wall on one side and supported on the other with a single pole. The wall was covered with a mural of turn-of-the-century New York City with strolling ladies and a horse drawn buggy. Savannah liked the mural. It reminded her of a picture book she had as a child. She began tracing the lines of the horse with her finger and making whinnying noises.


“Young lady I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but you know I don’t like to ask for something more than once. It feels like you might have forgotten that.” She paused for a moment. “Have you forgotten that?”


Savannah stopped and looked down. She buried her face in her hands and began soft, shallow sobs. “I’m rea-lly wor-ried Ms. Grie-vous… some-thing is wrong with Mark and Frank.”


The waitress returned with two plates of Blintzes, napkins and silver, and glasses of ice water, all perched acrobatically on her arms and in her hands. 


“And, why do you think something is wrong, Savannah?” Ms. Grievous asked.


Savannah took her knife and made an incision down the middle of the top of one of the rectangular blintzes on the plate in front of her. She pushed down on it and brilliant red jam issued forth. She then sliced the red cap off and slid it quickly into her mouth.


(To be continued)
Dying for more? Have you read Blank Must Die? Tell us in the comments! Missed a chapter? Find Parts 1 through 5 below or in the Bookshelf page.
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5

Number 38 is a story about the intersecting lives of a serial-killer and his 38th victim. Luca “The Rock” Marrone, the serial-killer is a character from the pages of Blank Death, the first book in the Blank Must Die Trilogy. Number 38 is a new short story from Ian Eliot LeWinter, writer and creative strategist of the duo Brothers of the Silence with his partner writer & illustrator Don Richmond. The Blank Must Die Trilogy was set in motion in May 2009 when Blank Death debuted as the first graphic novel in history to launch and be continuously unveiled on Facebook and Twitter. The story is rich with mythic iconography, psychopathic megalomania, ghosts, murder and bloodshed.





“How are you feeling, Vannah?”


Ms. Grievous and her charge were sitting on a bench drenched in the light of the Arthur Ross Terrace. Encased in a ribbed-glass prison, the Hayden Planetarium Space Center sphere looked synthetic and lonely. The terrace was uncharacteristically empty, the sky dull and soundless.


“I’m feeling better, Ms. Grievous. I’m really sorry I threw up.” Savannah felt that her face had lost most of its initial flush and, although not queasy, she was still embarrassed.


“It’s okay, sweetie,” Ms. Grievous said. “You sit for a minute and I’ll check my messages. You’ve had a rough morning.”


As Ms. Grievous walked a few feet away, Savannah looked out at the polar rink. She noticed a group of pigeons on the railing, all seemingly staring at her, adding to her embarrassment. “God, even the birds,” she thought. “What happened back there? I wasn’t feeling sick at all.”


One of the birds was jet-black, different from the others, and Savannah would have thought it was a different type of bird altogether, except that it looked like the other pigeons in every other respect. She imagined it was sending her telepathic messages. “Little silly girl, you made a great, big mess. You went and threw up breakfast on your pretty, yellow dress.”


Savannah frowned. She thought the bird’s one visible eye was beady and she wished it would stop looking at her. “Your eye is too small for your head and it looks stupid,” she willed back to the bird. As if on cue, the black pigeon turned and flew away.


A cloud moved between her and the sun and she thought she saw that same hulking, dark figure near the entrance of the terrace. But when the sun returned, she only saw the security guard walking her way. He stopped and held out his hand to her. “Is this yours?” he said.


In the middle of his palm was a small, wooden English flute about two inches long and half an inch wide, with two holes in the top and a small but playable mouthpiece. Although miniature, the flute had been intricately crafted from two kinds of wood, with simple, rune-like carvings that ran its entire length.


Savannah marveled at the beautiful little flute in the guard’s calloused hand. “It’s so cute and interesting,” she thought. “I wonder how it sounds?” She slowly looked up at the guard and he looked down at her expectantly through his glasses, his face pink and swollen, like a balloon. She glanced over at Ms. Grievous who was still trying to get a signal with her phone.


“Yes, it’s mine,” she lied and snatched it out of his hand, hiding it quickly in her purse. She again looked up at the guard, but he was saying thank you and turning to walk away.


*******


He was in the state. It was the same every time. Tingling hands. Dilated eyes. Heightened awareness. Quick, shallow breathing. A feeling of things moving in slow motion. Buzzing ears and a sharp, stabbing headache.


After the security guard had passed, Luca moved into the large archway separating the two galleries. There in the passage between the rooms, exposed and vulnerable, he was just a few feet from the commotion. Something small dropped from his hand.


“Pink. Pink with white and blue stars. Golden hair in a braid.” He trembled, making mental notes of what he saw.


He went to the nearby museum shop and feigned interest in a bookrack of cheap, brightly-colored novels, glancing more than once over the rack’s sterile top toward the archway that led to the girl. His mind raced. “What if she doesn’t come this way? This is the most important part. I might lose her. Should I go back? Should I make my way to the other end of the gallery? What if she’s already gone? Think! What would Mother want?”


One minute passed. Five minutes. The swelling flood of questions coursed through his mind. Then two men appeared in coveralls, both sullen-faced, one towing a sloshing mop bucket of steaming, soapy water, the other, a half-dozen rags and a yellow caution sign.


Again, the sharp headache. Luca decided it was time to move, to risk being seen.


He would turn and walk the long way round to the other side of the gallery. There was no other way. He stepped out from behind the bookrack — and that’s when he saw her again. She emerged from the same light-streaked archway through which he’d first spied her and in which he had just stood moments before.


She and her guardian walked down the hall and outside onto the terrace. Luca followed, banging his knee on the bottom of the rack, causing him to wince and curse his loss of focus. He positioned himself in a corner of the walkway that overlooked the giant sphere of the planetarium, a corner that offered him an uninterrupted view of the terrace and his prey.


“I know it’s her. She is the one.”


*******


“That was disgusting,” Brenner thought, walking into the empty security office behind the museum shop. “What did she have for breakfast, green pasta with brown marshmallows?” he chuckled. “I’m sure as hell glad I didn’t have to clean that up!”


He sat down on the sagging sofa and made himself comfortable among the mess of paper. He skimmed all the entries on the top page of the security log and added a brief description of the vomit incident. He’d encountered one like this just a few months ago, although he was going off-shift when it happened and his relief had to deal with it. A UC-8 the guards nicknamed it, insider code for “You See What They Ate.”


As he wrote, Brenner glanced up at the bank of security monitors that lined that wall in front of him. The monitors were supposedly color, but they were old and the locations they depicted were abnormally monotone that the screens displayed an integrated montage of grays and blues. Before looking away, Brenner noticed a large shadow on the deck overlooking the rink. He recalled his mental note to check out the big guy.


“What are you all about, you big fuck?” he said to the screen. Grabbing his oversized walkie-talkie, he headed out of the office. Then, he stopped, remembering that the device’s batteries had died yesterday on Chen’s shift and no one could find new ones in the supply cabinet, meaning a requisition order would need to be filled out.


“I’ll take care of it later,” he thought.


*******


Though his ears buzzed, Luca heard the guard heading his way long before the guard saw him.
He moved with a quickness incongruent with his size and shape, scuttling across the tile causeway toward the men’s room. He paused in front of the door long enough to ensure the guard noticed him. Satisfied, he moved inside, walked up to a urinal and feigned pissing.


*******


The man was gone. “What the fuck?” Brenner thought.


The broad carpeted “Scales Of The Universe” walkway encircled the massive planetarium, obscuring part of it from view at all times. Brenner had walked heavily and briskly until the section where he expected the man to be standing came into view. But the man wasn’t there.


And then he saw him outside the men’s room. He was big.


Changing his direction, Brenner moved to intercept him about 40 feet away. He closed half of the distance quickly and looked around as he had been trained, scanning his surroundings. When he looked back, the man had vanished again.


Brenner moved to the entrance of the men’s room and felt a rush of adrenaline. He pulled his walkie-talkie out of its holster and put it up to his head and then remembered once again that the batteries were dead. He tried it anyway, depressing the Talk button. No noise. “Shit”, he muttered under his breath. “Focus!”


He glanced to his left and right, before entering the bathroom.


*******


As the door to the men’s room swung open, Luca’s right thumb slowly and smoothly pushed the thin, 3-inch long blade out of its handle and locked it into place.


(To be continued)

Dying for more? Have you read Blank Must Die? Tell us in the comments! Missed a chapter? Find Parts 1 through 4 below or in the Bookshelf page.
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4

I”m leaving it up to you to decide… W.J. Howard, writer of The Courrier novel, has passed this to me and I just can’t help myself in diving into my truth or outrageous lies files and present some dainty morsels for readers to speculate upon. I’ll leave the guessing to you.

1. I am convinced I was a Roman Centurion in a past life named Claudius Maximus and stationed out of Nimes, France.


2. In 1989 during a trip to Fort Lauderdale I placed 2nd in the Girls Gone Wild Beer Pong Award for for the Cutest Hooters at which time a photographer approached me with some opportunities to make films, which I had to turn down because I did not have a green card.


3. Heavily influenced by Georgia O’Keefe throughout university, my graduating vernissage was an extensive display of rogue taxidermy.


4. I enjoy sitting back at my desk and reminiscing of summers spent in the sandpits of Le Sablon in Quebec sunbathing with exotic dancers and beer & badminton with biker gang members.


5. Afflicted by a rare bone disease for which I require extensive chemical rehabilitation, I am always impressed how the medical practitioners at the children’s hospitals kept me within the human norm throughout my developmental years


6. I am incredibly superstitious and cannot have people hand me scissors, receive a knife without giving a penny in return, whistle on a boat, or spill the salt and must hold my breath passing graveyards and ALWAYS knock on wood.

I’m nominating so far (more to come):


Ian LeWinter – Blank Must Die


If you’d like to be nominated, drop me a line and I’ll send you the details.

Number 38 is a story about the intersecting lives of a serial-killer and his 38th victim. Luca “The Rock” Marrone, the serial-killer is a character from the pages of Blank Death, the first book in the Blank Must Die Trilogy. Number 38 is a new short story from Ian Eliot LeWinter, writer and creative strategist of the duo Brothers of the Silence with his partner writer & illustrator Don Richmond. The Blank Must Die Trilogy was set in motion in May 2009 when Blank Death debuted as the first graphic novel in history to launch and be continuously unveiled on Facebook and Twitter. The story is rich with mythic iconography, psychopathic megalomania, ghosts, murder and bloodshed.





“The Doodoo bird!” Savannah giggled at how funny she was sure she was. “Okay, the Dodo bird. You don’t have to say anything…I was kidding, like you didn’t know that.” She batted her eyes and smiled up at Ms. Grievous, who was peering down at her.


The two were on the second floor in the “Hall of Birds of the World” exhibit, a series of dioramas featuring some of the more notable birds from across the globe.


“Raphus cucullatus was a flightless bird endemic to the Indian Ocean island of Mauritius. It stood about 3 feet tall and weighed about 50 pounds. The dodo has been extinct since the mid-to-late 17th century.”


Savannah looked at Ms. Grievous and frowned. “What happened to it?”


Something moved to her left. She glanced into the Hall of African Peoples and saw a large, dark, shadow of a man standing at the far end of the exhibit. When her eyes fell on him, she involuntarily gulped. It was only for a second and when Ms. Grievous answered her, she was easily distracted.


*******


Luca stood in the Hall of African Peoples, staring at the wildly-costumed Yoruba Morikoto ceremonial figure. The Morikoto was the living embodiment of Obatala, the spirit of justice. He wore a matching tunic and cowl, covered in red cowrie shells interweaved with bright gold and cobalt fabric, giving him the appearance of a dancing coral reef. On the glass encasing the intricate diorama was a placard with the story of the Morikoto.


Between 1100 and 1700 C.E., the Yoruba kingdom experienced a dark age. For over 600 years, a series of intermittent natural disasters and military skirmishes kept the embattled empire teetering on the brink of collapse.


The great King Obas was said to have climbed the unassailable south face of Chappal Waddi where the voice of the one god, Oyo, spoke to him of the Kingdom of Life and the restoration of his people.


Oyo commanded Obas to seek the child with red crescent-moon birthmark over his heart. This child, he instructed, would be the Morikoto, the one who would would bring back prosperity to lle Lfe (the physical kingdom). Oyo foretold that the Morikoto would kill the important children of his enemies, the future rulers, destroying their connections to their gods, leaving them unprotected.


King Obas did find a boy with a crescent-moon mark and raised him to become the first Marikoto. The people called him Eleduwa, the great defender. As the myth around him grew, so did his body count.


His great costume of shells and palm kernels also contained pieces of the skin of his victims, soaked in their blood, and the desiccated organs of a five-toed chicken. A great feast and ceremony was held each moonless night where he would wear his skin, cursing the dark gods in preparation for the next ritual killing.


“…kill the important children of his enemies…” Luca muttered. “You speak to me, Oyo.”


He felt a creeping sense of excitement and confusion swirl around his feet and crawl up his legs, closing around all of him, bringing a hint of perspiration to his skin. A breeze passed across his back, a breeze that brushed like the tips of a thousand gentle fingers grazing his body. Then it passed.


*******


“When the Dutch found the island, the dodo was one of the easiest obtainable sources of food. So, literally we ate them all, and in less then a hundred years.” Ms. Grievous shook her head in disapproval.


Savannah glanced back toward where she had seen the shadow-man. “Come on… can we go see the other birds now? You know, the ones we actually came for?” For a brief second she felt the fear stabbing again, and then just as before, it disappeared.


She took Ms. Grievous by the hand. The two walked quickly through the next hall, pausing only a moment to look inside a case containing some ornately carved elephant tusks and a variety of ivory figurines. When they were about to enter the Akeley Gallery, Savannah stopped short. Her body became rigid and she squeezed down hard on Ms. Grievous’ hand.


“Vannah? Vannah, what’s wrong?” Ms. Grievous asked.


The young girl was staring straight ahead, seeing nothing. She slowly turned her head to the left, without moving any other part of her body. When her eyes focused, she was looking into a glass case at two black painted shells swimming in a sea of red and gold fabric that were meant to be the eyes of a witch doctor.


Savannah twisted her body and lurched forward, spewing her breakfast across the glass and obscuring the dancing effigy inside.


*******


On the other side of the wall, within earshot, Luca was admiring a large photograph of a Bald Eagle soaring into an easy turn, its wings fully spread. After studying the bird’s rapier claws, he was moving on to the next image, an image of a leering vulture, when he heard someone get sick not far away.


He stood and listened.


*******


Bob Brenner also heard someone get sick. Assigned that day to the west wing, second floor, Brenner was security on-hand when Savannah Stubbins shared the contents of her stomach with the Marikoto. At the sound of the disturbance, he walked quickly through the Akeley Gallery and before moving into the African Hall, he noticed a large man looking at the gallery of bird photographs off to his left, muttering to himself. He made a mental note to check the guy out when he was done.


*******


Standing there, Luca listened to what sounded like a young girl coughing and then choking, and finally crying in hoarse, throaty sobs. He felt the same creeping sense excitement and confusion come over him. “She is here,” he whispered. The words seemed to drip heavily with a thick, viscous fluid. “She is sobbing.”


He took a step in Savannah’s direction and stopped as he heard heavy footfalls coming from behind him. He froze, feigning interest in the picture in front of him, while looking out of the corner of his eyes at the passing security guard. “I have to see her,” he whispered.


After the guard passed, Luca slowly moved toward the voices of an adult man and woman. “I’m so sorry…” the adult woman was saying.


“I have to see her,” Luca said, louder this time.


(to be continued).


Missed the other Parts? Check out the Bookself tab for more. Leave a comment! Lets us know what you think.

The Impossible Place is a graphic web novel…. of sorts. We currently publish two (ongoing) narrative storylines which combine illustration and text, either prose or dialogue. It’s a pretty loose format, the rule so far is that there are no rules.


Launched just over a year ago the blog itself is an experiment in creative work in progress using free online publishing mediums.


Ultimately it is about giving my husband (artist and illustrator Chris Worfold) and I (Nikki Curtis, writer amongst other things) the opportunity to collaborate on a project that incorporates the things we love. In this case, stories, art and design.





The longer term goals of the project include editing and paper publishing the stories as well as small scale manufacturing of designed objects. But The Impossible Place as a blog enables us to float ideas and stories as we create them. In its own tiny little way the work can live, breathe, fail, succeed prior to or regardless of destination. It’s liberating to release draft work and flattering when anyone reads it.

To an extent the stories in The Impossible Place are about this – life in progress. In the Impossible Girl storyline the characters have pretty much exceeded their goal expectations but now their everyday is making them miserable. It’s the choices that they make, or have made, that have created this.


It’s the same for the character of Reece in the Evinrud story. Although he tends not to bang on so much about it. Reece is an action man who is only just beginning to question where the hell he is at and how he got there in the first place.





As a writer (artist, creator) you tend to focus on the things that interest or absorb you most. For me appreciation, love, moral choice and responsibility are those things. I’m an incredibly obstinate creature, you can tell me what to do (and depending on the situation I may do it) but you can’t tell me how to feel. Truth to me can’t be told, it needs to be found. (Although I am happy to accept scientific facts once proven).


Clearly as an artist you need to distance yourself (or your own current beliefs) from your work for it to remain uncontrived. In this sense the characters in The Impossible Place are on their own (I take no moral responsibility). Like in all fiction, judgement and personal opinion belongs individually to the reader.


The stories in The Impossible Place all have some sort of ‘fantasy’ theme. It’s nice to be able to remove the characters from the everyday, to make them less (or more) than normal. And apparently it’s more fun to draw.





Impossible Girl has a ‘vampire’ subtext. A year and a half ago when we started drafting the characters there definitely wasn’t as many nouveau vampire stories/movies/tv shows around as there is now. I’m not sure whether we would have changed it if we had known. There is something very appealing about the blood sucker myth. The whole moral conundrum of feeding from something else in order to survive (and prosper) is very powerful. Impossible Girl (and boyfriend Rowan) were never meant to be Vampires in the traditional sense. They’re not immortal, they have a disease, contracted sexually, which makes them both more potent and more vulnerable. And as I mentioned earlier, it’s apparently fun to draw!

The Evinrud story is pure science fiction/action and the new story we will launch later in the year has a mythological subtext.


The illustrative component of The Impossible Place has given Chris a chance to rediscover his childhood love of drawing. It’s Chris’s love of comic books and graphic novels that really inspired the development of The Impossible Place as a blog and project.


As an artist his exhibitions career (in Australia and Asia) has predominantly revolved around painting. As an arts educator he has taught drawing for many years but rarely had the time to draw for himself. The Impossible Place is Chris’s excuse to draw – a lot.


The drawings for The Impossible Place have been rendered on coated paper, skateboard decks and in sketchbooks. They range in size and medium from behemoth two metre square pieces using ink and paint to A4 sized pen sketches.





As a very hands on textural artist, he is not hugely competent technically but does use Photoshop to crop, frame and occasionally recolour aspects of the illustrations for visual use on the blog.


You can read/view both Impossible Girl and Evinrud by clicking on the individual label in the side bar and scrolling (or clicking) backwards and beginning at post one.


www.theimpossibleplace.blogspot.com


Nikki Curtis is a creative writer (at this stage unprofessional but if someone offered me a job or project that paid enough I’d probably take it) who works for cash as a communications and business development consultant. She has a Bachelor degree in Business Communications and an extensive portfolio in extreme partying and fun management.


Chris Worfold is an artist, illustrator, educator and curator with an extensive exhibition history. He is a graduate from the Queensland College of Art and the Queensland University of Technology in Visual Arts and Education. He has been co-director of a commercial gallery, curated numerous exhibitions, written for catalogues and publications. He has completed public art projects and illustration commissions, served on arts committees and taught Visual Arts for over 10 years in Australia. He is dedicated to arts practice and teaches at the Southbank Institute of Technology. Chris is also a dedicated follower of his wife’s fun management regime.


Together, they live on eight steep (unusable except for plonking a massive studio and party deck on) acres of Australian eucalypt forest about 50km from Brisbane central and 40km from the Gold Coast with their dog Caleb and cat Rada (Muffin, Kitty really, she hasn’t been called Rada in years). They are relocating for a brief stint in New York later in 2010.

Number 38 is a story about the intersecting lives of a serial-killer and his 38th victim. Luca “The Rock” Marrone, the serial-killer is a character from the pages of Blank Death, the first book in the Blank Must Die Trilogy. Number 38 is a new short story from Ian Eliot LeWinter, writer and creative strategist of the duo Brothers of the Silence with his partner writer & illustrator Don Richmond. The Blank Must Die Trilogy was set in motion in May 2009 when Blank Death debuted as the first graphic novel in history to launch and be continuously unveiled on Facebook and Twitter. The story is rich with mythic iconography, psychopathic megalomania, ghosts, murder and bloodshed.

Savannah bounded up the wide brownstone steps, ending at the foot of the heavy oak doors, each inlaid with iron sprites.

“Hurry up, you two,” she called back, slipping into the house and out of sight.
At the bottom of the stairs, Mark noticed that Frank was not by his side and he turned. Frank was standing at the curb in front of the house, his arms held tightly across his chest and his mouth twisted into a frown.

“What?” Mark asked.

“I have a bad feeling about this,” Frank started. “You know about this world. You’ve seen what it can do.” His voice was tense and there was a crispness to the way he said his words.

“Yes I have. And that’s why I’m okay with all of this. Vannah is smart and resourceful. She’s listened to every word we’ve said and I daresay she’ll do a far better job of staying on task than either of us would.” He shrugged, as if to say some things were beyond their control. “She won’t ever be unsupervised…not for a moment.”

“She’s only ten years old.” Frank waved his hand toward the heavy doors, but it was an empty gesture, as if he already knew that his last statement didn’t matter.
“I want her to go over the plan one more time, Mark, and I’m not taking ‘no’ for an answer.”

“Fine,” Mark conceded. “Just remember how important this is. We need to show her how much we trust her to make good choices and to be responsible. If we take this away from her…now…here, I’m worried about how it might affect our relationship.”

“That’s why I want to stick to the rules. We have a good plan and we need to stay with it.” He looked down and shifted his feet. “Also — and I wasn’t going to tell you this — I’ve arranged for Ms. Grievous to be outside, within view of the taxi-stand, when Ms. V. gets to the museum.”

*******

“Heiltsuk.” Luca was standing just inside the massive Grand Gallery of the American Museum of Natural History, toward the front of the Haida Canoe. A primitive wooden dog, black and sinister, grinned out from the under the bow, secured there with a dowel by its maker two centuries before. The museum itself buzzed around him like a hive, typical for a Saturday afternoon, its bees replaced with families and strollers and mobs of children.

Luca scanned the Visitor Guide looking at the list of current exhibitions. He touched every picture, whispering its title.

“Silk Spider,” he said, his words barely audible. The thick, meaty fingers of his right hand hovered over the picture of the odd golden cloth. “She might like that. Yes. It was made from the silk of over one million spiders. Hmmm.

“No. Not spiders. Maybe butterflies? Yes. Flight feels right. She would like flight because…she…can…soar!” His voice grew louder with this last sentence, but he caught himself and lowered it. His finger lingered near the picture of the Clipper butterfly, quietly tracing in the air the white circular markings covering its wings.

“Wait. No. Hmmm. Not butterflies…No.” All at once his eyes lit up and they darted across the page. “That’s it. Birds. She likes birds.” He smiled. In the middle of the page was an adult American Kestrel. Its blue-gray wings bent aggressively, scooping up air and looking thoroughly menacing. “That’s where we’ll find her.”

He reached the stairwell, but he paused before entering. Off to his left a family of four crowded around a stroller, trying to decided where to go next. One of the children was a young girl about Savannah’s age.

Luca moved off to the side and feigned a search for something inside his backpack. Watching for clues of flight.

*******

As her cab pulled up to the Central Park West entrance of the American Museum of Natural History, Savannah spied Ms. Grievous, standing in shadow, partly behind one of the great columns.

“I knew it,” she thought to herself. “I knew they’d arrange something. Okay, that’s alright…but they are gonna hear it tonight.” She rolled down the window. “Hi, Ms. Grievous,” she waved. “How are you today?”

Savannah got out and paid. Then, she walked over to Ms. Grievous and hugged the tall, young woman, who was a bit embarrassed at being found out so easily.
Ms. Grevious chuckled. “It’s good to see you to Savannah. It’s been such a long time since yesterday afternoon, I almost didn’t recognize you.”
“Whatever.” Savannah rolled her eyes, playfully. She stepped back and fussed with her outfit, smoothing it and smiled, winking.

*******

“NO!” The young girl’s voice echoed loudly enough to be heard by everyone around her. She shook her head furiously. Her father’s shoulders slumped and he let out a long sigh.

“Do not raise your voice to your father, young lady,” her mother hissed, and when she spoke her husband cringed even more.

Turning her back on her mother, the young girl spoke directly to her father, affecting a loving disposition. “Daddy…I don’t want to see the butterflies. I don’t want to see anything more. I’m tired … can’t we just go home?”

“Rude and manipulative little wench,” Luca breathed. “Mother would know what to do. But no, no, no, you’ll never do. You’ll be too tough to make good stew.” A distorted smile crept across Luca’s face and he giggled for rhyming when he had not intended to. “Shhhh…not you, not you…too tough to make a good stew,” he whispered, rubbing his thigh.

(TO BE CONTINUED)

Number 38 is a story about the intersecting lives of a serial-killer and his 38th victim. Luca “The Rock” Marrone, the serial-killer is a character from the pages of Blank Death, the first book in the Blank Must Die Trilogy. Number 38 is a new short story from Ian Eliot LeWinter, writer and creative strategist of the duo Brothers of the Silence with his partner writer & illustrator Don Richmond. The Blank Must Die Trilogy was set in motion in May 2009 when Blank Death debuted as the first graphic novel in history to launch and be continuously unveiled on Facebook and Twitter. The story is rich with mythic iconography, psychopathic megalomania, ghosts, murder and bloodshed.

Luca sat at his bench, “It is time.” He thought to himself. “But who can you be? Are you an adult? No… you feel younger, much younger. Maybe innocent and unaware of the evils that surround you. Yes. You feel protected.”
Almost subconsciously, his hands began to work. His workspace was carefully prepared, all of his tools neatly arranged on both sides of the table. He had mallets and punches and shears. Trim knives and straight knives and round knives and cutters, a splitter, a bevel, and a sewing needle with clear nylon thread.


In the middle of the table were two square pieces of supple, prepared hide.


Taking the first square and taping it to the table, Luca gently drew the outline of a girl doll in a flaring dress directly onto its surface, stopping to erase and redraw several sections until he was satisfied. He then removed the tape, picked up the skin and cut out the effigy.


“Yes. You are most definitely a gift, a girl, a gift, a girl. A little girl wearing a pearl.” He chuckled.


He used the second square of hide to make an identical figure from a tracing of the first. Then, starting at the feet, he began to sew the two together.


“Mother is going to be very mad at me if the soup is bad again. She will punish me with the clamps and the nails. She’ll make me wear the face.”


Using the clear nylon, he carefully knitted a line of close, tight stitches, creating a rigid seam. When the job was nearly completed, Luca reached across the table and picked up a flattened brown paper bag.


“Her clothes, her hair, her skin.” He opened it up, pulled out a handful of shredded, multi-colored fibers and stuffed them into the doll.


“And 37 becomes 38.” He squeezed the doll open and pushed in the stuffing until it was puffy and full. “Just as 38 will become 39.” He then sewed up the rest of the hide into a finished figure of a young girl.


Luca stared at the faceless figure lying on the bench. He drew his fingers across it in a gentle caress, paying close attention to how it felt.


“Maybe I was too rough.” He murmured softly. “Maybe I bruised the meat, made it tough. Mother has not been happy. She made me wear the clamps all day. She made me bleed.”


When he opened the front door the sun came blazing through with a thud, temporarily blinding him as he left the house to begin his search.


*******

“Savannah, come on, let’s go. Time for breakfast,” Mark yelled from the bottom of the stairs.


Mark heard a shriek of excitement. A young girl called down, “Are we? Are we? Are we?”


He looked across the table at Frank, and peered over his glasses, an eyebrow raised. “Much to my chagrin,” he said.
Frank smiled a big broad smile that made his eyes sparkle. “I’ve always loved how you put on a big frump whenever Vannah wants to go to Home Town Buffet. It’s like you think you need to play counter to her joy.”


“But the food is awful.”


“It’s not that bad… just simple, unflavored, and overcooked. It could be worse.”


“How could it be worse?” Mark held his hands out, palms up.


Savannah exploded into the room, giggling and whirling and dancing and singing. “Off we go, off we go, no ears for us, not like Van Gogh. We’re hungry now, for yummy food, we have to leave, please don’t be rude.”


Frank grimaced. “What are you singing young lady?” Savannah stopped abruptly in mid twirl and leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. He shook his head. “You could be trapped in a living hell where every single meal you eat for the rest of your life came from there?”


“Well there is that, Mark retorted. “You are kind of butch and all, but Kampe you are not.”


“It’s a nonsense poem, Frank…Mark, who’s Kampe?” Savannah asked as she bit down on a piece of apple. “Are we gonna go or WHAT!?” she yelled and then giggled out of control.


Frank watched as the young girl moved gracefully about the room. Her long, French braid, whipped back and forth around her head, in unison with the cotton sundress she wore over her jeans. “She’s all blues and greens,” he thought. “Her favorite colors.”


“Let’s go,” he said, and she danced all the way to the car.


*******


Sitting at the simple table with too many plates of food in front of them, Mark, Frank, and Savannah made an odd picture — the two large men sitting on one side and the animated young girl sitting on the other.


“So Ms. V., have you completed the final draft of your Information Gathering Plan?” It was Mark who asked this question and the follow up. “I’m only asking because today’s the day and you should get approval prior to implementation.”


Savannah peered over her glasses with a fork-full of Belgian waffle hanging in mid-air. She was affectedly business-like. “I did it last night, of course. I thought you agreed that I didn’t have to show it to you again. I was just going to finish getting ready and go when we got home.”


(TO BE CONTINUED).

I you told me I’d be reading a book about a badass rifle toting action heroine, I’d be game to look into it – but add the fact that she’s a 35year old single mom in 1879 Seattle distorted by a poisonous gas, throw in zombies, airships, gasmasks and goggles – and I’m all over it.



Cherie Priest’s Boneshaker has a simple premise: Briar Wilkes tries to find her teenaged son, Zeke, who entered the walled, zombie-ridden city of Seattle searching for proof to clear his father’s name. It’s a great hook: the steampunk/zombie mash-up has instant appeal. Boneshaker simply pulls you in and doesn’t let go.


The story stems from the North-Western quest for gold during the American Civil War. Seattle inventor Leviticus Blue creates a machine named the Boneshaker, that will drill for gold through Alaskan ice. During testing, the machine fails and Seattle is destroyed as the Boneshaker carves out the ground beneath the city. The digging unleashes a heavy gas that begins to turn people into zombies. A wall is built around the catastophy, keeping the gas and the walking dead contained.


Briar Wilkes is the inventor’s widow, and her son, Zeke, live ostracized on the outskirts of the remaining community. Teenaged Zeke is determined to clear his father’s name, deciding that a secret trip back into the forbidden city will produce the information he needs.


The underlying story of Boneshaker is this mother/son relationship. Events unfold in alternating points of view between Zeke and his mother with each learning their own truths with each encounter. Boneshaker is also at heart an adventure novel with strong supporting characters both generous and villainous. It has the feel of a western opera in a darker America where the War Between the States is a protracted and ongoing, where the weather is brooding and dreary and the hoards of rotters are never far from thought.


The journey through the infected city is filled with danger and suspense as the characters fight their way through zombies, criminal overlords, mercenaries, airship pirates. The underlying steampunk theme is felt through the story without feeling overdone, and keeps the mood by being printed in sepia ink – giving it a semblance of an old Daguerreotype photograph. The pacing is excellent with a gratifying ending that sheds a whole new light on the entire story.


Boneshaker has been nominated for a Hugo Award. You can find Cherie Priest at her BLOG,
website
Twitter @cmpriest



Cherie Priest is the author of seven novels, including Boneshaker — which won a PNBA award, and was nominated for both the Hugo Award and the Nebula award. Her other books include Four and Twenty Blackbirds, plus Fathom, Wings to the Kingdom, and the Endeavour-nominated book Not Flesh Nor Feathers from Tor. Her short novels Dreadful Skin and Those Who Went Remain There Still are published by Subterranean Press. She lives in Seattle, Washington, with her husband and a fat black cat.


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