Category Archives: Blog Updates

On Growing Older and Running Out of Pages… (Finding the Time to Read)

Okay, this is going to be a long one. And I’m going to put this on my Medium and my Substack. How many of you remember that episode of The Twilight Zone with Burgess Meredith. It’s a famous episode. You know the one: “Time Enough At Last.” Such an iconic story. So this essay is mostly about finding the time to read when we get older. A lot of us don’t have that luxury, so think of this as a kind of exercise. Maybe we can do this challenge together, and it can become routine.

People often ask me what writing part-time is like; I used to do it full time in the 2000s. Depending on what kind of writer you are, you’re basically putting your thoughts into words and getting them down on paper. You’re living out a fictional scene in your head and trying to put that scene into words, along with the world around it. You’re doing a lot of typing, a lot of line editing, a lot of reading. Then you return a week, maybe two weeks later, to revisit what you wrote and do some more polishing. Improve what you started, improve your craft, experiment with things like structure and style. Even when you’re not writing, you’re reading.

If it’s not gate-kept, writing is a numbers game where you’re constantly creating content, trying to make it into some bigger editor’s second or third reading tier. And you do this because you have to; you don’t really see yourself not doing it. At the same time you’re investing in your portfolio—fiction or non-fiction—and trying to get a paycheck from it if you’re lucky. It could be a short story, a novel, an article, even greeting-card jingles or nonsensical filler that, surprisingly, sells. If you’re like me, you might be banging out anywhere from 40 to 65 pieces per year.

Now a voice in the back row just said, “Hey, that’s great, Larry. You write a lot of stories, produce a lot of content. You’re in so many anthologies and magazines. You submit to so many places. But how do you read all these books? How do you find the time?”

Honestly, as you get older, you don’t. I’m looking at a giant pile of books behind me as I write this. It’s a mess here. I’m old now, and I’ll never get to all of it. I know that. And the trouble is, every time I’m in Manhattan, I keep picking up books and never getting to them. Obviously, short stories and novellas are more approachable than full-length novels these days. For me, at least.

Between 1985 and 2005, I read voraciously. Sometimes two to three paperbacks per week. Before my son was born, I had bookcases upon bookcases of pulp paperbacks, old Galaxy and Analog magazines, Hard Case-style crime thrillers in the vein of James Bond, Charles L. Grant anthologies, Stephen King novels, DAW “Best Of” collections. I had a collection of 2000 books. These were mixed in with the essential satires and mainstream dramatizations of the 1960s, 70s, and 80s—Kurt Vonnegut, Joseph Heller, Mario Puzo, Ira Levin, etc—the three most important decades of literature. But then you realize you have to change diapers, make formula, sing lullabies, rock carriages, go to playgrounds and push swings. Cook meals, send kids off to school, exhausted. And you have to co-parent until that kid turns eighteen and goes off to college.

You can’t get to all those books. Maybe at night in bed, or on a commute, or on the toilet doing business (don’t laugh), you get a lengthy chapter in. Then, when they go off to higher learning and hang out with their friends, you return to what you started. But there’s still never any time. It’s always that way. So I ended up donating the vast majority of those 2000 books, throwing a few away, giving some to libraries, and selling lots on eBay.

And what if you work demanding ten-hour days in the middle of nowhere, where you have to hop on the turnpike, beat the traffic rush, and drive home? What if you want to go out, have a drink, go dancing, go to a nice restaurant, socialize? What if you have other hobbies?

For example, one of my hobbies is console gaming. PlayStation, Nintendo, and the like. I have 700 physical video games sitting on my shelves. Yes, 700 games with replay value—or still sealed. You might have more than one hobby. Some people have a few. Like gaming, I also collect action figures and cars. I’m part of a few diecast communities these days. But you have to go to stores and hunt those things down.

A year ago, I bought an iPad with my royalty money. One of those nice ones with a lot of memory. The purpose was to read books and review PDFs wherever I went. On the go. You know, other than downloading a few Apple songs, I haven’t even really used that iPad yet. I recharge it every few months so the battery doesn’t run down and bloat.

I used to watch television. For years I was a die-hard Walking Dead and LOST fan. I watched those two shows religiously, while devoting extra time to British imports like Doctor Who and Torchwood. I got rid of the Disney Channel, got rid of TV. I don’t watch television anymore. The Walking Dead ended after 11 seasons, I gave Ncuti Gatwa (the 15th Doctor) two years of my time, and I felt that was the end of my TV days. As for movies, I go to the theaters twice per year. Superhero films don’t interest me like they used to, and IMAX doesn’t really have anything either. I’m fatigued by the fandom surrounding modern cinema. And there’s just no time; although I am looking forward to the Super Mario Galaxy movie.

Also, as you get older you get less sleep and you’re prone to afternoon naps. There’s the grocery shopping, the laundry, the quick cleaning of the kitchen countertops and bathroom. As you age, you forget stuff. Your brain shrinks. Your eyesight goes on you, and you have to read passages more than once to comprehend them. And you have to take care of your body—gym, yoga, outdoor fitness—because you’re aging and your body can break down. More time away from books.

Then there’s social media—talk about time-consuming—a rabbit hole that can steal your life away. These days I use one or two pieces of social media. I have a TikTok. I don’t even use it. I use BlueSky. And you know what? With only one or two platforms, I get more work read and more exposure publicly. When I had ten pieces of social media back in the 20-teens, I was read and noticed less. Sometimes less is more.

After everything you’ve just read comes the fact that you have to be a picky reader. There are over one billion books worldwide. Think about that number. There are over one billion authors—dead authors, living authors, traditionally published authors, small press authors, children’s authors, fiction writers, non-fiction writers, textbook writers, anthology writers, self-help writers, self-published writers. There’s new books, used books, ebooks, audiobooks, web novels. You will never get to all the books you want to read, no matter how hard you try. You have no choice but to pick and choose, and you have to do it wisely.

So I decided to sit down this winter and choose five books—just five—that I know I’ll actually get to. Books that interest me, that have been tapping me on the shoulder for a while now. The plan is to spend January, February, and March reading these particular titles. And once I’m done telling you what I picked and why, I want you to choose your five, too. We’re doing this together.

These five books are our January, February, March. They can’t be just any books. Life is short, time is precious. They have to resonate. If your schedule is packed, let that be a recurring theme. Five is an easy, honest number to work with. Then when the weather is cold outside next year at this time, you can do it again with another five books.

Number 1: “Pinball” by Jerzy Kosinski

I picked this book not just because I’m familiar with Kosinski’s work, but because the premise hooked me right away. It’s an alternative rock-and-roll murder mystery, with a main protagonist sculpted after one of the Beatles. To my surprise, when Kosinski was alive and living in New York, he was actually close friends with George Harrison, and this book is dedicated to that friendship. Only here, the story turns on a female stalker with a past who shadows the protagonist everywhere he goes. So I’m definitely looking forward to this one this winter. Other Kosinski books I’ve read include The Painted Bird and The Hermit of 69th Street. Hermit was “meh”—your mileage may vary—but The Painted Bird is concentration-camp fiction at its finest, drawn from Kosinski’s real life as a Polish refugee who, as a young boy, witnessed unimaginable atrocities during World War II.

Number 2: “Welcome to the Monkey House” by Kurt Vonnegut

I used to know Kurt Vonnegut back in the ’90s. We lived near each other, and I’d deliver his prescriptions; he had a house account at the pharmacy where I worked. I was going to school at night then (for writing, obviously), and he’d toss me these little bits of advice, kind of like a humorous mentor who wandered in and out of my day. I remember sitting in the second row at his Timequake reading and premiere in an area of Manhattan known as Turtle Bay around ’98. He signed my copies of Slaughterhouse-Five, Breakfast of Champions, and The Sirens of Titan—three of my all-time favorites—and I tore through his paperback of essays and reviews, Wampeters, Foma, and Granfalloons. But I never really sat down with his science fiction short stories. This collection covers the pieces he wrote in the 1960s. Yes, Vonnegut started out as a speculative fiction writer; a lot of people don’t know that. And it’s one of those books I want to finally get around to reading this winter.

Number 3: “Later” by Stephen King

I usually devour anything and everything Stephen King. The last thing I read by him was Doctor Sleep. I know, that was a long time ago; remember what I said about co-parenting above. But this one—this book—I’ve been sitting on for well over two years now. It’s got one of those gritty Hard Case Crime covers that just punches you in the gut. I grabbed it at Strand Bookstore on the cheap. I heard they were turning it into a miniseries with Lucy Liu, though for all I know it already came out and I’m late to the party. From what I understand, it’s a supernatural coming-of-age thriller with shades of The Shining and The Sixth Sense. It’s got horror, it’s got true crime, and one of the main protagonists is a single mother struggling in New York City. My hometown. So yeah, this one is right up my alley. Now I just need to stop procrastinating and finally give it the time it deserves.

Number 4: “Comedy Writing Secrets” by Mark Shatz (with Mel Helitzer)

Yes, this one’s a “how-to,” an instructional book I picked up recently. Something that might tighten or sharpen a few corners of my writing. Why wouldn’t I want to improve myself? And don’t get me wrong, I know how to write humor somewhat effectively (see my short story “How Jones Goes”). I’ve been paid and published for humor before. I know how to slip it into my speculative fiction when the moment’s right; horror, not so much. But humor is a field that pays well, and I want to write comedy better. Why wouldn’t I want to write anything better? An editor recommended this book—and another, actually—so I went to Barnes & Noble in Union Square and grabbed this one. It’s sold more than 150,000 copies, so on that I’ll give it a try. I want to write more humor, more satire, in the years ahead, and if this can help me get there, then it’s worth spending part of my winter reading it.

Number 5: “Dagger of the Mind” by Bob Shaw

The book above is the version I have: a first-edition ACE paperback from 1979. Vintage, extremely rare. And remember what I said earlier about the 1970s being some of the best years for literature. This copy is a tough find, and I was lucky enough to snag it for only three bucks. It’s in fine condition; no complaints. Bob Shaw was an Irish writer, by way of Belfast, and from the late ’60s through the late ’70s he turned out some of the best short fiction around. He was primarily a speculative fiction guy, a real linguist on the page, and he wrote his fair share of hard SF for publishers like DAW and Berkley. In Dagger of the Mind, the protagonist suffers from Grand Mal seizures, and it forces him to question whether he’s slipping into hallucination, tapping into telepathy, or brushing up against something paranormal leaking in from another world or universe. Now this is the kind of speculative fiction I live for. You know I want to carve out some actual leisure time and sink into this one

Those were my five picks for Winter 2026, and as you can tell, they’re pretty eclectic. I don’t box myself into just science fiction or horror. Now it’s your turn. What were your five choices? Which authors or genres pulled you in? Remember, you can do this. Five is such an easy, honest goal. So stay warm, settle in with a book, or maybe five, and let’s make this a tradition we come back to next winter.

Happy New Year,

Lawrence Dagstine

Other New Entries/Newsletter Updates: You can find the same piece reprinted here (https://lawrencedagstinewrites.substack.com/), and I also invite you to join my Substack. I don’t write exclusively about writing and freelancing. I write about growing up in New York, my life, and life in general. Over time, I’ll be testing new features Substack has implemented, including live video, and in the future the platform will also host paying anthology calls for literary work.


Lawrence Dagstine: “2024 was my most productive year…but wait, there’s MORE…

2024 will arguably go down as my best year in writing and submitting; 2023 wasn’t so bad either (The Nightmare Cycle was published and I got an advance for it). I wrote a record sixty-five short stories between November 2023 and December 2024—all new. During that time, I also received the most book, anthology, and magazine acceptances (some yet to be released) for a single calendar year, surpassing my previous record year of 2008. I received acceptances from a variety of markets—mainly genre, as that is my specialty—in science fiction, fantasy, horror, and even humor. These markets ranged from pro-identifying to token, including small press and micro press. I also appeared in two anthology-magazines that went to number one on Amazon; another Kindle Anthology broke the Top 100 in World Literature, and a handful of my other offerings made it into the Top 100 or Top 500 sales rank-wise. That’s never happened to me before. Additionally, I have a couple of new books out right now (see right-hand column, scroll down).

My rejection ratio was fifteen turn-downs for every acceptance, if you’re curious about the odds. Yes, where there are acceptances, there are rejections. It comes with the territory. But I’m not here to toot my horn. This was a personal goal I wanted to achieve, and I did. I wanted to see if I still possessed that 2000s-era magic.

At fifty years old, you stop measuring press levels—Pro, Semi-Pro, Hobby, Indie—and accept whatever comes your way, especially if it’s available physically (paperback or hardback), and you know how to hustle and sell it. Believe it or not, most of my readers are not from the United States. Many Americans are too dependent on technology, staring at their smartphones all day, or engaging in activities that don’t involve literature. If they do read, it’s usually the “obligatory” twelve books per year—one per month. I’m guilty of this myself. I used to read a hundred books per year, but as you get older, there are only so many hours in a day. Most of my readers hail from places like India, Japan, and, oddly enough, Belgium. Earlier this year, readers from India wrote to tell me how much they liked my horror stories. I appreciate that; I’ve never received such feedback from US readers. Obviously, I was flattered. I joined two writing groups in Manhattan, got the necessary certifications, and became a writing teacher, which is relatively easy in New York State compared to other places.

As we get older, we often become adjunct professors, tutors, instructors, substitute or assistant teachers. We take up residencies, shepherd online MFA programs, hold online and in-person workshops, and add experience to our curriculum vitae. The revenue from these workshops helps fill our fridges. We may teach English as a second language if we move overseas or teach the short story form, novel writing, story analysis, and linguistics. We show younger writers our techniques and formulas, paving the way for them and enlightening them on how we did it. We pass our knowledge to the next generation of aspiring writers. We take on protégés. Other jobs we take on include writing advertising copy, technical writing/business writing, expository essay writing, things like that.

I can’t believe I’ve been doing this for thirty years. Sometimes I wonder if I wasted my life. Should I have pursued another field? Should I have become a full-time artist and taken up comic illustration, which was my passion in the early ‘90s? Despite my love for science fiction, I would have preferred seeing the art through. I lost my love for drawing in late 1994 and turned to writing instead. Applying for art jobs thirty years ago, where prospective employers said comic art and graffiti art weren’t “real art” didn’t help. So I ended up in writing. I appeared in a couple of magazines, made some cash, and bought nice things. Picking up every genre magazine I could get a hold of in Borders and meeting Kurt Vonnegut regularly while working as a delivery boy for a pharmacy further fueled my enthusiasm.

Author Mercedes Lackey once noted that 90% of the writers in the SFWA (Science Fiction Writers Association) have had or currently hold full-time jobs. The rest have spouses who work full-time, serving as the breadwinners, covering the overhead, and providing health insurance for the family. Alternatively, the full-time writer might be retired and living on a pension or 401K. I could join the SFWA tomorrow. But at my age? For what? Bragging rights? I’m ready for the grave. This isn’t to say I won’t produce an anthology in the future. I’m full of ideas, and I won’t accept anything less than outstanding. But hey, I’m old. Many of the books with my stories are published by presses that might not exist in five or ten years. Presses come and go; the same can be said about good books. Publications go on lengthy hiatuses. Economies rise and fall. Inflation affects spending habits. People’s reading preferences change. Advertising techniques and technology evolve. Not only that, over 10,000 books are self-published per day, so there’s no such thing as professional competition anymore. It’s a too-open field. Also, generational shifts happen, and what was popular with one generation might not be with the next. How many people do you know in 2025 who have a profound love for Philip K. Dick, Isaac Asimov, and John Brunner like I do?

I’m very much a socialite. I often go into the city, visit upscale places, penthouses, private parties, and get the VIP treatment. I network and get my books into these places. You have to network in this day and age. Word of mouth is still a very powerful tool, and you want to get non-genre readers interested in reading genre. When I sit down with a glass of wine and talk to affluent or corporate types about horror, they say, “Oh, Stephen King!” And that’s it. They don’t know anybody else. They think Stephen King is the only author there is when it comes to horror. I say, “You haven’t read the work of Paul Tremblay, Stephen Graham Jones, or Josh Malerman?” They give me a daft look. Who? What? They don’t even know that Stephen King has two sons who also write (Owen and Joe). They think Stephen King never had children. But we know. Because writers read each other. We are aware of each other. And it’s kind of depressing in a way. It’s like we’re trapped inside this shrinking genre bubble, and you’re not sure if it’s going to burst or when it’s going to burst. It’s disintegrating, for sure, it’s just a matter of when. You hope it pays your utilities for as long as it can, at least until you take up a teaching position or land an agent. Only 15% of writers ever land an agent and break into the Big Five. And that number shrinks with age. Some are luckier than others; your mileage may vary. What happens for most, whether traditionally published or indie-published, is we end up at genre conventions, gaming cons, comic cons, indie bookstores, or local fairs and fests, and our literature is available at vendor tables.

Nowadays, many people publish each other in a quid pro quo fashion (tit-for-tat), which is fine, but simply reading each other’s work isn’t sustainable in the long term. It seems we’re just passing time until we reach the end. If we’ve chosen writing as our forte, we must have a lot of time to spare. Some of the biggest names, award-nominated genre writers, are suddenly submitting to semi-pro and token markets. This used to be a no-no. Yesterday’s professional paying magazines now depend on Patreons or annual crowdfunding just to survive. And then there’s Artificial Intelligence, which will inevitably replace us in the next 20 years. I’ve seen some of these young tech kids at conferences, and what they can do with Python and Stable Diffusion; they’re smart.

Publishing was a very different animal in the first ten years of the Internet. You could actually make an income from freelancing regularly, and web content was big! Webzines were especially big. They were new, they paid fair money, and there wasn’t much of an editorial filter, but you got your byline and content out to the world. A handful of these sites were built with Dreamweaver, Frontpage (Microsoft), or typical HTML coding. Some were even hosted by GeoCities. Plus, the cost of living was cheaper back then (my rent was only $650 to $750 per month during this era, utilities included). You could stay home, take care of the kids, and have paper checks coming to your mailbox. This was still before the age of PayPal, Venmo, Zelle, and other electronic payment methods. So it was paper checks. If you were a freelancer of genre fiction and creative non-fiction, and you were a quick writer and productive, you got paid $20 to $50 per piece consistently! Sometimes more, sometimes less. One on top of the other. Some of the webzines that appeared in the first ten years of the Internet were Atomjack Magazine, Whispering Spirits, Midnight Times, Dawnsky, The Random Eye, Gotta Write Network Litmag, and hundreds of others! I appeared in many of these places, scouring market sites like Ralan and Spicy Green Iguana on a daily basis. The Boomers never went near these little zines, but I did. And I got my name out there. And I was paid. And I bought clothes. And I bought food. And I paid bills. At one point, I even had a $6000 bank account put aside for my infant son—from writing. There was a time when I had 200 different stories in a folder on a Windows XP laptop, and I would submit to any paying market, even those offering $5.00 compensation. Acceptance here, acceptance there. You do the math. You might find these webzines on the Wayback Machine, but if you’ve heard of the ones I just mentioned, you’re old and gray now, just like me.

To this day, I think the periodical I was paid the most for a single story or article was in either 1999 or 2000, and this was in a queer publication called GENRE Magazine. Or just Genre. And it had nothing to do with genre. They didn’t even publish science fiction. That was just the name. It was primarily a New York-based gay lifestyle magazine with a modest circulation for its time period. It was distributed to LGBTQ-identifying establishments before LGBTQ was even a term. Before ebooks, before Amazon, when physical publications still had modest circulations. When people still relied on the Writer’s Market. I was paid $750 for two, maybe three hours worth of work. The editor said he would take care of the grammatical errors. I kept my mouth shut, let him handle it. Nowadays, twenty-five years later, that same $750 is your paycheck for a horror novel to a rising indie press.

Still, I’m thankful I didn’t become a full-timer in this day and age. I own nice things. Call me materialistic, but I enjoy my little luxuries: designer clothes, nice electronics, video games. I can buy my family birthday and Christmas presents. I can wine and dine on occasion. Some writers who went all-in don’t have that luxury. Imagine not having health insurance, unable to run to an emergency room or urgent care. A vast majority of writers don’t have insurance. Sure, some scored two or three-book deals with the big houses, only to not sell to expectations and never be heard from again. So when people ask me what advice I would give an aspiring writer in 2025, I say, “Don’t quit your day job. Do this strictly for passive income. Do this because you love it. For the sake of art. Do this because you like to tell stories. And read!”

Listen, H.P. Lovecraft died extremely poor. He couldn’t afford treatment for his small intestine cancer, compounded by his fear of doctors. So, he wrote and lived in daily pain—not a pot to piss in. Some of his finest works weren’t noticed until decades later. John Wyndham, a prominent British science fiction writer, was often overlooked in his lifetime. He didn’t receive the recognition he deserved, even as the author of “The Day of the Triffids.” It’s only now, in the 21st century, that his shorter works are being sought out and reprinted. John Brunner, author of mega-hits like “Stand on Zanzibar” and “The Crucible of Time,” feared failure. He wrote under a pen name in his later years and worked as an underpaid proofreader. But regardless of success, they were storytellers. And there’s nothing wrong with being a storyteller. If you get paid for it, that’s like the cherry on top of a hot fudge sundae.

Looking back, I’d say I’m privileged. I’m not a New York Times or USA Today Bestseller by any means. I see myself as a semi-pro of the short form, one of those one-to-three cent jobbers. Apparently, I’m a jobber who makes it into the TOP 100 often; I probably would’ve really crushed it during John W. Campbell’s era. Many writers don’t get to do this for three decades, non-stop. Today, many people self-publish books that are mediocre at best, invest in Amazon Ads, and suddenly they call themselves bestselling authors. They don’t know what it’s like to have spent time in the trenches. Otherwise, a handful of the younger kids coming up don’t know how to read, write, spell their names, or pick up a book after high school. I definitely didn’t think I’d become a teacher. Like I said, I feel privileged. I came to this earth and got to do it. And I’ll try to continue doing it for as long as I have the desire.

This is Lawrence Dagstine, prolific writer for the past thirty years.

Storyteller. Jobber. Future anthologist? I could live with that.

Edited to Add: This essay, which I write from firsthand experience, will be reprinted in a newsletter, currently under development. Stay tuned for news of that.

Free SF Serial: “Orphan’s Prey pt. 4” by Lawrence Dagstine

*Science Fiction Serial – New Installment – First Draft*

ORPHAN’S PREY #4

Last Time (part #3): https://lawrencedagstine.com/2010/09/02/free-sf-serial-orphans-prey-pt-3-lawrence-dagstine/

For a reptile such emotions were not like him; then again, perhaps he did not try hard enough to show emotion.  Along with his predictions in the weather, and for as long as he could remember, he had experienced premonitions instead.  If the premonition seemed genuine, his chest unit would emit a strange glow, and he would utter a warning of disaster to the rest of the tribe.  Very rarely did the Vendragon take him seriously, and very rarely did they act on it.  His forebodings were never specific, the calamity either absurd or nameless, so it was unusual that he did not speak of any premonition in the days or hours before Arim—a most treasured farmhand assisting their nascent culture in advancing agriculturally—was attacked and fell from that high cliff.  And never in his wildest dreams, he thought, could he predict that, even now, the two orphans he searched endlessly for might bring with them a terrible but ancient disaster.

 ORPHAN’S PREY #4

by

Lawrence R. Dagstine

Blake discovered that there is a point beyond which another blow to the spirit is almost meaningless because it cannot be felt.  Helping his sister cope with the jaw-dropping size of the storm—though the gravity of its suddenness was what was most startling—no shelter from the wind-driven onslaught in sight, and instilling a renewed sense of faith and meaning in the importance of survival, the boy led the way through the wastes as any adult leader would.  This was not the same frightened little cherub from two days earlier.  This was not the same eavesdropping eight-year-old who cowered only in the safest corner of an overturned transport, as shadow monsters with an insatiable taste for fluid waited for their next meal.  No, this was a child who finally came to the realization that, in this unnatural environment, the odds were stacked greatly against him.  He had no choice but to push on, even if it meant dragging those he loved dearly along with him; his sister obviously loaned him some of that inspiration and courage in order for this sparkling change to take place.

The fast-approaching clouds, with their thunderbolts and swirling snows pulverizing the landscape, looked like an entity unto itself.  During the late night scramble, above the four-thousand-foot high stretches of sand and rock, the children progressed hurriedly through a dark expanse of steep ridges and intertwining cliffs, upward rather than down across the valley floors.  Blake assured his sister that the higher you were, the safer it was.  So Chandler had told him.  Long after the bluffs were in complete shadows, Chelsea had watched the rapidly changing weather with a solemn look on her face.  One minute it was one season, the next it was entirely the opposite.  It went from hot to cold and cold to hot, to just plain damp and icy again.  It was uncanny, especially at this height.

“Fog thickens and encircles the thunderheads first,” Blake pointed out from atop a thin ledge.  They both stopped for a quick breather. “Or maybe the other way around.  Sorry, sis.  I’m kinda tired now.” He nodded toward the sky. “Streamers.”

“Streamers?” The girl was confused.

“Yup.  See them?”

“I suppose,” Chelsea said, though she still didn’t know what he was talking about.  Practically gasping for air, she’d run so far and fast that she could barely concentrate on the present moment.  Fearful of the climate, and being lost on account of her brother, she also felt displaced. “What about it?”

“Think of them as a main storm body within another storm body.”

“Then they should be carrying warning features.”

“Maybe.  Chandler wouldn’t have thought so,” the boy admitted. “Oh, and see those big dark masses over there?” His finger was outstretched and pointing. “They’re the real soldiers, carrying the big muscle, all the moisture and all the winds.  If they want to, they can regroup, break out the lightning and hail, and really kick ass”—he paused, shaking his head gently in awe—“and with more power,” he went on, “than you can believe possible.  More energy released, too!”

Chelsea nodded. “I see.”

“Moisture inside the fog cloud condenses with the help of little specks of mud and dust,” the boy added, “and as it rises in an updraft it turns to ice.  Then maybe it comes down, builds up more moisture, and goes up again, swirling around and forming more ice.  Up and down, back and forth, growing and getting harder all the time.  That’s how you get hailstones the size of pterodactyl eggs.”

Chelsea was smiling lightly. “I told you, bro.  Pterodactyls are extinct.”

“Oh, well, the hail’s still big.”

“I bet.” Outside, the girl continued listening quietly, her eyes on the distant horizon; inside, she was growing impatient. “Chandler taught you this?”

“Yep, he sure did.  And those big ol’ fog clouds aren’t static either.  Somewhere inside they boil and churn.  Like you said, enormous magnetic forces are at work”—he paused again, this time to show off his necklace as it slowly drifted away from the collar of his shirt by some invisible force—“updrafts, downdrafts, sudden cooling, sudden warming, generating enough electricity to light a whole solar city for a few nights.  Come on, look at the rope around my neck, sis.  You know there’s some evil at work here.” He tucked the chain back in; the way he’d explained it sounded like it was a good thing.

Chelsea snapped. “Did it ever occur to you that actually looking for a place to hide in the rock face might be an option, rather than a weather report?”

“Huh?” Now it was Blake who was confused.

“You really want to know what’s happening out there, little brother?”

“Hey, how come—”

“No, let me finish!” The girl was fuming. “Because this place isn’t cool one bit, and that’s what you’re making it out to be.  Neither is it rad or awesome.  I know your ego is fragile, Blake, but every so often you need to be kicked in the noggin.  Repeat after me: IT’S OKAY TO BE SCARED!!” There was a stunning silence as they just stood there, long and heavy raindrops sopping their clothes. “Mom and Dad aren’t here.  The Keeper isn’t here.  The Vendragon are a no-show.  The planet itself is unpredictable.  Chandler is dead.  Even the friggin’ information bank on my wrist got wet; damn thing is on the fritz!” She smacked the top of it. “All you can do is talk about how amazing and deadly the climate is? Seriously, I don’t think it gets any more selfish and immature than that!”

After five long days, Blake’s shyness suddenly reappeared.  For a brief minute his thoughts went back to the time spent aboard the Juniper, then his body loosened and he reached around to rub the back of his neck.  He walked up to the top of the ledge, watching the storm-crazed heavens; he was in such a trance he would have probably walked straight off it, so long as he didn’t have to be around his sister.  The moons of Ragnarok were much farther now, and the night continued closing in.  The mix of rain and snow got harder.  The air got colder.  The lower parts of the land became darker.  New stars appeared in the clear sections of sky but eventually those patches, too, were blotted out as the clouds merged and continued their relentless advance.

Some of the showers and hail that evening were mere dustings which held on the chilled ground and rocky ledges.  In other high places the winds dropped as much as five or six inches which, here and there, accumulated in small drifts.  He could only imagine the shape of the marshlands, the lower valleys, and the much flatter plains.

Finally the girl swallowed her awful tongue and approached him. “Hey, listen, I’m… I’m sorry, kiddo.” She suddenly felt terrible for the way she acted. “Being lost like this would pretty much drive any girl stir-crazy,” she carried on in a low but silly voice. “The weather doesn’t help any either.”

The boy did not say anything.

“Come on, Blake.  You know how much I worry about you.  What if this storm caused us to get separated? What if you got terribly ill? What if—”

“Stop!” Blake narrowed his eyes in hurt, but did not turn around. “Why’d you mention Mom and Dad?”

“Huh? Oh, that… It was spur of the moment.  You know, a passing reference?”

“So that gives you the right to preach?”

“I was scared,” Chelsea admitted. “My nerves got the better of me.  I’m soaked to the bone, I’m numb with cold, and I thought you were fooling around.  It felt like it wasn’t the right time for bullshit.”

The boy went silent again.

“Blake, please!”

He crossed his arms and ignored her.  Now his thoughts went back to another time and place, even long before the freighter.  Mother.  Father.  Other family.  He was so young; it was all so hazy.  But there were some memories.  Vague instances that were not really detailed, but they were better than no memories at all.  And there they were again, playing itself out amidst the hard driving rain like some mental hologram.

Blake’s parents had been wannabe out-colonists from the start.  They were like any other family of their generation, saving up their earnings while looking toward the future—in their time, to look ahead was the only way to think—often waiting with prolonged anticipation to see what a new planet in a new solar system would bring.  Jeremiah Prittengayle, a business savvy engineer by trade, dealt in matter transference and rockets.  He believed that the urge to visit the world of your choice, or what could eventually become the fruits of your new origins, was buried deep in every human’s heart.  To communicate with alien races, to explore and inhabit lands many light years away was something to be appreciated.  It was an escape from orthodox living and remedial technology in a Great World Society; some called the lifestyle homogenous.  But, being by nature a self-contained man, he had never asked how other family members felt about it—most of Blake’s aunts and uncles lived in the same block as him—nor would he have cared what their answers might be.

As too perfect as it might have been, and for as little time as he experienced it, Blake wanted to be back in that society now.  Anything was better than Ragnarok.  Perhaps that’s why he talked about the weather so much.  To take his mind off things like Earth, Mom and Dad, Aunt Rachel, Grace and Steven, Grandpa Jack and his funny metal leg, apple pie and real friends, other kid’s laughter.  He remembered his father most from his shaving emulsion, which gave off a peculiar but interesting scent.  His superficial-in-a-good-way attitude second.

He suddenly wept.  But it was a good weeping.

There had always been insight into his family: his great-grandfather’s journals which, unfortunately, he had left behind on the Juniper.  He wondered if the diaries were still there, tucked between the metal frame and mattress of his bunk, or if some other youngster had come along and found it.  Would the new child have thrown it away? If he lay down to read it, what would he have thought afterwards?

Of his mother, Courtney Prittengayle, he remembered her soothing voice and the way she embraced him.  She gave the best hugs.  The soft teddy bear kind.  Both she and Rachel had been the daughters of a once-famous geologist.  Though the man had died well before his birth, Blake recognized who he and Chelsea inherited their instinct and desire to adapt from, and when and how to use it.

He remembered being a toddler in the backseat of her father’s ship, vacationing one year in the icy plains of Europa.  He must have been about two-and-a-half.  Chelsea was probably about his age now.  His mother had skills as a navigator and pilot; so did Rachel.  Looking back, she flew the sleek white craft with precision, something he was sure that, as an adoring mother, she did many things.  She’d glance over her shoulder and smile at him, and he’d laugh back.  That feeling of events gaining the upper hand was always with her, but she knew when to push it aside, settle down, and study her surroundings.

“Honey, look, a wilderness!” She pointed downward.

Blake’s father peered out from his side. “Oh yeah, look at that.  Real trees.  They must be rooted somewhere in the ice.” He turned around to face the children. “Look kids, a forest on Europa.  Isn’t it breathtaking? Maybe one day when you grow up both of you will visit a sphere just like this.  Who knows, maybe you’ll even live on one.  Wouldn’t that be exciting?”

The boy nodded cheerfully at the time.

Chelsea was awestruck.  She had opened her eyes as wide as possible, then stuck her forehead and freckled nose against the special glass. “Awesome! Do you see that, little brother?” She tugged his shirt to the point of wrinkles. “Do you see the sculptures and waterfalls? It’s beautiful!”

“Wowww!” The boy sat up on his knees, amazed, then giggled. “Beautiful!”

“Baby, sit down and put your belt back on,” his mother ordered.

“Yes, Mommy.”

“Come now.  You too, Chelsea.”

Blake had lifted his head as far as his neck would stretch.  He just managed the tip of his mother’s shoulder; he never quite understood what went on in the front seat.  He had seen a visual system come down with elaborate keys.  Some were heat-operated, others you just had to blink commands.  They were topographical maps, as Chelsea had told him, and even his father had a virtual one open on his lap.  The contours crowded close on the atlas like holographic shapes and symbols.  It indicated oceanic rifts and icy basins, steep mountainous slopes or sheer cliffs; but the reality of their exploration were the rock faces dropping into darkness, bottomless canyons into which the sun would penetrate only for short hours or even minutes a day, rocky slopes too steep for a human to stand on.  Like Ragnarok, these seemed features of another world; they were features of another world.  In north-facing crevices and hollows, the last Jupiter year’s freeze-over held.

“Looks like we won’t be able to bring her down there,” his mother said.

“Should we take her back to the rough country?”

“We may have to, dear.”

“Mommy,” Blake muttered.

“Oh, almost forgot, darling.  Oxygen.” His mother handed his father a special mask. “You too, Chelsea.  And give your brother one.” She already wore her own, and her voice was muffled. “The atmosphere is dense in this area.  We’ll be up about twenty thousand, and the deep pockets can sneak up on you.”

“Mommy,” Blake repeated. “I have to pee.”

The boy had eventually put on the mask without another word.

From this height, any basins or frozen lakes they passed looked small indeed, toy representations of the real thing; a child’s model platform suddenly came to mind.  There was the wintry stream that was supposed to feed the lake, and there were its countless tributaries and dry ice cracks, some gleaming faintly with heat-generated water, some flowing now but easy enough to pick out from the way they extended across the landscape like branches from a tree.

Where they were now, thousands of feet above the highest ranges, the view was breathtaking.  More sheer slopes and more steep cliffs, some snow-blanketed, others mostly ice-covered, with indentations stretching to the poles as far as visibility went.  It was through this unknown, tangled mass of blue and white, Blake thought, that his parents and others like them had found their lonely way.

His father tapped his mother on the shoulder. “Look, Courtney, there’s the air tower.  The hotels and shops must be just beneath it.” He turned slightly and hollered, “Hey guys, keep your masks on.  We’re almost there.”

From the distance, much of it looked like a metallic ski resort. “This is so cool,” Chelsea said.

“Honey, you think checking in early will be a problem?”

“Nah, shouldn’t be,” the man said. “We can always come back.”

Beside him, the woman seemed to be waiting for some kind of signal. “Maintain this altitude, but swing back over the basin again,” she said, throwing some control switches.  At once the horizon shifted as they began a wavering turn.

As the wind currents moved slowly beneath them, Blake caught the gleam of standing water near the top of a high canyon.  They were coming over the tower now, and although the boy had no idea what his parents might be looking for, he searched carefully every slope, every gorge, every steep drop-off.

That was until they collided with an air pocket.

The sudden force ripped through the hull of the craft; invisible, but the power was tremendous.  Chelsea’s mask flew off and, though strapped in tight, reached for her throat and fell into a state of oxygen-deprived unconsciousness.

His father turned around. “Chelsea? Chelsea! Omigod, Courtney.  You have to bring her down now!” He saw the girl’s head tilted to the side.

The boy grabbed the armrests in fear.

“I…I can’t!” his mother cried. “Nothing’s working.  What’s going on?”

“Blake, whatever you do… DON’T MOVE!” The man had shouted it to the boy with the utmost urgency.

“Jeremiah, we’re going down.  Fast!” There was confusion; it was hard to understand anything over the inrush of wind, which came from the rear.

“Blake, listen to me.  Stay still!”

The boy suddenly stopped and shook his head in silence.  He tried to go back and remember some more but saw nothing that could explain the optical illusion he had seen while in the air.  That and the crash.  Was there even a crash? Were his parents even dead? It was so long ago.

Reality had brought him down to that sodden cliff on Ragnarok so fast and so cruel again, he didn’t know what to say.  There was so much he wanted to understand, but he never got around to reconsidering the past.  Upon their return home, Rachel had disappeared from their lives, too.  He was abandoned by other surviving family and, along with his sister, thrust aboard a ship for orphans, forced to just… deal.

Finally he heard someone say DON’T MOVE again, and with the same insistent tone his father had used.  He turned around in the pouring rain and saw his sister at the opposite end of the cliff.  Frightened, she was backed into a corner by a large and terrifying beast.  It had jumped down from a much higher ledge and almost pounced her.  The creature was feline, but it only had one eye.  It looked like some kind of saber-toothed Cyclops cat; Blake didn’t know how else to describe it.  It stood at least eight feet long and four feet wide, very powerful, with a large ivory horn in the top of its head.  From its sides were long and thin tentacles, three to each and six in all, with fine and sharp pincers at the tips.  The animal raised a giant claw and dug it into the ground with force, causing an upheaval of wet snow and mud.  It made its presence felt between the children; it had noticed the girl first but still left about ten feet open for them both.

Blake motioned with his hands from behind and said extra-softly, “Chelsea, don’t move.” He slipped off his satchel and searched for some perma-flares.  When he saw that he wasn’t the one carrying them, he searched for something else.

The girl stared past the animal at him in fright. “Please, hurry,” she indicated quietly and carefully, then went back to trembling in her corner.

The giant cat displayed its massively long fangs and gave off a monstrous roar.  Chelsea put her hands to her ears and held them there.  It roared and slammed the ground again, then proceeded slowly toward her.  The tentacles at its sides began to viciously click and snap.  The colossal eye widened and loomed in on her, while Blake emptied his bags and looked for something—anything he could use as a weapon.

Seconds later he remembered where he had left the crystal-tipped spear with the attached laser cutter.  It was leaning against the rock wall, just within reach.  He slid across the mud-spattered floor and retrieved it, standing and shouting from the far left side now, “Hey you! Yeah you, ya big ol’ pussycat! Why don’t you pick on someone your own size?” He tightened his grip around the base of the weapon, as the enormous beast turned its giant pupil and sharp fangs toward him. “Get away from my sister!”

“Blake, you don’t have enough room!” Chelsea shouted once she was clear of the ledge; she had maneuvered about fifteen feet. “Get out of there.  Now!”

“Keep climbin’, sis.  I’ll take care of this mean ol’ cat.  Just go!”

“Blake, don’t be an idiot!”

The animal started backing him up in a corner—it was either that or face it on the thin ledge—and snarled angrily.  The boy made small pokes and jabs at it.  Instinctively, the cat responded by opening its mouth, cringing its long-whiskered face, and taking quick swipes.  Blake was short and slim enough to pull his body back from the razor-sharp talons that were now swinging right to left and left to right.

Moments later the cat took two steps back and stood up on its hind legs.  It roared ferociously and raised an angry paw that overshadowed the child’s face.  Blake stood on the balls of his feet and, using as much leverage as he could muster, dug the now-heated tip of the spear into the underbelly of the animal.  The cat bellowed in pain, then swung its massive frame back and forth until the weapon broke like a twig.  Blake fell backwards to the ground.  The cat’s paw descended with a mighty thud, tearing up earth and hurling fragments of rock aside.  The boy lay watching beneath the rubble, as the salivating animal opened its mouth wide and came in for the kill.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Einstein’s Pocket Watch, July to September 2010…

You can now find me for a second time  in what has become a very popular and free webzine for writers of poetry, inspirational stories, Christian and Experimental Fiction, Science Fiction and Fantasy, Christian Science Fiction, literary, and more or less stories that are uplifting.  NO horror pieces.  Friend and editor Rob Crandall presents: Einstein’s Pocket Watch.  Rather than genre this time, I have a mainstream piece.  It’s a wonderful blog webzine.  Do check it out.

Einstein’s Pocket Watch – July to Sept. 2010

2nd Appearances – Mainstream – Edited by Rob Crandall

Fiction & Poetry in link below:

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Other New Entries: “Magazines”

Free SF Serial: “Orphan’s Prey pt. 3” – Lawrence Dagstine

Science Fiction Serial Part 3

First Draft – Follow it from the beginning…

Orphan’s Prey 1: https://lawrencedagstine.com/2010/04/20/free-sf-serial-orphans-prey-pt-1-by-lawrence-dagstine/

Orphan’s Prey 2: https://lawrencedagstine.com/2010/06/10/free-sf-serials-orphans-prey-pt-2-by-lawrence-dagstine/

Who are the Vendragon?

So self-assured, she was, only hours earlier. So brave and self-confident. So virtuous and independent at the right moments, yet obviously weak during others. 

She suddenly found herself pressing her hands to the sides of her head—she’d never done something like this in front of her brother—almost sick with discomfort.  She saw the expression on the boy’s face, then her own, only in her mind’s eye, weak, scared, unprotected, and she realized once more that they were just small children, incapable of much, and just how alone they really were.

 

ORPHAN’S PREY

 by

Lawrence Dagstine

A rather large, muscular, adobe-colored lizard was awakened that same night by what sounded like distant explosions.  From behind the controls of his land scout, the startled iguana with the reddish-brown leather armor and twaddle-speaking tongue realized it was thunder reverberating among the low cumulus that was some hundreds of miles wide.  There was the pitter-patter of rain pellets on the vehicle’s front looking glass and hood.  A break in the drought? No, couldn’t be; Ragnarok should only be so lucky this time of year.  All the water in the universe couldn’t fix that recurrent problem, only toss it a band-aid.  Hence the greenhouses, pipelines, and special sprinkler system back at the city.  Fog clouds approaching? Maybe.  It was a more logical bet.  In sandy, mountainous regions like this, a heavy thunderstorm or methane-mixed hail shower could be an isolated occurrence or a signal that a new front was moving in—or yet another unwanted season.  Whichever it was, the lizard was glad he was snug inside his tracker rather than camped out in a dry marsh or deep desert valley where the storm was picking up speed and strength.  As for how bad conditions would get, he’d just have to wait and see.

“Fog billows?” asked a similar life form from a standard operating panel in the rear.  Unlike the front of the vehicle, there were no visual systems or radar maps or even a looking glass to peer out of.   Compared to his much taller partner, this reptile’s armor was grayish steel, the portions of scaly flesh that was visible a mustard tone.

The tongue-tied lizard at the wheel of the land scout looked at his weather gauge. “With precipitation like this”—when he talked his mouth didn’t always move but, rather, an electronic chest unit with a flashing orb flickered—“what else could it be?”

“The way you study natural features,” his friend remarked, “I would have thought something more exciting.  Whatever your definition of exciting is.  You know, Koral, I’m quite surprised you never applied for an Earth visa.  You show a certain kind of enthusiasm for your work.”

Their vernacular wasn’t perfect, the interpretive English and back and forth chitchat a bit skidded; but the chest units helped immensely with vocabulary and pronunciation.

“You mean neurotic?” Koral’s tongue lashed out in slight irritation.

“Mmm, that’s the word.  A human term, too.  I’d bet my green farm that Earth scientists would have adored you.”

“Funny, Bakkra,” he laughed. “I don’t know whether to pat you on the gills for your clever perceptions of me—because I am mostly used to your cynicism—or just go ahead and collect my winnings now.  Heh! And here I thought only the man-droid was able to understand me.” There was a brief pause. “Speaking of which, the synthetic one has not returned or communicated back with our lovely package.”

“He’s a robot.  Robots are late, too, you know.”

“Not this robot.  I was the one the manufacturers hunted down and finally sold to.  I was the one guiding him through the wastes.”

“You seem concerned, and tired.  Should we call off the search?”

“No.  Not yet.”

“They’re that important to you, huh?”

“Yes.  That important.” Koral leaned back in his metal chair and let the ravaging elements unfold before him, while keeping a close eye on the overhead gauges and monitor for something else.

Lightning flashed some more.  The alignment of the bolts, shooting outward from the cumulus in all directions, reminded the lizard of the storm chasing he undertook in his youth; after three hundred and sixty years, one begins to feel old but still take pleasure in the eccentricities of the past.

Thunderstorms in the wastelands of Ragnarok were forever awesome displays of limitless power, he thought, sometimes releasing energy many times greater than the atomic explosion range.  Hailstorms derived of methane were a whole other story.  Still, he knew if you were close to either one, or became trapped in the very center of a fog cloud, there was about them a personal quality.  It was dramatic and inescapable.  It was terrifying but vivid, as if every sudden flash, every strong gust of wind, and every simultaneous explosion that crackled and boomed were seeking you out; after all, it really sought no one else.  The lightning came in multitudes and blinded you.  The thunder wreaked havoc on your ears and deafened you.  The ice-cold rains came down heavily and drowned you.  And on the open plains, the sand-filled wastes, and in hanging valleys of crystal and rock, there was no place to take refuge.

The snow, which frequently becomes spot blizzards with reckless currents of air beyond gale force, could also be merciless and astonishing in its ferocity.  Large, lazy flakes drifting down at first, touching the ground and melting instantly.  But in minutes the fall becomes thicker, more rigid, and the wind-whipped mess pummels the landscape.  The temperature drops rapidly.  Marshes and gullies turn in the twinkling of an eye to great streams of half-frozen mud, which then later break apart from those very same winds and become torrents, rushing steeply downhill unintended, catching up loose rocks, Yurga bush, even boulders.  Other times, the mud is uplifted and snatched from their channels, as if by some godly hand.  Then it is flung into the air with impending force, thus turning it into hail during its whirl around the cloud formations and falling with a shrapnel effect down upon lower elevations of land.  In the midst of the mud particles, an unscented methane composite, laid bare to Ragnarok’s wrath and planetary nature to do whatever mixing and mashing it likes.  Once it falls back down again, hardened and in hail form, it wreaks of the most terrible odor, which can be inhaled up to hundreds of miles away.

Koral always remembered the cloud masses beginning somewhere in the high mountains, never the desert regions or marshlands, and in an almost tentative fashion.  Always the highest escarpments, always the greatest plateaus.  Perhaps that was what made the seasonal irregularities so peculiar, so unrelenting in their expansive devastation.  And you never expected a season to change so fast or, unintentionally, drive through one.  Not unless it was closely monitored or regarded from a distance.

From within the land scout, and up along a high altitude, the now-dozing lizard found such an effect magical.  A swirling, shifting pattern of light, eventually graying, then dulling and, finally, obscuring.  Precipitation from some disturbance in the planet’s magnetic field eventually conjured up the surrounding fog—yes, that had to be it—but he couldn’t be certain.  Neither could his people.  It was just another mystery of the planet, passed down from generation to generation, and his hypothesis was open to much conjecture.  Sometimes there was a break; usually there wasn’t.  Sometimes it revealed uncharted peaks, gorges and canyons, and the Vendragon Township far below, often untouched by the gathering clouds and coming storm.

At times he found such atmospheric wonder indescribable.  He often used worlds populated by humans as a comparison: where Earth’s seasons changed over the course of months, the cycles on Ragnarok could change within minutes if not mere seconds.  He used these comparisons in his teachings.  The Vendragon, whose society already flourished in ways early human colonies had, achieved much knowledge and experience from it.  They took it with them wherever they went; though formally a tribal race, that and available technology became a handed down tradition.

Finally the lizard’s thoughts were interrupted by a voice on the overhead speaker. “Hey, storm chaser! Come in, chaser! What are you chasing after now? Over.”

“Apparently little boys and girls,” Bakkra hollered from the back. “Ain’t that right, Koral?”

The man-sized iguana turned and shot his mustard-colored friend a filthy glance. “Do you mind?” His chest unit flared bright red.

The speaker chimed again: “Check.  Fog clouds reach you yet? Over.”

“Affirmative,” he answered. “Unpredictable weather surrounding just about everything.  All within close proximity of the vehicle, at least, otherwise cloud-to-ground.  Too soon to tell.  Just beginning.  Over.”

“I’m sure the young ones are all right,” the speaker crooned; the voice on the other side tried to be reassuring.

“What makes you think I was worried about that? Over.”

“Have any of our friends made an appearance?” An intense silence followed.

Bakkra was about to say something smart when Koral turned and shushed him. “The man-droid has still not reported back, and no,” he said. “No activity or other signs of life in the region.  Over.”

“Oh, well, still armor yourself.  This storm system reading is immense from our side.  We’re going to catch it for good and for sure, and there’s an airstream behind it.  First snow and ice, then rain and wind, heavy at times.  Even at your elevation.”

“Trust me.  We’ve already felt the thunder.”

“Thunder is nothing.” The communicator cut off for what seemed like two, maybe three seconds, followed by unusual static. “We may lose… you if… you go any… higher,” the voice continued brokenly. “You been feeling tremors? Over.”

“Negative.” Koral flipped a few switches on the overhead panel and fixed the glitch. “Unless there’s something I don’t already know or you’re not telling me.  Over.”

“Hmm, well, we’re still sending two extra rovers your way.  Over.”

“Helpful, Ooglad, but Bakkra and I are all right.  Over.”

“Listen, Koral, I know it’s just a random search, and this cloud build-up is like all the other occasions, but let’s be honest here, you can use all the help you can get.” A brief pause, and then: “Small stuff, under four on the quake register, with sand-shocks set well outside your perimeter.  But why turn down a free assist? Over.”

“Thanks, Ooglad, but no thanks.  Out.” Koral switched off the communicator.

Bakkra was the one with the smug look now. “What did you do that for? You’d have to be mad to turn down a rescue and assist in conditions like this.”

“We don’t need it.  We’ll just stay the night.  The storm will pass, like those before it.”

“For all you know those children might already be dead! Your droid’s bleeper would have picked them up kilometers ago.  This, my friend, is just suicide!”

“Really, Bakkra? How so?” Koral leaned back in his seat once more. “Does this also mean I’m forcing you to commit suicide with me? Because I do occasionally entertain the thought.”

“I guarantee you these children are already worm food or some other kind of beast droppings!”

“I say you’re wrong.” The lizard was terribly amused. “For once in your pathetic existence, don’t be such a coward.  Part of our race’s survival depends on these two kids.  We’ve weathered fog clouds before, and knowing how Ooglad thinks, he’ll most likely still send out that extra patrol regardless of what I say.  He’s crazy and neurotic, too.”

“You’re right,” Bakkra said. “For once you are very right.  That young reptile is paranoid and foolish like you.  But I am not.” Gathering his things, he went on, “I don’t plan on staying here with you.  So, if you will not wait for the assist and accept it, then I will.  They’ll give me a ride back to the city, while you stay out in the hail to wither and die.”

He was prepared to slide open the door and exit the vehicle when Koral jumped up and stopped him. “Oh no, my friend.  You are not leaving this tracker.” The lizard made his presence felt; the air suddenly became hostile and serious. “Not while I am in charge.  I say we weather the storm, investigate these hills and cliffs, and that is final!”

“Let go of the door, Koral.  Things could get messy in a very confined space.”

Lightning flashed just outside; the crackling sound was ear-piercing.  Koral shook it off.  Then he released his massive-sized hand from the door’s grip. “Go ahead,” he said. “I’d ask you to be reasonable but I think you and I both know we are beyond that now.”

The mustard-toned reptile reconsidered. “The only reason you are being this way is because of what happened to Arim.  You’re scared you’ll have to live through a repeat.” There was a brief silence, significant, and followed by what seemed like an even more emotional reawakening. “Your puny brain might not realize it, because it’s crammed deep inside your subconscious—yes, one of your human terms—waiting for the chance to be exposed, waiting for the opportunity to be expressed, and aired in permanent relief.” Then Bakkra put his things down and took two steps back. “There is a cause to your neuroses, Koral.  I see this.  Ooglad sees this.  The whole tribe sees this! They worry about you.  They can see right through your armor, the pain you are suffering, the empty feelings you sometimes emit.  You leave the camps and city grounds to study the conditions out here, bury yourself in your research.  This is your means of escape.  But because Arim perished and you suffer does not mean others need suffer as well.”

Koral did not reply.  Instead, he returned to the front of the vehicle, strapped himself back into his metal chair, and peered silently out of the looking glass.

Bakkra went on, “I will not go.  I will return to my station.  This is a very strong storm formation we are dealing with here.  Hopefully, your instincts are right this time.  I also pray you will not be blinded by pride again.  This stubbornness needs to subside.”

Koral blocked the rest of what he had to say out and stared up at the overhead panels in dismay.  Eventually he closed his eyes and, with the ease of long practice in strange places, went immediately off to dozing again.  In a few hours he would see what effects of the storm he could find, and if the children or the man-droid had left a trail for him.  This time he was prepared.  He had a carry-along machine, lightweight with a strap, which detected alien life forms.

He continued to ignore Bakkra’s petty banter through the night.  He continued to be aware of feeling kinship with the environment and, oddly enough, with the fog clouds.  It was a feeling he found impossible to shake.  Pensively he looked back at the fateful actions that led up to the Arim tragedy.  It was so long ago, uneventful to say the least.  How could the thoughts still persist? Were they really bottled up inside of him? It was his first interspecies “coop”, as most out-colony settlers called it in those days.  The boy was too young.  Sixteen in Earth years.  For every hour the lizard was out there searching for the two orphans he probably thought of Arim and the accident that befell him twice as much, only unconsciously.

For a reptile such emotions were not like him; then again, perhaps he did not try hard enough to show emotion.  Along with his predictions in the weather, and for as long as he could remember, he had experienced premonitions instead.  If the premonition seemed genuine, his chest unit would emit a strange glow, and he would utter a warning of disaster to the rest of the tribe.  Very rarely did the Vendragon take him seriously, and very rarely did they act on it.  His forebodings were never specific, the calamity either absurd or nameless, so it was unusual that he did not speak of any premonition in the days or hours before Arim—a most treasured farmhand assisting their nascent culture in advancing agriculturally—was attacked and fell from that high cliff.  And never in his wildest dreams, he thought, could he predict that, even now, the two orphans he searched endlessly for might bring with them a terrible but ancient disaster.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Lawrence Dagstine: “Masters of the Universe 2010…”

The birthday of all birthdays approaches.  Three.  And this year’s theme is actually the very expensive, 30th Anniversary re-release of some funky figures I grew up to in the very early 1980s.  He-man and the Masters of the Universe: Adult Collector Series.  These are for my son, but I’d be lying if I didn’t say I had a little fun with them myself (he he).  The artwork and detail is out of this world, done by the Four Horsemen, and if you have an action figure or toy news blog, please feel free to use these pics.  I was most surprised by how expensive they were.  First off, they sell out in less than 24 hours all the time on Mattel’s main homepage… So your only shots are places like eBay or Amazon if you want to own these high-end figures.  Next, when I say high-end, I mean it.  The 2010 Masters of the Universe line-up runs between $25.00 and $80.00 per figure on average; with $35.00 to $60.00 being that in-between number with S&H.  Are they worth it? Yes and no (I also managed to pick up a 2002 Castle Grayskull MINT in the box.  Some of the more memorable characters are even more awesome-looking than when they first came out in 1982.  Characters like He-Man, Man-at-Arms, Trap-Jaw, and Moss Man included.  And they include better weapons and equipment, too.

Word, yo. It all good... Later we go to Mr. B's for a Nickel and Shiznit!

It should be noted that I didn’t pick up Skeletor but, rather, Scareglow instead.

No hard feelings, Skeletor.  I’ll give a little description of the figures further down.

Sorry, Skeletor... but Scareglow looked wayyy cooler than your candy ass.

So with the castle and the average forty-fifty dollar action figure I ended up spending close to $700.00 in He-man related toys.  Why spend so much, you ask? Well, while I agree they are for my son and I’m reliving my childhood through him, and hope one day that he might want to repeat the process… It wasn’t just a birthday celebration or bunch of gifts I just “had to own!” Yes, I do collect my own Doctor Who and Star Wars action figures.  Yes, I have Matchbox/Hot Wheels cars.  Yes, I have baseball cards made of chrome.   Oh, and don’t even get me started on Transformers, Thundercats, Smurfs, G.I.Joe, and some now-old school 8-bit NES games.  These toys were a celebration to welcome my son into my home as I now have custody (visitation rights) of him 7 to 8 days a month.  In the event a weekend lands with a Monday as a holiday, there’s your eighth day.  So I have my kid for lots of cartoon fun (and the park outdoors) one week a month.  Which means more to me than my writing, so yes, along with a new bed directly across from mine, makes $700.00 seem all the more worth it.

2002 Castle Grayskull - MIB; with Action Chip/Sound Effects

2002 Castle Grayskull - Back of box/castle interior view

Other gifts included a Superman “Through the Ages” gift set, a 13″ tall Cyberman, a pair of Iron Man sneakers, and a 2010 AT-AT Imperial Walker.  But let’s concentrate on the Masters of the Universe line-up for now.

Scareglow - Skeletor's Henchman from another dimension

Beast Man - Skeletor's Original Henchman with realistic paint job

Tri-Klops - Skeletor's Henchman who can see through one eye

Trap-Jaw - Skeletor's iron-mouthed, claw-armed henchman - RARE! $50 and up!

The He-man adult series also comes in nice collectible boxes

It appears I’ve picked up an unequal amount of good guys versus bad guys.  Maybe that’s because the bad guys always looked cooler.  I’ve also picked up the whole 130-episode television series, which lasted four years in the early 80s — they tried to bring it back in 2002, but failed — and they were the basis of my childhood and fantasies growing up.  It’s now time to introduce it to another generation, just as some parents from Generation X are introducing Star Wars and Transformers to their young ones.  Who knows, maybe the 80s culture will always be with us.  Why? Because the 80s into the early 90s were probably one of the coolest periods for things in general.  And not just toys.  Though cheesy to some today, you had your clothes, music, movies (ala Empire Strikes Back, Predator, Terminator, and Aliens), comics, graphic novels, and even science fiction, fantasy and horror novels when it was at its height.  There is a man by the name of Stephen King we can thank for that.  Anyway, on to some more action figure pics.

He-man in Battle Armor - paint job just like the day he premiered

Faker - The evil He-man which Tri-Klops & Skeletor put back together.

Wun-Dar - Savage ancestor of He-man; great grandfather - VERY RARE

Moss Man - authentic green fur and he smells like a Christmas Tree

Man-E-Faces - Good guy robot from the 2002 collection with three faces

Now before I go, get a load of this… Not only did they make the new figures look just like the older figures, only with superior paint jobs — once again, the Four Horsemen are responsible for these figures — but one of them included a ring.  The ring you see below I used to own and wear almost thirty years ago.  The Castle Grayskull Ring.  Every detail has been repeated.  I don’t know what’s funnier, the way it looks since I lost it in the early eighties and the fact that I still remember it, or when I was running around second grade with it on, raising my hand to the sky, shouting, “I HAVE THE POWER!” Actually, what’s probably hilarious is the ring still fits my ring finger, and I wore it outdoors by mistake one day, not realizing I had it on.  Nevertheless, when I was young I loved that He-man ring, and I’m glad to have an exact duplicate of it back.  It sits on my writing desk, and believe it or not, it even gives me a little inspiration when it comes to penning horror stories.  I fiddle around, put it on, or sometimes just stare at it.  Oh yeah, I also picked up the NEW Webstor figure.

The Castle Grayskull Ring - Memories that still fit almost 30 years later.

Castle Grayskull put together w. The whole gang saying goodbye.

Once again, there’s nothing wrong with reliving your childhood or passing it on to the next generation.  And it’s things like this which helped inspire me to become the one thing I do most these days.  Being a genre writer.

With that said, everybody say goodbye.  Until next time.  BYE BYE.  Bye everyone.  See ya.

Cheers,

Lawrence Dagstine

Einstein’s Pocket Watch, September 2010 (2nd Acceptance!)

I’ll be coming for a second time to what, over the last year or so, has become a very popular and free webzine for writers of poetry, inspirational stories, Christian Fiction, Experimental Fiction, Some Science Fiction and Fantasy, Christian Science Fiction, and more or less stories that are uplifting.  NO horror.  Rob Crandall’s: Einstein’s Pocket Watch.  This would be my 2nd upcoming appearance to the webzine, but with a mainstream/literary piece this time.  I was in the first issue, and I’ll be back again September 2010.  It’s a wonderful blog webzine.  Check it out.

Einstein’s Pocket Watch – Coming September 2010

2nd Appearances – Mainstream – Edited by Rob Crandall

Fiction & Poetry in link below:

http://peafant.wordpress.com/

 

I’ve also gotten 2nd acceptances to “Shelter of Daylight” and 3rd acceptances to OG’s Speculative Fiction.  I’ll try and post those over the next two, three weeks.

Other New Entries: “Magazines” – Webzines

Visitation Rights, Amazon Kindle… (Reminder Post!)

Many of you have probably been wondering where the heck I’ve been, blogging two, three times per month.  Well, lately I’m going through a very hectic divorce.  Yes, I’ve split up and moved away from my now ex-significant other.  We shared four wonderful years together as a couple, gave birth to a scifi nut for a toddler, but with a 70% divorce rate in the United States, hey, sometimes these things are not meant to last.  On June 10th (and maybe beyond), it’s all about who gets the custody and visitation and when and where (I’ll probably get the kid on the weekends).  But New York Court can be a dragging process when it comes to this.  I’d like to thank all of my friends I grew up with in Manhattan, my friends in Brooklyn, all of my very supportive friends–all 2,500 of you–on Facebook, for cheering me up, for being there for me.  Even though there is more legal stuff ahead, a lot of you took the teary moments and depression away.  I’d like to also thank you for your privacy concerning all these family matters at this time.  Sometimes love is not meant forever.  What this does mean, however, is I need to get my ass writing more when all this is over.  I have a roof over my head.  It’s a room… cozy… $500 a month with utilities (I know peeps), and for a Native New Yorker and Bohemian like myself it will suit me just fine.  I feel as if I’ll get more work done now.  Perhaps better work, as I’ll be able to concentrate.  Oddly enough though, the way the visitation proceedings are playing out—minus the paranormal elements, of course—they’re roughly 70% similar to my first Amazon Kindle title: Visitation Rights. 

VISITATION RIGHTS: by Lawrence Dagstine

for Amazon Kindle and most other Digital Readers/Platforms

Sometimes very small fragments of art imitate life…

…and sometimes very small fragments of life imitate art.

Damnation Books – Direct Link:

http://www.damnationbooks.com/book.php?isbn=9781615720088

Other Amazon Kindle & eBook Titles by Dagstine:

https://lawrencedagstine.com/ebooks-kindle-dagstine/

ISBN 13: 978-1-61572-008-1
ISBN 10: 1-61572-008-1

Welcome to my life…

Lawrence Dagstine: “Historical Works in Progress…”

On Alternate History, Historical Weird Tales, and SF Serials…

In the next couple of weeks I will be continuing my bimonthly series of Free Fiction.  This time I will be serializing a science fiction-themed novella about two orphans that get stranded during an interplanetary adoption. It takes place on the largest planet in the universe — The planet Ragnarok (aptly named after the warring Gods of Norse Mythology, which later supposedly caused a lot of catastrophes concerning Mother Nature and the like for Mankind).  You’ll understand why as you get into it over the course of the year.  There are even a few flashback sequences similar to the series LOST.  On Ragnarok, Quadrant 4, located on the outer rim of the Cat’s Eye Nebula, like most of my worlds, there are eighteen seasons.  Unlike Earth, which has only four.  The good guys are a bunch of giant lizards with chest communicators.  Think the Silurians from Doctor Who, only bigger, stronger.  Bad guys are a bunch of elemental wind creatures who harvest meat by “shadowy” & “vampiric” means.  These guys are the horror element to the story.  Main orphan characters are Chelsea and Blake, and you are sure to fall in love with these two kids.  Mind you, this serial is FIRST DRAFT, so if you see the occasional typo or a bit of redundancy, I don’t plan on publishing this anywhere but my homepage.  Entertainment purposes only.  I could best describe the early portions as a cross between Lord of the Flies, the movie Pitch-Black, and Living Amongst the Lizards (short story).  Serials shall run between 2,500 and 5,000 words in length.  Parts 1, 2, 3, 4, etc.  Once again, all first draft.

Name of planned Bimonthly Serial: “Orphan’s Prey” – Stay Tuned!

On The Great Depression and post-Civil War era…

I already have a batch of finished short stories and novelettes set in these two eras.  Some accepted, too.

Story One: “A Town of Crows” – Killer Scarecrows after the Civil War now appearing in Steampunk Tales #6.  See eBooks & Kindle.

Story Two: “A Time and Place for Monsters” – a very long novelette with vampires and werewolves during the Great Depression coming to Cover of Darkness.  Also, a bit of back history concerning President Hoover and The Monsters.  Never before done.

Story Three: “The Two-Sided Market” – Dedicated to H.G. Wells/Parallel Piece.

Story Four: “The Great Martian Depression” – Scifi currently appearing in The Martian Wave Issue#1.

Story Five: “FDR and the Locusts” – Franklin D. Roosevelt and BIG Insects, with a plot twist.

Cleopatra VII - Brooklyn Museum of New York 2008 - 2009

On Cleopatra and Alternate History…

There are two finished stories, finally edited, featuring Cleo as a fourteen-year-old.  They take place between Ancient Egypt and Rome. Alternate History meets Historical Fantasy, and there will also be mages, sorcerers, the undead, gods, and demigods! Also, the stories begin with Mark Antony as narrator for the first page and ends with him conceptually.  Here, I decided to experiment.

Story One: “Young Cleopatra and The Whispering Ancients”

Story Two: “Young Cleopatra and The Eye of Horus.”

Story Three: UNTITLED (coming 2011, and concerning the suicide of Mark and Cleo).

On Pompeii and Rome…

Next, later in the year off to Pompeii and some more fiction in Rome.  Introducing the Children of Ash short stories/novelettes.  All stand-alone tales, which I often prefer.

Story One: “The Children of Ash” – After Volcano Day.

Story Two: “The Nightmare Lair” – Inside the Volcano.

Story Three: “The Vampires of Pompeii” – The Romans have some neighbors. 😉

I’m also thinking up a totally “messed-up” Caligula-style crossover piece as well.  Of course, this is still not a guarantee that a market will accept all of them.  Never is.

I also noticed that a lot of Fresh Blood PDFs were sold.  Like 40 or 50 in the first two, three weeks.  At $3.50, yeah, it’s a great price. If you own a reader, click on eBooks & Kindle and treat yourself to a copy.  You can also now read PDFs on the Amazon Kindle, or download the free iPhone/iPad application off of Amazon.com as well.  I’d like to thank all of you.  I hope you enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed writing it.  The same with my scarecrow story in Steampunk Tales #6 (www.steampunktales.com).

Other than that, there are ten brand new short stories and novelettes completed, my first novella is in the editorial screening stages, and ten brand new acceptances for 2010-2011.  I wish I had the time to blog ten times per day, but life does not permit me such luxury.  I’ll try and fit what I can.  Historical stories take two, three weeks alone.  However, some acceptances are to print anthologies.  So stay tuned! SF serial starts Late April/May 2010.  It’s gonna be fun!

Cheers,

Lawrence Dagstine

Print Magazines * Amazon Kindle * The iPhone/iPad * Sony & PDF Download

Other New Entries: “General News”

P.S.: Speaking of crazy historical tales, enjoy the new season of Doctor Who.   Series Five with Matt Smith!

Steampunk Tales #6: “A Town of Crows” – (eBooks & Kindle)

The scarecrows are finally here!!! Steampunk horror, Neo-Victorian literature, and pulp adventure and mayhem during the post-Civil War. A tale with a twist.  An invasion of epic proportion! A novelette! Characters we care about, and an unexpected plotline. Hundreds of pages worth of Penny Dreadfuls for your pocket: PDF Format, iPad and iPhone, Mobipocket, and through Amazon Kindle! Featuring more than 500+ pages of fiction. Only $1.99 in most formats (Kindle prices may vary).

Steampunk Horror and the Post-Civil War!

Digital Novelettes and Thrills and Chills!

THE SCARECROWS ARE HERE!!!

"A Town of Crows" by Lawrence Dagstine

*eBOOKS & KINDLE:*

Apple iPhone – iPad – iPod Touch – PDF Version – Amazon Kindle

“A TOWN OF CROWS” by Lawrence R. Dagstine

www.steampunktales.com

Hurry Up! Buy Now!

AUTHOR LINE-UP: G.D. Falksen, Joe Goodson, Lawrence Dagstine, Katherine Isham, Arkwright, Karl Custer, Larry C. Kay, John F. Montagne, Andrew Singleton.  Cover Art by Brian Bowes.  Steampunk Marketing, Evelyn Kriete.

Past Dagstine-Featured Editions!

"The Freak from the Past" by Lawrence Dagstine

Author’s Note: ‘probably one of my scariest novelettes to date…’

Other New Entries: “eBooks & Kindle” and “Magazines”

Lawrence Dagstine: “A Day at the Brooklyn Museum…”

The following series of pictures were taken a little over a year ago, when I went on a research trip to The Brooklyn Museum of New York.  During that time, between 2008 and early 2009, there was an Ancient Egyptian/Assyrian Exhibit.  They also had an “Old School” Graffiti Art exhibit on the 5th Floor.  It was a lot of fun.  I got to see some real mummies (which you’ll see below), tombs, statues, canvases, masks, and a whole lot of other interesting stuff from the days before Christ.  I finally got around to resizing some of those other photographs.  The results of this visit would be a short article for an archeological magazine and an alternate history tale featuring Cleopatra (novelette-length).  Here they are, finally, in all their glory.  Historical and artistic pics.

Assyria * Ancient Egypt * Mummies * Tombs

The mummies were the freakiest…

(There were more pics for this exhibit, but those were sold along with the article)

Asian Artifacts * Age-Old Trinkets * Masks * Molds

 

Paintings * Canvases * Stained-Glass Works

Graffiti Art Exhibit * Urban Art Canvases * Retro Works

As you can tell, you could even participate…

 

For more information about the Brooklyn Museum of New York:

www.brooklynmuseum.org

200 Eastern Parkway
Brooklyn, NY 11238-6099
(718) 638-5000

Lawrence Dagstine: “How to make $5000.00 from writing…”

*HOW TO MAKE FIVE-GRAND IN YOUR SPARE TIME FROM WRITING*

An Essay by Lawrence Dagstine

This conversation always seems to come up whenever my name is made in passing in certain industry circles, regarding that “Prolific Hack” Lawrence R. Dagstine.  This time it came via Facebook a few days ago by a person we’ll call Chubbs.  Congratulations, Chubbs, you are now a character in my upcoming, racially provocative, cyberpunk novella, MAURICE AND THE URBANITES.  All with good intentions, Chubbs; I won’t kill your character off.  If there’s one thing I’m known for, it’s helping other writers find markets for their work.  However, I think it is important that all housewives or househusbands, part-time tutors, teachers or students looking for extra cash, has-beens, wannabes, bohemians, panderers, starving artists, prose-driven lushes, pain-killer popping poet laureates, and yes, even young technical writers who need reminding pay heed.  Or if you’re smart, can program yourself to type methodically, but find yourself currently unemployed.  So let’s start this off right…

Publishing Clip/Magazine Tupperware No. 2 of 4 - Yes, I own four.

Hi, my name is Lawrence.  I’m a hack writer who made roughly $5000.00 in 2009 from the written word.  Cash.  Mojo.  Bling.  And I’m going to show you too how to make this kind of money over a 365-day period; have checks and payments coming in regularly in this tough economy; samples on how to get writing gigs and become a fiction writing machine in your spare time, and the difference between quantity and quality (in my opinion).  As a trench-writer since the late 90’s, with close to 400 magazine and webzine credits, and in this current market, this is how I perceive Quantity and Quality.

QUANTITY = The Possibility of Fast Money and Brief Popularity.

QUALITY = The Possibility of Immortality and Elegance of Prose.

Author’s Note: With the above, your mileage may vary.  But both can exhibit a certain level of professionalism.  I’ll also get to the novelist a bit more later on.  Everything I put down here in the meantime is from firsthand experience, acceptances, years of observation, and generally whatever else worked for me concerning the written word.

I think everybody pretty much knows by now that I submit to a LOT of half-cent to three-cent per word paying markets.  I often have a minimum of 20 to 40 different short stories and novelettes floating out there at any given time, and so should you; with reprints, once rights have reverted back to me, sometimes as many as 60 fiction markets.  There’s one short that I’ve sold over seven, eight times already.  These are often called “Trunk Stories”, stories which have already been published and are just sitting on your laptop, can be dusted off, and sold again after many years.  And I’m not including small non-fiction gigs, which rely mainly on published clips, actual “print” periodicals, or through connections/recommendations one might have through freelancing or journalism.  That’s a whole other ballgame.  If you want to make some kind of extra cash with short stories, you need to write plenty of them! Like one or two per week, then build up a hefty folder over time.  This is a must! It won’t be an overnight thing.  Oh yeah, and expect to get a boatload of rejections.  But I think every writer and his or her grandmother is aware that it comes with the territory.

At the same time, I truly believe that while the written word is the written word – by that, I mean whatever you manufacture from your keyboard – within short story writing and novel writing there exists two very different breeds of writer.  Two very different thought process patterns between both of them.  Even though, over time, it is essentially the hardworking novelist who will round up the most funds.  One is taught to submit to nothing but the highest paying markets, because there is this invisible rule, and everybody should adhere to it.  Because we should better ourselves.  Start at the top, work your way down.  Maybe go to Clarions or Borderlands or a similar writing workshop, and attend seminars where you can sit down with actual New York Times Bestselling Authors.  Excellent philosophy.  I’m for it one hundred percent! I’ve been told to submit to nothing but five-cent per word markets, otherwise throw your story away.  I’ve had writers tell me five cents is an insult and submit to only seven-to-ten-cent per word paying markets.  And there was the one old-schooler who said submit to only ten-cent markets (yeah, and out of the thousands upon thousands of genre writers, statistically we all know there’s a ton of those out there).  I wouldn’t dare say keep that piece sitting in a drawer, especially if you believe in it.  Submit it! Still, at the same time we can’t forget that some levels of writers do it for the sake of paying other bills, no matter how big or small that earning from writing may be: it might help you fill up your gas tank, it might help you afford air conditioning this summer, or even pay your mortgage or credit card.  For some the opportunity is out there (on both levels); for some, not in a million years because they might not know what to do or how to go about freelancing or how to utilize reprints or how to get into the “Writing Habit”.  Personally, I could give a damn about immortality.  I live in the Here and Now, therefore I must eat, think, and survive in the Here and Now.  That’s my philosophy.

Basically, have a secondary income coming in on a fairly repetitive basis.  Checks and Paypal payments flying in every week to two weeks.  The same way prolific novelists receive royalties by the quarter.  Two very different breeds of writer, in my opinion.

Example 1:

On one particular day in September 2009, I opened up my email to find seven paying acceptances in ONE DAY – nothing big, nothing exorbitant – and I’m not a full-time writer.  That’s my current record, by the way.  In December 2009 I had another four paying acceptances in ONE DAY.  That’s eleven paying short story acceptances right there.  In only two days out of 365.  Now, out of those eleven acceptances, who am I to say no to $25.00 checks, $50.00 checks, $75.00 checks, or even a $100.00 check, which might turn out to be a 2-cent per word story which just happens to equal a Benjamin Franklin? Especially if they’re rolling in constantly! Unless you’re already established, you never say no to Benjamin Franklin.  Benjamin is your friend; Grant ain’t so bad either.  A 2,000-word short story to a professional market equals the SAME hundred dollars.  Not to mention I can probably name three or four other prolific short story writers who have me beat with the numbers above.  And while Benjamin and Grant are your best friends, they can do more than just get your name and work out there.  In this current market and economy it can pay for things.

Here’s another example from December 2009.  The publication in the link below, which has been around eleven years, I often get acceptances from.  I’ve even helped improve their exposure and circulation a bit.  They pay me 1-cent per word for material.  The two accepted stories in this particular entry, to be released this year, are 6,000 words in length each.  That equals $120.00.  Over a period of twelve months, it adds up.

CLICK HERE: https://lawrencedagstine.com/2009/12/21/nova-science-fiction-spring-2010-eight-acceptances/

This recent story acceptance below is fairly long.  It took me one day to write this story.  The creative juices were flowing.  The check from it will pay for one gas bill.  Still, if you want to pay more than one bill, you need to have at least 40 different short stories floating out there for you.  When rejections come in, send the stories right back out.

CLICK HERE: https://lawrencedagstine.com/2010/02/10/aoifes-kiss-35-december-2010-12th-acceptance/

Once again, that $5000.00 was from part-time writing, not full-time.  This came from short fiction, short non-fiction, selling Dagstine mags and wares in Coney Island, small leads and gigs on places like Craigs List to resume writing (www.craigslist.com).  Let’s throw in a little off the books proofreading for people advertising simple jobs from foreign-speaking countries (e.g., gigs I had for Denmark and The Philippines).  You can charge these people a fee in the low hundreds just to edit their manuscripts or fill their technical and business writing needs.  Always charge less than what the Writer’s Market suggests for these jobs; work with your clients, they’ll use you again or recommend you to others.  That’s how resume writing fell into my lap.  It doesn’t matter where you come from: if you understand English, have Internet access, and enjoy typing, anybody can do this… ANYBODY CAN DO THIS! So what if it isn’t entirely fiction? Now I’m building up an entirely different kind of portfolio in the process, something I would never have done or thought of, say, five years ago.  I’ve written under such names as Lawrence Davis, Lawrence Roberts, Lawrence Hewitt, and in the science fiction arena, Lawrence Dagstine.  The list goes on.  I even wrote a porn story once under the name Nabudi Sun (this was for kicks).  Plus, the freedom of this also gives me the time to write more genre fiction, which I enjoy and grew up on.

SAMPLE FOREIGN / FREELANCE LINK: http://manila.craigslist.com.ph/wri/

You ever see that show, DEAL OR NO DEAL? Hosted by Howie Mandel? He comes out on stage rocking his baldy, a woman with a silver briefcase hollering and screaming at his side.  The audience is cheering on.  The woman is given the option to pick briefcases and go for a six-figure win.  Let’s pretend that the contestant is a writer, and that this game show scenario applies to writing.  Very rarely do people get that six-figures; shit, some times they don’t even score five.  Howie Mandel will call upstairs and one of the producers or whatever will make an offer.  It might be $6,000, $8,000, or $10,000… Do yourself a favor, TAKE THE MONEY AND RUN! Don’t wait around for a half-million dollars.  Because, in traditional publishing, six-figures ain’t happening.  $10,000, sure, why not.  I can figure that.  Pay your bills and have fun with your peers.

Example 2:

You know, when you think about it, $5000.00 equals an advance on some novels, which might take you a year to write and then an additional 18 months to be released.  There’s no guarantee the book will sell, the agent you have will keep you or you will keep her, or that you’ll be the next big thing.  Your book may sit on a shelf for what seems like an eternity, or be sent back for a refund.  Or, in the end, have its cover torn off.

You have to remember, writing is a starving profession.  Freelancing is quick cash.  Thanks to it, I sell most of my works a minimum of three times each.  Thanks to it I have heat and hot water, a full refrigerator, electricity and gas, copays on prescriptions covered, clothes on my back, toilet paper to wipe my ass, diapers on my kid’s behind, and all other bills and necessities besides a rent firmly paid.

But, I understand.  Even though you realize that genre is a lottery, with one in every 10,000 to 20,000 truly making it BIG, you aspire to be that New York Times Bestselling writer.  There’s nothing wrong with that.  Dreaming big is a part of life.  Sometimes those workshops or classes, however, are pricey.  With round-trip airfare, hotel and food, you could be talking $2000 just to attend! Freelancing, in the fashion mentioned above, can PAY FOR THAT PROFESSIONAL WORKSHOP… It can help you afford these writing camps in what is a truly reserved economy.

In the end, it’s all about enjoying what you do.  The storytelling aspect, and of course, entertaining your readers.  Listen, you don’t have to stay in this little shell your whole life because some organization has it hammered out that way or because people have inferiority complexes (such as Chubbs).  What good is a writer who ends up worm food from lack of finances? I think that at a certain point, you have to come out and set up your career the way you feel most comfortable with it.  Remember, only you are responsible for your own destiny.  Only you can carve out a niche for yourself, thus turning it into your own reality.

Until Next Time,

Lawrence Dagstine

Lawrence Dagstine: “Christmas Time 2009…”

For the 2009 holiday season, I decided to update my blog homepage and fill my fans and followers in on some of my gifts and achievements of the last twelve months, along with what to look out for and what will be under the x-mas tree this yuletide season (for the little one).  Regardless of the last year-and-a-half of dying markets and a bad genre economy, 2009 still managed to be my best year in the “earning” department, where I doubt I will ever be able to rival 2007 in the quantity and material department.  Some of these achievements range from smaller press and semi-pro fiction acceptances, minor proofreading, non-fiction writing and essays, resumes, my first official short story collection being released, my first Kindle title being released, making over 2000 friends and followers on Facebook, and just a lot revolving around the written word and The Spirit of Christmas.

Isn’t that a beautiful Christmas tree? The lights flash blue and white.  Progress-wise, this year I had very little time to blog/plug but got a lot of acceptances (some straight through 2011), let go of a lot of reprints, wrote 26 BRAND NEW short stories, wrote 8 BRAND NEW novelettes, wrote four unfinished novellas between 15,000 and 30,000 words in length — which I may make available on my blog to read next year.  I mean, why let good stories go to waste.  Or maybe I will get around to editing and finishing those novellas.  I have future eBooks & Kindle titles on the horizon.  I realized that, money-wise, it doesn’t pay to release a second short story collection.  I can earn more individually.  I was shortlisted a couple of times by some decent pubs, made second readings, almost made it into 4 professional level magazines/venues.  And that’s just the fiction department.  Oh yeah, did I mention the steampunk and satire offers?

Below you will find pictures of just half of this year’s gifts.  It’s mainly a Cybermen-themed Christmas this year, with David Tennant regenerating into Matt Smith and all.  And my son is now a Dr. Who fan and absolutely adores The Cybermen (he’s scared of the Daleks).  Oddly enough, he’s also more a Christopher Eccleston fan.  One of the items I searched the UK high and low for was The Cybermen Age of Steel 4-figure collection.  Collect them all, open up the packages, and you can build a fifth figure.  The Cyber Controller.  I also picked up The Next Doctor on DVD and ordered a Cyber Leader Voice-Changing Helmet to seal the deal.

Some of the other gifts, which are already wrapped, consist of model kits with glues and paints from my old man, though they say ages 8+ and 12+ on the packages.  So I guess the little one will have to hold on to them until he’s old enough to understand them.  Those are made by Revell.  There are also Bob the Builder videos.  Believe me, Doctor Who wasn’t the only stocking stuffer.  There are some other wonderful toys and gifts ranging from Super Mario to Toddler Costumes to Spongebob Squarepants-themed games, and, like last year, play food items.  Like “make your own pizza.”  The Spongebob game in the picture below is actually Connect Four, but obviously for a slightly younger age group.  Then there’s the one last-minute gift I just couldn’t put down.  The paint job was so realistic.  It reminded me of the Super Powers Action Figures of the 80’s.  Remember those? The Justice League of America Boxed Set: Superman, Batman, Wonder Woman, and Green Lantern.  These figures are mint and pristine! And who doesn’t love the JLA?

Now that’s a big ass cup of coffee (by the way, that’s made of metal).  Just couldn’t resist.

In a reduced and very affordable fashion, I also treated myself to a few early-season gifts.  First, notice the non-fiction book above on Pompeii.  You got it.  It’s research time.  Lawrence Dagstine will be coming your way sometime in 2010 with a story set in Pompeii.  It could be before Volcano Day, it could be after.  It could be Alternate History or not the story you’re expecting.  But you know me when it comes to Historical Weird Tales.

Also, I can’t recommend enough WEIRD HISTORY 101 — published by Falls River, and if you’re a B&N member, you might be able to get it reduced now for $4.00 — in hardcover.  This tome is sooo awesome.  It’s like a mini factbook and reference tool for the writer, and just all around interesting to own.  If you’re a writer of historical tales, alternate history, steampunk, or period pieces, trust me and go to Barnes & Nobles and get this book.  Doesn’t matter what genre.  Author is John Richard Stephens.  You won’t find these kind of facts on Google, or between the pages of traditional historical reference books.

And if you look up above, I finally have a new computer desk.  Nice to have shelving and a drawer, but still unsure of what to fill it up with yet.  Now that the little one has gotten older, the bookcase units pretty much belong to him and his toys.  Now that I have a Kindle, most of my print books will be donated.  Those I wish to keep will be locked away in storage between two households (yeah, there’s that many).  But that desk above is situated in a new corner, it’s my new workspace, and it’s where I’ll pen that Pompeii tale for you Dagstine readers when the time comes.

With that said, I’ll probably only update this blog four more times before the New Year.  Stay with me in 2010.  We have many adventures to go on together, and much awaits.  Won’t you join me? To all my fans and readers…

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!

Lawrence R. Dagstine

Other New Entries: “About Me”

Lawrence Dagstine: “Happy Halloween 2009…”

TRICK OR TREAT

HAPPY HALLOWEEN 2009

from Lawrence Dagstine

(I love scarecrows; had to go with a scarecrow theme this year)

However, in case you love zombies, werewolves, vampires, and lizards…

Still Available from Sam’s Dot Publishing & The Genre Mall:

 

http://www.genremall.com/anthologiesr.htm#freshblood

Lawrence Dagstine: “Digital Stories Coming Soon…”

It is with great pleasure that I announce a couple of things.   One, now that the writing population is slowly starting to embrace the digital age, this site will not only act as a homepage and plug-page for magazines and upcoming science fiction, fantasy and horror venues, but also be a store.  You will be able to buy and then download short stories, novelettes, and novellas — most brand new, no reprints — from yours truly.  I am open to further freelancing, networking, and marketing with other authors if they too would like to be a part of this store (like trading purchase info links).  I advertise you, you advertise me.  I sell your work, you sell mine.  With that said, stay tuned to this site between now and mostly 2010.  The future may be digital, but it still looks good from where I’m at.

Alas, print is dying...

Alas, print is dying...

This site will also act as the occasional home of the “short story review”, the science fiction media news source and, later down the road, a new and unique kind of cross-marketing, branding-upon-branding, product placement and more.  To be honest, I’m surprised most bigger houses haven’t jumped on  a similar bandwagon yet.  Who knows, maybe it’s because the economy is still shoddy.  It’s what will also hopefully help fund the new venture come 2011.  I’d have to say that 2010 will also see an end to a majority of all print-related periodicals in “genre” featuring my stories in it.  I’ve been informed that 2011 would be a sort of conversion stage.  Or a few months after Kindle 3 comes out and prices on readers drop.  Whichever comes first.  Oh well.  However…

The best part of all this is you will be able to go to places like Mobipocket, Fictionwise, and Amazon.  You will be able to own my works on such reading devices as the Sony eReader, Kindle, Jetbook, iTouch, and so much more.  Matter of fact, my first e-title will be debuting shortly.   So stay tuned to the tab at the top of this page, entitled: “eBooks & Kindle”.

Thank You,

Lawrence R. Dagstine

Edited to Add: Fresh Blood Contest also coming soon…

Doctor Who: Series Five Monsters…

New Monsters! It’s about time… Hmm, am I making any sense? I don’t know, I might not make any sense ever again.  Fanboy-ism aside, and as a science fiction writer to boot, I’m here today to declare my love yet again for one of the longest running shows in TV history.  That’s right — Doctor Who! Torchwood would probably come in second or third for me.  And, as we all know, David Tennant regenerates after this year and becomes The Eleventh Doctor.  This role will go to the then 27-year old Matt Smith. 

regeneration_stunt

Now I will admit, at first I wasn’t too keen on the idea of Smith taking over the role; I had fingers crossed for Paterson Joseph, Adrian Lester, or even Colin Salmon.  But I guess it’s only right that we give the boy a chance.  After all, Stephen Moffat is a remarkable writer and it’s as if he were born to lead such a fantastic show.  Also, Matt Smith promises to bring a lot to the role as the Doctor — retracing the 70’s show model, Matt and Stephen? — and you know these newbies, one night they’re nobody, the next they’re a guaranteed success and eating the pie from the Actor’s Guild.  Matt Smith you have my attention.  I will give you a chance, I promise.  But what adversaries will you face? What monsters will you go up against? What surprises does Moffat have in store for us in 2010?

Official BBC Doctor Who Homepage:

http://www.bbc.co.uk/doctorwho/

I know the one monster I don’t want to see anymore is The Daleks — NO MORE! They’ve been done to death.  Russell T. Davies abused them enough, I think.  I love the Cybermen, don’t get me wrong… but please exit right.  And it’s safe to bet that the Sontarans were just a “one-time” gig.   I want monsters that harken back to the Baker years.  Or they should be, at the very least, considered.

matt-smith-doctor-who-1

I have read rumors (and they are only that), that the “Weeping Angels” will be making their return.  I’ve seen The Sea Devils being tossed about the Net.  The Troclafane were mentioned on one “source” forum, but I hope they weren’t serious.  And like the Sea Devils, my money is on the Ice Warriors all the way! I wouldn’t be surprised if they are a major villain in Series Five. 

There are so many monsters that haven’t returned, that should.  I mean, what about the Nimon? These were Minotaur-like monsters who could shoot you down with their horns.  In the insect department, you have the Wirrn, who are most memorable from Baker’s second story, The Ark in Space.   A Horror of Fang Rock-like story involving the Rutans would be kind of interesting.  Or how about using CGI to remake The Gravis and a new sort of Tractator? Perhaps The Zarbi? No, even better, how about the Rani?

nimon

As I get ready for PLANET OF THE DEAD, I wonder what surprises are in store for Matt Smith.  And us… 

What monsters do YOU want to see return to Doctor Who? Would you like to cast a vote?

Come, take a Doctor Who poll with me…

For another Matt Smith/Doctor Who related poll, go here:

https://lawrencedagstine.com/2009/01/05/doctor-who-matt-smith-is-not-the-eleventh-doctor/ 

Like monsters? Then read my latest collection, FRESH BLOOD.  There’s plenty to be had there, in PG-13 color:

https://lawrencedagstine.com/books-anthos/ 

 

Cheers,

Lawrence R. Dagstine

Midnight Horror, January-Feb. 2008… (appearances)

This one must have skipped my mind.  Midnight Horror is a small amateur-paying webzine, put out by a free web host (Fortunecity), and features a decent line-up of authors.  The reading is free for the picking, so why not check them out? I have a short in it called Zombie Camp. 

midnighthorror.jpg

MIDNIGHT HORROR – January/February 2008

Homepage: http://midnighthorror.fortunecity.com/

untitled.jpg

Fiction Page: http://midnighthorror.fortunecity.com/authors.html

Featuring Fiction by: Tom Conoboy, Jonathan Daniel, Herbert Tinsley, Nathan Tyree, Tracie McBride, R.S. Pyne, Tom Johnstone, Brian G. Ross, Dawn Sholun, Sophie Bachard, Eric S. Brown, Guy Belleranti, David Byron, John Towler, Lawrence Dagstine, and Aurelio Rico Lopez III. 

________________________________

In other news, I guess you can see that I’ve changed my blog template.  It looks more like a regular website now, which was the feel I was going for to celebrate over 10,000 hits in just a few months time.  I’m sure those are not all unique hits, but it’s still pretty decent in my opinion.  Another reason is because change is always needed when something big and wonderful is about to happen not too far down the road. Could it have something to do with my new Lightning Source book account to retrieve authors for pay rates of 3 to 7 cents per word? Does it mark the beginning of my small press art gig, Soberiffic? Editing services? A recent book deal? A crossover to non-fiction? Wait, 300 publishing credits is coming to you, ain’t it? Well, yes, it is.  Soon.  That will probably be a blog entry by itself; and it’s pretty obvious this site will be under heavy renovation for some time to come.

Be aware, some things have changed: – About Me now features a small curriculum vitae, with my educational background.  Average education for an average guy — and I wouldn’t have it any other way.  I dumped Movies & Videos; it served no purpose.  Unplanned Parenthood is now called Family Album.  And last but not least, a new story is up in Short Fiction Sample for your reading pleasure, entitled: “Devil Child”.  Enjoy…  😉

Other New Entries: “About Me, Family Album, Short Fiction Sample & Soberiffic Arts”