The Circus of Brass and Bone

The Circus of Brass and Bone is a wildly imaginative post-apocalyptic steam punk series written by Abra Staffin Wiebe. You may know her as a fictionista or you may know her as the keeper of one of the most useful market lists around, but you need to know her as the author of this fantastic online series.

The tagline is, "After the collapse of civilization, the show goes on." The story is up to episode 12 (the others are archived), new episodes appear every week. The fiction is free, but donations are gratefully accepted. (All funds go to pay her mother's medical bills.)

Check out the stories, hit the donate button, and prepare to be transported into a fantastic world.

Not Your Usual NoHo Noir

It's not easy being an Armenian gangster's daughter.

If you've been following the series so far, you will remember that Nick is an undercover FBI agent investigating Rouzan's father. He knows that she's not involved in the life like her brother is, but he's using her to get close to her father and ... it's working.

Nick's an ambitious guy. He'll do whatever it takes to get ahead. But never let it be said he doesn't enjoy his work. Nick was introduced in the episode entitled "Full Service." Here's his picture courtesy of Mark Satchwill.

You can see why Rouzan fell for him. Enjoy this Saturday's and come back tomorrow for more noir!

Fourth of July

This is my entry into the Beach House Noir fiction challenge over at Do Some Damage. I worked as an au pair one summer when I was a teenager and although the two little girls I looked after were darling, once was enough.

The Fourth of July

Ali hadn’t wanted the fucking job in the first place but her mother had insisted. “You can’t sit around the house all summer,” she’d said, pretending like she was worried Ali would be bored when really, she just didn’t want Ali around the house when Dean came over.
Her mother still looked good for 35 but Dean was 28 and Ali was 16 and her mom could do the math.
“A summer at the beach, working as an au pair sounds better than bagging groceries at Ralphs doesn’t it?” her mom coaxed.
She’d pronounced the French phrase like “ow pear,” which Ali knew was wrong because she’d seen a TV movie about an au pair who fell in love with the guy she worked for.
There was no fucking way Ali was gonna fall for Eliot Cubbison who was a 40-something finance guy going bald and soft.
Besides, au pair was just a fancy way of saying “full-time babysitter.”
Still, the money was pretty good and her mother was right about it being better than bagging groceries.
Ali had done that the summer before. One of her co-workers had been a ‘tard with a crush on her. She’d complained to the manager that he kept showing her his dick. The manager told her to quit teasing the boy or find somewhere else to work.
She’d stuck it out until late August. The manager had stiffed her on her last paycheck.
She’d gone back to the store at closing time a week later and cut little slits in all the plastic-wrapped packages of steak.
So au pair it was.
The job started June 15th and by the week of July 4th, Ali was so fucking over it.
There was a Mrs. Eliot somewhere but she hadn’t joined the family at the beach house.
Lucky her, Ali thought after three weeks with the kids. Nine-year-old Daniel was a mean little bully and his five-year-old sister Megan was an annoying little tattle-tale, a sibling dynamic that was guaranteed to produce strife.
What Eliot had described as a “private beach” turned out to be a remote patch of sand in the middle of fucking nowhere. Ali hadn’t expected Jersey Shore, but this beach was so deserted Ali half expected to come across the Statue of Liberty buried in the sand.
She was guaranteed one day off a week, but since the house was so isolated, and there was no car for her to use—Eliot had made it clear she wouldn’t be driving his Mercedes—she was essentially a prisoner.
Eliot spent most of his time on the deck with his laptop. Monitoring the movement of other people’s money. The kids had been taught not to bother daddy when he was working so they were under Ali’s feet the whole fucking day.
Eliot entertained every night, but his guests were all his age and he made it clear to Ali that she wasn’t welcome.
The kids weren’t welcome either, except in the roles their father assigned to them. He always brought Megan out in her shortie pajamas just before bedtime and paraded her around in a show of fatherly love that made Ali want to puke. Then he’d kiss his daughter on the forehead and hand her over to Ali before the kid realized she was being dismissed and started to wail.
Daniel’s role was a little more complicated.
Eliot had taught the little boy how to make pina coladas, complete with the juggling bottles and flashy moves and a little umbrella to top off the glass.
The guests thought it was adorable and laughed indulgently when Daniel sampled the drinks himself.
On July 4th, Eliot told Ali he was going to take everyone to see the fireworks once it got dark and then took off with a vague promise to return before dinner.
Megan had whined and sulked and Daniel had badgered and taunted her into a tantrum and by mid-afternoon, Ali was exhausted by the effort of playing referee.
She was lounging in a deck chair watching Megan make sand castles when Daniel appeared at her side with a tray holding a fishbowl-sized pina colada and a bag of over-priced, organic potato chips.
“I thought you might want a snack,” he said.
“I’m sorry for picking on Megan,” he added. “Please don’t tell my dad.”
Ali looked at Daniel skeptically, trying to figure out the little fucker’s angle.
Why not?” she finally asked.
“Because he won’t take us to the fireworks,” he said.
The idea of being stuck at home one more night made Ali shudder.
“I won’t tell your dad,” she said and reached for the drink.
It went down as easy as a Jamba Juice smoothie.
***
Three hours later she woke up with the beginnings of a wicked sunburn and the sense that something was terribly wrong. Two guys in suits stood over her, studying her like a lab specimen.
“Have a good nap?” one of them inquired pleasantly.
She sat up in the deck chair and noticed a crowd of people standing around a small square of beached marked off with crime scene tape.
“What’s going on?” she asked. The two men exchanged glances. The one who’d spoken to her answered.
“You tell us Ali.”
Ali saw Daniel standing with Eliot, the man’s arms around the boy’s shoulders, hugging him. She did not see Megan.
“I don’t understand,” Ali whispered, beginning to get a bad, bad feeling.
“That makes two of us,” the man said. “You tell me what kind of person ties a little girl’s hands and feet with seaweed then buries her up to her neck to drown as the tide comes in."
"No,” Ali said.
“Did you tell her it was a game?”
“It wasn’t me,” she said. “It was Daniel.”
She saw the look of disgust that crossed the man’s face.
“You sent Daniel to his room for being bad, don’t you remember?”
“No,” Ali said, "no I didn't."
As if he'd do anything I told him to.
But then she looked at Daniel putting on a show for the scrum of solicitous adults and she saw how it would go.
She was so fucking fucked.

The Western as Noir

Screenwriter S. Craig Zahler's novel A Congregation of Jackals, is so compelling but bleak that it shares kinship with the Nordic Noir genre of mysteries.

In many ways, this novel reminds us of classic western films like High Noon and the contemporary western Bad Day at Black Rock with a little detour through Deadwood. There are bad guys who are truly bad and good guys who once weren’t and they’re all on a collision course at a wedding. The writer takes his time setting things up and by the time the actual confrontation occurs, it’s almost as mythic as the gunfight at the OK Corral.

The characters are strong. A man named Oswell is the heart and soul of the story and much of it is told through his eyes and in his voice. We tend to expect that he is the one who will die in Montana, though, because he is the one with the most to lose. (The story is a little on the predictable side.)

Some of the characters seem to be a little “quirky” and some aren’t really necessary, but the writer is going for something kind of epic here and that means he’s painting on a broad canvas.

There are some really nice moments between Beatrice and her father, including a scene where he tells her he’s saved all his life to make sure that when she gets pregnant, she’ll have a doctor’s care. There’s clearly love between these characters and we know that he would die for her without hesitation. (We just hope he won’t have to.)

The writer gets major points for populating his West with a multi-cultural cast. There are blacks, there are Asians, and there are Native Americans. Adding these characters adds to the authenticity of the mix. A lot of the ethnic characters don’t fare too well—there’s a messenger named PICKLES who has the misfortune of knowing way too much about Quinlan’s plans—but they add “color” to the goings on.

There are some interesting subplots, like the connection between the Sheriff and the condescending widow. Their original antagonism melts into something else in true romantic drama tradition. There are some little bits of plot that feel completely contrived though, especially the weird encounter Dicky has with the blind man in the hotel.

The author tries hard to get the flavor of the times, often resorting to grandiloquent language (some of which isn’t used quite right). He never quite gets into LITTLE BIG MAN territory, though. On the other hand, it’s clear he’s done a lot of research into the period and there are period touches that really sell the reality of the story and its backdrop.

Some of the detail is astonishing and original—like a description of snake spines woven into the hair of the Appanuqi chief, who walks a leashed and grotesquely tortured Mexican like a pet. The scenes with the Indians—including the massacre that is the “inciting incident” for the whole revenge quest—are tough to read and would be even tougher on screen. The violent way that Quinlan takes over the tribe, beating and humiliating the chief, is only a prelude to what will happen later.

Arthur and his unnamed twin are evil forces of nature and we almost fear them more than we fear Quinlan. (Quinlan feels like he was modeled after Quantrill, the marauding outlaw who terrorized the West after the end of the Civil War.)

The story builds to a shattering climax that isn’t truly original and isn’t particularly surprising. (We always knew Oswell was a dead man walking.) The story-telling, though, is absorbing and while the narrative is a bit predictable and a little derivative, we are carried along. The ending is DIRE.

L.A. Banks Auction

You may not know L.A. Banks' books. If not, you're in for a treat. She writes in a number of different genres, but the novels I love are her urban fantasies. She has a couple of series--vampire huntress, dark avenger--and they are not your cookie cutter UF titles with the tramp-stamped heroines and the dreamy vampires. This lady can write.

If you do know her work, you may have heard that the author (real name Leslie Esdaile) has been diagnosed with late-stage adrenal cancer. Her medical bills are already astronomical and rising. Leslie's friends have organized an eBay auction on her behalf. The auction will begin next Tuesday and run for 10 days. Go here for more information.

Shouldn't Take More Than a Few Hours

I've been a full-time freelance writer for 20 years. In the last four years, I've found a lot of work on Craig's List. A lot of that work is grossly underpaid (there's a surprise) but even the gigs that pay decently often have unrealistic expectations attached.
Mostly those expectations have to do with time-frame. Either the client (who has been sitting on the idea for, oh, a decade or so) wants something done by the weekend; or the client grossly underestimates the amount of time a project will take.
"Should take no more than a few hours" is a phrase that's popping up more and more.
Today it came up in an ad for writing 50 "job descriptions" complete with photos that had to be sourced. Seriously? Even if these job descriptions only take three minutes apiece, that's 150 minutes.
I think the problem is that secretly, most people think they could write if only they had the time. No one ever says, "I could do that heart transplant if I had a couple of extra hours," but people always say, "I'm a pretty good writer."
My feeling? If you can write it yourself, do so. But if you can't, don't devalue my work by telling me it's something I can just toss off.

Step Away From the Netflix

I share a household NetFlix account with someone whose movie tastes are WILDLY divergent from mine. Last night I was in the mood to watch something and all the suggestions that came up were based on his ratings of 800 or so movies. So we finally separated our ratings and queues, which still left me looking for a movie. But first...I needed to input a few ratings to get the ball rolling. That was last night. Less than 24 hours later I have ratings for 1504 movies and counting. Now I'm kind of obsessed with it. And annoyed that a lot of the movies I've seen (bad martial arts movies, for example) are not in Netflix.
Seriously, where is Loren Avedon's King of the Kickboxers? Filmed in Thailand with Billy Blanks of Tai Bo fame, the always reliable Don Stroud and Sherrie Rose?
Where is the terrific Disney adventure The Fighting Prince of Donegal? Ii think I saw the movie on the Sunday Disney show at some point but I remember it being full of derring-do. I like my historical shows a little darker these days--I can't believe tonight is the second-to-last episode of Game of Thrones for the season--but at the time, it was terrific.