Stick a needle in my eye.
Remember that scene in Star Wars where Darth Vader menaces Princess Leia with the high-tech needle in her eye? If you're like me, you thought, "Okay, I'm brave but I'll tell you pretty much everything to keep you from sticking that needle in my eye."
So imagine my surprise that all thee years later, I'm the willing recipient of monthly eye injections as part of a three-year study to see how well a certain drug performs. (It's a double-blind study but I know I didn't get the placebo because from the first injection, my eyesight was much better.) The first time I was injected I was a wreck. "They're going to stick a needle in my eye!" I announced to everyone who would listen and without exception, everyone responded with a shudder. (I have "eye issues" anyway. To this day I can't look at that eye-slitting scene in Andalusian Dog.)
Now, though, the most stressful thing about my trips to the Retina-Vitreous Clinic is the day-long process. Since my eyes are dilated, I can't read. So mostly I listen. Every person has a story and when you sit next to them while they're waiting for someone to stick a needle in their eye too, you eventually hear their stories. It's a win/win situation. I'm not going blind and I'm getting a lot of "material." And if you ever see a story with needles or eyes, you'll know where I got my inspiration.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Sunday, January 23, 2011
New NoHo Noir: The Inheritance
It's Sunday and this episode of NoHo Noir showcases Anna Lee, whose mother died in a car crash in the second episode of the series. For those following the story, Anna and her mother did not get along and now that her mother is dead, she misses her terribly. In this episode, Anna gets news that could change her life.The story introduces a new character, attorney Ryland Bailey, who will be pivotal in the conclusion of the story introduced last week, "The Good Samaritan."
The illustration is by Mark Satchwill and used actor Scott Wilson as a reference. As always, Mark's illustration provide inspiration for me. In this case, he'd finished the illo before I'd actually finished the story (which happens most weeks) and seeing his interpretation of my vague notions really helps me put the story together.
The theme of this story is, "Money Talks, Bullshit Walks" but I couldn't use that title because my column is PG-rated. (And while the title is "The Inheritance," I keep calling it "The Legacy."
Check out the story here.
Friday, January 21, 2011
Thanks to my good friend Connie Johnson, who just visited from the Windy City where she works for the Queen of All Media, I now have a KINDLE!!! Yes, I can now read ebooks on a DEVICE instead of in PDF copies. I am so jazzed. I'll have to buy a copy of my own book to check it out. (Yes, a shameless self-promotion moment is coming up.) Just Another Day in Paradise is available in the Kindle Store. It's just $3.99.
A new collection of my stories will be published this summer (imaginatively titled Just Another Day in Paradise 2), so you might want to catch up before you fall behind.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
A Troubling Story for a Troubled Time
The Pacifist
By Katherine Tomlinson
Disclaimer: This story was “inspired” by the Ft. Hood shootings and has been in my “fiction, incomplete” file for some time. In the wake of the mass murder in Arizona, I pulled it out and finished it. I know it’s a disturbing story; it came from a place filled with disquiet and dread. For me, the lesson of the tale is that nothing is as simple or as simplistic as it seems.
In theory, it’s not that easy to gain access to an Army post if you’re not supposed to be there. If you don’t have a DOD decal on your windshield, you’re directed to the Welcome Center and asked to show a valid driver’s license, proof of insurance and registration on the car you’re driving. Then you’re asked to produce some kind of documentation identifying you as someone with a legitimate reason for being at the gates of a military installation. Then, and only then, are you allowed to proceed to your destination.
There was nothing about the visitor that pinged anyone’s radar. He said he was there to cheer up a friend who was in the hospital. He had brought gifts—a stack of paperback novels, mostly thrillers, and a fruit basket heavy on pears. The soldier’s name was in the database, so there was no reason not to let the visitor through. Afterwards, they discovered the guy whose name he’d used was just a guy who’d been in a bar one night, shooting the shit with a stranger one stool away. The ID was fake, the documents forged on a laptop and printed on a cheap Samsung printer.
The visitor had popped the trunk and the glove compartment for one MP while he chatted with the gate guard. Later the guard would be unable to remember any details of the man’s face but he did remember the car was very dirty and the guy had made some banal remark about the weather. Hot enough for ya?
Security cameras tracked him as he made his way to his objective. It was clear he knew where he was going, had either been on the post before or memorized the map that was conveniently available online. Used to be, stuff like that was classified; nowadays anyone with a computer and Google Earth can find all the information they need to cause some serious trouble with just a couple of mouse clicks.
The visitor stopped near a row of barracks where a group of men and women were gathering in preparation for a run. They were forming up, getting into lines when the guy cut through the line and detonated the explosive vest he was wearing beneath his loose-fitting seersucker suit.
The bomber’s legs went one way, his head another and everything in between simply disappeared. Eighteen soldiers died instantly, three later died of their wounds. The blast also killed an Army wife coming out of the PX with a pregnancy test in a bag. Her autopsy would later confirm what she had suspected—she had been two months pregnant.
The guy was identified before the last of the bodies were removed from the killing field. His name was Michael Joel Herndon. He was 46 years old, owned two dry cleaning stores and was divorced. His ex-wife lived out of state and when contacted by the authorities, claimed not to have seen or talked to him in more than three years. When the press descended on her, she fled her house and moved to an undisclosed location.
Most of the dead soldiers were either black or Hispanic and because the bomber was white, it was assumed he been motivated by racism.
His employees at the dry cleaning stores, who were mostly African-American women---disputed this characterization of the late Michael Joel Herndon. One of the women, Eva Lee Robideaux, said she had intimate, personal knowledge that he was not a racist, but admitted that he’d never seemed like a killer either.
Two weeks after the massacre, a Methodist minister named Lawrence Sadler showed up at the gates and asked to see the people in charge of the investigation. He said that he had information that might be helpful to them. But first, he wanted to speak to the Protestant chaplain stationed on the post.
Major Paul McHattie, a Presbyterian by faith, met with the minister and left the meeting ashen and close-lipped. The investigators brought Reverend Sadler into a small room with chairs and a barred window and had him wait while they scrounged up a television so they could watch the video that the minister had brought.
Rev. Sadler had watched the video through three times and he told the investigators that the tape had been made by Herndon, who was one of his parishioners—a deacon in fact—and mailed to him in care of the church.
Sadler told them the tape was both an explanation for his act and his last will and testament. The lead investigator told the minister that they’d judge the content for themselves and pressed play.
On the video, which was made on a camera older than the youngest of the investigators, Herndon is sitting in a chair facing into the lens.
I know you won’t understand this, he says, but I have been granted a vision.
“Great,” said the lead investigator, “another nutball on a mission from God.”
I have been shown the book of life and read the names therein.
“Therein?” said the youngest investigator, who was seriously creeped out by the man’s demeanor, which was calm, sane, and ordinary. The youngest investigator was still young enough that he liked things clear cut. He wanted crazy people to act crazy.
“Ssh,” said the lead investigator.
The names of 21 people have been revealed to me and I have seen the dates of their deaths. All of them will die in Afghanistan after being posted there, and their deaths will be recorded and mourned and forgotten. This is unacceptable to me. And so, with God’s blessing, I have taken their destiny into my own hands.
“Oh my God,” the lead investigator said. Rev. Sadler glanced at him but said nothing.
It is time that the country understands the cost of the butcher’s bill. Twenty-one deaths one by one seem to be acceptable. Twenty-one deaths all at once send a message and invites debate and discourse. It is my intention to bring the matter to light.
No doubt I will be called a murderer but that is inaccurate, for these people were going to die anyway. If you must give me a label, call me a “pacifist,” for that is what I am. I ask for your forgiveness but I act in the knowledge that I am doing God’s work here on earth.
There was silence on the tape and the lead investigator reached forward to hit the “stop” button. Reverend Sadler stopped him. “There’s a little bit more,” he said. The investigator withdrew his hand and listened.
I’m sorry about the woman, Herndon says on the tape. She was not meant to die at my hands, but would have suffered a stroke delivering her baby nine months from now.
“Holy fuck,” said the youngest investigator, which would normally have drawn a reprimand from his superior.
The lead investigator punched “eject” and the videocassette slid out into his hands. “Thank you for bringing this to our attention Mr. Sadler,” he said.
“I felt I had to,” the Reverend Sadler said and took his leave.
The moment he was out the door, the lead investigator began pulling the tape out of the cassette, stretching and breaking it as he did. The youngest investigator looked at him in puzzlement.
“The mission in Afghanistan is righteous,” he said. “Herndon was a whackjob,” he added. “This tape,” and here he threw the cassette on the floor and stomped the plastic case until it broke into shards, “never existed.” He shot a look at the youngest investigator.
“Are we clear?”
“Yes sir.”
Two days after Sadler’s visit to the Army post, an IED killed 34 people in Afghanistan, including three civilians. Their deaths coincided with the verdict in a celebrity murder trial and were buried in the news except for stories in the hometown newspapers of each of the deceased. One news cycle later, the deaths were old news.
By Katherine Tomlinson
Disclaimer: This story was “inspired” by the Ft. Hood shootings and has been in my “fiction, incomplete” file for some time. In the wake of the mass murder in Arizona, I pulled it out and finished it. I know it’s a disturbing story; it came from a place filled with disquiet and dread. For me, the lesson of the tale is that nothing is as simple or as simplistic as it seems.
In theory, it’s not that easy to gain access to an Army post if you’re not supposed to be there. If you don’t have a DOD decal on your windshield, you’re directed to the Welcome Center and asked to show a valid driver’s license, proof of insurance and registration on the car you’re driving. Then you’re asked to produce some kind of documentation identifying you as someone with a legitimate reason for being at the gates of a military installation. Then, and only then, are you allowed to proceed to your destination.
There was nothing about the visitor that pinged anyone’s radar. He said he was there to cheer up a friend who was in the hospital. He had brought gifts—a stack of paperback novels, mostly thrillers, and a fruit basket heavy on pears. The soldier’s name was in the database, so there was no reason not to let the visitor through. Afterwards, they discovered the guy whose name he’d used was just a guy who’d been in a bar one night, shooting the shit with a stranger one stool away. The ID was fake, the documents forged on a laptop and printed on a cheap Samsung printer.
The visitor had popped the trunk and the glove compartment for one MP while he chatted with the gate guard. Later the guard would be unable to remember any details of the man’s face but he did remember the car was very dirty and the guy had made some banal remark about the weather. Hot enough for ya?
Security cameras tracked him as he made his way to his objective. It was clear he knew where he was going, had either been on the post before or memorized the map that was conveniently available online. Used to be, stuff like that was classified; nowadays anyone with a computer and Google Earth can find all the information they need to cause some serious trouble with just a couple of mouse clicks.
The visitor stopped near a row of barracks where a group of men and women were gathering in preparation for a run. They were forming up, getting into lines when the guy cut through the line and detonated the explosive vest he was wearing beneath his loose-fitting seersucker suit.
The bomber’s legs went one way, his head another and everything in between simply disappeared. Eighteen soldiers died instantly, three later died of their wounds. The blast also killed an Army wife coming out of the PX with a pregnancy test in a bag. Her autopsy would later confirm what she had suspected—she had been two months pregnant.
The guy was identified before the last of the bodies were removed from the killing field. His name was Michael Joel Herndon. He was 46 years old, owned two dry cleaning stores and was divorced. His ex-wife lived out of state and when contacted by the authorities, claimed not to have seen or talked to him in more than three years. When the press descended on her, she fled her house and moved to an undisclosed location.
Most of the dead soldiers were either black or Hispanic and because the bomber was white, it was assumed he been motivated by racism.
His employees at the dry cleaning stores, who were mostly African-American women---disputed this characterization of the late Michael Joel Herndon. One of the women, Eva Lee Robideaux, said she had intimate, personal knowledge that he was not a racist, but admitted that he’d never seemed like a killer either.
Two weeks after the massacre, a Methodist minister named Lawrence Sadler showed up at the gates and asked to see the people in charge of the investigation. He said that he had information that might be helpful to them. But first, he wanted to speak to the Protestant chaplain stationed on the post.
Major Paul McHattie, a Presbyterian by faith, met with the minister and left the meeting ashen and close-lipped. The investigators brought Reverend Sadler into a small room with chairs and a barred window and had him wait while they scrounged up a television so they could watch the video that the minister had brought.
Rev. Sadler had watched the video through three times and he told the investigators that the tape had been made by Herndon, who was one of his parishioners—a deacon in fact—and mailed to him in care of the church.
Sadler told them the tape was both an explanation for his act and his last will and testament. The lead investigator told the minister that they’d judge the content for themselves and pressed play.
On the video, which was made on a camera older than the youngest of the investigators, Herndon is sitting in a chair facing into the lens.
I know you won’t understand this, he says, but I have been granted a vision.
“Great,” said the lead investigator, “another nutball on a mission from God.”
I have been shown the book of life and read the names therein.
“Therein?” said the youngest investigator, who was seriously creeped out by the man’s demeanor, which was calm, sane, and ordinary. The youngest investigator was still young enough that he liked things clear cut. He wanted crazy people to act crazy.
“Ssh,” said the lead investigator.
The names of 21 people have been revealed to me and I have seen the dates of their deaths. All of them will die in Afghanistan after being posted there, and their deaths will be recorded and mourned and forgotten. This is unacceptable to me. And so, with God’s blessing, I have taken their destiny into my own hands.
“Oh my God,” the lead investigator said. Rev. Sadler glanced at him but said nothing.
It is time that the country understands the cost of the butcher’s bill. Twenty-one deaths one by one seem to be acceptable. Twenty-one deaths all at once send a message and invites debate and discourse. It is my intention to bring the matter to light.
No doubt I will be called a murderer but that is inaccurate, for these people were going to die anyway. If you must give me a label, call me a “pacifist,” for that is what I am. I ask for your forgiveness but I act in the knowledge that I am doing God’s work here on earth.
There was silence on the tape and the lead investigator reached forward to hit the “stop” button. Reverend Sadler stopped him. “There’s a little bit more,” he said. The investigator withdrew his hand and listened.
I’m sorry about the woman, Herndon says on the tape. She was not meant to die at my hands, but would have suffered a stroke delivering her baby nine months from now.
“Holy fuck,” said the youngest investigator, which would normally have drawn a reprimand from his superior.
The lead investigator punched “eject” and the videocassette slid out into his hands. “Thank you for bringing this to our attention Mr. Sadler,” he said.
“I felt I had to,” the Reverend Sadler said and took his leave.
The moment he was out the door, the lead investigator began pulling the tape out of the cassette, stretching and breaking it as he did. The youngest investigator looked at him in puzzlement.
“The mission in Afghanistan is righteous,” he said. “Herndon was a whackjob,” he added. “This tape,” and here he threw the cassette on the floor and stomped the plastic case until it broke into shards, “never existed.” He shot a look at the youngest investigator.
“Are we clear?”
“Yes sir.”
Two days after Sadler’s visit to the Army post, an IED killed 34 people in Afghanistan, including three civilians. Their deaths coincided with the verdict in a celebrity murder trial and were buried in the news except for stories in the hometown newspapers of each of the deceased. One news cycle later, the deaths were old news.
When even a foodie draws the line...
I'm an omnivore. I eat meat. I really like red meat but mostly eat chicken and fish. I have in my time eaten rattlesnake (tastes like chicken), frog's legs, snails (I lived in France and it was sort of expected), and gator (tastes like chicken cooked in oil you've fried fish in). I have even eaten cuey in Peru.
But a news story about a Tucson restaurant offering lion meat to its patrons set my teeth on edge. I suppose if you're a meat eater, quibbling about which animals are okay to eat makes you a hypocrite. But there's something about pandering to exotic cravings that seems decadent, and not in a good way.
But a news story about a Tucson restaurant offering lion meat to its patrons set my teeth on edge. I suppose if you're a meat eater, quibbling about which animals are okay to eat makes you a hypocrite. But there's something about pandering to exotic cravings that seems decadent, and not in a good way.
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
Pulp Fiction-ary
Whenever you’re faced with a snob who looks down on your plebian pulp tastes, it’s always helpful to throw a little French their way.
And fortunately for you, there’s a phrase that’s apropos. (You get extra points if you use the word apropos.) That phrase is: Série noire. (Not to be confused with the band of the same name, although it’s pronounced the same.)
Série noire literally means “black series,” but in standard conversation, it is an elegant way of describing a particular sub-genre of tough, hard-boiled mysteries, the precursors to what are nowadays called “policiers.” You know the kind of thing—crooks and cops and guns and blood. The French, it seems, take their pulp seriously. As it should be.
So tell your snobby friend to take his copy of L’Homme Qui Aimait les Femmes and put it where the sun don’t shine.
And fortunately for you, there’s a phrase that’s apropos. (You get extra points if you use the word apropos.) That phrase is: Série noire. (Not to be confused with the band of the same name, although it’s pronounced the same.)
Série noire literally means “black series,” but in standard conversation, it is an elegant way of describing a particular sub-genre of tough, hard-boiled mysteries, the precursors to what are nowadays called “policiers.” You know the kind of thing—crooks and cops and guns and blood. The French, it seems, take their pulp seriously. As it should be.
So tell your snobby friend to take his copy of L’Homme Qui Aimait les Femmes and put it where the sun don’t shine.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Why Some People Hate Craig's List
I have written of my love for Craig's List ads before. I've had good luck finding really interesting jobs through CL, including my current gig as fictionista at NoHo Noir. It's gotten to the point where major, national media outlets advertise there for writers, and most of the jobs I've seen listed are legit. Even the people who post jobs that pay very little are mostly apologetic. And as for the freebie jobs, a writer can choose to submit or not and there's no need to be a hater about it. I've certainly been happy to have my work displayed on sites that didn't pay.
And then there are jobs like this one:
Need a collaborator/ghost-writer to help write a science fiction novel. I have already published one non-fiction book. I need someone who is educated in creative story writing and creating memorable characters. There is no immediate compensation, but if you are willing to invest together, in a short time, our collaboration can achieve something very powerful and beyond a single imagination. Once the novel is created, you will receive 25% profit share. I have eventual plans of bringing the story to the screen. If you are interested, please send a photograph of yourself along with fiction writing samples or a resume with contact information.
Where to begin? With the poster's assurance that "in a short time, our collaboration can achieve somthing very powerful?" Okay, the poster has ambition. I'm for that. Go big or go home. Is it the writer's boast that he has "eventual plans of bringing the story to the screen?" Well, don't we all? Unless he means he's going to fork over the production budget for that movie, though, the boast is pretty meaningless.
Is it the offer to pay the person creating memorable characters and the creative story (that yould be you, not the person writing the ad) 25 percent of the profits? True, writers often tend to know more about words than numbers but half of a project is 50 percent not 25 percent.
And finally--send a picture. Really? Seriously? Are you kidding me?
Well, good luck with that.
And then there are jobs like this one:
Need a collaborator/ghost-writer to help write a science fiction novel. I have already published one non-fiction book. I need someone who is educated in creative story writing and creating memorable characters. There is no immediate compensation, but if you are willing to invest together, in a short time, our collaboration can achieve something very powerful and beyond a single imagination. Once the novel is created, you will receive 25% profit share. I have eventual plans of bringing the story to the screen. If you are interested, please send a photograph of yourself along with fiction writing samples or a resume with contact information.
Where to begin? With the poster's assurance that "in a short time, our collaboration can achieve somthing very powerful?" Okay, the poster has ambition. I'm for that. Go big or go home. Is it the writer's boast that he has "eventual plans of bringing the story to the screen?" Well, don't we all? Unless he means he's going to fork over the production budget for that movie, though, the boast is pretty meaningless.
Is it the offer to pay the person creating memorable characters and the creative story (that yould be you, not the person writing the ad) 25 percent of the profits? True, writers often tend to know more about words than numbers but half of a project is 50 percent not 25 percent.
And finally--send a picture. Really? Seriously? Are you kidding me?
Well, good luck with that.
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