tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-364650682011-07-28T20:04:46.171-05:00I'm going to write a two-fisted pulp adventure novel in however long it takes, or severely embarrass myself in the attempt.Natohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13199868144674022165noreply@blogger.comBlogger451100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36465068.post-7471375651891681812007-10-27T17:47:00.000-05:002007-10-27T17:49:30.416-05:00

It's that time of year once more. My 2007 National Novel Writing Month attempt, His Majesty The Accident, begins Nov. 1. And trust me -- if you liked Trip Morrow, you'll probably enjoy this one, too...

Natohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13199868144674022165noreply@blogger.com41tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36465068.post-56371648657229036842007-07-05T11:44:00.000-05:002007-07-05T11:52:07.406-05:00

... I've finished my very first novel. A bit late for the end of last year's National Novel Writing Month, I know, but hey, I did write 75,000 words in those first 30 days. It just took me a bit longer to write the other 75,000 or so.Thanks to the friends and family who cheered me on from the start; to those who picked up the story midway through, and encouraged me to keep at it, and to the

Natohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13199868144674022165noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36465068.post-81514966892184699452007-07-05T11:42:00.000-05:002007-07-05T11:44:30.452-05:00

On any other day, news of a dead gorilla found floating in the middle of Lake Michigan would have at least made the lower tier of the national news. There would have been footage of the baffled Coast Guard officers hauling the grisly, dripping anomaly onto their deck with hooks and poles, and perhaps some terrible pun on the newscaster’s behalf.But Wrigley Field and its sudden, cataclysmic

Natohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13199868144674022165noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36465068.post-41796675985073067722007-07-04T22:02:00.000-05:002007-07-05T15:07:29.033-05:00

“You and Hark keep the robots off us,” Tom Morrow shouted over the growing roar of the strange energies lashing across the surface of the Well. “Ruby, you’re with me! Go!” As one, they scrambled over the fallen bodies of the metal men, and dashed down the stairs toward the edge of the Well.Jefferson Edison Franklin, age 12, sat weeping at the edge of precipice, the lights of unearthly energies

Natohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13199868144674022165noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36465068.post-42486630569894872712007-07-03T22:50:00.000-05:002007-07-03T22:52:37.285-05:00

They tumbled together, the air buffetting and battering them, the world looping dizzily from sun and sky to green-black lake, and back again. And all the while, Nora Swift pursed her lips around thumb and forefingers and whistled, long and loud.Clinging one to the other, they fell. Nora Swift watched the flat expanse of lake below loom closer, and wondered when, exactly, she was supposed to black

Natohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13199868144674022165noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36465068.post-59025542196863314752007-07-01T21:49:00.000-05:002007-07-01T21:50:10.084-05:00

“You ever play the guitar, son?” asked Jefferson Edison Franklin, easily, a bit of music jangling amid his own softly gravelly voice. In the speckled shadows under the brim of his hat, his face could have been an old forty or a young eighty. It was the one good eye, the one not covered by the opaque lens of Jef’s mismatched glasses that threw Trip Morrow’s guessing off. It peered out clear and

Natohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13199868144674022165noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36465068.post-79019446435140660922007-06-16T20:32:00.000-05:002007-06-16T20:34:12.821-05:00

Wicked West boiled in through the door of the hangar pod in a sea of wriggling black cables, trailing nightmares. Sully Wells barely had time to draw her pistols. The pirate queen scuttled across the flight deck in long, shivery spider-strides, pouring out one long knotted vine of tendrils to slug Sully tumbling across the flight deck.Nora Swift froze, irrational terror rising in her throat,

Natohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13199868144674022165noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36465068.post-72310564171226259392007-06-16T19:52:00.000-05:002007-06-16T19:55:18.248-05:00

Centuries upon centuries ago, as humans reckon time, fire fell from the sky. And everything changed.The immense, flaming ball of interplanetary debris punched though this flimsy atmosphere, the sound of its own descent trailing somewhere far behind it, and smashed a hole in what is now the Yucatan peninsula.The Earth burned. Towering walls of soil and dust splashed upon impact into the highest

Natohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13199868144674022165noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36465068.post-84056163198119081902007-06-03T22:49:00.000-05:002007-06-03T22:56:41.455-05:00

At the last possible moment, they leapt into the side passageway, slamming hard against the deck, as the gorilla chieftain opened fire with the M-80 machine gun clutched expertly in his massive, calloused paws. A cloud of firefly sparks erupted in the corridor where Nora and Sully had once stood, high-caliber bullets spitting and chewing and denting the walls and floor.“Please tell me your

Natohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13199868144674022165noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36465068.post-78902099557866423712007-05-30T22:44:00.000-05:002007-05-30T22:49:10.601-05:00

It had survived bitter, freezing wind, and the relentless assault of equatorial sun. It had turned away bullets, rockets, harpoons, and bombs, and even, once, the envious talons of something far older than man.But now, far above the churning waters of Lake Michigan, the Faithless, night-sweat terror of the skies, burned and slowly died.Had the great and terrible craft retained any crew members,

Natohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13199868144674022165noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36465068.post-40185859838602530002007-05-22T23:16:00.000-05:002007-05-22T23:23:31.285-05:00

Life, for Trip Morrow, was an endless string of small, discrete problems to be solved. Get to the opposite side of the street in the fewest steps. Chart the shortest possible course between the produce and meat aisles. Find the most accomodating person-sized space in the packed subway car.His present problems had simply gotten bigger. And toothier.Trip dashed across the open plaza beneath the

Natohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13199868144674022165noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36465068.post-9359361619893829532007-05-13T14:05:00.000-05:002007-05-13T14:11:05.462-05:00

She dreamed of drowning, tangled in the rigging of some sunken galleon. And when Sully Wells at last awoke, sodden and shaking and faintly blue, she looked up and saw the ground.It took her a few seconds to realize that yes, that was the Sears Tower pointing back at her, so far below. Then it vanished behind a curl of cloud, and all was gray mist once more.She had gone so far past cold that she

Natohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13199868144674022165noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36465068.post-34764601383697158882007-04-16T17:18:00.000-05:002007-04-26T22:20:28.608-05:00

OK, finished at last. The end of the chapter begins here.Rafe lay for a while with his cheek pressed against the cool stone floor of the train, waiting for his ribs to stop burning with every thunderous beat of his heart. He dimly registered that Trip was saying something, but didn’t much care what.At length, he flopped over on his back (ouch) and then slowly hauled himself into a sitting

Natohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13199868144674022165noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36465068.post-74379656359172192672007-04-10T22:44:00.000-05:002007-04-16T17:18:28.991-05:00

Basically everything was built atop something else. Rafe Windham, being from England, a country that not only kept in touch with its history, but had it round for tea and biscuits and a nice long chat at regular intervals, knew this particularly well. So it hadn’t surprised him to learn, in some book he’d read years ago when he ought to have been studying something else entirely, that the entire

Natohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13199868144674022165noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36465068.post-29284433541329770862007-03-24T21:41:00.000-05:002007-03-24T21:49:13.597-05:00

Engine oil and jasmine.Nora Swift awoke to engine oil and jasmine, mingled in the warm, close air. Eyes still shut, half-dreaming, she rolled sideways — and found herself tangled, limbs swathed.Nora lurched to full consciousness in a panic, arms and legs flailing, anything to escape the horrible, choking helplessness of the dark tendrils—But these were sheets. Silk. The tendrils were gone, and

Natohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13199868144674022165noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36465068.post-81497507520540004492007-03-20T22:41:00.000-05:002007-03-20T22:49:25.082-05:00

The rain continued into the night, lashing in dense and chilly sheets against the windows, seeming to cling tenaciously to every outside surface of the penthouse at 919 North Michigan. It was unseasonable for November, a month that generally presaged snow with an almost clockwork regularity; but if any of the quartet encamped there in the close, comforting gloom bothered to ponder this, they most

Natohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13199868144674022165noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36465068.post-3395843452167950562007-02-04T23:57:00.000-05:002007-03-24T21:45:46.455-05:00

From behind the vast, circular steel door to Tom Morrow’s Lookout, the sounds of mortal combat echoed. Ruby Gale and Harker Windham listened, ears all but pressed to the cold metal surface of the door, to the scuffles and grunts and impacts of fist and foot on flesh and bone seeping through from far side of the door. At his workbench in the center of the room, seemingly oblivious to his friends

Natohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13199868144674022165noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36465068.post-60726670850047787952007-01-28T12:42:00.000-05:002007-01-28T12:51:56.979-05:00

Valencia Stitch had a headache. An old, familiar throb just behind her left eye. It brought back decades-old memories, and a slow, curdling dread in the pit of her stomach. The headache, she had learned, meant her employer was displeased.“Pull yourself together, Sharp,” she said. “Are you certain they were Operators?”“They ate Jenkins,” the man with the eyepatch said quietly. He wasn’t looking at

Natohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13199868144674022165noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36465068.post-42398505986740122792007-01-13T17:56:00.000-05:002007-01-13T17:59:46.441-05:00

The Sears Tower was no longer Earth’s tallest building, its lofty claim long usurped by a wave of pretenders from Far Eastern nations hungry to prove themselves. But in a pinch, it would do.It was a clear autumn day, the light yellow and knife-sharp, the sky painfully pristine blue save for a line of dark clouds building and boiling out above the lake. Had anyone with binoculars or a long enough

Natohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13199868144674022165noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36465068.post-71072635210809598862007-01-02T16:29:00.000-05:002007-01-02T16:43:45.958-05:00

“You sure you wan’ to do this?” Agent 492 asked, her elbow resting on the seatback, her brow furrowed with maternal concern. “I don’t think we have a choice,” Trip said, risking a quick glance back through his passenger’s side window. “Here they come.”The two black-coated men who had stood sentinel outside the entrance to 919 North Michigan -- as Trip had half expecred, half-dreaded they would --

Natohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13199868144674022165noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36465068.post-40845067621019215932006-12-10T01:18:00.000-05:002007-01-02T16:43:27.427-05:00

The Wheel is all.You see the Wheel’s presence on scales vast and microscopic. The motion of planets. The rotation of the Earth. The orbit of electrons around an atom.The Wheel turns, and keeps turning, and brings all of us full circle, and keeps spinning. Each year is another turn of the wheel. So is each lifetime; wheels within wheels.The Wheel is, perhaps even more than fire, the founding

Natohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13199868144674022165noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36465068.post-1164774018743236302006-11-28T23:16:00.000-05:002007-01-02T16:43:00.640-05:00

“The rifle!” Nora shouted up to the balcony, her voice echoing off the curving roof of the hangar. Outside, the sound of rumbling motors grew louder; perhaps mere moments remained before the entire building would be overrun with heavily armed cops.Rafe scrambled to his feet, still gaping at the television. “The what?” he shouted, his eyes not leaving the screen.“The silver rifle, in my bag!” Nora

Natohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13199868144674022165noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36465068.post-1164604301554211362006-11-27T00:05:00.000-05:002007-01-02T16:42:40.883-05:00

The secret panel swung shut, closing on the drawn and frightened face of Dr. Xiang, and Trip and Sully were alone in the tiny shaft, enveloped in complete darkness. Behind the door, Trip could fainly hear the sounds of metal groaning, as the men in dark coats attempted to batter down the Doctor’s steel door.The dark reminded Sully too much of the cabinet of her childhood. She clenched her hands

Natohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13199868144674022165noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36465068.post-1164519107339260742006-11-26T00:29:00.000-05:002007-01-02T16:42:18.951-05:00

The cruelest thing about the tumor, Valencia Stitch often thought during the long, hazy last days of her life, was that it had taken her sight, but not her memory. She would lie in her hospice bed, feeling the sheets rustle against her dry, paperlike skin, hearing nurses’ shoes squeaking past in the halls outside and the wind in the trees outside. And as she stared up at the ceiling with blank,

Natohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13199868144674022165noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36465068.post-1164433856241920632006-11-25T00:39:00.000-05:002007-01-02T16:41:58.687-05:00

It was hot where he was, the air thick and steaming and alive, and all around him, he could hear and feel and sense the motion of a thousand living things, circulating. There was no light save silvery slivers of moon shifting through the trees like falling feathers, but Rafe treaded confindently through the vast and ancient trees, bare feet moving across whispering carpets of fallen leaves.His

Natohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13199868144674022165noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36465068.post-1164318690708712972006-11-23T16:51:00.000-05:002007-01-02T16:41:39.301-05:00

Trip Morrow tumbled through a long period of choking, turbulent unconsciousness. Tiny bits of his brain broke loose and scrambled about until the inside of his skull became a nest of snakes, all slithering over one another in constant, chaotic, feverish motion. And underneath it all, strange shapes at the edges of his consciousness, their movements vast and slow and seismic, and a curious and

Natohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13199868144674022165noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36465068.post-1164084003350922822006-11-20T23:37:00.000-05:002007-01-02T16:41:13.849-05:00

Sully Wells had spent maybe an hour there in the stifling dark, first shrieking and pounding the lid, rattling herself up and down in hopes that someone would hear her. Then a long period of sobbing quietly, her whole body shaking. And then, worst of all, the quiet acceptance, when her tears ran out and she became acutely aware of the dimensons of her body, and seriously believed that no one

Natohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13199868144674022165noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36465068.post-1163999552014929032006-11-20T00:08:00.000-05:002007-01-02T16:40:46.973-05:00

“I’m afraid there’s been some terrible misunderstanding,” Rafe Windham said, “and what exactly did you mean by ‘to the death’?” Then the painted warrior’s wide, flat obsidian blade swung down and neatly cleaved his skull in two.Well, no. More accurately, it cleaved a small bookshelf about halfway in two, Rafe having had the presence of mind to throw himself sideways toward the entertainment

Natohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13199868144674022165noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36465068.post-1163867668602502842006-11-18T11:29:00.000-05:002007-01-02T16:40:22.613-05:00

Author's note: With this chapter, I've beaten NaNoWriMo's 50,000 word goal. Now I've just got to finish the darn thing...“There are more people coming,” Nora Swift said, backing slowly away, as the tall, black-coated woman advanced on her, holding the long silver needle casually in one hand.“Oh no, my dear,” Mrs. Stitch laughed, shaking her head cheerily. Her grey eyes seemed to stare through

Natohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13199868144674022165noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36465068.post-1163738910645462642006-11-16T23:44:00.000-05:002007-01-02T16:40:00.922-05:00

Trip Morrow was looking at the silver-and-amber signet ring he’d just put on his finger -- not even the strangest of the objects he’d found in the cigar box resting at the bottom of his backpack -- and thinking about his grandfather’s face, how it had seemed so soft and diminished and unreal lying there in the coffin, when the train crashed.It was suddenly dark, without even a flicker, and he was

Natohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13199868144674022165noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36465068.post-1163646657802097362006-11-15T22:09:00.000-05:002007-01-02T16:39:41.826-05:00

It was 20 stories tall, solid steel frame clad in concrete, and the man in the glass box had promised to make it vanish.That’s why the people had turned out in throngs, even at nearly 4 a.m. on this bone-cold November morning, when the fine, barely palpable wetness of the air seeped through the thickest coats into your marrow. They lined the opposite side of the river that cut through the city,

Natohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13199868144674022165noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36465068.post-1163563013077801992006-11-14T22:52:00.000-05:002007-01-02T16:39:22.048-05:00

“So tell me,” Rafe said through slightly smushed lips as the two muscular goons pinned his skull down against the alcohol-stained wood of the bar. “How exactly did you lose those fingers?”Leopold “Eight Fingers” Kruczyk finished lighting his cigarette with his silver Zippo and chuckled softly. The flickering flame of the lighter danced in twin reflections in his glasses, as square and opaque as

Natohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13199868144674022165noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36465068.post-1163479127912517642006-11-13T23:34:00.000-05:002007-01-02T16:39:00.551-05:00

It was four in the morning on a cold, clammy November Tuesday when the flying wing sizzled out of the misty, moisture-speckled sky two hundred feet above Lake Michigan.First there was nothing, then a faint dance of sparkling lines spreading sideways across the air. And then the sleek, gleaming silver wedge of the vast plane, nearly a third of a mile from wingtip to wingtip, knitted itself

Natohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13199868144674022165noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36465068.post-1163393082730090652006-11-12T23:41:00.000-05:002006-11-13T11:43:11.133-05:00

“The Eaters of Kroatoan,” Jef said quietly. “They’re coming back, Tom.”“They’re a myth, Jef,” Tom replied, subtly flexing the muscles in his shoulder, probing for weaknesses in the grip of the metal man who dangled him high above the ground. No good; the steel fingers clamped immovably around him. “Superstition from ancient tribes. Probably a metaphor for some--”“I saw them,” Jef said, as calmly

Natohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13199868144674022165noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36465068.post-1163308507270995052006-11-12T00:12:00.000-05:002006-11-12T10:32:44.490-05:00

May 12, 1920: Jefferson Edison Franklin, 6 lbs., 7 oz., is born to James and Edna Franklin of Parkersville, Iowa. Edna teaches history at Parkersville State College; James grows corn on 47 acres off Rural Route 25. Edna, long an admirer of our nation’s great inventors, wins a postnatal coin toss to determine the child’s name, thus sparing her son from a lifetime as Ezra Sutter Franklin. James,

Natohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13199868144674022165noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36465068.post-1163217996998753362006-11-10T23:02:00.000-05:002006-11-10T23:07:02.376-05:00

“Are you even remotely sure this will work?” Hark asked.Tom stood at the edge of the white room, taking slow, deep breaths. His hands shook loosely at his sides, like a gunfighter preparing to draw.“Nope,” Tom said, keeping his gaze intently on the grid lines spanning the floor of the deadly chamber. “So stand back. If it works, I’ll wait for you to follow me.”Hark, Ruby, and Gaunt withdrew from

Natohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13199868144674022165noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36465068.post-1162961808933217852006-11-07T23:49:00.000-05:002006-11-09T20:51:02.670-05:00

The passenger liner RMS Vespertine, two days out from Liverpool, slid beneath the waves of the North Atlantic just past midnight in the winter of 1915. The first torpedo from the German U-boat had pierced its starboard hull below the waterline; the second slammed into the boiler room, igniting the reserves of coal, and tearing open the aft half of the vessel in a plume of fire that glowed for

Natohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13199868144674022165noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36465068.post-1162874441835684532006-11-06T23:36:00.000-05:002006-11-06T23:40:41.853-05:00

“Wicked men,” the voice of Mister Gaunt echoed from out of the cavernous darkness of the chill, ancient chamber, “I offer you this final chance to repent. The Devil waits, hungry, and I have many men yet to claim.”Dragon nodded to his fallen Shaolin brothers, and as one, they snuffed out their torches and receded into the gloom, leaving Tom, Hark, and Ruby alone in the pool of green light from

Natohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13199868144674022165noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36465068.post-1162768110804184052006-11-05T18:02:00.000-05:002006-11-05T18:08:31.196-05:00

The jutting ebony spire of the Wormwater Building never failed to inspire a shudder from all who viewed it. It seemed a distressing void in a Chicago skyline of proud white and gray stone. The whole of the building was clad in slabs of midnight granite that absorbed all daylight, but seemed to glow against the night sky. Its angles seemed all slightly wrong, as if the tower, climbing 39 stories

Natohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13199868144674022165noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36465068.post-1162699596668576222006-11-04T23:03:00.000-05:002006-11-04T23:12:07.370-05:00

Harker Windham, Lord Havoc of the Lost World, left the ground. His legs coiled like springs, calloused soles of his bare feet scraping against ancient bark, and rebounded off the trunk of a nearby tree. Hark turned a somersault in the air to dodge the swiping tendrils of the Predator Vine, and landed at a run on the vine that held Tom Morrow perilously above the deadly plant’s gaping maw.“Now,

Natohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13199868144674022165noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36465068.post-1162618552709115702006-11-04T00:31:00.000-05:002006-11-08T00:00:31.143-05:00

He was born at spearpoint in the morning after a storm, in the smashed-open wreck of a gondola, dangling from frayed ropes from a gashed-open gasbag that covered the canopy of ancient trees above. His father held his mother’s hand as she breathed through the contractions, squeezing a verse of the Lord’s Prayer in with every breath. The natives staring out at them behind thick crusts of paint and

Natohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13199868144674022165noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36465068.post-1162527686860440052006-11-02T23:17:00.000-05:002006-11-04T23:10:53.876-05:00

“Loop-de-loop!” Ruby Gale called back from the cockpit, and suddenly Tom Morrow was free-falling through the cabin toward the pile of strapped-down crates before him. A well-muscled arm reached out from the ceiling to grab him, straining against G-forces that would dislocate the shoulders of lesser men, as the plane made its dizzying climb, and in the brief moments when the ceiling became the

Natohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13199868144674022165noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36465068.post-1162442554877177342006-11-01T23:40:00.000-05:002006-11-04T23:10:34.340-05:00

For the rest of her life, Ruby Gale, age 4, would remember her first flight. She had to wrap both hands around the stick just to try to grasp it, and her father stuffed a pillow between her back and the seat so the harness would fit her snugly. She should have been afraid. She should have cried. Any sane and sensible parent would have thought her father mad for taking her up so young, much less

Natohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13199868144674022165noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36465068.post-1162426287592822362006-11-01T19:07:00.000-05:002006-11-04T23:10:12.600-05:00

The sky above the Himalayas was bitterly blue, the air cold and brittle, cracking at the merest breath. Distant, high wisps of clouds were painted on the endless canvass of blue, high above the vast peaks slumbering beneath caps of snow. Shearing through banks of cloud like a galleon through breaking waves, as steady and inexorable as Death itself, the great black Zeppelin advanced. Nearly a mile

Natohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13199868144674022165noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36465068.post-1161569990393199882006-10-22T20:59:00.000-05:002006-10-22T21:20:05.296-05:00

Hi, I'm Nathan. If you don't already know me, I'm a copy editor in the Washington D.C. area. I've been making up stories for as long as I can remember, and writing them down since at least the second grade. I've written short stories, newspaper articles, comic book scripts, the occasional radio drama, even -- I'm ashamed to admit -- a few bits of fan fiction. (Chalk that up to youthful

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