Essay: Ideas out of Chaos.

The World Wide Web is a very strange place.

I'm not talking about the porno, by the way. Look, I don't know how long that stuff has been there, but a) it's not my fault, and b) if I ever vanish for, like, a year, and you can't find me it's probably because someone got me a subscription to Girlz Gone Goofy or some crap.

Actually, the most scariest thing is that I just pulled the name "Girlz Gone Goofy" out of my ass just then-- and now I'm afraid to Google it. Somewhere out there is a website with that name, and someone out there is paying $19.99 a month to download whatever is on it.

So, you want to be an author, but you can't think of anything to write about? Are you frickin' serious?

The history of mankind is replete with borked up situations and compelling drama, if you only know where to look.

I'm going to give you just four short examples. You get to take those examples and run with them. Make them into something great.

1) The Battle of Rorke's Drift. In January of 1879 the British Army got their ass handed to them by a group of extremely pissed off Zulu warriors. Suddenly, the Zulu, who had largely been obliterated by the firepower the Brits could bring to battle, recognized that their discipline and training under Shaka could actually bring them victory.

And the British? They realized that a poorly defended fort with 139 soldiers was about to get swarmed by a human wave attack on a scale they'd never before imagined. On 22 January the Zulu steamrolled the British at the Battle of Isandlwana and kept going, arrowing straight at the fort-- with 3,900 Zulu warriors, most of whom were in a Bad Mood.

I'll say that again. 139 defenders standing their ground against four thousand irate Zulu attackers.

History records what happened next. After ten hours and after expending all but 900 rounds of shot out of the 20,000 the garrison started with, the defenders were relieved by a column of troops led by Lord Chelmsford. Unfortunately, the reinforcing British saw the Zulu as little more than animals, and slaughtered the wounded and battle ready alike.

Just so you know, The Battle of Rorke's Drift has been used by at least four Military Science Fiction authors in one manner or another. The basics of the plot are fairly straightforward: a numerically superior force is attacking a few, well-armed defenders in a defensible position. Relief is either not expected, or at the very least, not expected for some time. In fact, the original Starcraft mission "Desperate Alliance" hearkens back to this very concept. You are required to hold an outpost for thirty minutes against increasingly powerful wave attacks from an enemy that outnumbers you considerably, but is poorly armed compared to the firepower you can bring to bear. Unless you know what you're doing, trying to sally forth and take the battle to the Bloody Hun is a great way to get the absolute crap kicked out of you. (Dammit! Now I want to play Starcraft again... Must finish blog...)

2) The Wagon Box Fight. A few years before Rorke's Drift, just after the American Civil War, in fact, there was a lesser known battle of similar nature. In August of 1867 a force of three thousand Lakota, Sioux, and Cheyenne attacked thirty-one troops of the US Army's 9th Infantry near Fort Phil Kearny. In a battle that lasted for five hours, the defenders repulsed wave after wave of assaults, and credited their survival to a new piece of military hardware: a .50 caliber breech loading rifle that cut reload and refire time by more than twenty seconds. The defenders lost five killed and two wounded. Estimated casualties among the attackers were between 30-60 killed and 120 wounded, but some accounts claim the casualties were in the 1100-1300 range. (I find that difficult to believe. An assault force is generally considered combat ineffective at 7% casualties, combat routed at 9%, and combat destroyed at 13%. 30% casualties would be an unheard of number just to erase one small force of defenders.)

You can see examples of the Wagon Box Fight (and the next day's battle, the Hayfield Fight) in games such as HALO and the accompanying novels, where one significant advantage in technology provides a vastly smaller force (The 9th infantry was outnumbered 96 to 1!) with the means to not only stay in the fight, but to prevail.

Not everything is about combat and battles, though. Howzaboot we delve into the realm of mystery?

3) The Lead Masks Case. In August 20, 1966 two Brazilian electronics technicians were found in a field outside Rio de Janeiro, Brazil by a small boy flying a kite. Both men were wearing suits, waterproof coats, and lead masks. Near the bodies was an empty bottle of water and two towels. Also next to them was a note, written in Portuguese, that read, "16:30, be at agreed place. 18:30, swallow capsules. After effect protect metals wait for sign mask."

The police put together a timeline of their last hours based on witnesses who saw them in town, where they purchased the bottle of water and the waterproof coats. One of the men looked nervous and kept looking at his watch.

All right, storyteller, why were they there? What were these two men hoping to achieve with this "meeting" in a field? What did they take? (An autopsy found no trace of poison in their systems due to improper storage of their organs before the toxicology report could be made.)

Conspiracy theorists go batshit (batshit-er?) with this one. Was it aliens, demons, demonic aliens, or a suicide pact designed to leave the rest of the world scratching their heads and saying, "WTF?"

We'll probably never know-- but since you're an author, I'll leave you to tell their story.

4) The Taman Shud Case. Lest you think that all weird shit happens in the Americas, I'd like to introduce you to the Taman Shud Case. In 1948 in Adelaide, Australia (Somerton Beach, to be precise, so you can also look this up by searching for the Somerton Man.) a middle-aged male was found dead at 6:30am on December 1st. The description in the Wikipedia article referenced above seems to indicate someone in fairly good shape for his age, who did little to no manual labor, judging by the state of his hands.

He was dressed well, although for some reason he was dressed for a colder climate, wearing a "fashionable" pullover and suit. Oddly, he did not have a hat, which was particularly unusual given that he was wearing a suit at a time in history when they went together like Forrest and Jenny.

He not only had no identification on him, his clothing labels had been painstakingly removed. Throughout the month of December there were eight positive identifications of the man, one of which was recanted when a witness got a second look at the body and noted the absence of a particular scar.

Things took an interesting twist when the police discovered that a suitcase with its label removed had been checked into the cloak room of the Adelaide Railway Station on the evening of the 30th of November. The clothes in the bag had also had their labels removed, but oddly there were two names, "Keane" on a tie and "Kean" on a singlet. Police theorized that these names had been left because they were not the victim's, and therefore intended to lead the police astray.

It gets weirder. Inside a secret pocket in the man's trousers police found a scrap of paper with the words "Taman Shud." These is actually the last words written in the collection of poems called The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam.

Also adding to the general sense of creep, the scrap of paper was traced to a book left in a man's unlocked car also on the 30th of November, the same night the bag was checked into the cloak room. In the back of the book was the following "coded" message:

MRGOABABD

MLIAOI

MTBIMPANETP

MLIABOAIAQC

ITTMTSAMSTGAB.

You can see an actual picture of this HERE.

There were also two additional connections to other unexplained deaths in the area. I'll let you look them up, but they are the Mangnoson case and the Marshall case.

I'll also tell you that in 2009 a college professor named Derek Abbott at the University of Adelaide started working on solving the case by cracking the code and exhuming the body. He's made some progress, including discovering that the autopsy report and original investigation notes from 1948 have gone missing. Hmmmm...

Personally, I think the man conspired with Elvis to shoot JFK while exterminating the dinosaurs. He may also have been Kaspar Hauser.

In 2005, Stephen King published a book called Colorado Kid that has similarities to this case, which was also referenced in the novel Hill of Grace by Stephen Orr. Since my name is not Stephen, I don't know if I am allowed to write about this or not, but doesn't this sound like a fascinating start to a storyline-- or even an end to one?

With a few minutes research on the web, it's possible to discover dozens of storylines like this. Best of all-- they are all true!

Leaving only one question out of many: How are you going to explain them?

Write On!

*****
Christopher Rivan

Virgins Slain, Dragons Rescued.
Reasonable rates for all budgets!

http://chrisrivan.blogspot.com/

Chris.Rivan@Yahoo.com

Essay: The Cart Before the Horse... or is it?

I was chatting with a friend of mine on Twitter the other day, the lovely and talented Kimberly VanderHorst, and I mentioned that I was about to begin work on a new piece. You've seen the prologue last week as my #fridayflash.

When Kim asked me what it was I was working on, I sent her the link to this trailer:

Now here's the interesting thing. I mentioned that I did this for all of my books (The one for Crossed Swords is HERE) and that I also did it before the book was written! Kim said it was a stroke of genius.

Stop laughing. She really said that.

Now Kim is as brilliant as she is pretty, and she's awfully dang pretty, so having her say that really made me pause for a second. I never considered for a moment that my somewhat narcissistic approach to writing would be helpful to others, but I do know how I use the trailers.

There are two parts to it. The first part is that I usually attach a publication date to the trailer (I didn't for this one for a specific reason I'll tell you about down the road.) What this does is force me to keep to a regular schedule of work. In order to get Crossed Swords out the door by August 2011 (while also getting my non-fiction out on approximately the same time line) I need to write about 1,000 words a week just on that story alone.

The trailer then becomes a sort of motivational contract. I put some of my favorite music and some stirring images on there so I'm inclined to watch it, and every time I do, I see that stark reminder: August, 2011, and I realize I better get my ass on the keyboard.

The second reason I do the trailers is entirely different. Think back to movies you really wanted to see and what the trailers showed. Star Wars Episode III is a good example. Let's be honest; we all pretty much knew that the Star Wars prequels were going to be about as delightful as an ass-flavored biscuit. We were largely watching them out of love for the original series and a desire for completeness. What we wanted to see was Obi-Wan kicking twelve colors of crap out of Anakin. In the trailer we see just one lightsaber slash of that fight (albeit from two different angles.)

The rest of the trailer fires our imagination. Why is Bail Organa screaming "NO!" over the cockpit of his fighter? How does Senator Palpatine go from a fifty-something to a decrepit beast in just a few scenes? Why does Yoda look so pissed?

If you're like me, and I know I am, you wrote that movie in your head about three dozen times after seeing the first trailer for it. I connected all those little dots in my imagination and hoped like hell that Lucas was up to the task of making a movie that was better than the one I saw on my own eyelids.

This is the secret behind why I make book trailers: Counterattack is not written yet. In fact, it exists solely as the 854 word prologue, two 400 word chapter precis, a yWriter file named Cntrattk.yw5, and the trailer above.

But every time I watch that trailer, I get an idea. Every time I consider the fight of eight humans against an alien race, I get inspired. Every time I think about what might happen if our world was destroyed by an alien civilization and the only thing left to fight for was vengeance, a few more words sear themselves into my mind.

I can't promise that the technique will work for you, but if you have a few minutes and some knowledge of iMovie or Windows Movie Maker, this is just something to think about trying out.

Oh, and if you need help making a trailer, shoot me an email. I've taught iMovie in the classroom and am experimenting with WMM. I'll do what I can to help you.

Until then, Write On!

*****
Christopher Rivan

Virgins Slain, Dragons Rescued.
Reasonable rates for all budgets!

http://chrisrivan.blogspot.com/

Chris.Rivan@Yahoo.com

First Meeting of the Zime

That afternoon, as the sun was bleeding onto the rocky ground around us, we found the girl. I was the first to see her. My horse was the big roan, the one that seemed tireless and always set a mile-eating pace, and as a result I found myself some fifty meters farther out in front of the group than I normally rode.

My eyes were constantly scanning, searching. I was startled when the roan seemed to pull back slightly and shy away from the side of the path, like he could sense something I couldn't. I pulled him in a little and focused my attention on the twisted woods to the side of the trail.

It took a long moment before I saw the huddled form, about twenty meters back into the bushes, shaded from the dying light by the woven branches and high, thin grass that seemed to carpet this part of the world. I could just barely make it out. It was almost like one of those 3D pictures you used to see all over the place. One moment there was nothing there but shadows and gnarled trees, and a few seconds later there was a figure. It seemed to be female; it was hard to tell in the darkness.

My horse shied harder, breaking my concentration. “What the hell is wrong with you?” I muttered. I reined in with a little more authority and his ears went flat. There was something to be afraid of here, but my first responsibility was to see if this woman was all right. I could see to my own protection later. We stopped moving, but he kept his feet chattering on the path, like he was agitated enough to bolt.

I slid out of the saddle and approached the side of the path. Behind me I could hear Tad, riding slack, coming up the trail. The delay while I tried to figure out what was there had let him close the gap. “Dave?” He questioned. “Everything all right?”

I nodded. “I've found someone. I think she's hurt. She might not speak English. This is elf country after all.” I took a cautious step. “Miss?” I called out gently, “are you okay?” I stepped further, and at the same time my horse butted me in the shoulder with his head, hard enough to knock me off balance.

“Dammit!” I snarled, stumbling to the side. I shoved his neck, not hard, but hard enough to let him know that I meant business. “Knock it off!”

“Aren't you supposed to be some kind of animal whisperer?” Tad asked me sarcastically.

“Do you mind?”

I took a step or two off the path into a bit of a ravine. The underbrush was fairly dense. After a couple more steps I could barely see Tad, and the woman was still not completely in view. Wish I had my damn sword. I thought. It'd be nice to be able to cut through this shit. And what the hell is she doing out here, anyway?

Out loud I said again, “Miss? Do you need help?” I pushed a leafy bush out of my way and finally got my first clear view of her. She was definitely female, those curves are unmistakable. She had long blond hair that was matted and stringy. She'd probably been out here in the woods for some time. There was dirt smudged across both her bare calves and caked along her arms, and her plain dress was thin, far too light to be out in any kind of weather.

She held her hands together in front of her face, and her shoulders were shaking. “It's all right,” I said softly. “You're safe now. I won't let anyone hurt you.” It might be sexist, but I've never been able to look at a woman crying and not immediately want to put them in my arms and tell them it's going to be all right. It's just the way I am. I took a couple more steps forward, until there were only a few feet separating us. She was standing in the shade of a giant oak that was twined with ivy so I still couldn't see her very well. I figured she was probably in her early twenties, if she was human, and if she was elven I didn't want to even speculate about her age.

She turned slowly to face me, and I realized with numb shock that she hadn't been sobbing.

She'd been eating.

Her dead yellow eyes took me in for a long moment while I stood there, unable to move, unable to even breathe. I watched, a river of icefear crawling down my spine, as she slowly dropped the ripped and bloody wolf carcass to the ground. It fell with a soggy dull thud. Blood and worse was still running darkly down her jaws and neck, covering the front of her dress and dripping from her small, sunken breasts to her toes. It seemed to take forever for her upper lip to curl ever-so-slowly into a snarl that exposed broken crimson teeth.

I made a scared whimpering sound. My sword was on my back, a million miles away even if it hadn't been shattered, shocked hands at my waist, useless.

She made no sound as she charged, blurring from standstill to huntress in an eyeblink. I couldn't even scream as she hit me at full speed, her dead weight blasting me backwards in a tackle more brutal than anything I'd ever experienced on a football field. Her clawed hands ripped at my throat with unmatched savagery, and somehow I got my arms up, wooden fingers desperately grasping her wrists. Her dead flesh squished under my grip, and even in the explosive fear that paralyzed me I could feel my gorge rising. I could taste the stink of her as the rot filled my nostrils.

Her mad rush was the only thing that saved my life. As we flew backwards we landed hard on my shoulders, knocking breath I hadn't been taking further out of me. Her momentum carried her over me in a somersault that would have been humorous in a Jackie Chan film, but now only meant that she was behind me!

“What the fuck?” I heard Tad blurt as I rolled to the side, trying to gain my feet as she spun and came at me again, easily breaking the hold I had on her wrists. I got as far as my knees, but didn't even have time to get the dagger from my wrist before she was on me a second time, left hand arcing in cruelly to disembowel me. My armor turned the strike, but not without creasing into a dark furrow where the blow landed. I clearly heard the sickening bonesnap of one of her fingers breaking, but her attack never slowed, right hand reaching for my face, furious, soundless scream of pure fury gaping the flecked wound of her mouth open as she fought to close with me.

I ducked hard to my right and managed to keep her hand away from my face, but the clawed strike hit my shoulder hard enough to pull me forward. I barely caught myself with my right hand. I felt her grip even through the thick leather of my shoulder plate as she yanked me to her.

Oh god, no! I thought desperately, She's going to bite me! In sheer terror I threw my left hand up, wrist hitting hers and breaking her grip with the strength born of absolute desperation. She hissed as the blow knocked her backwards, just enough for me to get a foot under me. I came up, then, striking with the only weapon I had to bear, a vicious uppercut that had ended many a schoolyard argument. The blow took her directly under the chin, and there was a sharp crack! as her head snapped backward. I clearly saw the nauseating bulge of broken bone jutting forward in the skin of her throat. My terrified punch had broken her neck.

She flew back and landed heavily. With some bizarre attention to detail I noticed that she was wearing one slipperlike shoe, on her left foot. Nice, Dave. I thought randomly, Even when you're punching a zombie in the fucking mouth you have a foot fetish. You need professional help.

At that moment, Tad burst into the underbrush, rapier in hand. His eyes took in the scene: me on one knee, panting; a very dead girl stretched out on the turf in front of me. “The hell--?” he started, but she was already moving, turning over in a sharp movement, head lolling to the side on her broken neck. Her unblinking eyes swept across him, and she snaked forward, clawed hands outstretched toward him while he stood there in shock and horror.

His rapier would be as useless as the broken sword in the scabbard across my back. It wouldn't even be able to slash the tendons driving her dead body to motion... and if she hit him he wasn't even wearing armor.

Somehow I got myself moving, leaping forward in a flying tackle that intercepted her flight and brought her down heavily, her clawed hands snapping shut mere inches from his chest. There was another crunch as several of her ribs stove in like a kicked barrel, but she kept scrabbling, clawing, fighting to drag herself forward while my greater weight pinned her down. She couldn't have been more than a hundred pounds, even when alive, and death had not improved her. It was actually, now that I had the leverage, fairly easy to keep her pinned to the ground while she flailed. Of course that led to a greater question: what the hell was I going to do with her now?

Steve solved that problem for me. “Dave! On three let her go and get clear!” He was still on the trail, probably doing something magical, but I was too preoccupied to notice exactly what it was.

“One! Two! Three!” Steve barked each number sharply, and on three I threw myself to the side as hard as I could. There was an explosion of sound and a light that seared my retinas, even though I clamped my eyelids shut as soon as it appeared. Blinking, I opened them to see nothing left of the dead girl but a few wisps of greasy smoke and a charred outline on the ground where I'd held her.

Without further ado, I rolled to my side and began to throw up. Her stink seemed to be covering me, cloying, filling my nostrils and my mouth even after Steve's spell had burned her to nothingness.

“Dave,” Tad asked while I heaved. “You okay?”

“Busy...” I muttered, trying to get control of my stomach. The worst seemed to be over. I am not going to eat trail bread without a fight ever again. I thought as I pushed myself to my knees. I saw the dead wolf and my stomach did another roil.

Mark was there, hand on my side, offering me a waterskin. “Are you all right?” His eyes were full of concern.

I wiped the back of a quivering hand across my mouth. “I think so. What the shit was that thing?” I took the skin and sucked a long drink out of it.

“I don't know, but it's dead now.”

“Are you fucking kidding me? It was dead before!” I snapped. I grabbed his offered wrist and pulled myself to my feet, trying to ignore my weak knees.

“I think it was a zombie,” Tad said somberly. “Dude, thanks. She was almost on me and I was just standing there when you tackled her.”

I spat to the side. “I wish Coach Hagler was here to see that tackle. Maybe he'd have gotten my ass off the bench more often.” I looked at Steve. “What did you do?”

“Faery fire. The book says it kills the dead.” He paused for a moment. “I mean permanently.”

“Important distinction,” I noted, taking a few careful steps to get back onto the trail. My roan was standing there glaring at me, ears still at half mast as if to say, I told you so, idiot!

“Sorry, buddy,” I told him. “Next time I'll listen to you.”

Mark came up next to me. “What do you mean, Dave?”

“He was trying to tell me not to go into the woods.” I undid the ties holding my saddlebags closed and dug around for some sugared sweets in oiled paper. I offered one to the roan and he lipped it from my hand. “Naturally I didn't listen and I almost got killed as a result.”

“That happens to you a lot,” Steve noted.

My horse nuzzled me gently, ears finally forward again. I forgive you. Try not to be stupid next time.

I rubbed beneath his jawline. I promise.

“You think there are more of those things out there?” Tad asked, eyes wandering as if trying to see everywhere at once.

Mark looked sharply at me. “I have no idea,” I said. My horse has calmed down, but he didn't really react until I got out of the saddle and tried to approach her.”

“We should get out of here,” Mark ordered. “Dave, I don't want you riding so far in front any more. Steve and I were almost too far away to be of any help, and if he hadn't been able to get to you with that spell...” He trailed off.

“I can guess.” I thought of the wolf and the ragged, bloody teeth and my weak stomach almost heaved again. Knock it off! I thought. Jesus, it's like being a cheap date in a frat house.

Tad swung himself into the saddle on his dappled gray. “I thought you killed zombies with a gunshot to the head or something?”

“Don't got a gun,” Steve replied blandly. His eyes were distant, like he was remembering something. “This doesn't really seem right.”

“Are you kidding me?” I demanded for the second time in as many minutes, “Is there a right way for dead people to try to eat you? 'Cause, you know, I'm not sure I want to trial and error this!”

“No, that's not what I mean. Even here in this world, zombies don't just appear. Something has to make them.” He took a couple of steps, hands on his hips, chewing on his bottom lip and staring. His eyes flickered to his brother. “Mark, do you remember the illusion Lolyanni showed us in the Wounded Orc?

“It's entirely possible that I may never forget. What about it?” Mark had Steve's mare by the reins and was leading her towards his brother.

“Remember the inn scene, and the skeletal guy in black armor?”

My jaw clamped shut, tight enough to hurt. “I remember,” I grated.

“He was leading what looked like an army, and there were a shitload of these things following him.”

“I remember,” I said again. “Lolyanni said his name was Gmog or something.” I clenched my fists. “He was feeding people to those things.”

“Gmorkyn,” Tad said.

“What?” I looked at him.

“Gmorkyn. The guy in armor was named General Gmorkyn.”

“Who promoted him to general? Was he ever 'Private Gmorkyn'?” I asked.

“I'm not sure I want to know,” Tad answered me, “But Lolyanni said something...” He trailed off, pursing his lips. “She called the undead the...”

“The zime,” Mark supplied. “I remember it now, too.”

“We may have a problem,” I said. “Actually, we have multiple problems.”

“Do we have to discuss your love life?” Tad asked.

“Shut it. I'm serious,” I said. “In the first place, where is Gmorkyn getting these dead people? If he turns every dead person he comes across into a zime and sends it after us... we're in the middle of a frickin' war right now. People get killed in wars.”

“I see where you're going with this,” Steve said softly.

“I don't,” his brother put in.

“Put it simply, wars are fought over resources, and one of the most important is manpower. It doesn't matter how many of Vaargus's troops we put down if he can make them stand right back up and come after us... and if he does that with our troops at the same time...”

“Oh shit,” Tad whispered.

“And they don't stop,” I said. “One dead chick was almost too much for the four of us to handle. Imagine an army, thousands strong, storming a castle or a town in a human wave attack.”

“The defenders would be swarmed under almost immediately,” Steve put in. “And each victory, rather than weakening the victor and forcing them to stop and lick their wounds, and secure their supply lines before pressing on--”

“Would make him stronger.” Tad finished. He glared at me. “Fuck! Why is it never good news with you?”

“I've got more,” I said, grimly. “Steve, how often can you cast that faery fire spell?”

“About once an hour.”

“Stop fiddling about and tell me what the hell you're telling me,” his brother snapped.

“My sword's broken,” I declared.

“That wasn't my fault!” Steve said.

“That's not really the point,” I said. “It's broken and all of the weapons we have to bear are piercing weapons like Tad's rapier and your shortsword. They'll work fine if we get set upon by bandits, or goblins jump our shit, but if we're going to be trying to put zombies down then we need something that cuts muscle and tendons, something that can hack them to pieces.” I waved my arm vaguely towards the side of the road where the dead girl had been incinerated. “I broke her damn neck and she didn't even blink.

“We're completely defenseless.”

Tad swallowed hard. “If no one else minds, could we start riding, please? I'm suddenly really interested in running away.”

*****
Christopher Rivan

Virgins Slain, Dragons Rescued.
Reasonable rates for all budgets!

http://chrisrivan.blogspot.com/

Chris.Rivan@Yahoo.com

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Video Trailer: Crossed Swords Book One

It's here! The long anticipated trailer for my upcoming fantasy series Crossed Swords.

Special thanks to a number of unsung artists, and to David Garrett for his orchestral rendition of He's a Pirate by Klaus Badelt.

*****
Christopher Rivan

Virgins Slain, Dragons Rescued.
Reasonable rates for all budgets!

http://chrisrivan.blogspot.com/

Chris.Rivan@Yahoo.com

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