Reiterating my Novel Collection

In all honesty, they’re not novels, not yet–if that makes any sense.  I need to do a better job of selling myself–so my vaunted superiors think–so instead of working in the salt mines, I thought I’d remind our dear readers that I’ve already published a pair of books, and more are on the way.  I hope none of that came across as facetious.  I can’t really seem to help it.  I read into these things too much.

A monument to sacrifice.

Anyways, my most recent publication is a work entitled Goliath Thunder: Sacrifice, a collection of four short stories, one of them really more a novella, which detail the ups and downs and joys and miseries comorbid with the soldier’s life in a long off century, “sacrifice” being the attendant theme.  It’s good.  You should read it.  There’s a lot of giant robots, titillating violence, and the sort of sweeping illustrations that required long hours with the editor before we deemed them appropriate for publication. (Linky)

Penultimate Post-Humanism

Its immediate predecessor is a rather shorter work entitled “Sagas of the Iron Hearts: Fragments,” my first publication.  It is also a collection of four short stories that occur within the same universe as Sacrifice, but they are rather shorter in nature, more appropriate to a quick read on the bus or before bed rather than in the long hours of a rainy Sunday afternoon. (Linky, Linky2)

Anyways, I hope you’ll forgive the intrusion from our regularly scheduled programming.  They say you have to hustle to be successful in your own career, and they’re not far from the truth.  In fact, I just tend to forget.  There’s always more work to do.

Weekly thoughts: Creative types do have a well-deserved reputation for ostentation.  Writers are no exception to the rule.  They can’t help talking about themselves, amusing themselves and virtually no others with petty jokes about the realities of their trade.  While I’ve seen people with office jobs sometimes wax similar, it frankly has more to do with the inability to sleep and the similar inability to function in the morning without the caffeinated libations.  Honestly, it’s not the writing itself that seems so compelling to me.  It’s being your own boss and suffering the consequences therein.  When all the work comes down to your own responsibility, when your ability to put food on the table is wholly yours, all decisions and all labors take on an entirely new dimension.  It’s not because I go to sleep too late that I don’t get enough sleep; it’s because I can’t help my mind wandering to all my many obligations.  I used to go to bed thinking about what I’d write next.  Now I can’t stand the thought; I’d rather struggle with that under the light of our lonely star and give myself the glory of oblitum for the evening.

Goliath Thunder: Sacrifice

Of no volition, both man and machine--and painfully.

Of no volition, both man and machine–and painfully.

So I’m releasing a book, very shortly.  The hard copy will be available very soon at a cost of $15.00, and on this thirtieth of this month the Kindle edition will be released at a cost of $2.99.

I could spend some time discussing what’s in the book, what it’s about, but I think I’ll let its description do the work for me.

Four stories, five players, and the unrelenting sensation that you can never go home again, Goliath Thunder: Sacrifice continues the long suffering tales of its predecessor The Sagas of the Iron Hearts: Fragments, elucidating the unimaginable victories and bitter defeats of the ironclad vanguards of the distant future. On battlefields of yet unrealized worlds, the very soil trembles, resounding painfully in the ears of a commander of cavalry, his vehicles poised on the hill, while with trepidation, whirling his eyes about, he grimly awaits the sight of those cyclopean limbs soon to be cresting the apex of that horizon hill. And while he awaits and grits his cross within his teeth, coming from the far horizon, with leaps and bounds to exceed the finest skimmer to ever grace human hands, a steel tower of finely-wrought legs and magnificent limbs bears the virtual armament of a heavy cruiser on her shoulders, eager for the spoil of the day. And within her armored auspices the pilot reminisces his stolen home, that glory is fleeting, and that this scene has played out before. And so it will again—a play of sacrifice—in the swirling contest and brutal melee of human pilots, riding the sixty-foot beasts of iron, striving to just survive to one more dawn.

The Sagas of the Iron Hearts: Fragments, The Fall

The following is the first of five short stories from my recently published book, The Sagas of the Iron Hearts: Fragments, which can be found here and the Kindle Edition here.  If you enjoyed it, you can peruse at your will the remaining four for the low low price of $5.99 paperback  and $0.99 kindle edition.  Every sale is a step towards paying my utilities and a step away from being evicted from my meager lodgings by my girlfriend, whose mother warned her about me.

Anyways: The Fall


sagas_front_v2Lost amidst the infinite specks of starry sky there hurtled through the void an errant youth huddled within the still belly of a metal monolith.  The dusky ovaloid capsule—engraved with the ancient production markings of an age beyond memory, scored and seared with centuries of use—was a thing monstrous, several stories in length.  The wild-eyed youth of fluttering heart, the traveler comfortably enshrouded within the armored auspices of the soaring bulwark, could strangely think only of his own inconsequence—how small he was against the titanic backdrop of stars and galaxies that would dwarf him just as easily as the events at hand—and his own part in them.  Dread ruminations of catastrophic failure, that there is no undying glory, crept, slithering like a poisonous thing, unbidden through the hollows of his gray matter, as, with some disbelief, he remembered the sparkling image of the tiny speck he observed from the brazen bridge of the vanguard cruiser, that this tiny point in the umbra sky constituted itself a whole world with its own millions of souls—his destination. Read More …