out of the ashes

Tuesday, June 16, 2015

Rising Preview!

A young girl. An island filled with incredible trees, amazing inhabitants atop them. Savage "ground dwellers". A nine foot-tall wooly giant. A group of monstrous rulers who want to control, or else kill them all.

Can sixteen year-old Alana Bendrece survive?

Book One in the Rising trilogy.




Available now at Amazonbooks, and soon at other major booksellers.

http://www.amazon.com/Rising-Patrick-Sean-Lee-ebook/dp/B00ZR2I79M ebook.

http://www.amazon.com/Rising-1-Patrick-Sean-Lee/…/1514221101 Print version












Wednesday, June 3, 2015

I Hate Blogging

Did I say that?

Yes I did, and here's why in a nutshell.

First off, it takes time. That's not a very good excuse, I admit, but it is true in my case. "I should be 'over there', doing (this or that). Not jabbering away. Here. Hmm...I'm working on the final chapter of my novel-in-progress. THAT'S where I really need to be!

Second, and more importantly, Miz Devilish Aloor (fictional name, mind you), and Rhoda Stump have just written blog posts at their gorgeous sites, and they've brought up THE MOST INTERESTING topics. I feel kind of dumb by comparison. And we all, as writers, do that comparison thing. Right? Good. I'm not alone at least. I go kind of brain-dead when it comes to thinking up fabulously interesting things to say.


I listened to a video promo by this guy who's very successful in launching and maintaining his blog...over at Wordpress.

I created a blog this morning there because he made it look so bloody simple. It was. In my Welcome introductory post at my brand-spanking new blog, I committed to posting once per week. Now I'm stuck. Getting the shivers. I mean, what do I really know about this exciting, mad business of writing the next best seller?

Better start thinking!

Anyway, here's my Wordpress address if you want to see what's gonna' happen:)

https://patrickseanlee.wordpress.com/

Sunday, September 7, 2014

The Post-American World

A very interesting concept for a novel.

I watched a Youtube video this morning. Not certain how I came across it, but it dealt with demographics. The world in 1970. The Current world. Projected population increase/decrease in the next 25 years. Guys, that's probably our kids' world...we'll be long gone.

The upshot: In order for a given society with its norms, mores, and belief systems to maintain its existence, it must have a birthrate or at least 2.0 per family. If it does not, it's only a matter of time before that society dies, or changes drastically.

All of the Western Democracies maintain that birthrate, but the balance, or increase, is due to either immigration, or large birthrates in the Muslim communities. Worldwide. Some of this is conversion. Some by sheer number of children born into Muslim households, all impacted by the decline below 2.0 of birthrates in traditionally "Christian" or Christian-based nations, ie;, GB, France, Canada, and the US.

Historically, empires rise, and empires fall, but...in the last 2,000 years, the dominant civilizations have been Judeo/Christian-Roman/Greek. We all know that the Romans and Greeks were polytheistic, but we built upon their philosophy and law in a largely "Christian" context. There are many ugly chapters in the Western Democratic, Christian Book of Civilization, but we are who and what we are today LARGELY because of that basis for building.

We all assume that A) Greek and Enlightenment philosophy will win the day for future generations. Or B), Mega-Corporations/Evil Governments, or some horrible mutation of these will take over everything and enslave us all. Read these popular books: The Hunger Games Trilogy and The Divergent Trilogy...that's what we see in our popular novelists' works as a rule. That's what readers are buying.

There is another scenario. What IF Christianity, Judaism, Hinduism all die, if for no other reason than simple demographics? But religion does not. The world in 2050 is ruled by a Caliphate. In most ways, it is unrecognizable. Sharia is the law of the land. Infidels are not necessarily summarily executed, but they are voiceless, second-class citizens. Or, scenario Part II; The Muslim moderates, schooled in idealism and basically Western theory of society building win the day. Extremists are...well, for lack of a better word...executed for terrorism. Our world is at peace, but it worships radically differently than our current world.

How would this novel, politically incorrect in the West right now, be written? What might the plot be? The protagonist(s), the antagonist(s)?

Now, I'm not certain who compiled the data for the video I mentioned. I suspect it was someone with an agenda; perhaps CBN? I won't venture a guess. On the other hand, what if the data is real? I don't know; I can't verify the truth or falseness of it. I can say that none of us wants our children and grandchildren to inherit a culture wherein they attend services at a Mosque, or adhere to belief systems we do not. We don't like change on an order that large. We are comfortable (for the most part) in our inherited societies. Just a fact.

What might this book be titled? What might we learn from reading it? Or writing it?

Sunday, August 31, 2014

The Titanic Tree-RISING

I've been working in fits and starts on my new novel; the story of a young girl sentenced to sure death by virtue of her banishment to the island of Folly. Alana Bendrece has murdered a young attacker from the caste of Polit, the rulers of her walled-in, desperately poor community. Found guilty in a quick trial, she isn't hanged or shot, instead blindfolded and loaded unceremoniously onto a Helicere-II aircraft. Hours later the cargo door opens, and she is shoved out.

Of course the young heroine doesn't die...

                               ONE

They’ve blindfolded me. I sit in the cargo bay of a Helicere II, my hands bound behind my back, my knees to my chest. The only sound is the soft, low whirring of the engines somewhere near the rear below the deck. I am freezing because I wore only my tunic, and the craft must have climbed to a very high altitude. I’d been given nothing else to wear, not even sandals. Why didn’t they simply shoot me, or hang me?

It’s been hours, me sitting, numb from the cold, until suddenly, finally, I hear another sound. A different one than the engines, like a door sliding open to my left. Seconds later a hand gripping me under the armpit. A jerk to my feet, and then another, larger door sliding open. And then a frigid blast of wind.

I know what is going to happen next, I think, and I am petrified.

I wonder what it will feel like when I hit the ground? For that last split second of life, anyway. I scream, but it all happens so fast that maybe I only imagine me screaming. Maybe I haven’t made a sound.

Two or three tripping steps, and then the rough push. The whir and drone of the Helicere’s engines quickly fading to quiet. Air ripping over me as hard and furious as water in a raging river. I want to thrash my arms, but I can’t. I want to see the ground rushing up at me for some unexplainable reason, the panorama narrowing until it becomes impossible to focus in that final second coming too soon. The blindfold panics me as much as the sensation of falling. Maybe more. Would it be any more comforting to actually see my death approaching at 120 miles per hour?


I think of Mother just before I hit.

Patrick Sean Lee (c) 2014

Sunday, August 24, 2014

Pata Pata

So...I don't post here often enough anymore, but I was "talking" to a friend in England this morning about how I often use music as inspiration and background when I write. Romance? Gotta' be Rach's 2nd Piano Concerto, the adagio.

Lighthearted, lively, fast moving...and funny? I needed a scene like this in the rewrite of my first book, "The Redemption of Marvin Fuster". And so I pulled Ms. Makeeba's wonderful, short song up at Youtube, and began to write.

Briefly: Marvin and Maribeth have mixed some deadly (but necessary) chemicals the night before. The chemicals of a brew that will either reverse his age, or kill him. He has injected himself, told Maribeth not to worry, and locked himself in his room in the Governor's Mansion basement. Next morning at breakfast, Governor Richard Harris learns what has happened...

Thirty-nine

“He’s here? In this house?” Richard railed.
       Maribeth sat at the breakfast table across from her father. A second ago his face had been hidden behind the morning edition of the paper, before she blurted out the news. Now the paper lay crumpled on the surface of the table, a distorted photograph of Tiger Woods demonstrating his re-worked swing. He glared at her, waiting for an explanation. Trish gently placed a hand on top of Maribeth’s, and answered for her daughter.
      “Now dear, just remain calm until you hear…” she began.
       Richard shot her a steely glance. “You’re in on this, too?”
      “No, Richard. I just heard myself, moments before you came down to breakfast. I think perhaps we should call the paramedics. I’m not sure. What do you think?”
      “What the devil are you talking about?”
      “No, Momma. I’m worried sick, but at least he’s talking. I haven’t heard a scream, or even a moan. So far I think he’s okay.  Every time I ask him if he’s all right, he says, ‘Yes, yes, my dear, I’m fine. Some very strange things are happening to me, that’s all.’ I don’t know what that means. I wish he’d unlock the door.”
       “Explain yourself, Maribeth Anne Harris. What did he do?  And WHY is he here?”
       “I was up all night, Daddy, outside the door to his room.” She closed her eyes, revisiting the scene.
      “He injected himself. Last night, about eleven…”
      Ten fortuh-nine, Robert mentally noted. He stood in his usual place, close to the table with a carafe of coffee at the ready.
      “Outside by the bar. I watched him do it…there wasn’t a thing I could do to stop him.”
      She recounted the whole affair, every detail, as Richard sat dumfounded listening, his jaw drooping. At several points Trish raised her hands to cover her mouth, shook her head in amazement, slowly.
      “Hydrochloric acid? Oh dear, whatever possessed him…”
      “Less than half a drop, Momma. There were so many other chemicals he mixed. So many. I was right there. He kept saying he knew exactly what he was doing. I couldn’t stop him. I really couldn’t even doubt him after seeing all that I’ve seen.”
      She finished by explaining that she couldn’t leave him alone, even for a few hours at John Delilah’s loft, and so she made the decision to bring him home with her again. What other possibility was there?
      “There was none, dear. You did the right thing,” Trish consoled her.
      “You should have taken him straight to Denver General…or the loony bin,” Richard offered curtly. “I can’t believe he actually did it.”  He snapped his head over to Robert.
      “Go downstairs to his room. Knock. If he doesn’t answer, break the door down. I’ll be damned if some kook is going to croak…”
      “Daddy!”
      “The pleashuh is all mine, suh.”
      “Robert! You will do no such a thing,” Trish said. She removed the napkin from her lap and set it firmly onto the table next to her plate. “You will remain here in the kitchen. I’ll go to him myself. If he is sick, then we will call for an emergency unit. If he is not, then we will leave him be until such time that he unlocks the door himself. Is that clear?” she said—looking at Richard.
      “Puhfectly, ma’am.” It had become clear to Robert from years of observation concerning household matters whose word was law when push came to shove. He brought the carafe to Richard’s cup.  Bending close to Richard’s ear, he spoke in an apologetic, low voice.
      “Suh, ah do beg yuh pahdon. Ah am at a loss as tuh what tuh do. Should ah…”
      “Do as Mrs. Harris says, Robert.”
      “No, Robert,” Maribeth said, searing through him with her eyes. “Just leave. Go feed the dogs, or take out the trash. Just go.  We’re perfectly capable of pouring our own coffee. Go eavesdrop on someone else.”
       “Oh, now, Maribeth, that was very rude,” Trish said, shocked by her daughter’s stab at poor Robert. “Perhaps you owe him an apology.”
      “I do not, Momma. I’m sorry, but Robert has caused so much trouble.  He spied on that gentle old man downstairs. My guest. In my house.”
      “Beggun yuh pahdon, miz Marubeth,” Robert said out of character, argumentively, “He did try tuh entuh a ruhstricted govunment site. As we all know veruh well. Gentul may not be the right wood for the man. Connivin’ might be more appropriuht.”
      “Only to gain computing power! And you knew it!”
      “That’s enough,” Richard said, raising a hand. He looked across the table at Trish and said,
      “You and I will go. If he doesn’t answer our knock, then we’ll call for help.”
      He rose and waited until his wife joined him, and then they walked side by side down the hall to the basement door. Rothschild quietly appeared behind them, slowly wagging his massive tail, drool dripping from the pink tongue hanging out of the side of his mouth.  When Richard pulled the door open, Rothschild sat back on his haunches and stared down the first flight of stairs dolefully, as though he sensed a soul in need of being dug out of an avalanche. Weak, gray light filtered through the windows across the hall adding a gloomy feeling to the house—a foreboding of the indigent genius’s fate.
      “Stay there, boy,” Richard said to the dog, and then he and Trish went down. When they had crossed the expanse of the recreation room both noticed the hypodermic needle and un-lidded flask resting on the corner of the bar. Trish cringed. The reality of Marvin’s intention to reverse his age hit her forcefully, the lengths to which he had actually gone suddenly becoming real. From the mouth of the flask an odor, sweet and thick, permeated the air around it.  Richard picked it up, waved a hand over the opening an inch or two above it.
      “It smells like…oranges. Maybe he mixed up orange juice and mainlined vitamin C?” he said.
      “The liquid looks like filthy water, not orange juice,” Trish commented.
      Richard stepped to the door and listened for a moment. There was no sound inside at first. He lifted his hand to knock, Trish standing close, grasping his free arm nervously. A split second before his knuckles moved forward to touch the wood, a faint rustling like the wings of a hundred birds broke the silence, and then the muted sound of Marvin’s voice. Both leaned an ear close to the surface of the door and waited. A pause, and then Marvin spoke again, faintly, indistinctly.
      “Abota-buga bot. Sat waguga!” it sounded like. The faint rustling again, and then the sound of joyous laughter.
      Trish turned her head and whispered, “That’s his voice, but I don’t understand…what is he speaking?”
      “Sounds vaguely…African. An African dialect. What the hell is going on?”
       “Can you translate it?”
       Richard jerked his head back with a look of astonishment at the question.
      “Me?”
      “Well, you are fluent in German and Japanese.”
      The words continued to roll from Marvin’s lips, broken at intervals by others in English.
     “What?  I don’t know…” Then, very softly…“Where she is.  Doesn’t matter… “And then loudly, “Wa-imia, wa-imia sat, be-eenga…My nose looks strange. God! It’s melting.  Look—do you see it, Anselm?”
      “Someone’s in there with him!” Trish said.
      “Ah, Jesus H. Christ!” But it wasn’t him.
      Richard rapped forcefully on the door. “Marvin! Open this door right now. It’s Richard. Open up!”
      There was a lengthy pause; a gathering of thoughts, and then Marvin finally spoke in English.
      “I know who it is, Rich. But I can’t. Not just yet. Give me a few more days. I don’t want you to see me like this. Tell Maribeth and Trish that I’m fine. Not to worry.”
      “I’m right here, Marvin. It’s me, Trish. What’s going on in there? Oh please, open the door so that we can help you!”
      He laughed, his voice having strangely risen in timbre.
      “Help me? Goodness gracious, it’s too late for that! You’ve already been a great help, but now I simply have to wait it out—let the elegant formula do its work. Oh no, what’s this? My hair is falling out!”
      “I demand that you open this goddam’ door!” Richard spoke into the wood panel loudly.
      Suddenly the stereo sprang to life inside the room, the volume turned high so that the panels of the door rattled with the notes.
      “What in blazes?”
      They listened for a moment in silence and bedazzlement.  Rothschild had crept down the stairs with great effort on his tortured legs, and sat behind them, panting. Maribeth arrived just as the music burst through the door and filled the room. Robert was the last to get there, and stood at his favorite corner at the edge of the hall peering at the strange scene unfolding.
      “Daddy!  Momma!” Maribeth shouted above the music.
      “Shh! He’s fine, dear. His nose is just melting, and his hair is falling out. Be quiet, we don’t want to alarm him,” Trish said, grabbing Maribeth’s shoulder.
      “It’s the same language,” Richard said to no one in particular.
      “He’s dying!” Maribeth cried out.
      “No. If he were dying, he’d be playing a requiem, I think,” Trish answered.
      Rothschild joined in and barked once. Loudly.
      Inside the room. The voice of a young woman singing in a lively, African dialect. The energetic back-up singers. Bongos, tambourines, a guitar, and the frenetic chords leaping from a parlor piano. “Pata, Pata…Hihi ha mama. Hi-a-ma sat…” And Marvin right on top of it.
      Outside the room. The perplexed family could hear the sound of his feet even, bouncing on the thick carpet as though he were wearing bass drums. From the ceiling, a hundred—feet?—tapping the lid of the room. The rustling noise. The walls and door shaking madly, merrily.
      Richard turned sideways and flung his shoulder into the door.
      “Aagh!”
      “Daddy, don’t!”
      “Oh dear.”
      Richard turned again and noticed Robert lurking at the corner, one eye, one cheek, and the tip of his nose pressed around it against the mahogany jamb.
      “Robert!  Go find an axe.  Hurry!”
      “Yes, suh.” Robert disappeared.
      Richard wheeled back and addressed the door again.
      “Marvin, I’ve sent Robert to get an axe—please turn that music down so that you can hear me! Open-the-DOOR!”
      “Marvin answered, “I can hear you perfectly, Rich. No need to yell.  The music is Makeba’s, in case you’re curious. It’s brilliant, yes?  So appropriate for the moment at hand! No, Timoteo, leave the volume be!”
      “Timoteo?” Trish asked no one in particular.
                  “Ohmagod, what’s happening?”

Turn the volume way up:)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Zq5S5sH1Ikk

Wednesday, June 4, 2014

Kristen Lamb's blog

Worth sharing.

http://warriorwriters.wordpress.com/2014/06/04/writer-victory-yearning-empathy-how-political-correctness-is-killing-diversity-in-literature/