out of the ashes

Sunday, July 7, 2013

Sunday evening, July 7, 2013

I had to take Marvin down last week in order to add the gracious Ashlie and Sean Nelson to the acknowledgments. Ashlie is the cover artist. While it was down, she changed the text font on the cover. That was above and beyond for her. I am so appreciative!


The Dance of the Spiral Virgins
Authored by Patrick Sean Lee

List Price: $11.95
6" x 9" (15.24 x 22.86 cm) 
Black & White on White paper
314 pages
ISBN-13: 978-1479178667 (CreateSpace-Assigned)
ISBN-10: 1479178667
BISAC: Fiction / Fantasy / Contemporary
Denver, 1998. An aged indigent who lives under a loading dock in the bowels of the city tumbles out of a dumpster one summer night onto his head. By all rights he should be dead. Thus begins the tale of Marvin Quenton Fuster, visited by a team of angels, adopted by the beautiful daughter of the state's governor, and captured by a dream inhabited by his destiny-Amy Alionello. He is driven by one single, consuming thought: To singlehandedly crack the mysteries of the human gene, reverse his age, find Amy, and then win her heart. The odds of success are stacked mightily against him.
CreateSpace eStore: https://www.createspace.com/3974620

The Giveaway at Goodreads is into its first week, and I'm seeing several hundred entrants. That, too, is gratifying. If only a handful enjoy my wonderful book and choose to review it...wow:) I want to thank every one of the Goodreads readers and authors who signed up for one of the 15 free copies.

In 1998 when I began the first draft..."It was only a dream, of course, and everyone knew it..." I was certain that when I typed The End, and then sent the ms. off to the best agent in New York, within a year I would be acknowledged for my writing genius :) Laughing out loud in hindsight.

It's rough out there, but then I'm competing with some pretty serious talent, as well as some better than seriously good marketers. That's fine. Marvin is a fabulous, wonderful character, and someday many, many, many people will read his story and agree. I've never lost faith in him, or my own ability to tell his tale.


      Maribeth Harris, the governor’s daughter, twenty-one come September, five-four, maybe five, blonde, eccentric, brilliant but too young to know it, a lover of lost or hopeless causes, beautiful in a James Dean sort of way, and a terrible driver.  Someone Anselm could make use of in his two times two equals ten method of calculation with these beings.

     Angels are no smarter than men or women—simply more obedient, less distracted, and much better traveled.

      He’s going to have to vacate the underside of that dock.  But, where should I put him?  Have him put himself?  The rescue missions are no good, he’d wind up killing someone.

      Anselm sat deep in thought atop a stone bench.  The bench stood amidst a bed of dazzling, colorful flowers running alongside the narrow asphalt road winding through Cheesman Park, a few blocks to the east of the downtown area.  It was nine-fifteen in the morning.  A Colorado morning, a Denver morning that was impossibly exquisite—resting as the city did just below the ceiling of the world like a pearl in a silver mount.

      Marvin was sleeping soundly, with a spike holding him securely down.  Roget had Amy’s hand in his, even if she was unaware of it.  The situation was two-thirds under control, but where to put Marvin?  Where might he be planted that he could truly blossom?

      A sparrow with a worm in its mouth shot in a blur from the sky and perched on Anselm’s knee, though in the physical world his tiny claws clung firmly to thin air—six inches above the cool stone surface of the bench.  The little creature rested for a moment and studied him, offering the angel, perhaps, a piece of her chicks’ breakfast with a quick twist of her head that made the worm’s body whiplash.  No?  She whisked away again toward her nest in an elm thirty feet away, leaving the angel to sit quietly, considering Marvin’s housing dilemma.
      Anselm failed to notice Maribeth Harris racing along the road on her way through the park to visit Maggie.  The governor’s daughter was in a hurry, as usual, and drove her Mercedes coupe, top down, stereo blasting Phish for all the world to enjoy along with her.  Maggie, a close friend from Denver University, was leaving for the airport at ten-thirty, and Maribeth was late to taxi her there.  Seventy-five feet away from Anselm, her cell phone sang out from its pocket in her purse, a monstrosity of denim and sequins lying on the passenger seat beside her.

      “Damn, that’s probably Mags…”  She reached with her right hand, yanked the top open and thrust the hand into the well of it.  Searching through the contents for the phone, shifting her eyes from the road ahead to the purse.  Windshield and road beyond quickly.  Purse.  Windshield glaring.  Purse again.  Edge of pavement at forty-five miles per hour.

(c) Patrick Sean Lee, 2012

No comments:

Post a Comment