Attention All Nautilus Engineers!
It is with sadness that I announce the end of our little experiment in internet publishing that we called The Nautilus Engine. We've had some terrific fiction over the years and I am very grateful to all the contributors and the readers. However, it has proven difficult to promote the site and I know that it has not reached as much of an audience as I would have hoped.
For those who were first published here or for those to whom it was another notch in the bedpost, I hope it garnered you some new readers and hopefully contributed to furthering your writing efforts. I thank you all for tuning in and now we must bid you adieu.
Special thanks to Christian Klaver, Janine Beaulieu, and Heath Lowrance, founders, contributors, sponsors, and inspirations all.
May your dreams be filled with steampunk fantasy and your days be filled with awe in the wonders of reality, often stranger and more beautiful than fiction. ~R
Saturday, February 16, 2013
Tuesday, January 29, 2013
Bin Laden's Daughter by Anna Sykora
Bin Laden’s Daughter by Anna Sykora
Nur peered back at the black smoke pouring like curses into the clear, blue sky. How many blasts in Midtown? Three, at least.
As she hurried towards the 59th Street Bridge, ambulances came blaring past. She caught sight of a medic’s bloody face. Allah, save us all…
Pedestrians caked in ashes milled in front of the bridge’s access ramp, where twin police cars blocked her escape. A burly cop with bloodshot eyes held up a radio as if it could save him.
Nur walked towards him resolutely. Somebody down the block was shouting something about more terrorist bombs, and a green truck covered with graffiti.
“I need to cross,” she told the tall policeman, whose tag read Boxer. Warily he eyed her flowered headscarf, dowdy skirt and nylon backpack. “Sorry miss, you’ll have to wait like everybody else. Till we get orders to open the bridge.”
“I live in Queens; I just want to walk home. My mother must be so scared and worried.”
“You wait here. An army unit’s supposed to come and check us all for radiation.”
“Please, I just want to go home.” And she looked him straight in the eyes.
“Don’t let her through,” growled a man in a pinstripe suit smeared with ashes. Awkwardly he held his broken glasses up to his face. “Look at her headscarf. Maybe she’s with them.”
“Don’t let her go.” A paunchy man with reddish, slicked back hair came shoving through the crowd. “I’m Jack Reno, the bounty hunter. I’ve been trailing this girl for weeks.”
“Indeed he has stalked me,” Nur said with dignity, glaring up at his sweaty face pitted with acne scars. “All around my school and neighborhood. And why? Because I was born in Beirut? Because I go to the mosque on Fridays?”
“This is Najwa--Bin Laden’s daughter.” Foam flecks glistened on Reno’s lips. “You’ve all seen her video on the news, warning how she’ll rain death on New York. And today’s the day: the first anniversary of her father’s death.”
“Catch her. Hang her. Throw her in the river,” voices cried from the tightening crowd. “Drowning’s too good for Bin Laden’s daughter.” Wheeling Nur took in the mixed crowd of New Yorkers, their hard and hateful faces. Heart hammering at her ribs, her airways cramped; she couldn’t breathe.
“I am a student at your Hunter College, on 68th Street in Manhattan.” She fumbled in a pocket for the inhaler, and Officer Boxer pulled his gun.
“Hey, cool it,” yelled a pear-shaped, elderly woman with hair short-cropped and grey. “That girl on the news has got brown eyes. Take a look: this one’s are green.”
“So she’s wearing contacts,” Reno said angrily, and Nur stood up straight as a soldier on parade. The top of her head didn’t reach his shoulder.
“If I am Najwa,” she said slowly, “why would I run around uncovered, letting you see my naked face?” Ignoring her he yelled at Officer Boxer:
“Do it, or I’ll make a citizen’s arrest. There’s a ten million bounty on her head.”
“You’ve got no proof that this is Najwa,” the old woman complained.
Officer Boxer grabbed Nur’s arm, fingers digging into her flesh. “Stop it,” she shrilled, “you’re hurting me.”
A deafening explosion rocked the street, and people screaming scattered away. Throwing down her heavy backpack, Nur slipped between the police cars and bolted up the access ramp. Behind her somebody shouted “Freeze!” and a bullet came whizzing past her ear.
Other pedestrians followed her, fleeing towards the footpath on the bridge’s northern edge. Vehicles snarled on the upper and lower roadways honked like the rush hour in hell. Abandoning useless cars, some drivers joined the general retreat to Queens. One shouted, “The cops are looking for a yellow school bus. I heard it on the radio.”
Gasping, Nur staggered along, hand pressed to the deep stitch in her side. Crammed with passengers, the Roosevelt Island tram hung motionless in the sky. Suddenly jet engines roared, and the red tram dropped like a stone. Spewing fire the plane--a bomb-loaded fighter--veered towards the bridge as if trying to land.
Nur leaped the parapet, into thin air, and the plane exploded on the bridge, showering fragments and fuel as she fell feet first towards the river’s murky water.
The wind caught her long skirt, flapping it up, and pressing it down with both her hands she entered the water almost vertical, knifing down into the thickening dark.
Air blew from her lungs, and she choked in helpless bubbles as the river squeezed her like a giant’s hand. Dear Allah, I do not want to die. It is not my time.
Not yet.
As the moments slowed and almost halted, she struggled lonely as a slaughtered beast with her water-logged, leaden-coffin skirt, and finally tore it off. Legs free she kicked towards the wan spread of light, impossibly far above her head; the roof of the river, the roof of her death, like the ceiling of the mosque in Astoria.
She made herself hold in the last of her breath, even as her lungs heaved and strained. Closer it loomed, the roof of the water, like silk curtains swaying in a breeze. Brighter it rippled as she strove upwards.
As Allah is willing, I shall live.
Nur broke the surface, choking and spluttering; gladly she gulped air back into her lungs. Her whole body ached, as if a truck had crushed her, and yet her arms and legs obeyed.
Treading water, she spied a white wall looming near, with the black logo Circle Line. A tourist boat, in the name of God. “Help me,” she cried, voice thin and high as a hungry baby’s. “Save me, I fell from the Queensboro Bridge.”
A life preserver thudded into the water. She grabbed at it, caught it, held it fast. Coughing, she dragged her sore body aboard.
Then a rope ladder slapped down the boat’s high side, and a sailor with sunburned arms climbed down: “Over here, honey.” He reached out a hand, and Nur paddled towards him, panting. Eagerly he gathered her, arranging her small bulk over his shoulder like a sack. “Take it easy now.” And he clambered back up.
“Bring me a blanket,” he yelled at shocked faces, all gazing down at her on the deck as if he’d pulled a mermaid from the East River.
“Looks like the girl on the news last night,” drawled a grizzled man in a Yankees cap. “Looks like Bin Laden’s daughter.” People were snapping her photo with their phones.
“Please, stop,” she pleaded, trying to sit up and covering her bare legs with her hands. “I am not Najwa. I live in Queens; I am American, just like you.”
“She needs medical care.” A bearded man with a knitted white kufi on his head knelt beside her on the deck. “Hush, sister,” he whispered, easing her back down.
“Good people, I am Nur Alfarsi,” she cried. “I live with my mother in Astoria, Queens.”
“Sure.” He tucked a silvery thermal blanket around her as if she were a treasure.
The sky looked so pure and innocent still, out here in the middle of the river. In all her life she’d never seen such a sky….
***
Nur peered back at the black smoke pouring like curses into the clear, blue sky. How many blasts in Midtown? Three, at least.
As she hurried towards the 59th Street Bridge, ambulances came blaring past. She caught sight of a medic’s bloody face. Allah, save us all…
Pedestrians caked in ashes milled in front of the bridge’s access ramp, where twin police cars blocked her escape. A burly cop with bloodshot eyes held up a radio as if it could save him.
Nur walked towards him resolutely. Somebody down the block was shouting something about more terrorist bombs, and a green truck covered with graffiti.
“I need to cross,” she told the tall policeman, whose tag read Boxer. Warily he eyed her flowered headscarf, dowdy skirt and nylon backpack. “Sorry miss, you’ll have to wait like everybody else. Till we get orders to open the bridge.”
“I live in Queens; I just want to walk home. My mother must be so scared and worried.”
“You wait here. An army unit’s supposed to come and check us all for radiation.”
“Please, I just want to go home.” And she looked him straight in the eyes.
“Don’t let her through,” growled a man in a pinstripe suit smeared with ashes. Awkwardly he held his broken glasses up to his face. “Look at her headscarf. Maybe she’s with them.”
“Don’t let her go.” A paunchy man with reddish, slicked back hair came shoving through the crowd. “I’m Jack Reno, the bounty hunter. I’ve been trailing this girl for weeks.”
“Indeed he has stalked me,” Nur said with dignity, glaring up at his sweaty face pitted with acne scars. “All around my school and neighborhood. And why? Because I was born in Beirut? Because I go to the mosque on Fridays?”
“This is Najwa--Bin Laden’s daughter.” Foam flecks glistened on Reno’s lips. “You’ve all seen her video on the news, warning how she’ll rain death on New York. And today’s the day: the first anniversary of her father’s death.”
“Catch her. Hang her. Throw her in the river,” voices cried from the tightening crowd. “Drowning’s too good for Bin Laden’s daughter.” Wheeling Nur took in the mixed crowd of New Yorkers, their hard and hateful faces. Heart hammering at her ribs, her airways cramped; she couldn’t breathe.
“I am a student at your Hunter College, on 68th Street in Manhattan.” She fumbled in a pocket for the inhaler, and Officer Boxer pulled his gun.
“Hey, cool it,” yelled a pear-shaped, elderly woman with hair short-cropped and grey. “That girl on the news has got brown eyes. Take a look: this one’s are green.”
“So she’s wearing contacts,” Reno said angrily, and Nur stood up straight as a soldier on parade. The top of her head didn’t reach his shoulder.
“If I am Najwa,” she said slowly, “why would I run around uncovered, letting you see my naked face?” Ignoring her he yelled at Officer Boxer:
“Do it, or I’ll make a citizen’s arrest. There’s a ten million bounty on her head.”
“You’ve got no proof that this is Najwa,” the old woman complained.
Officer Boxer grabbed Nur’s arm, fingers digging into her flesh. “Stop it,” she shrilled, “you’re hurting me.”
A deafening explosion rocked the street, and people screaming scattered away. Throwing down her heavy backpack, Nur slipped between the police cars and bolted up the access ramp. Behind her somebody shouted “Freeze!” and a bullet came whizzing past her ear.
Other pedestrians followed her, fleeing towards the footpath on the bridge’s northern edge. Vehicles snarled on the upper and lower roadways honked like the rush hour in hell. Abandoning useless cars, some drivers joined the general retreat to Queens. One shouted, “The cops are looking for a yellow school bus. I heard it on the radio.”
Gasping, Nur staggered along, hand pressed to the deep stitch in her side. Crammed with passengers, the Roosevelt Island tram hung motionless in the sky. Suddenly jet engines roared, and the red tram dropped like a stone. Spewing fire the plane--a bomb-loaded fighter--veered towards the bridge as if trying to land.
Nur leaped the parapet, into thin air, and the plane exploded on the bridge, showering fragments and fuel as she fell feet first towards the river’s murky water.
The wind caught her long skirt, flapping it up, and pressing it down with both her hands she entered the water almost vertical, knifing down into the thickening dark.
Air blew from her lungs, and she choked in helpless bubbles as the river squeezed her like a giant’s hand. Dear Allah, I do not want to die. It is not my time.
Not yet.
As the moments slowed and almost halted, she struggled lonely as a slaughtered beast with her water-logged, leaden-coffin skirt, and finally tore it off. Legs free she kicked towards the wan spread of light, impossibly far above her head; the roof of the river, the roof of her death, like the ceiling of the mosque in Astoria.
She made herself hold in the last of her breath, even as her lungs heaved and strained. Closer it loomed, the roof of the water, like silk curtains swaying in a breeze. Brighter it rippled as she strove upwards.
As Allah is willing, I shall live.
Nur broke the surface, choking and spluttering; gladly she gulped air back into her lungs. Her whole body ached, as if a truck had crushed her, and yet her arms and legs obeyed.
Treading water, she spied a white wall looming near, with the black logo Circle Line. A tourist boat, in the name of God. “Help me,” she cried, voice thin and high as a hungry baby’s. “Save me, I fell from the Queensboro Bridge.”
A life preserver thudded into the water. She grabbed at it, caught it, held it fast. Coughing, she dragged her sore body aboard.
Then a rope ladder slapped down the boat’s high side, and a sailor with sunburned arms climbed down: “Over here, honey.” He reached out a hand, and Nur paddled towards him, panting. Eagerly he gathered her, arranging her small bulk over his shoulder like a sack. “Take it easy now.” And he clambered back up.
“Bring me a blanket,” he yelled at shocked faces, all gazing down at her on the deck as if he’d pulled a mermaid from the East River.
“Looks like the girl on the news last night,” drawled a grizzled man in a Yankees cap. “Looks like Bin Laden’s daughter.” People were snapping her photo with their phones.
“Please, stop,” she pleaded, trying to sit up and covering her bare legs with her hands. “I am not Najwa. I live in Queens; I am American, just like you.”
“She needs medical care.” A bearded man with a knitted white kufi on his head knelt beside her on the deck. “Hush, sister,” he whispered, easing her back down.
“Good people, I am Nur Alfarsi,” she cried. “I live with my mother in Astoria, Queens.”
“Sure.” He tucked a silvery thermal blanket around her as if she were a treasure.
The sky looked so pure and innocent still, out here in the middle of the river. In all her life she’d never seen such a sky….
***
Tuesday, January 15, 2013
Sunday, January 13, 2013
42! Alien Planets
http://news.yahoo.com/amateur-astronomers-discover-42-alien-planets-141707705.html
Friday, January 11, 2013
Thursday, January 10, 2013
Thursday, December 27, 2012
That's quite a Grasshopper hop...
SpaceX's reusable rocket prototype "Grasshopper" flies 40 meters into the air before landing successfully.
Friday, December 7, 2012
Tuesday, November 27, 2012
Wednesday, November 21, 2012
Mars Mystery: Has Curiosity Rover Made Big Discovery? - Yahoo! News
Mars Mystery: Has Curiosity Rover Made Big Discovery? - Yahoo! News:
Whatever could it be? Water? Life? Valentine Michael Smith? Can you even grock it?
Whatever could it be? Water? Life? Valentine Michael Smith? Can you even grock it?
Friday, November 16, 2012
Wednesday, November 7, 2012
Harrison Ford says he'd do it again
http://movies.yahoo.com/blogs/movie-talk/harrison-ford-says-open-another-star-wars-film-185829069.html
Last week, Disney announced the purchase of Lucasfilms, and the Star Wars franchise. The next three movies look to be a go.
Harrison Ford and crew are apparently eager to be on board (the Millenium Falcon?).
Last week, Disney announced the purchase of Lucasfilms, and the Star Wars franchise. The next three movies look to be a go.
Harrison Ford and crew are apparently eager to be on board (the Millenium Falcon?).
Friday, October 26, 2012
Tuesday, October 23, 2012
Saturday, October 20, 2012
Friday, October 19, 2012
Sunday, October 14, 2012
Thursday, October 4, 2012
TNE Interviews Heath Lowrance, author of "City of Heretics"
Good friend to the Naut, Heath Lowrance, is quickly gaining a reputation for tight fiction always delivered with that bit of something extra that really sticks to yer proverbial ribs. In conjunction with the recent release of his most recent novel, CITY OF HERETICS, Heath took a few minutes to let us grill him about his work, his process, and his thoughts on all things fiction.
TNE: Do you think violent-themed entertainment fosters violence in reality? Does a writer of fiction have a moral responsibility to the public?
HL: Start right off with an easy one, why don’t you?
TNE: What draws you to themes that are violent or skirt the edges of the law?
TNE: Do you think there are degrees of criminality? For instance a character who accepts with no qualms the idea of theft, but bristles at the idea violence. Or a computer hacker vs. a gentleman jewel thief?
HL: There are criminals we can get behind, at least in fiction and movies. Maybe even to some degree in real life. You mentioned the “gentleman jewel thief”—what we admire about him isn’t the crime he commits, exactly, so much as the audacity and cleverness of it. And we’re ready to condemn a typical murderer because, frankly, anyone could do that; it doesn’t require any skill set, and it doesn’t have any broader implications. It’s just murder.
If our hero in a story is a killer, we at least want him to have some kind of code about who he kills, like say “Dexter”, or (if you don’t mind me saying) my character Hawthorne.
---
TNE: Do you have a secret pet project that is so unusual it will probably never see the light of day?
HL: No, not really. It’s a new century, there are no genre limits anymore. I feel that I can write anything I want to.
---
HL: Ha… At this point, given my background and general view of life, I don’t think I could ever be a bad-ass in that sense. I think environment has everything to do with it—what you grow up thinking of as acceptable, or what you’re like genetically. I’m not stoic or taciturn or tough-minded, and those are the things that make up your classic fictional bad-ass. I wish, though.
---
TNE: Have you ever killed a man?
HL: In Reno. Just to watch him die.
TNE: Writing is a solitary business. How does spending so much time alone with your thoughts affect your personal psychology? How does it affect your personal interactions?
HL: CITY OF HERETICS and BLUFF CITY BRAWLER (my FIGHT CARD novella) have both just come out in the last month. Before the year is over, I’ll have a second Gideon Miles novella for you, one that takes place in the ‘20’s, and finds Miles facing off against the Axeman of New Orleans. Also, a third Hawthorne horror/western and a handful of short stories. I plan on spending most of next year concentrating on a third and possibly a fourth novel, along with a few more Hawthorne’s (That Damned Coyote Hill and The Long Black Train).
TNE: Would you ever utilize alternative literary devices such as epistolary writing or 2nd person narrative?
HL: That’s doubtful. The goal of writing is to be understood, so I don’t see any point in making your work more obscure.
---
TNE: Who do you read? Anybody current from the large publishing houses worth your time? What small presses are putting out the best stuff?
HL: I haven’t read much from the Big 6 publishers in the last couple of years. That’s not by design, it just worked out that way. And the small presses seem to be the ones keeping dark crime fiction, horror, Westerns and other fringe genres active and interesting. I’ve been lucky to work with some of my favorites, like New Pulp Press, Beat to a Pulp, Snubnose Press.
I’m reluctant to name writers you should check out, because for every one I can think of, there are ten more I’d forget to mention. But if you keep an eye on my blog (Psycho Noir), I’m always recommending great authors and great books.
---
TNE: Is self-publishing (electronic publishing in particular) hurting the business or is it creating opportunities? Is it harder to promote yourself?
HL: I don’t have a lot of experience in self-publishing, since the only thing I’ve put out myself is the short story collection, DIG TEN GRAVES. But I suppose the glut of self-published stuff out there does make it harder to get noticed. We’re in a transitional stage in publishing now, and with every door that’s closed now to new writers, there are other doors opening up. I guess we’ll all have to wait and see.
---
TNE: Tell us a little about “City of Heretics” and how you came to write it.
HL: Glad you asked!
CITY OF HERETICS is my second full-length novel, a dark crime thriller. The protagonist, Crowe, is a hard man just out of prison and back in Memphis to even the score against his former Mob employers. Along the way, he crosses paths with a secret society of serial killers posing as a very Old Testament-style Christian church. He uncovers lots of ugliness in the process, including some things about himself he’d have been better off not knowing.
I was reading a lot of Richard Stark and Dan J. Marlowe at the time, and a lot of that stripped down tough-mindedness made its way into CITY OF HERETICS. It’s a very different sort of novel from my first, THE BASTARD HAND, which was, I guess, a bit more leisurely. CITY OF HERETICS is fast and nasty.
HL: I don’t think there IS a “best” motivator. As long as one exists, that’s what matters.
---
TNE: You've spent time in the south and as a yank. How do the two subcultures speak to your writing?
HL: Memphis had a huge impact on me as a writer, and made me realize that the setting of a novel or story is very, very important. And what you as the writer can draw from it makes all the difference. Detroit is, of course, very different from Memphis, but it still rings all the same tough yet melancholy bells.
---
TNE: “Is reading becoming obsolete?”
HL: No, I don’t think so. People are reading more now than ever, from what I understand. But our methods of reading are changing, obviously.
People will always read fiction, because we’ll always need stories to see us through.
TNE: Do you think violent-themed entertainment fosters violence in reality? Does a writer of fiction have a moral responsibility to the public?
HL: Start right off with an easy one, why don’t you?
I think violent-themed entertainment has the potential to foster violence in reality, but only among people who might be drawn to it anyway. Also, it has a great deal to do with media saturation. If you display anything in popular culture long enough and hard enough, it will creep into the mainstream. Hence our acceptance these days of vapid celebrity culture icons as perfectly acceptable role-models.
Having said that, I think a writer’s only responsibility is to the truth. The characters and situations have to be honest. In a way, that IS a moral responsibility.
Having said that, I think a writer’s only responsibility is to the truth. The characters and situations have to be honest. In a way, that IS a moral responsibility.
---
TNE: What draws you to themes that are violent or skirt the edges of the law?
HL: I’ve always been fascinated by outlaws and rebels, I don’t know why. As a kid, my admiration for them was pretty shallow—they fought authority and that made them cool. Now that I’m older, though, I’m more aware of the gray nature of them. My characters, and the characters I’m interested in, are not good guys or bad guys, generally. It’s the conflicts they represent that interest me most.
---
---
TNE: Do you think there are degrees of criminality? For instance a character who accepts with no qualms the idea of theft, but bristles at the idea violence. Or a computer hacker vs. a gentleman jewel thief?
HL: There are criminals we can get behind, at least in fiction and movies. Maybe even to some degree in real life. You mentioned the “gentleman jewel thief”—what we admire about him isn’t the crime he commits, exactly, so much as the audacity and cleverness of it. And we’re ready to condemn a typical murderer because, frankly, anyone could do that; it doesn’t require any skill set, and it doesn’t have any broader implications. It’s just murder.
If our hero in a story is a killer, we at least want him to have some kind of code about who he kills, like say “Dexter”, or (if you don’t mind me saying) my character Hawthorne.
---
TNE: Do you have a secret pet project that is so unusual it will probably never see the light of day?
HL: No, not really. It’s a new century, there are no genre limits anymore. I feel that I can write anything I want to.
---
TNE: Would you consider your protagonists anti-heros?
HL: Yes. I’ve only ever written one truly heroic character before, and he wasn’t even my creation. Edward Grainger’s Gideon Miles fits the hero bill nicely. He was fun to write about because he has built-in conflicts and lots of personality. But generally I’m more interested in writing about characters who are a bit darker like Hawthorne, or Crowe in CITY OF HERETICS.
---
TNE: Most people would have to be in pretty desperate straits before actively pursuing the sort of criminal activities some of your characters indulge in. What drives your characters? What would drive you to a life of bad-assery?
TNE: Most people would have to be in pretty desperate straits before actively pursuing the sort of criminal activities some of your characters indulge in. What drives your characters? What would drive you to a life of bad-assery?
HL: Ha… At this point, given my background and general view of life, I don’t think I could ever be a bad-ass in that sense. I think environment has everything to do with it—what you grow up thinking of as acceptable, or what you’re like genetically. I’m not stoic or taciturn or tough-minded, and those are the things that make up your classic fictional bad-ass. I wish, though.
---
TNE: Have you ever killed a man?
HL: In Reno. Just to watch him die.
---
TNE: Writing is a solitary business. How does spending so much time alone with your thoughts affect your personal psychology? How does it affect your personal interactions?
HL: It is pretty lonely, sometimes. You’re trapped a great deal of the time in your own head, and it becomes hard to get out of it and function in the real world. One side effect is that I know my own mind, probably better than most people know theirs. Because I’ve had time to indulge in thinking about things that are important to me, I’ve learned to follow the thread of something all the way to the bitter end, and not stop at the first comfortable place I come to. That helps, considering the sort of stuff I write, but it’s also frustrating because you become hyper aware of the amount of bullshit people feed themselves sometimes, just in order to feel good about the world and their place in it.
It can affect personal interactions, for sure. Communicating, even with your closest friends, requires you to put on a face that you’re not entirely comfortable with anymore. The real you is hidden, always. Not by choice, just… that’s the way it works out. And sometimes it’s impossible to articulate exactly what’s happening in your head—and that’s assuming anyone is really interested, anyway.
---
TNE: What else do you have in the pipeline? Any release dates to tell us about?
It can affect personal interactions, for sure. Communicating, even with your closest friends, requires you to put on a face that you’re not entirely comfortable with anymore. The real you is hidden, always. Not by choice, just… that’s the way it works out. And sometimes it’s impossible to articulate exactly what’s happening in your head—and that’s assuming anyone is really interested, anyway.
---
TNE: What else do you have in the pipeline? Any release dates to tell us about?
HL: CITY OF HERETICS and BLUFF CITY BRAWLER (my FIGHT CARD novella) have both just come out in the last month. Before the year is over, I’ll have a second Gideon Miles novella for you, one that takes place in the ‘20’s, and finds Miles facing off against the Axeman of New Orleans. Also, a third Hawthorne horror/western and a handful of short stories. I plan on spending most of next year concentrating on a third and possibly a fourth novel, along with a few more Hawthorne’s (That Damned Coyote Hill and The Long Black Train).
TNE: Would you ever utilize alternative literary devices such as epistolary writing or 2nd person narrative?
HL: That’s doubtful. The goal of writing is to be understood, so I don’t see any point in making your work more obscure.
---
TNE: Who do you read? Anybody current from the large publishing houses worth your time? What small presses are putting out the best stuff?
HL: I haven’t read much from the Big 6 publishers in the last couple of years. That’s not by design, it just worked out that way. And the small presses seem to be the ones keeping dark crime fiction, horror, Westerns and other fringe genres active and interesting. I’ve been lucky to work with some of my favorites, like New Pulp Press, Beat to a Pulp, Snubnose Press.
I’m reluctant to name writers you should check out, because for every one I can think of, there are ten more I’d forget to mention. But if you keep an eye on my blog (Psycho Noir), I’m always recommending great authors and great books.
---
TNE: Is self-publishing (electronic publishing in particular) hurting the business or is it creating opportunities? Is it harder to promote yourself?
HL: I don’t have a lot of experience in self-publishing, since the only thing I’ve put out myself is the short story collection, DIG TEN GRAVES. But I suppose the glut of self-published stuff out there does make it harder to get noticed. We’re in a transitional stage in publishing now, and with every door that’s closed now to new writers, there are other doors opening up. I guess we’ll all have to wait and see.
---
TNE: Tell us a little about “City of Heretics” and how you came to write it.
HL: Glad you asked! CITY OF HERETICS is my second full-length novel, a dark crime thriller. The protagonist, Crowe, is a hard man just out of prison and back in Memphis to even the score against his former Mob employers. Along the way, he crosses paths with a secret society of serial killers posing as a very Old Testament-style Christian church. He uncovers lots of ugliness in the process, including some things about himself he’d have been better off not knowing.
I was reading a lot of Richard Stark and Dan J. Marlowe at the time, and a lot of that stripped down tough-mindedness made its way into CITY OF HERETICS. It’s a very different sort of novel from my first, THE BASTARD HAND, which was, I guess, a bit more leisurely. CITY OF HERETICS is fast and nasty.
---
TNE: What is the best motivator to give a character? Greed? Revenge? Hate? Fear?
TNE: What is the best motivator to give a character? Greed? Revenge? Hate? Fear?
HL: I don’t think there IS a “best” motivator. As long as one exists, that’s what matters.
---
TNE: You've spent time in the south and as a yank. How do the two subcultures speak to your writing?
HL: Memphis had a huge impact on me as a writer, and made me realize that the setting of a novel or story is very, very important. And what you as the writer can draw from it makes all the difference. Detroit is, of course, very different from Memphis, but it still rings all the same tough yet melancholy bells.
---
TNE: “Is reading becoming obsolete?”
HL: No, I don’t think so. People are reading more now than ever, from what I understand. But our methods of reading are changing, obviously.
People will always read fiction, because we’ll always need stories to see us through.
TNE: Ain't that the truth. Heath, thanks for stopping by the Naut. We love your work and we're always looking forward to the next Lowrance release. Continued good luck and success to you!
Tuesday, September 11, 2012
City of Heretics by Heath Lowrance now available!
http://www.amazon.com/City-of-Heretics-ebook/dp/B0095VPFTG/ref=sr_1_7?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1347381064&sr=1-7&keywords=heath+Lowrance
Now available for the Kindle -- go get it! A tough, crime novel full of revenge, action, and an essence so authentically noir you might just retire your Chandler collection.
Now available for the Kindle -- go get it! A tough, crime novel full of revenge, action, and an essence so authentically noir you might just retire your Chandler collection.
Monday, September 3, 2012
The 10 Most Anticipated Fall Movies | Movie Talk - Yahoo! Movies
The 10 Most Anticipated Fall Movies | Movie Talk - Yahoo! Movies:
Several of these look very intriguing..... especially Cloud Atlas. Look around and let me know what grabs you...
Several of these look very intriguing..... especially Cloud Atlas. Look around and let me know what grabs you...
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