Jay Nichols's Blog - Posts Tagged "fiction"
Win a Free Copy of Canis Major!
If you like free stuff, enter to win a free paperback copy of my novel, Canis Major.
It’s an epic psychological thriller about dogs and people, death and life, art and destiny.
Synopsis:
After seventeen-year-old Russell Whitford confronts and kills a rabid dog, he seeks to prevent the news from reaching the dog’s owner, whose hair-trigger temper is well-known in the small town of Riley, Alabama. Russell can count on silence from two of the three witnesses who watched him hack Hector Graham’s Bloodhound to death, but the third, Michael O’Brien, isn’t like the other two. His allegiance isn’t as fixed as Russell would like it to be.
When the Centers for Disease Control arrive in town, and dogs begin running away, and gun shots start ringing out in the dead of night, Russell’s summer goes from bad to worse. All he wants to do is play his piano and guitar, maybe walk his dog every now and then, not have the weight of the universe hoisted upon his shoulders.
Here’s the intro:
Those mind-numbing days, how they creep—no, make that slither—underneath your fence, across your backyard, over your porch, through your kitchen, up your staircase, past your bedroom door, into your room, and kink up into a tight and tidy coil underneath your bed. If March enters a lion and leaves a lamb, then August slides in as easily and unobtrusively as a serpent seeking a cool place to lie. But it is always hesitant to leave. Once that cool, dark spot is found, nothing short of slaughter will get it to relinquish its position. It will hiss. It will strike. It will defend itself to its very death.
Yet it’s funny how, over time, we forget that a snake is even there. It slips from our minds because we want it to slip from our minds. As we prepare for the world of routine and structure, the egress of summer propels us away from thoughts of snakes and slaughter. We now have more important things to worry about. And when September arrives, bringing with it Labor Day and the first day of school, we are left to wonder how we could have possibly gotten out of August alive. Until that, too, slithers from our consciousness. Now it’s only a matter of days before the leaves outside our windows turn to flame. And the moment they do, you can bet we’ll begin ravaging our cedar chests for the heavy, woolen clothes we probably won’t even get to wear. Then comes Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Years…
But wait—what about that serpent of August? Did it die when the seasons changed? Or is it still alive, waiting patiently, stealthily, for its month of glory to roll back around? If, say, in November, you were to reach under your bed for some wayward shoe, would August not spring forth and bite your prying hand?
The sad fact is that August never dies; it is merely forgotten. A month without borders, many have felt its doldrums in the middle of October, when the thermometer stretches its thin, red tongue to lap at the century mark. Yes, places like this exist, places where people talk slow and drink iced tea even slower, where good manners are not only charming but are de rigueur.
August is cruelest to these people. Like certain mites, it burrows beneath their skins and proceeds to slowly drive them mad with itches they cannot sufficiently scratch. The things they say…things like: “How about this heat?” To which some poor schlub has to, must, mutter back: “It ain’t the heat, it’s the humidity.” The truest of clichés. Knowing laughs all around. Because it is the humidity. And when the heat and the humidity combine: look out! Should you be so brave as to venture out in the middle of the day or climb inside your car after it has been baking in the merciless afternoon sun, sweat will drip down the small of your back in under a minute. Wait another five and the material around your armpits will darken and soak through. A damp shirt is the hallmark of the South. People wear their sweat-soaked shirts with pride. After all, why fight it? September is right around the corner and on its heels, October. Hey, it’s starting to feel cooler out already. Hell, Christmas’ll be here before we know it!
Does this train of thought sound delusional to you? If it does, then you’ve never dipped your soul below the Mason-Dixon Line. In the South, Better Days are only a week, month or growing season away. It’s a type of optimism that began long before General Lee lifted his pen in an Appomattox court house and…well…let’s just leave it at that. The truth is you can actually feel those Better Days coming, and the feeling is like no other in the world. It’s a feeling of arrival, a light hearted, bubbly sensation, like a pixie is flitting about inside your belly, kneading your solar plexus with fists too tiny to imagine.
Perhaps you will dream of your exciting future—a future filled with popularity, lavishness, subservient female companionship and, if you’re lucky, canine loyalty—you know, those sticky, summer dreams that seem more real than dreams dreamt any other time of year. Then as you wake the next morning, primed to explode with sanguine anticipation, you reach under your bed for that missing shoe and that…fucking…snake. Those blissful hopes and dreams of a bright new world? Gone.
Yes, these are the Dog Days, my friend—a period of lassitude and lethargy that oozed in when we were least expecting it, though we should have seen it coming all along. You’d be well-advised to remember that August is a month of death, disease, and mosquitos. Drought, heat, and rot. Incessantly drumming cicadas, aggressive cockroaches that won’t take no for an answer, and insidious termite invasions. And raccoons. Yes, raccoons. Should you see one of those creatures in the light of day stumbling along a backwoods dirt road as if drunk off of seventeen paw-fulls of grandpa’s best corn hooch, run like hell.
It shouldn’t be stumbling around like that. In fact, it shouldn’t even be there in the daytime. Then again, in all honesty, neither should you.
It’s an epic psychological thriller about dogs and people, death and life, art and destiny.
Synopsis:
After seventeen-year-old Russell Whitford confronts and kills a rabid dog, he seeks to prevent the news from reaching the dog’s owner, whose hair-trigger temper is well-known in the small town of Riley, Alabama. Russell can count on silence from two of the three witnesses who watched him hack Hector Graham’s Bloodhound to death, but the third, Michael O’Brien, isn’t like the other two. His allegiance isn’t as fixed as Russell would like it to be.
When the Centers for Disease Control arrive in town, and dogs begin running away, and gun shots start ringing out in the dead of night, Russell’s summer goes from bad to worse. All he wants to do is play his piano and guitar, maybe walk his dog every now and then, not have the weight of the universe hoisted upon his shoulders.
Here’s the intro:
Those mind-numbing days, how they creep—no, make that slither—underneath your fence, across your backyard, over your porch, through your kitchen, up your staircase, past your bedroom door, into your room, and kink up into a tight and tidy coil underneath your bed. If March enters a lion and leaves a lamb, then August slides in as easily and unobtrusively as a serpent seeking a cool place to lie. But it is always hesitant to leave. Once that cool, dark spot is found, nothing short of slaughter will get it to relinquish its position. It will hiss. It will strike. It will defend itself to its very death.
Yet it’s funny how, over time, we forget that a snake is even there. It slips from our minds because we want it to slip from our minds. As we prepare for the world of routine and structure, the egress of summer propels us away from thoughts of snakes and slaughter. We now have more important things to worry about. And when September arrives, bringing with it Labor Day and the first day of school, we are left to wonder how we could have possibly gotten out of August alive. Until that, too, slithers from our consciousness. Now it’s only a matter of days before the leaves outside our windows turn to flame. And the moment they do, you can bet we’ll begin ravaging our cedar chests for the heavy, woolen clothes we probably won’t even get to wear. Then comes Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Years…
But wait—what about that serpent of August? Did it die when the seasons changed? Or is it still alive, waiting patiently, stealthily, for its month of glory to roll back around? If, say, in November, you were to reach under your bed for some wayward shoe, would August not spring forth and bite your prying hand?
The sad fact is that August never dies; it is merely forgotten. A month without borders, many have felt its doldrums in the middle of October, when the thermometer stretches its thin, red tongue to lap at the century mark. Yes, places like this exist, places where people talk slow and drink iced tea even slower, where good manners are not only charming but are de rigueur.
August is cruelest to these people. Like certain mites, it burrows beneath their skins and proceeds to slowly drive them mad with itches they cannot sufficiently scratch. The things they say…things like: “How about this heat?” To which some poor schlub has to, must, mutter back: “It ain’t the heat, it’s the humidity.” The truest of clichés. Knowing laughs all around. Because it is the humidity. And when the heat and the humidity combine: look out! Should you be so brave as to venture out in the middle of the day or climb inside your car after it has been baking in the merciless afternoon sun, sweat will drip down the small of your back in under a minute. Wait another five and the material around your armpits will darken and soak through. A damp shirt is the hallmark of the South. People wear their sweat-soaked shirts with pride. After all, why fight it? September is right around the corner and on its heels, October. Hey, it’s starting to feel cooler out already. Hell, Christmas’ll be here before we know it!
Does this train of thought sound delusional to you? If it does, then you’ve never dipped your soul below the Mason-Dixon Line. In the South, Better Days are only a week, month or growing season away. It’s a type of optimism that began long before General Lee lifted his pen in an Appomattox court house and…well…let’s just leave it at that. The truth is you can actually feel those Better Days coming, and the feeling is like no other in the world. It’s a feeling of arrival, a light hearted, bubbly sensation, like a pixie is flitting about inside your belly, kneading your solar plexus with fists too tiny to imagine.
Perhaps you will dream of your exciting future—a future filled with popularity, lavishness, subservient female companionship and, if you’re lucky, canine loyalty—you know, those sticky, summer dreams that seem more real than dreams dreamt any other time of year. Then as you wake the next morning, primed to explode with sanguine anticipation, you reach under your bed for that missing shoe and that…fucking…snake. Those blissful hopes and dreams of a bright new world? Gone.
Yes, these are the Dog Days, my friend—a period of lassitude and lethargy that oozed in when we were least expecting it, though we should have seen it coming all along. You’d be well-advised to remember that August is a month of death, disease, and mosquitos. Drought, heat, and rot. Incessantly drumming cicadas, aggressive cockroaches that won’t take no for an answer, and insidious termite invasions. And raccoons. Yes, raccoons. Should you see one of those creatures in the light of day stumbling along a backwoods dirt road as if drunk off of seventeen paw-fulls of grandpa’s best corn hooch, run like hell.
It shouldn’t be stumbling around like that. In fact, it shouldn’t even be there in the daytime. Then again, in all honesty, neither should you.
Free Short Story - Emily Smiles for April
My new short story, Emily Smiles for April, will be free for download on Amazon Kindle today and tomorrow (4/29-4/30). It’s a young adult/chick lit story, but the themes are universal. Anybody can read it. No, scratch that. Everybody should read it.
http://www.amazon.com/Emily-Smiles-fo...
Here’s the breakdown:
Emily receives a bouquet of violets for her sixteenth birthday. She thinks they remain in a vase on her nightstand, but they keep showing up in the most unusual places.
In a perfect world, this mysterious phenomenon would elicit a bewildered smile from Emily, but Emily doesn’t doesn’t smile much anymore. Then again, Emily’s world is far from perfect.
If you like this story, check out my other ones too.
Free Short Story - Monkey Bars
If you're in the mood for a free short story this weekend (4/27-4/28), come get one here:
http://www.amazon.com/Monkey-Bars-ebo...
On the precipice between salvation and ruin, an unnamed man sits alone in a parked car, waiting for something to happen. Reminiscing about the good old days can only take him so far. It's up to him - and only him - to choose his fate.
As always, reviews are appreciated.
http://www.amazon.com/Monkey-Bars-ebo...
On the precipice between salvation and ruin, an unnamed man sits alone in a parked car, waiting for something to happen. Reminiscing about the good old days can only take him so far. It's up to him - and only him - to choose his fate.
As always, reviews are appreciated.
Novelists, Please Don't Do This!
If you write fiction, please refrain from tacking on an Acknowledgements section after the last chapter of your manuscript. Let the book end where the story ends. Your readers' last thoughts should be with the characters you created, not your Aunt Molly or your wife and kids--they weren't even in the story.
Your novel isn't a movie, so end credits are completely superfluous. I know many caring souls helped while you were writing your book--no man is an island and all of that--but, the truth is, none of your readers care. It comes across as an acceptance speech. You haven't won an award. You haven't even been nominated for anything. All you've done is written a book. And that is an awesome accomplishment in and of itself. Be proud of that.
Your novel isn't a movie, so end credits are completely superfluous. I know many caring souls helped while you were writing your book--no man is an island and all of that--but, the truth is, none of your readers care. It comes across as an acceptance speech. You haven't won an award. You haven't even been nominated for anything. All you've done is written a book. And that is an awesome accomplishment in and of itself. Be proud of that.
Free Short Story - Emily Smiles for April
Emily receives a bouquet of violets for her sixteenth birthday. She thinks they remain in a vase on her nightstand, but they keep showing up in the most unusual places.
In a perfect world, this mysterious phenomenon would elicit a bewildered smile from Emily, but Emily doesn't doesn't smile much anymore. Then again, Emily's world is far from perfect.
Looking for reviews!! On here and Amazon.
http://www.amazon.com/Emily-Smiles-Ap...
In a perfect world, this mysterious phenomenon would elicit a bewildered smile from Emily, but Emily doesn't doesn't smile much anymore. Then again, Emily's world is far from perfect.
Looking for reviews!! On here and Amazon.
http://www.amazon.com/Emily-Smiles-Ap...
Trawling for Reviews - "Monkey Bars" Edition
If you want a free Kindle short story, you can get one here:
http://www.amazon.com/Monkey-Bars-Jay...
It may depress you, it may shock you; you may not even care!
Basically, I'm trawling for reviews (for here and amazon), so do your patriotic duty: read my story and write a review! (Come on, I know you've read and rated worse books on this site. How else do all the other no-name authors get hundreds of reviews?)
http://www.amazon.com/Monkey-Bars-Jay...
It may depress you, it may shock you; you may not even care!
Basically, I'm trawling for reviews (for here and amazon), so do your patriotic duty: read my story and write a review! (Come on, I know you've read and rated worse books on this site. How else do all the other no-name authors get hundreds of reviews?)
Who's Ready for the Super Bowl?
I heard some talk about a Big Game this weekend. (Yes, the B in big and G in game are capitalized, and rightly so.) If you're anything like me (and chances are you're not), then you're probably wondering, "Who cares? Isn't there a Big Game every Sunday?"
Whoa! Whoa, whoa, whoa.... Back it up, Junior. Beep, beep, beep. This isn't just any Big Game. It's the motherfrickin' Super Bowl! This is the game that determines the champion of football, or something.
Personally, I get all warm and fuzzy inside every time I see a rich person getting what he wants, but it is especially gratifying to witness a whole team of rich people accomplish their goal of being the best at something that, in terms of brutality, let's be honest, is one step below Thunder Dome.
But that is neither here nor there. My feelings on football aside, I wish everybody the best, from the players to the fans to the real heroes, the corporate sponsors, who do their gosh-darn best to brainwash us into buying things we'll never need.
So, I wrote a short little ditty called "Uprising" a couple of weeks ago. (How's that for a segue?) It focuses on a Big Game, but in my story, it's a college football game. If you like kids playing pranks and other shenanigans, then come check out "Uprising" this weekend, Super Bowl weekend. Did I mention it's free? Well, it is.
Here's the link:
http://www.amazon.com/Uprising-Jay-Ni...
Whoa! Whoa, whoa, whoa.... Back it up, Junior. Beep, beep, beep. This isn't just any Big Game. It's the motherfrickin' Super Bowl! This is the game that determines the champion of football, or something.
Personally, I get all warm and fuzzy inside every time I see a rich person getting what he wants, but it is especially gratifying to witness a whole team of rich people accomplish their goal of being the best at something that, in terms of brutality, let's be honest, is one step below Thunder Dome.
But that is neither here nor there. My feelings on football aside, I wish everybody the best, from the players to the fans to the real heroes, the corporate sponsors, who do their gosh-darn best to brainwash us into buying things we'll never need.
So, I wrote a short little ditty called "Uprising" a couple of weeks ago. (How's that for a segue?) It focuses on a Big Game, but in my story, it's a college football game. If you like kids playing pranks and other shenanigans, then come check out "Uprising" this weekend, Super Bowl weekend. Did I mention it's free? Well, it is.
Here's the link:
http://www.amazon.com/Uprising-Jay-Ni...
Who Likes Free Stuff? (I Like Free Stuff!)
One of my short stories, Emily Smiles for April, is free over at Smashwords. Did I mention it was free?
Here's the link and description:
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view...
Emily receives a bouquet of violets for her sixteenth birthday. She thinks they remain in a vase on her nightstand, but they keep popping up in the most unusual places.
In a perfect world, this mysterious phenomenon would elicit a bewildered smile from Emily,
but Emily doesn't doesn't smile much anymore. Then again, Emily's world is far from perfect.
Here's the link and description:
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view...
Emily receives a bouquet of violets for her sixteenth birthday. She thinks they remain in a vase on her nightstand, but they keep popping up in the most unusual places.
In a perfect world, this mysterious phenomenon would elicit a bewildered smile from Emily,
but Emily doesn't doesn't smile much anymore. Then again, Emily's world is far from perfect.
Better than The Hunger Games
Bold statement, sure, but do you know of a better way to advertise?
Book of Suburbia is free on Kindle today, May 16th, if you're interested. Here's a snippet:
http://www.amazon.com/Book-Suburbia-J...
Reflected in a rippling pool of gutter water a metal hawk razored across the midday sky, belching a long trailing shriek as she crossed zenith and descended talons-first into her nearby nest on the horizon. The prophet Austin’s shined black loafer described a high arc over the pool and onto the waydrive of a one-story dwelling. Close behind followed his brother in Christ, Chad, though his loafer did crash into the pool-water and split the image of the metal bird asunder.
“Brother Austin,” called out Chad, quickening his pace. “Brother Austin, I regret to inform you of this matter, but I wetted my pant-cuff in the puddle we just traversed.”
“Fear not, Brother Chad,” Austin replied, turning and tugging at Chad’s saturated pant leg, administering to the crease, “for to these earthly eyes it is not noticeable. We wear dark slacks for occurrences such as these. As you know, the elders have prepared us for every possible misfortune we may encounter along our way.”
The prophet Chad lifted his gaze and met Austin’s. “I—I do not wish to misrepresent the Lord. My shoddy garment, I fear, may hinder the fulfillment of our charge.”
Austin lay his palm on Chad’s shoulder and said, “Brother, you merely stepped in gutter water. The Lord will not look unkindly on your mistake. Come along now. Our duty calls.”
Austin and Chad advanced toward the front door, then stopped immediately thence. A fake water sprite in the meadow to their right vomited rain onto the waydrive, thwarting their forward progress. Slowly she arched her back and blew her torrent onto the lush ultragreen grass.
“Now, brother. We go now.”
Austin and Chad hurried over the wet concrete, pulling paper-gospels from their shirt pockets as they went. On the porch, Chad rapped the oaken plank. He smoothed the wrinkles from his shirt, straightened his posture, and constructed his face into a most pleasant visage. Austin did much likewise, but while his brother was making his preparatory groomings, he stepped slightly ahead, into the position of prominence.
After much time, Chad knocked again. Waiting, he coughed into his fist, ran his knuckles over his temples and down the nape of his neck, then flicked the accumulated perspiration from his fingertips to the greeting mat and porch-floor. His thumb he pushed into the bottom of the paper-gospel and constructed a fan for his face.
Noticing the blasphemy, Austin called out, “What do you do, brother? You do not use the Word in such a way! God will smite us if you continue to do that! Here, now, unfold the gospel and set it right.”
Ashamed, Chad looked at Austin sullenly. “You will not tell the elders, will you?” he asked, unbending the slight crease in the paper-gospel and sliding it back into his shirt pocket.
Austin ignored the question, sniffed once, and said rightly, “Henceforth, we shall only discuss matters of the Lord.”
Another metal raptor whirred into sight overhead, straight-shot for its nesting grounds in the pits of the nearby metropolis. Chad looked over Austin’s shoulder at the crying bird. Her body caught the sun, and a silver shard lightninged down, piercing Chad’s eyes.
Book of Suburbia is free on Kindle today, May 16th, if you're interested. Here's a snippet:
http://www.amazon.com/Book-Suburbia-J...
Reflected in a rippling pool of gutter water a metal hawk razored across the midday sky, belching a long trailing shriek as she crossed zenith and descended talons-first into her nearby nest on the horizon. The prophet Austin’s shined black loafer described a high arc over the pool and onto the waydrive of a one-story dwelling. Close behind followed his brother in Christ, Chad, though his loafer did crash into the pool-water and split the image of the metal bird asunder.
“Brother Austin,” called out Chad, quickening his pace. “Brother Austin, I regret to inform you of this matter, but I wetted my pant-cuff in the puddle we just traversed.”
“Fear not, Brother Chad,” Austin replied, turning and tugging at Chad’s saturated pant leg, administering to the crease, “for to these earthly eyes it is not noticeable. We wear dark slacks for occurrences such as these. As you know, the elders have prepared us for every possible misfortune we may encounter along our way.”
The prophet Chad lifted his gaze and met Austin’s. “I—I do not wish to misrepresent the Lord. My shoddy garment, I fear, may hinder the fulfillment of our charge.”
Austin lay his palm on Chad’s shoulder and said, “Brother, you merely stepped in gutter water. The Lord will not look unkindly on your mistake. Come along now. Our duty calls.”
Austin and Chad advanced toward the front door, then stopped immediately thence. A fake water sprite in the meadow to their right vomited rain onto the waydrive, thwarting their forward progress. Slowly she arched her back and blew her torrent onto the lush ultragreen grass.
“Now, brother. We go now.”
Austin and Chad hurried over the wet concrete, pulling paper-gospels from their shirt pockets as they went. On the porch, Chad rapped the oaken plank. He smoothed the wrinkles from his shirt, straightened his posture, and constructed his face into a most pleasant visage. Austin did much likewise, but while his brother was making his preparatory groomings, he stepped slightly ahead, into the position of prominence.
After much time, Chad knocked again. Waiting, he coughed into his fist, ran his knuckles over his temples and down the nape of his neck, then flicked the accumulated perspiration from his fingertips to the greeting mat and porch-floor. His thumb he pushed into the bottom of the paper-gospel and constructed a fan for his face.
Noticing the blasphemy, Austin called out, “What do you do, brother? You do not use the Word in such a way! God will smite us if you continue to do that! Here, now, unfold the gospel and set it right.”
Ashamed, Chad looked at Austin sullenly. “You will not tell the elders, will you?” he asked, unbending the slight crease in the paper-gospel and sliding it back into his shirt pocket.
Austin ignored the question, sniffed once, and said rightly, “Henceforth, we shall only discuss matters of the Lord.”
Another metal raptor whirred into sight overhead, straight-shot for its nesting grounds in the pits of the nearby metropolis. Chad looked over Austin’s shoulder at the crying bird. Her body caught the sun, and a silver shard lightninged down, piercing Chad’s eyes.
Free Kindle Novel - Today Only!
It's been a while since I've done this, but anyway, here's a free novel for you to read this weekend:
https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B00...
After seventeen-year-old Russell Whitford confronts and kills a rabid dog, he seeks to prevent the news from reaching the dog's owner, whose hair-trigger temper is well-known in the small town of Riley, Alabama. Russell can count on silence from two of the witnesses who watched him hack Hector Graham's Bloodhound to death, but the third, Michael O'Brien, isn't at all like the other two. His allegiance is not as fixed as Russell would like it to be.
When the Centers for Disease Control arrives in town, and dogs begin running away, and gun shots start ringing out in the dead of night, Russell's summer goes from bad to worse. All he wants is to play his piano and guitar, maybe walk his dog every now and then, not have the weight of the universe hoisted on his shoulders.
https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B00...
After seventeen-year-old Russell Whitford confronts and kills a rabid dog, he seeks to prevent the news from reaching the dog's owner, whose hair-trigger temper is well-known in the small town of Riley, Alabama. Russell can count on silence from two of the witnesses who watched him hack Hector Graham's Bloodhound to death, but the third, Michael O'Brien, isn't at all like the other two. His allegiance is not as fixed as Russell would like it to be.
When the Centers for Disease Control arrives in town, and dogs begin running away, and gun shots start ringing out in the dead of night, Russell's summer goes from bad to worse. All he wants is to play his piano and guitar, maybe walk his dog every now and then, not have the weight of the universe hoisted on his shoulders.
