An Ancient Mariner... Indeed, Mr. Chwedyk.

Since the release earlier this month of "Drink for the Thirst to Come," the collection has been gathering some very nice comments from other writers. I wanted to excerpt and post a few here.

"Santoro is a master at the top of his game, believe me!"
--Robert Walker, author of "Shadows in the White City," and "Children of Salem."
"Emerging as one of our true worthy successors to Ray Bradbury...Lawrence Santoro captures lightning in a killing jar... Lyrical, horrific, and luminous with dark wonder.”
--Jay Bonansinga, New York Times bestselling co-author of "The Walking Dead: Rise of the Governor."

"Lawrence Santoro turns the emotional volume to 11 and cranks it up from there...with a breathless sense of detail and cadence..."
--Richard Chwedyk, Nebula Award-winning author of "Bronte's Egg."

Jay's entire comment: “Emerging as one of our true worthy successors to Ray Bradbury, Chicago scribe Lawrence Santoro captures lightning in a killing jar in his new collection DRINK FOR THE THIRST TO COME. Lyrical, horrific, and luminous with dark wonder, Santoro’s tales frame archetypes such as zombies, the apocalypse, the mysteries of space, and good old fashioned monsters with heartbreaking undercurrents of humanity and… well… sadness. Haunting and highly recommended!”

Here's what Richard said: “In these stories, Larry Santoro turns the emotional volume to 11 and cranks it up from there. They are set in worlds at once familiar and unique, amusing and horrifying, brought to life with a breathless sense of detail and cadence. The slightest gesture is illuminated with the passionate, unfaltering precision of an Ancient Mariner unfolding his tale, commanding your uncompromised attention.”

A Question for My Readers

Let me prep you:

The expanded, 'author's cut' of my first novel, "Just North of Nowhere" is currently available on Kindle for $4.99. It's a big generous book, a five-star, dark fantasy set in a small town in the upper Midwest and deals with...

Well, go have a look. You can go here: http://www.amazon.com/Just-North-of-Nowhere-ebook/dp/B0054HKRC0/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1324613885&sr=8-1 Or you can just click on the headline, "A Question for My Readers," above.
The mood, the atmosphere, the characters are in the Bradbury vein and it's a good read for just about everyone in the family.
The question: it's $4.99. Would you pick it up if it were, say $1.99?

Let me know. Stop by my Facebook page, send an email. Call. And, if you like the book, please consider giving it a review.

And don't forget "Drink for the Thirst to Come." That's up there, too.

Now on Kindle...

I spoke too soon. I said it would be up soon. "Drink for the Thirst to Come" is now available on Kindle. $2.99. Wow. I'll have to get one, myself. And if you like it, please consider it for a Stoker nod or at least a nice review on Amazon.

Well, that's even old news because I did get one myself. Just wanted to look at it there on my screen...savor it...love it with my eyes and fingertips only. And it's easier to read from at signings and such... No really!

It's here...

There it is. One pound of it. 365pages of it. I'm happy. The image should be up on the Amazon site in a few days--along with the option to buy it on Kindle--but here it is.

And when you buy it-- and you will--please read it aloud--which you should--and after that, if you like it--which goes without saying--I hope you'll return to Amzon and write a glowing review of it--which will be completely honest--and let me know about it.

So enjoy.

A Winter's Tale

I wrote this story years and years ago. Then it was part of a novel that drifted away. It was published years ago in more or less the same form as you have it here. I posted it a year ago but I wanted to put it back up because I have a lot of affection for it. Except for my father not being killed in World War II, it's almost autobiographical. It's also almost biographical because my father's brother was seriously wounded in the War. Here it is. It's called...

A WORD FROM THE WORLD

The snow had started the day before. The sun was bright in a clear sky and it snowed! Each flake caught the sun. Sparkles swam in the air living along the wind. People passing on Cottage Street looked up to the clear air to let the cold colors hit them in the eye, or on the glasses. They smiled, admiring their shadows as they walked and the sunny, sunny snowstorm falling around them.
A genuine curiosity, Pop-pop called it.
Soon, though, the sky became gray and the snow continued into the dark. This was more like it. All that blew and rolled down streets, all the things that stood at corners, squatted in the back alley or at the bottom of the yard were, first, stopped, then pinned to the ground by the falling snow, then covered into smooth lumps.
It snowed all through supper and after. It snowed through the radio and Pop-pop's reading. It snowed even harder when I went to bed. All night, I'd wake and go to the window to wish for more; I pressed my face against the cold glass to peer at the sky above the eaves. I wanted there to be more snow in it. And there was. The sky was black but the air was lit by the streetlight at the end of the alley. Pieces of white day fell through the night and brushed little whiskers against the glass. I thought the wet chill would crack my cheek when I smiled.
In the morning the world was new. Yesterday's lumps were smooth and the spaces between them were even and white. In the yard, the snow had rolled in on waves of wind from over the far fence and dropped quietly and deeply. It filled the space from the back of the house to the alley, then buried the fence and the alley. Then it buried the Erby's fence across the way; then buried their yard, too. Then everything was all the same.
When the wind blew hard enough to make the electric pole by the corner sway and the wires clack and chatter their icy silver loads that had been building through the storm, Pop-pop looked up and down the alley. He shook his head. "We'd best stay in," he said. "All of us." Falling wires, he said. Careful, he said. Electrocution, he said.
Nanna looked into the pantry and shook her head. "The food'll never last," she said.
When the wind howled, the snow rose alive, spinning, and the world went white. So big a thing as Mount Amos disappeared. So too, did Aunt and Uncle Erby's house across the alley. Our yard began, now, at the back door and went on forever, around other houses and on forever. The world was just our place, just our house and the sweetly shaped mounds of snow stretching forever. A few black lines crossed above, or rose from it. A pole down the way. The very tips of the back fence, dead black morning glory vines still hanging in tatters from summer. Then nothing. The end of the world. Our place only.

I said once that by the time the telegram came, I already knew. Here's what happened.

It was in that snow. Mother and I were on the front porch. A trolley passed the house and rumbled slowly, slipping, wheels spinning uphill toward the end of town. A man came up the sidewalk. Through the snow I heard him whistling Rum and Coca-Cola. I laughed. Snow was blowing in front, behind, around him. It was climbing his legs and wrapping his face. It looked as if you could see right through him, as though pieces of him were being carved away by the wind. He looked alive inside with snow.
I laughed some more. He heard me laugh and looked up. He saw me on the porch with Mother. He looked at the door behind me then at the envelope in his hand. I laughed and he had seen us. Mother was tucking me, buttoning my face into the wool snow suit, already wet from the blowing snow. I laughed and she turned to see. She saw the man coming and stopped, her fingers stopped on the button at my mouth. I could smell cold, wet wool and my mother's warm skin, cold cream smooth and fragrant from morning's dishes.
The street was empty. The hill was white all the way to where it disappeared. Black sticks stuck out, here, there: Trees. A fence. Phone poles. The trolley tracks were black lines along the way, then they glazed over white, then vanished. The wind howled and for a minute the street faded into white, then vanished, too. The man disappeared with the rest of the world. The world was our porch and Mother frozen at my mouth and I thought, "Good. He's gone. Daddy'll be alright." Then the wind dropped its voice, and the man stepped onto our porch and shook his hat like a dog.
There was nothing to it at all. He wiped his glasses with his finger like a windshield wiper. They fogged up again and he took them off and squinted at the paper.
"Mrs. Er-ness-toe De Angel...?"
Mother nodded. "DeAngelo, yes.††Ernest. It's just Ernie. His name is. Yes. Ernesto. But he's just Ernie."
He brushed the snow off the envelope, gently. He was so gentle; she reached for it, took it, held it, turned it over in her hands. He said, "sign here," and gave her a book and a pen. It wouldn't write.
"Sorry," she said. He took back the pen and blew on it, then rolled it between his two hands, shook it. A big splat of blue plopped onto the snow on the porch. "Sorry," he said. She said, "That's alright." and wrote in the man's book. She put the cap back on the pen and handed it to him, said, "I'll have to get you some money..." and he, "That's okay, Mrs. ma'am. That's okay. I don't need any. I don't usually get." Then he was gone toward town. Another blast of wind rolled the snow, but I could still see him. In a second, the trolley loomed down the hill. It slid on the rails. Sparks showered into the snow from the line above. It stopped. Silent for a moment. It was the only thing we could see in the world. And the man. The trolley and the man. The man got into the trolley. The bell clanged and sounded very close in the wooly snow and the silence. The sweep of the wind went with it, somehow. The trolley growled its sandy wheels against the tracks and disappeared toward town.
Mother held the envelope. I had been forgotten. The wooly button at my mouth was still loose. The envelope was very small.
I knew it meant that daddy wouldn't be home; that he was going to stay at the Pacific Theater. Until the next show. Or the next one. Can you imagine that? That he'd stay away for a long, long time and that I'd be an orphan, now. I didn't want people to look at me right then. I didn't want them to talk to me. All I knew was the backyard was filled with snow taller than me.
I followed her into the house. I was a ghost. Invisible, I could make noises but not lift things, not change things. I could only be what had already been.
No one spoke. Mother stood in the living room and looked at the envelope. It dripped. Nanna came down from upstairs and stopped on the steps to look. Pop-pop came in from the kitchen and looked. I continued on through the house. No one noticed. To the kitchen. There were voices, distant, behind me. I went out back. I was ready for the snow, for the day. The whole expanse of the yard was at my feet. The snow drifted in curving hills to the second floor of Uncle Erby's place. Maggie the dog, looked out an upper window at me. Her tongue on the glass made clear places in the breath haze that bloomed around her nose and muzzle.
The snow started at my feet. I could tunnel through the world, I thought. A tunnel could go anywhere. Everywhere. It would be very cold under the snow, but maybe not too dark. Snow was white.
I dragged open the door to the back porch toilet, the kaibo Pop-pop called it. It was now just a storage place for garden things, junk, old spiders and must, things forgotten. My summer shovel and pail. Too small to dig a tunnel through the world. I tossed them aside. I found Nanna's garden spade. Too long. Too heavy. Pop-pop's cinder shovel was just my size. He used it to fill gunny sacks with furnace ashes. These he kept in the trunk of the LaSalle for winter weight, for traction. The shovel was short. Light. It had a pointed blade. I could dig anywhere with it. A good tool is the first part of a good job, Daddy'd said.
I scooped as I waded down the steps. I tossed, packed, shoved and soon was at the bottom of the porch stairs. The snow rose over my head. I was surrounded by whiteness and was dripping hot already. Sweat tickled down my back and became cold on my skin. I pushed my mittens into the snow in front. It gave way. I leaned into it and fell, slowly, gently carried to the ground. I scooped shovelsful behind me. Soon I was on my knees and burrowing like a groundhog on my way. I shoved the cold, packed whiteness aside, pressing it against the walls of my tunnel. Forcing my way into the heart of winter. It was bright day.

I realized soon how large the world was. I had no idea before. I scooped and scraped, patted and pressed the sides of the tunnel, the roof, smoothed it all, made it nice. Kept going. The sun was far away, on the other side of the snow roof. Out there.
Faint light seeped from where I had begun at the porch, down to where I dug. It darkened as I scooped. I wished I had brought daddy's nightcrawler lantern. I could see it under his bench in the basement. I could see it in the cardboard box, a rag covering most of it. I could see its little clear dome and shiny handle, its flat metal base. I could feel its weight, carrying it. In the darkening snow tunnel, I could almost see the rings of light it made on the tree leaves overhead, could almost hear daddy talking about the fishing we'd have with this beauty that he dangled in my nose before dropping it wriggling into the pail, laughing. Mosquitos and other sweaty summer bugs sang in my ears, climbed in the light against the leaves. The fat worm wriggled into the dirt in the pail and was gone.
The lamp was back there, a world away. In the basement, under the place where people talked.
My breath was just dull gray, now, not silver bright anymore. I wondered how far I'd come. Nowhere near the other side of the world, I knew that. I didn't think I was even at the end of the yard. I tucked my knees to my chin and scooted 'round to lean against the tunnel wall and breathe. The Erby house was ahead. I'd have to get around it. That was first. Then around their garage. Then through Pan's Park. Then up the mountain. After the mountain was the other side, down to Carsonia. A long way from there was Philly. After that, I wasn't sure. I knew that the Pacific Theater started somewhere after Philly. Daddy had gone first to Philly. Then somewhere else.
If I could only remember what Daddy had said. About everything. I could find him, if I could remember. I knew that. Everything that Daddy had said was important, now. Was clues. I had to remember to not get confused with other things. Things I made up, things other people told me. If I could remember it all, I could get to him and we could watch Gone With the Wind together at the Pacific Theater, then come home. Maybe get some ice cream first at Rexall, some hot chocolate. Then we'd come home. I was really mad. Just like daddy got sometimes at me. I was really mad!
When I punched the sides of the tunnel, the wall gave way a little. I punched it again, then I scooped. I widened the scoop. I scraped above, dug below. Soon there was a side passage going a different way. It pointed toward 18th Street. I knew that. The world was so large. I could avoid the Erby house, go around it, then up, up, up the mountain. I started deepening this new route. It was very, very dark in a very short time. Black. I had to back out to where I had branched off. Maybe the other way. I dug for another few minutes until it got too dark in that way and returned to the main shaft.
A curve? Maybe the light would follow a gentle bend? It seemed right and I started to angle left, making the main route to the world into a long gentle arc. Soon it was dark again and I just wanted to stretch out and rest. I was going to need light. I scooped out a little room in the snow, enough space for me to just stretch out. I lay flat on my back. Looked up. If I closed my eyes and pressed against them with my mittens, it was a different dark than if I kept them open. I liked that. It was so quiet out here in the world. The snow was just a few inches above my face. I reached up and smoothed it. Smoothed it flat. Smoothed it hard like a well-packed snowball. It was warmer in there than it was on the outside where wind blew and the cold tried to suck the air out of my chest. There was no wind and the tips of my ears were hot. My fingers were wrinkled. It was warm. I made a little place to lean. It fit me well and was so comfortable. I scraped the ceiling. Some snow fell in my face. It tasted good. Almost sweet. It melted in my mouth and trickled down my throat. It melted on my nose and ran down my neck.
How long would the snow last? How long until it went away and the whole earth would be hard and confusing again with too many roads everywhere and not enough ways to get there? Snow always lasted a long time, but never long enough. I couldn't really rest if I was going to tunnel to the Pacific to find Daddy. I started again. Didn't think, just started into the darkness.
That is what I'm doing, I said. I'm digging to find Daddy at the Pacific Theater and watch Gone With the Wind with him, Sock, the Morons, the First Shirt and all the guys from basic training and his letters. We'd all be together. Maybe I'd need an airplane to fly over the boot camp, to fly over England where the drooling British lived in darkness, and to get to the Pacific Theater where they were all watching Gone With the Wind. I knew it was a long way to travel. But all the world was covered in snow. I was certain of that and that meant that I could get there from here. I'd dig under boot camp, under the British. Then I'll bring him home and we can all go to Carsonia Park and this time, THIS time, I will, I will ride Blitzen the Roller Coaster and maybe I'll even stand and not worry about the "Don't Stand" sign. I'll forget about rats and dirty feet. We'll go to the shooting gallery and shoot the bear together and win big rabbits and give them to Mother. I won't loose my shirt, I won't loose my head.
I was digging in the dark as I was thinking. It was pitch black. I couldn't see anything. I could just feel the snow, the cool snow giving way and being left behind. I hit something. It was hard. It was not ground, not snow. I scraped away around it. It was wood. I could feel it. Wood. It was smooth. I recognized its feel. It was an edge, the edge of my sandbox. I had dug to the sandbox. I was only to the sandbox. On it, had I been able to see, would be puppies playing with butterflies. A boy and a girl digging in the sand by a beach. Waves would be rolling, painted on the wood of my sandbox. I was only to the box and days must have gone by since I started. I scooped around the edge of the box, opened up the tunnel to another direction. I was angry, yelling, was only to the sandbox. I stopped and leaned against the wood. It felt warm. Summer was still in it. The plywood top covered the sand. The sand was summer. It was still there. Still in the box under the snow with me. It was summer and back when I had a daddy.
I could hear my breath coming in and going out. I couldn't see it. Soon I got quieter. It was warmer. I heard nothing. No breathing. No. No wind. Nothing at all. Not Carsonia. Just the distant voices of memory.
My tunnel dropped away; it fell behind me. I was lifted from the world into a swirl of snow and the blasts of wind; there were arms all around me. There were legs and chests, Pop-pop's jowls and Mother. Her hands took me. Hands carried me to the house. It was hot. I was laid on the table. The light was overhead. Bright. I felt hands reaching, opening my snowsuit, hands reaching into the wet wool and drawing me out, peeling my clothes away. Then, I was bare and was being carried up the steps. Water was running in the tub. Mother's hands rubbed me. Nanna's voice said rub him with a terrycloth towel. Rub him and here, make him drink this shot of liquor. And burning hot, it went down my throat and sat warm in my stomach. I wanted to and I did throw up. Then I went into the hot, hot water and everything was steam, and water lapping in my ears. And there were tears.
Later, Mother told me, in bed, that Daddy was lost in action in the Pacific Theater. I knew that. But I listened to her anyway.
I wondered for days after if I had died. Of course I had not. Dr. Kotzen said I was fine. Pop-pop looked for his shovel for a long time. I kept thinking it was in the Pacific. When the snow was gone, there it was.

"Drink..." at the Pre-Release Price!

I rushed that image below onto the site but I do want to say that my collection, "Drink for the Thirst to Come," is now available for pre-release ordering from Silverthought Press. Click on the title above to be shuffled off too the order page. The price for the next week or so will be $12.99. Once it goes on sale, the cost skyrockets to $14.99.

I love the cover image. It's by a Russian artist, Anton Semenov. Anton is 27 and lives in Bratsk, Irkutsk--which we all remember from hours of RISK-playing. The final form of the covers, front and back, fonts, etc., might change slightly, but Anton's work just sings. That image makes a resonant statement about the title story and the book as a whole.

Here is the logline that will eventually appear somewhere on the cover or inside the book:

"Here There Be Monsters: The fifteen stories of Drink for the Thirst to Come lead the reader into the darkest corners of the imagination. The people who inhabit these places are demons or angels; here, life ends horribly or stretches to the darkest eternity. Here, the world dies whimpering, ends with a bang, or goes down with the clack of a billion tiny teeth. Here, you’ll find all the standard tropes, vampires, zombies, ghosts, ghouls. You may not recognize them, not right away. They might be standing in a quiet corner or walking in a sunny field or seated next to you on a bus, they might be pulling up to the gas pump or, hell, they might be you, sitting there, reading the book."

So why are you still here? Go. Buy. Wait. Rejoice. Read.

Drink for the Thirst to Come

A reminder: Chicago. 11/11/11. Tonight. 7 to 9. Bad Grammar Theater. 1743 South Halsted Street. Readings. I'll be reading from "Drink for the Thirst to Come." Now available for pre-order from Silverthought Press.

http://www.facebook.com/pages/Drink-for-the-Thirst-to-Come-by-Lawrence-Santoro/127290900710504

Catching Up

Just a few notes to keep the site up to date.

1. DRINK FOR THE THIRST TO COME: there will be news on this front forthcoming from Silverthought Press on November 11. 11/11/11. Appropriate. One of the tentpole stories in the collection, "Wind Shadows," is set during the First World War. Of course you understand that reference! Hopefully, jumping the gun here on the Silverthought announcement, the book will be out just before the Christmas season gets underway.

2. And pertinent to the note above, Silverthought is in "discussions" (the word is placed in quotation marks because the discussions are progressing across the internet and being translated, English to Russian, Russian to English via Babelfish and its Russian counterpart) with the artist Anton Semenov, to do the cover art for the book. I am chuffed (as Tony C. Smith might say) at the prospect. Anton is an incredible talent. You should seek him out and have a look.

2A. Silverthought has also created a facebook page for DRINK... Stop by here and "LIKE" it, please. It feartuews some of Anton's art and will soon have some audio/video snippits from the book to come.

3. Currently, the StarShipSofa's "Sofanaut" interview series features an interview with me. Go here: http://sofanauts.com/ It's 50-some-odd minutes of chat.

4. More will follow. Really. Stop by the Facebook page for DRINK FOR THE THIRST TO COME and "LIKE" it. Really and also....

5. Stop by the Silverthought Press web site: http://www.silverthought.com/ and keep in touch.

Okay. That's it. Have a day.

Come have a listen...

So you opted to not show up at Quimby's Bookstore last Friday. Okay. I understand. It's not too late. You may click on the title above, scroll down and hear the whole damn thing, three readings, AND you may buy the book, AMERICAN WASTELAND by name.

You can buy it in e-book form or in a wondrous hand-made ink-on-paper thing. Okay, you can get the e-version for free but you can opt to pay for it if you believe things of this sort--books, stories, and such--should be paid for and that the people who produce them deserve payment for their work.

Here... To fix on as you listen, here are some shots from the reading. Sorry. I'm a lousy iPhotographer. My hands shake too much. Here's Jason, introducing us...

Below... is Delphine. She's an excellent writer AND she's got a French accent. See what you missed?



Farther down is Mark Brand...a great writer and also one of the editors from Silverthought Press.



And there am I, at the bottom and the last reader of the evening. Tycelia took this one. You can't really see, but I'm sweating like a metaphor...

well, I'm sweating like me. It was 90 degrees in there and I was dressed for a chilly night. Dumb.



Did you listen? Yes, yes. I read much to fast. Trying to get to a certain point in the story in a truncated time limit. I didn't make it. That's what I get for not rehearsing.



So go and get the book. Pay for it if you can. We'll love you for it.

I wanted to share this. Watch it in full screen mode. This is why we explore, why we leave the cradle and go into the world.

About Outside In: Fundraising Launch Summer 2011 from stephen v2 on Vimeo.

See? Why aren't we out there along with our machines? Did we get bored? Was it too expensive? Did we have better things to do?

Release Party for CCLaP's AMERICAN WASTELAND

In advance of the release of my collection, DRINK FOR THE THIRST TO COME by Silverthought Press in early fall, 2011, the Chicago Center for Literature and Photography, or CCLaP, will publish the title story in their dystopian anthology, AMERICAN WASTELAND. On September 9, CCLaP will host a release party for the book at Quimby's Bookstore, 1854 West North Avenue, in Chicago. The party starts at 7, readings from m'self, Mark Brand, and other contributors will follow. Yes, there will be free beer.

Hope you can make it.

Book Signing via the Post

I just finished signing the author's signature sheets that will be off to Ireland on Monday for Dee Cunniffe to put into the special editions of StarShipSofa Stories, vol. 3. I'm proud to have a story in this volume.




That's it. Just that. Keep buying JUST NORTH OF NOWHERE on Kindle and Nook and from wherever else you get your e-reading supplies. And look for DRINK FOR THE THIRST TO COME out soon from Silverthought Press!

Reader review of JUST NORTH OF NOWHERE

A reader recently posted a review of "Just North of Nowhere." I hope those of you who aren't fantasy fans will read and take this person's comments to heart. She says...

"Fantasy is not normally my thing, but this book was so much more. I think it was the rich storytelling itself that got me - it's true that this book begs to be read aloud. Each tale has a distinct tone; the stories run the gamut from spooky to magical, and they are always wondrous. There's something about a small town with a rich history that runs just beneath the surface, and Santoro shows us what that might be. Highly recommended."

I recommend it, too. Really. Highly.

Now on Kindle...

"Just north of Nowhere" is now up on Kindle. In addition, Smashwords has it on several e-book platforms (am I using that term correctly? Probably not...). Anyway, you can now get the e-dition of JNoN with about 10 thousand more words than ever before. Well, okay, it was about 10K words longer before we decided to cut them to save paper and to keep the book from costing another 4, 5 bucks at the cash register. Anyway. Now it's all back and al for under 5 bucks. $4.99 in fact. Just click on the post title, above, "Now on Kindle..." Go on.

As a side note, my poem, DOWN, is now out there on the StarShipSofa. Please stop by and listen to Diane Severson's monthly segment, Poetry Planet. This month she presents 10 first-contact-themed poems from 9 incredible writers and me. Farther aside: host/editor/publisher/producer Tony C. Smith does an hour-long interview with me.

AND there's part 2 of a Michael Moorcock novella on there too!

Go. www.staarshipsofa.come Listen. Enjoy.

JUST NORTH OF NOWHERE...soon in ebook form

During this year, Amazon tells us, sales of e-books surpassed those of the ink-on-paper variety. I still prefer to hold a real paper and ink book in my hands. I prefer the smell of them, the heft of them. I like going into the shops of quiet little people who sell books because they love the bookish life. Ah well. I succumb. As my collection, DRINK FOR THE THIRST TO COME nears its release date -- June, 2011 -- my first novel, JUST NORTH OF NOWHERE, will be re-released on Kindle, iBook and other such platforms.

This edition will be expanded by about 10 thousand words and will include several chapters specially written for the release. It will be priced in the 5 to 6 dollar range. I hope you buy it, hope you enjoy it. At least you'll be able to read it in the dark -- on the iPad and iPhone anyway.

Have a look at the video Dave Fell and I made in 2007 for the initial release of the print book from Annihilation Press.

American Gods Contest

I never enter contests. Most probably because I'm sure I'll not win. Face it, there's enough competition involved with getting along as a writer (actor, director, whatever). The business is cut-throat and nasty as it is so why add to the angst by turning it into a game? Anyway, I threw my picture and voice into this, so I hope you'll vote for me.

DOWN...

I'm making a fuss over this, I know. I've more or less finished my first poem in about 15 years. First poem exclusive of the lovely little things my wife and I exchange at birthdays, anniversaries, et al. This one is a narrative s.f. piece, the words of a dying astronaut whose vehicle has just had a catastrophic touchdown on a distant place. He's obviously the first there.

That's about it.

I wish I had a decent image to accompany this post. Maybe I'll find one.

The fuss - my fuss - owes to the fact that back in the 80s of the last century, writing poetry for me to read in what was then a rather flourishing bar poetry community here in Chicago, was my reentry into writing...writing anything at all.

Since then, I segued into writing (then selling) full-out unversed fiction and have more or less continued doing that full-time in the last decade.

So out of touch am I with the forms, though, I'm not even certain if this qualifies as poetry. We'll see. I just recorded it and I believe it'll be podcast in the near future.

We'll see.

Are you listening?

I ask if you are listening because if you're not, we've pretty much had it.

Ever since you began thinking of yourselves as "consumers" -- data points in corporate spread sheets -- and not "customers" -- individuals whose business is valued by the company with whom you are dealing, ever since the corporatocracy and its handmaiden, the Republican Party, began to disassemble the middle class using Ronald Reagan's smiling, confident bullshit popularity to toss you a few bones while the button counters were stealing your lives, ever since you let wedge-issues define your beliefs and let slogans be your voice...ever since we stopped thinking, ever since we decided to be just comfortable...we have been turning our souls over to the corporation. You see? If you're not a data-point, if you're not a consumer, if you're not a smiling, happy, contented mass of millions swilling what you're fed, then you are a problem. You ask too many questions, you want too much, you are not content to live in the gutter and go fight the wars that you're told to fight. You are a problem if you're not just a data-point.

You may not be a member of a union, but in very real ways, the struggles of labor to organize, to demand the right to bargain collectively with the owners, have elevated your lives. Those struggles, those victories gained through bloodshed, violence, intimidation, helped create a middle-class that was the envy of the world.

The fight in Wisconsin is not about saving state money, it's not about balancing a state budget -- on the backs of the middle class, where such budgets are always balanced -- it is about this governor, those corporate interests taking on and crushing the union.

A good friend of mine, Gary Houston, maintains an ad hoc blog-by-mail in which he shares news, information, and passion. This was posted yesterday. Bob Clarke is an acquaintance...his self-taken photo is at the bottom.

Bob Clarke writes:

Yesterday, somewhat on impulse, I hopped in my car and drove to Madison - under three hours from Chicago. I arrived about 5 PM and parked easily on Washington Ave. (Route 151), about two blocks below the Capitol building. There was a rally (one among many over these days) scheduled for that time, in this case to coincide with a particularly repugnant 6 PM speech by Gov. Walker (see below for the prank call yesterday.)
Signs supporting the movement of resistance to the attack on unions greeted me from bars, restaurants, and houses on Capitol hill. But in the early dark, I was somewhat disappointed by the paucity of people on the grounds, though there were media vehicles everywhere and two huge Teamster-union trucks. I followed a trickle of people with picket signs right into the building: no police at door, no metal detectors, no impediment of any kind.
As soon as I approached the impressive rotunda - under the only granite dome in America, finished 1917 - I realized from the beat of drums and the roar of the huge crowd that thousands of people had indeed taken possession of this physical citadel of legislative power. As you'll have seen in the countless media reports, the whole place is bedecked in banners and signs defending workers' rights and denouncing the governor and his Republican legislative majority. The protesters are a mix of blue collar and white collar union workers (of course many teachers) and their families, predominantly white but with a good-sized black presence, university students, and other sympathizers. Particularly popular were contingents of police and firefighters (in full regalia) supporting the protest even through Gov. Walker has exempted their unions from his proposal to end public-union bargaining rights.
Punctuated by stirring union songs, especially "Solidarity Forever," various speakers held forth, some hardly audible, while TV monitors showed the governor, totally drowned out by cries of "Kill the Bill." I felt galvanized by the sense of determination and anger, by the dawning realization that these protesters are there around the clock, many of them spending the night in sleeping bags on the floors of various levels of the building - often doing homework on their laptops. Free food and supplies are abundant; there is an unending flow of pizza deliveries - take what you want. Everything well organized and peaceful. In a committee room high up toward the dome, dozens of striking U. of W. teaching assistants staff a "situation room" where they manage the logistics of the occupation. To them I handed a donation that friends the Kriegers sent from Washington state.
Because it's Madison the free candy bars are of organic fair-trade chocolate. Because it's Wisconsin there is a statue of Bob LaFollette, surrounded by placards and backpacks of students who may never have heard of him until now. When I asked one cherubic young man who was standing against a marble wall knitting whether he was Madame DeFarge, he answered, "No, I'm an alcoholic, knitting helps me stay sober." He may never have read Dickens, but he wants to fight injustice and oppression.
Students who want to spend the night can walk the few blocks up State Street from the university campus to the Capitol. They were still arriving when I left at 11 PM. One trio I talked to had a rainbow quality: a Vietnamese girl who left that country at age 3, an African-American girl from U. of Wisconsin/LaPorte, and a WASP boy - all had a sense of the historic resonance of their action and and said they're in it for the long haul. When I told them I remembered the Vietnam war protests in Madison, they nodded but probably thought I was a revenant from ancient history. The Vietnamese girl appeared to be about twenty, and 1968 was, after all, 43 years ago!
State troopers were present but not threatening. A newspaper report today says they are more numerous than before; but it's hard to imagine that they could stand up to that crowd. If they got orders to clear the place, they would surely try it late at night when the numbers of protesters are relatively low. (The deputy Attorney General of Indiana was relieved of his duties today for suggesting that they open fire on the demonstrators - perhaps taking his inspiration from Colonel Gaddafy.)
There is supposed to be a massive march and demonstration tomorrow; and this part of the struggle seems likely to continue for some time.

Some useful links:

Yesterday's incredible phone prank, surpassing even my greatest exploits in this challenging sport:

By RYAN J. FOLEY, Associated Press Ryan J. Foley, Associated Press – 1 hr 32 mins ago
MADISON, Wis. – A prank caller pretending to be billionaire conservative businessman David Koch was able to have a lengthy conversation with Wisconsin Gov. Scott Walker about his strategy to cripple public employee unions, the governor's office confirmed Wednesday.
On the call, Walker joked about bringing a baseball bat to a meeting with Democratic leaders, said it would "be outstanding" to be flown out to California by Koch for a good time after the battle is over, and said he expected the anti-union movement to spread across the country.
[Related: What is a right-to-work law?]
Audio was posted on the Buffalo Beast, a left-leaning website based in New York, and quickly spread across the Internet.
Democrats ripped Walker's comments on the call on the Assembly floor Wednesday morning, saying they had nothing to do with his assertion that legislation stripping public employees' collective bargaining rights is needed to help solve a looming budget deficit.
[Related: First person: Wis. budget bill threatens my family]
"That's why we must fight it! That is why people must come to the Capitol and fight this!" Rep. Jon Richards of Milwaukee yelled as thousands of protesters inside the rotunda roared in approval. "This isn't about balancing the budget, this is about a political war."
Walker spokesman Cullen Werwie confirmed Walker took the call, which will only heighten widespread suspicions that brothers David and Charles Koch are pulling strings in Wisconsin's battle as part of a conservative agenda to limit the unions' power.
[Related: What is a labor union?]
The governor's plan would take away the ability of state and local public employees to collectively bargain for working conditions, benefits, or any other than their base salaries. Unions could not collect mandatory dues and would face a vote of its members every year to stay in existence.
The plan has set off more than a week of demonstrations at the Capitol, and prompted Wisconsin Senate Democrats to flee the state to block its passage. Similar ideas are being pushed in some other states with Republican governors.
The man pretending to be Koch said, "You're the first domino."
"Yep, this is our moment," Walker said.
The brothers own Koch Industries, Inc., which is the largest privately-owned company in America and has significant operations in Wisconsin. Its political action committee gave $43,000 to Walker's campaign, and donated heavily to the Republican Governors' Association, which funded ads attacking Walker's opponent in last year's election.
[Related: History of stalling tactics in politics]
The Kochs also give millions to support Americans For Prosperity, which launched a $320,000 television ad campaign in favor of Walker's legislation on Wednesday and already has a website, standwithwalker.com, where more than 60,000 have signed a petition supporting his plan.
On the call, Walker talks about speaking with Democratic Sen. Tim Cullen, one of the Democrats hiding in Illinois to stop the bill, and telling Cullen he would not budge. After Walker said he would be willing to meet with Democratic leaders, the caller said he would bring "a baseball bat." Walker laughed and responded that he had "a slugger with my name on it."
The caller suggested he was thinking about "planting some troublemakers" among the protesters, and Walker said he had thought about doing that but declined. Walker said the protests eventually would die because the media would stop covering them.
At the end of the call, the prankster says: "I'll tell you what Scott, once you crush these bastards, I'll fly you out to Cali and really show you a good time."
[Related: Largest labor unions in the U.S.]
"Alright, that would be outstanding. Thanks for all the support and helping us move the cause forward. We appreciate it and we're doing the just and right thing for the right reasons and it's all about getting our freedoms back," Walker said.
The caller: "Absolutely. And you know, we have a little bit of vested interest as well" and laughs.
"That's just it. The bottom line is, we're going to get the world movement here because it's the right thing to do."
Walker ends the call by saying, "thanks a million."
Cullen called the call an "astounding confirmation of what we've been saying for a couple weeks now."
"This bill is about the money," he said. "This bill is about destroying public employee unions."
Cullen said he felt the call "displays a level of partisanship and pettiness on the side of the governor I don't think is going to sit well with the public."
Werwie, the governor's spokesman, said the phone call "shows that the governor says the same thing in private as he does in public and the lengths that others will go to disrupt the civil debate Wisconsin is having."

How to help the protesters:

THE BATTLE FOR UNIONS IN WISCONSIN
HOW YOU CAN HELP

Folks from outside Wisconsin are contacting me and asking
how to help with the battle to save collective bargaining
for public employees in Wisconsin. (Additional information
on the current status of things here is at the end of this
letter.)


YOU CAN PROVIDE FINANCIAL SUPPORT

People of generally modest means, including many college
students, are continuing the occupation of the Capitol and
the daily picketing in resistance to the Governor's plans.
Most teachers have had to/have chosen to return to their
classrooms, but many other union members remain, people
from private sector unions and public unions including
police and firefighters.

There are many private citizens, often seniors. Those
remaining in the capitol and on the picketlines need food,
water, transportation, housing. The Wisconsin AFL-CIO is
coordinating much of that support. No matter how small,
financial support is welcome:


ONLINE: The AFL-CIO is accepting donations online through
PayPal or any major credit card. Please go to
http://wisaflcio.org ; for the link.

CHECKS can be made payable to the
Wisconsin State AFL-CIO Defense Fund,
6333 W. Blue Mound Rd., Milwaukee, WI 53213
(Please indicate the purpose, e.g. "Capitol protests" or
"Madison rally", on your check.)

* * * *

SEND FOOD AND WATER DIRECTLY TO THE PROTESTERS

These two close-by shops will supply food and water to
those in the Capitol or on the picket line:


Ian's Pizza 608-442-3535 minimum order $20.00 These
folks are now taking orders only for delivery to the
resistance, they've stopped all delivery to the general
public. They tell me they deliver to wherever the people
are -- if they're inside the Capitol, they go in. If
people are marching and picketing, they take the food to
the picket line.

Subway on the Square 608-255-1636 NOTE: minimum order
$100.00 They have set up a fund there for your orders,
and they are giving free food from that fund to any union
member or pro- union demonstrator who requests food.
Thank Pat for arranging that, I'm sure this is the first
time they've done anything like this.

Here are some photos I took: not as good as what you can see on TV, but with some details that might be of interest.

A Word from the World

The story below is a slight thing. I posted it here several years ago, but because we're having our first blizzard in Chicago in about a decade, I thought I'd put it up here again.

A WORD FROM THE WORLD was originally published in 1998 in the anthology, WINTER TALES, from Twilight Tales.

Except for the tunnel in the snow, which my father helped me build in the back yard of my grandfather's house in Reading, Pennsylvania, it is fiction. I was, I believe somewhere in my third year to heaven.



A WORD FROM THE WORLD
by
Lawrence Santoro

The snow had started the day before. The sun was bright in a clear sky and it snowed! Each flake caught the sun. Sparkles swam in the air living along the wind. People passing on Cottage Street looked up to the clear air to let the cold colors hit them in the eye, or on the glasses. They smiled, admiring their shadows as they walked and the sunny, sunny snowstorm falling around them.

A genuine curiosity, Pop-pop called it.

Soon, though, the sky turned gray and the snow continued into the dark. This was more like it. All that blew and rolled down streets, all the things that stood at corners, squatted in the back alley or at the bottom of the yard were, first, stopped, then pinned to the ground by the falling snow, then covered into smooth lumps.

It snowed all through supper and after. It snowed through the radio and Pop-pop's reading. It snowed even harder when I went to bed. All night, I'd wake and go to the window to wish for more; I pressed my face against the cold glass to peer at the sky above the eaves. I wanted there to be more snow in it. And there was. The sky was black but the air was lit by the streetlight at the end of the alley. Pieces of white day fell through the night and brushed little whiskers against the glass. I thought the wet chill would crack my cheek when I smiled.

In the morning the world was new. Yesterday's lumps were smooth and the spaces between them were even and white. In the yard, the snow had rolled in on waves of wind from over the far fence and dropped quietly and deeply. It filled the space from the back of the house to the alley, then buried the fence and the alley. Then it buried the Erby's fence across the way; then buried their yard, too. Then everything was all the same.

When the wind blew hard enough to make the electric pole by the corner sway and the wires clack and chatter their icy silver loads that had been building through the storm, Pop-pop looked up and down the alley. He shook his head. "We'd best stay in," he said. "All of us." Falling wires, he said. Careful, he said. Electrocution, he said.

Nanna looked into the pantry and shook her head. "Food'll never last," she said.

When the wind howled, the snow rose alive, spinning, and the world went white. So big a thing as Mount Amos disappeared. So too, did Aunt and Uncle Erby's house across the alley. Our yard began, now, at the back door and went on forever, around other houses and on forever. The world was just our place, just our house and the sweetly shaped mounds of snow stretching forever. A few black lines crossed above, or rose from it. A pole down the way. The very tips of the back fence, dead black morning glory vines still hanging in tatters from summer. Then nothing. The end of the world. Our place only.

I said once that by the time the telegram came, I already knew. Here's what happened.

It was in that snow. Mother and I were on the front porch. A trolley passed the house and rumbled slowly, slipping, wheels spinning uphill toward the end of town. A man came up the sidewalk. Through the snow I heard him whistling Rum and Coca-Cola. I laughed. Snow was blowing in front, behind, around him. It was climbing his legs and wrapping his face. It looked as if you could see right through him, as though pieces of him were being carved away by the wind. He looked alive inside with snow.

I laughed some more. He heard me laugh and looked up. He saw me on the porch with Mother. He looked at the door behind me then at the envelope in his hand. I laughed and he had seen us. Mother was tucking me, buttoning my face into the wool snow suit, already wet from the blowing snow. I laughed and she turned to see. She saw the man coming and stopped, her fingers stopped on the button at my mouth. I could smell cold, wet wool and my mother's warm skin, cold cream smooth and fragrant from morning's dishes.

The street was empty. The hill was white all the way to where it disappeared. Black sticks stuck out, here, there: Trees. A fence. Phone poles. The trolley tracks were black lines along the way, then they glazed over white, then vanished. The wind howled and for a minute the street faded into white, then vanished, too. The man disappeared with the rest of the world. The world was our porch and Mother frozen at my mouth and I thought, "Good. He's gone. Daddy'll be alright." Then the wind dropped its voice, and the man stepped onto our porch and shook his hat like a dog.

There was nothing to it at all. He wiped his glasses with his finger like a windshield wiper. They fogged up again and he took them off and squinted at the paper.

"Mrs. Er-ness-toe De Angel...?"

Mother nodded. "DeAngelo, yes. Ernest. It's just Ernie. His name is. Yes. Ernesto. But he's just Ernie."

He brushed the snow off the envelope, gently. He was so gentle; she reached for it, took it, held it, turned it over in her hands. He said, "sign here," and gave her a book and a pen. It wouldn't write.

"Sorry," she said. He took back the pen and blew on it, then rolled it between his two hands, shook it. A big splat of blue plopped onto the snow on the porch. "Sorry," he said. She said, "That's alright." and wrote in the man's book. She put the cap back on the pen and handed it to him, said, "I'll have to get you some money..." and he, "That's okay, Mrs. ma'am. That's okay. I don't need any. I don't usually get." Then he was gone toward town. Another blast of wind rolled the snow, but I could still see him. In a second, the trolley loomed down the hill. It slid on the rails. Sparks showered into the snow from the line above. It stopped. Silent for a moment. It was the only thing we could see in the world. And the man. The trolley and the man. The man got into the trolley. The bell clanged and sounded very close in the wooly snow and the silence. The sweep of the wind went with it, somehow. The trolley growled its sandy wheels against the tracks and disappeared toward town.

Mother held the envelope. I had been forgotten. The wooly button at my mouth was still loose. The envelope was very small.

I knew it meant that daddy wouldn't be home; that he was going to stay at the Pacific Theater. Until the next show. Or the next one. Can you imagine that? That he'd stay away for a long, long time and that I'd be an orphan, now. I didn't want people to look at me right then. I didn't want them to talk to me. All I knew was the backyard was filled with snow taller than me.

I followed her into the house. I was a ghost. Invisible, I could make noises but not lift things, not change things. I could only be what had already been.

No one spoke. Mother stood in the living room and looked at the envelope. It dripped. Nanna came down from upstairs and stopped on the steps to look. Pop-pop came in from the kitchen and looked. I continued on through the house. No one noticed. To the kitchen. There were voices, distant, behind me. I went out back. I was ready for the snow, for the day. The whole expanse of the yard was at my feet. The snow drifted in curving hills to the second floor of Uncle Erby's place. Maggie the dog, looked out an upper window at me. Her tongue on the glass made clear places in the breath haze that bloomed around her nose and muzzle.

The snow started at my feet. I could tunnel through the world, I thought. A tunnel could go anywhere. Everywhere. It would be very cold under the snow, but maybe not too dark. Snow was white.

I dragged open the door to the back porch toilet, the kaibo Pop-pop called it. It was now just a storage place for garden things, junk, old spiders and must, things forgotten. My summer shovel and pail. Too small to dig a tunnel through the world. I tossed them aside. I found Nanna's garden spade. Too long. Too heavy. Pop-pop's cinder shovel was just my size. He used it to fill gunny sacks with furnace ashes. These he kept in the trunk of the LaSalle for winter weight, for traction. The shovel was short. Light. It had a pointed blade. I could dig anywhere with it. A good tool is the first part of a good job, Daddy'd said.

I scooped as I waded down the steps. I tossed, packed, shoved and soon was at the bottom of the porch stairs. The snow rose over my head. I was surrounded by whiteness and was dripping hot already. Sweat tickled down my back and became cold on my skin. I pushed my mittens into the snow in front. It gave way. I leaned into it and fell, slowly, gently carried to the ground. I scooped shovelsful behind me. Soon I was on my knees and burrowing like a groundhog on my way. I shoved the cold, packed whiteness aside, pressing it against the walls of my tunnel. Forcing my way into the heart of winter. It was bright day.

I realized soon how large the world was. I had no idea before. I scooped and scraped, patted and pressed the sides of the tunnel, the roof, smoothed it all, made it nice. Kept going. The sun was far away, on the other side of the snow roof. Out there.

Faint light seeped from where I had begun at the porch, down to where I dug. It darkened as I scooped. I wished I had brought daddy's nightcrawler lantern. I could see it under his bench in the basement. I could see it in the cardboard box, a rag covering most of it. I could see its little clear dome and shiny handle, its flat metal base. I could feel its weight, carrying it. In the darkening snow tunnel, I could almost see the rings of light it made on the tree leaves overhead, could almost hear daddy talking about the fishing we'd have with this beauty that he dangled in my nose before dropping it wriggling into the pail, laughing. Mosquitos and other sweaty summer bugs sang in my ears, climbed in the light against the leaves. The fat worm wriggled into the dirt in the pail and was gone.

The lamp was back there, a world away. In the basement, under the place where people talked.

My breath was just dull gray, now, not silver bright anymore. I wondered how far I'd come. Nowhere near the other side of the world, I knew that. I didn't think I was even at the end of the yard. I tucked my knees to my chin and scooted 'round to lean against the tunnel wall and breathe. The Erby house was ahead. I'd have to get around it. That was first. Then around their garage. Then through Pan's Park. Then up the mountain. After the mountain was the other side, down to Carsonia. A long way from there was Philly. After that, I wasn't sure. I knew that the Pacific Theater started somewhere after Philly. Daddy had gone first to Philly. Then somewhere else.

If I could only remember what Daddy had said. About everything. I could find him, if I could remember. I knew that. Everything that Daddy had said was important, now. Was clues. I had to remember to not get confused with other things. Things I made up, things other people told me. If I could remember it all, I could get to him and we could watch Gone With the Wind together at the Pacific Theater, then come home. Maybe get some ice cream first at Rexall, some hot chocolate. Then we'd come home. I was really mad. Just like daddy got sometimes at me. I was really mad!

When I punched the sides of the tunnel, the wall gave way a little. I punched it again, then I scooped. I widened the scoop. I scraped above, dug below. Soon there was a side passage going a different way. It pointed toward 18th Street. I knew that. The world was so large. I could avoid the Erby house, go around it, then up, up, up the mountain. I started deepening this new route. It was very, very dark in a very short time. Black. I had to back out to where I had branched off. Maybe the other way. I dug for another few minutes until it got too dark in that way and returned to the main shaft.

A curve? Maybe the light would follow a gentle bend? It seemed right and I started to angle left, making the main route to the world into a long gentle arc. Soon it was dark again and I just wanted to stretch out and rest. I was going to need light. I scooped out a little room in the snow, enough space for me to just stretch out. I lay flat on my back. Looked up. If I closed my eyes and pressed against them with my mittens, it was a different dark than if I kept them open. I liked that. It was so quiet out here in the world. The snow was just a few inches above my face. I reached up and smoothed it. Smoothed it flat. Smoothed it hard like a well-packed snowball. It was warmer in there than it was on the outside where wind blew and the cold tried to suck the air out of my chest. There was no wind and the tips of my ears were hot. My fingers were wrinkled. It was warm. I made a little place to lean. It fit me well and was so comfortable. I scraped the ceiling. Some snow fell in my face. It tasted good. Almost sweet. It melted in my mouth and trickled down my throat. It melted on my nose and ran down my neck.

How long would the snow last? How long until it went away and the whole earth would be hard and confusing again with too many roads everywhere and not enough ways to get there? Snow always lasted a long time, but never long enough. I couldn't really rest if I was going to tunnel to the Pacific to find Daddy. I started again. Didn't think, just started into the darkness.

That is what I'm doing, I said. I'm digging to find Daddy at the Pacific Theater and watch Gone With the Wind with him, Sock, the Morons, the First Shirt and all the guys from basic training and his letters. We'd all be together. Maybe I'd need an airplane to fly over the boot camp, to fly over England where the drooling British lived in darkness, and to get to the Pacific Theater where they were all watching Gone With the Wind. I knew it was a long way to travel. But all the world was covered in snow. I was certain of that and that meant that I could get there from here. I'd dig under boot camp, under the British. Then I'll bring him home and we can all go to Carsonia Park and this time, THIS time, I will, I will ride Blitzen the Roller Coaster and maybe I'll even stand and not worry about the "Don't Stand" sign. I'll forget about rats and dirty feet. We'll go to the shooting gallery and shoot the bear together and win big rabbits and give them to Mother. I won't loose my shirt, I won't loose my head.

I was digging in the dark as I was thinking. It was pitch black. I couldn't see anything. I could just feel the snow, the cool snow giving way and being left behind. I hit something. It was hard. It was not ground, not snow. I scraped away around it. It was wood. I could feel it. Wood. It was smooth. I recognized its feel. It was an edge, the edge of my sandbox. I had dug to the sandbox. I was only to the sandbox. On it, had I been able to see, would be puppies playing with butterflies. A boy and a girl digging in the sand by a beach. Waves would be rolling, painted on the wood of my sandbox. I was only to the box and days must have gone by since I started. I scooped around the edge of the box, opened up the tunnel to another direction. I was angry, yelling, was only to the sandbox. I stopped and leaned against the wood. It felt warm. Summer was still in it. The plywood top covered the sand. The sand was summer. It was still there. Still in the box under the snow with me. It was summer and back when I had a daddy.

I could hear my breath coming in and going out. I couldn't see it. Soon I got quieter. It was warmer. I heard nothing. No breathing. No. No wind. Nothing at all. Not Carsonia. Just the distant voices of memory.

My tunnel dropped away; it fell behind me. I was lifted from the world into a swirl of snow and the blasts of wind; there were arms all around me. There were legs and chests, Pop-pop's jowls and Mother. Her hands took me. Hands carried me to the house. It was hot. I was laid on the table. The light was overhead. Bright. I felt hands reaching, opening my snowsuit, hands reaching into the wet wool and drawing me out, peeling my clothes away. Then, I was bare and was being carried up the steps. Water was running in the tub. Mother's hands rubbed me. Nanna's voice said rub him with a terrycloth towel. Rub him and here, make him drink this shot of liquor. And burning hot, it went down my throat and sat warm in my stomach. I wanted to and I did throw up. Then I went into the hot, hot water and everything was steam, and water lapping in my ears. And there were tears.

Later, Mother told me, in bed, that Daddy was lost in action in the Pacific Theater. I knew that. But I listened to her anyway.

I wondered for days after if I had died. Of course I had not. Dr. Kotzen said I was fine. Pop-pop looked for his shovel for a long time. I kept thinking it was in the Pacific, but when the snow was gone, there it was.

-- Copyright 1998 Lawrence Santoro

Now It May Be Told

If you click on the title, above, you'll be directed to the site for Silverthought Press. This June, Silverthought will publish my collection, DRINK FOR THE THIRST TO COME. Yes, this has been a kind of open secret for some time but there it is, from the computer of Mr. Silverthought, himself, Paul Hughes.

Scoot over to the site, read what's coming from this terrific publisher and drop down and have a look and listen to the "Breakfast with the Author" video. Editor Mark Brand hosting authors Davis Schneiderman and Lawrence P. Me while we suck down coffee, scarf up French toast and slurp up fresh fruit. Outside the cozy nook, Chicago's first snowfall of the season is turning the neighborhood all soft and fluffy and, around it all, Christmas is building. It was great fun.

Now Christmas is over, Valentine's Day looms and Chicago is having its first real blizzard in years.

But June is on the way!

Narrator's Workshop - Level 1

As most of you know, I've been doing 'narration' - reading my own and other people's stories - on the StarShipSofa for about two years. Last year I was voted 'Best Narrator' in the podcast's annual "Sofanaut" Best-Of awards.

On Saturday, February 5, 2010, I'll be one of the resource speakers - teachers, if you like - at the StarShip's first "webinar." This narrator's workshop is being designed to be help people who would like to begin to narrate and record for podcasts.

I mention this because at this writing, there are less than 20 seats remaining for this event. Click on the title, above, or copy and paste the url, below, and sign up.

Here's that url: http://www.eventbrite.com/event/1068119775/efblike

I'm also including a bit of video featuring the host himself, Tony C. Smith, explaining a bit about the event.



Hope to you can make it.

JACK VANCE AND FRED POHL ON THE STARSHIPSOFA

The 2011 Hugo Award Nomination period is now open.

As you may or may not know the StarShipSofa won the Hugo last year for the Best Fanzine. The first ever podcast to be nominated. The good ship then went on to win the Hugo.

Nothing has gone slack aboard the good ship and the year ahead promises to be more interesting than ever. So I see no reason to not nominate her again for BEST FANZINE.

There is one episode in particular, however, I think should be singled out for special note. The episode contains an extended interview bwtween the host, Tony C. Smith, and Jack Vance and Frederik C. Pohl. Click on the title of this post, above, or on the URL below to listen:

http://traffic.libsyn.com/starshipsofa/StarShipSofa_Interviews_Fred_Pohl_and_Jack_Vance.mp3

In particular this episode should be singled out for a nomination in the BEST RELATED WORK category. Both in their 90s, Vance and Pohl were leaders in the field when I was a kid. They remain so today. Their conversation was beyond interesting and not entirely about writing and science fiction, this was two guys who helped create a literary genre talking about life and age and time. This was history speaking.

I recommend at least you have a listen.