Kevin A. Kierstead, Author
Points on writing, life, and the other thing.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
Stuff you probably didn't know about my books: Devon Avoncorte
If you've read The Lost Dialogues of Table 18, you are familiar with the good pirate. He is based on a real-life character that I was friends with. His name was chosen carefully, because he was really the Devil's Advocate. :)
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Book excerpt: Name of Alt
The first conversation I had with Khan was when I was 121-years and was about ten minutes after I left a planet in your galaxy, actually, and went like this (we literally used a common language in the universe that is based strictly on the frequency of tones, but this is, of course, the English equivalent):
“What are you, and why are you on my ship?”
“Off to Hell with you,” he said, smirking.
“I’m sorry, I must be misunderstanding you,” I said.
“No. Off to Hell. Begone with yourself and your ridiculous thumbs, especially,” he said, giving a dismissive wave with one of his wings.
“In which direction would I move if I wanted to march off to Hell, accompanied by my ridiculous thumbs, especially, and the rest of my body, in the interest of progressive exploration, and after I’ve marched off to Hell, what would you then say? Can we move along with…”
Interrupting, “RathoKhan. Here because I want to be.”
I looked at him for some time. He was fixated on my feet as he struggled to stand from the G-force which was about 1.8G and moving from the floor toward the port side of the craft as a turn began. I couldn’t tell if he found my feet interesting or he was just trying to think about balance or maybe not focused on anything.
“Won’t your family miss you? You do understand…”
Interrupting again, “Yeah, yeah. You’re on your way out of my galaxy soon and you’re not coming back… blah, blah, blah. This ain’t my first ro day oh, partner. What the Hell is wrong with your feet?”
I looked at my feet for a moment before looking at his. “My feet are fine. Your feet should not be the standard by which feet are determined to be ‘right,’ or ‘wrong.’”
“Bug off, slim. Feed me already. Could this even possibly be how you treat all of your guests? How rude!”
“I did not invite you,” I said.
“Plants do not invite the rains,” was his retort.
“Granted, nor are the rains the plants’ guests,” I said.
“Granted back, but do the plants not take in the rain when it shows up? And could the plants take in the rain if the plants hadn’t shown up in a place where there was rain?” he asked.
I paused, looking at his ridiculous feet. “Plants did not show up because of rain, nor vice versa; it just so happens that they work well together on most plant-bearing planets.”
“Did they start out working well together?” he asked.
“Depends. Some plants need no rain, and if rain shows up, the plant will ignore it. The plant won’t even acknowledge the rain.”
“Nor does the plant interrogate the rain,” he retorted.
“I’m going to object to the last statement because it appears to me that you are attempting to vacate the problem of you being on my ship and me not understanding why while replacing the topic/problem with the question of why I would interrogate you. Any creature of logic would understand why I interrogate you. I’m not a plant, nor are you the rain.”
“Exactly wrong,” he said, still looking at my feet. After a few moments, he finally looked up into my eyes. “My statement arguing against this interrogation was not to change focus or to use misdirection as you would tender—one should think he can safely assume that the pilot of this craft will not let go easily of the question of the source and meaning of my presence on the ship—the question of interrogation was to ask why you must necessarily question a thing that has never hurt you and may help you.”
I had heard similar methods used in previous discussions among some of the brightest Douzians—the old “It isn’t what you said because it’s a list,” front, which told me two things that I had already suspected but now had confirmed—he was intelligent and he was versatile in dialogue. I would have to continue to fence if I wanted to get to any real information, and I was heavily outmatched. And although I sensed he didn’t want to be interrogated or really even to communicate at all—he just wanted to pretend to have been together forever—I could tell his logic machine was really just going through the initial phases of warm-up. As I said earlier, Douzians don’t argue. We solve or let it go. I pushed, somewhat hopelessly, to solve...
-- Name of Alt, Chapter 15, "A Pet."
“What are you, and why are you on my ship?”
“Off to Hell with you,” he said, smirking.
“I’m sorry, I must be misunderstanding you,” I said.
“No. Off to Hell. Begone with yourself and your ridiculous thumbs, especially,” he said, giving a dismissive wave with one of his wings.
“In which direction would I move if I wanted to march off to Hell, accompanied by my ridiculous thumbs, especially, and the rest of my body, in the interest of progressive exploration, and after I’ve marched off to Hell, what would you then say? Can we move along with…”
Interrupting, “RathoKhan. Here because I want to be.”
I looked at him for some time. He was fixated on my feet as he struggled to stand from the G-force which was about 1.8G and moving from the floor toward the port side of the craft as a turn began. I couldn’t tell if he found my feet interesting or he was just trying to think about balance or maybe not focused on anything.
“Won’t your family miss you? You do understand…”
Interrupting again, “Yeah, yeah. You’re on your way out of my galaxy soon and you’re not coming back… blah, blah, blah. This ain’t my first ro day oh, partner. What the Hell is wrong with your feet?”
I looked at my feet for a moment before looking at his. “My feet are fine. Your feet should not be the standard by which feet are determined to be ‘right,’ or ‘wrong.’”
“Bug off, slim. Feed me already. Could this even possibly be how you treat all of your guests? How rude!”
“I did not invite you,” I said.
“Plants do not invite the rains,” was his retort.
“Granted, nor are the rains the plants’ guests,” I said.
“Granted back, but do the plants not take in the rain when it shows up? And could the plants take in the rain if the plants hadn’t shown up in a place where there was rain?” he asked.
I paused, looking at his ridiculous feet. “Plants did not show up because of rain, nor vice versa; it just so happens that they work well together on most plant-bearing planets.”
“Did they start out working well together?” he asked.
“Depends. Some plants need no rain, and if rain shows up, the plant will ignore it. The plant won’t even acknowledge the rain.”
“Nor does the plant interrogate the rain,” he retorted.
“I’m going to object to the last statement because it appears to me that you are attempting to vacate the problem of you being on my ship and me not understanding why while replacing the topic/problem with the question of why I would interrogate you. Any creature of logic would understand why I interrogate you. I’m not a plant, nor are you the rain.”
“Exactly wrong,” he said, still looking at my feet. After a few moments, he finally looked up into my eyes. “My statement arguing against this interrogation was not to change focus or to use misdirection as you would tender—one should think he can safely assume that the pilot of this craft will not let go easily of the question of the source and meaning of my presence on the ship—the question of interrogation was to ask why you must necessarily question a thing that has never hurt you and may help you.”
I had heard similar methods used in previous discussions among some of the brightest Douzians—the old “It isn’t what you said because it’s a list,” front, which told me two things that I had already suspected but now had confirmed—he was intelligent and he was versatile in dialogue. I would have to continue to fence if I wanted to get to any real information, and I was heavily outmatched. And although I sensed he didn’t want to be interrogated or really even to communicate at all—he just wanted to pretend to have been together forever—I could tell his logic machine was really just going through the initial phases of warm-up. As I said earlier, Douzians don’t argue. We solve or let it go. I pushed, somewhat hopelessly, to solve...
-- Name of Alt, Chapter 15, "A Pet."
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Book excerpt: Pythagoras Prophecy
Kofa Blama quickened his normally leisurely steps after reading the note and shoving it into his back pocket. He stopped, looked down at the dry earth below his feet, looked up, looked straight ahead and broke into a full-speed sprint toward the home of Madia Biyarna.
The sun bore down on the western horizon of Eritrea; a land that was his homeland and a land that his family had shed blood to call home for 165 years and maybe longer because that’s the farthest back he was able to research his family history.
Sweat poured down his face. Dogs barked at him and chickens scattered as he rounded the corner of the single road leading out of his home village of Denbe Bengul; a place barely north of the Ethiopian border and not far east of the Sudanese border. Off he ran, into the outskirts of the village, and past, to a place that had no name, to a house made entirely of bamboo and mud, a solid house, where Madia lived.
Forty-four minutes later, he arrived to the dirt path that led to her home. He kept his run all the way up the trail to her front door. She opened it before he knocked as the sun made its final dip in the west.
“Kofa. Are you alright, boy?”
He fought for air, closing his mouth to swallow while nodding and struggling to breathe through his nose. He bent over and put his hands on his knees. Flies and mosquitoes descended onto him.
“Come inside and I’ll get you some water. Come and sit down over there,” she said, pointing toward her wicker loveseat that sat alone in the living room, facing the single front window. A small end-table made of twine and bamboo sat in front of the loveseat with a large, 3-wicked candle atop that had not yet been lit. A pair of binoculars sat underneath it, beside a pair of leather moccasins.
As he moved past her, she looked at him in wonder, leaning her head back as if she was trying to read through bi-focals, studying him, startled, concerned, and quickly becoming afraid.
“Duwna sent a message,” he said, between gulps of water from the bowl she had served him. His orange button-up was made maroonish by the sweat that adhered it to his skin. She watched as he gulped again, finishing the rest of the water in another large swig, gasping for air again after he swallowed. “He says they are asking questions and not just the normal ones. Here…” he said, handing her the damp note.
--Pythagoras Prophecy, Vol. I of the People Phenomenal series, Ch. 2
The sun bore down on the western horizon of Eritrea; a land that was his homeland and a land that his family had shed blood to call home for 165 years and maybe longer because that’s the farthest back he was able to research his family history.
Sweat poured down his face. Dogs barked at him and chickens scattered as he rounded the corner of the single road leading out of his home village of Denbe Bengul; a place barely north of the Ethiopian border and not far east of the Sudanese border. Off he ran, into the outskirts of the village, and past, to a place that had no name, to a house made entirely of bamboo and mud, a solid house, where Madia lived.
Forty-four minutes later, he arrived to the dirt path that led to her home. He kept his run all the way up the trail to her front door. She opened it before he knocked as the sun made its final dip in the west.
“Kofa. Are you alright, boy?”
He fought for air, closing his mouth to swallow while nodding and struggling to breathe through his nose. He bent over and put his hands on his knees. Flies and mosquitoes descended onto him.
“Come inside and I’ll get you some water. Come and sit down over there,” she said, pointing toward her wicker loveseat that sat alone in the living room, facing the single front window. A small end-table made of twine and bamboo sat in front of the loveseat with a large, 3-wicked candle atop that had not yet been lit. A pair of binoculars sat underneath it, beside a pair of leather moccasins.
As he moved past her, she looked at him in wonder, leaning her head back as if she was trying to read through bi-focals, studying him, startled, concerned, and quickly becoming afraid.
“Duwna sent a message,” he said, between gulps of water from the bowl she had served him. His orange button-up was made maroonish by the sweat that adhered it to his skin. She watched as he gulped again, finishing the rest of the water in another large swig, gasping for air again after he swallowed. “He says they are asking questions and not just the normal ones. Here…” he said, handing her the damp note.
--Pythagoras Prophecy, Vol. I of the People Phenomenal series, Ch. 2
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Book excerpt: The Unbitten Onion (Full Issue!)
The Unbitten Onion
Issue #20: Baseball Players Protest Umpire's Animated Calls
American League third-base umpire Jeffy Hux has earned a following in the crowd, but a resistance on the field.
Orioles third-baseman Tony Batista is leading the protest. "The guy is using the field for his own gig," Batista said. "It is distracting our players and the fans away from the game."
Hux, a 12-year-veteran AL umpire, has been calling, "out," "safe," and "foul," in what some protesters refer to as, "...anything but orthodox and very disruptive," ways for the past three years.
Reports state that his favorite is the Hux-coined, "Michael Jackson Rudo Judo." In this move, after deciding that a player has been tagged out at third base, Hux runs over to the base-runner and throws a right hook a mere two inches away from the base-runner's chin. Simultaneously, he gives four mock-karate chops and screams a word described only as, "Odd ADAH!" He then dances and sings a verse from Billie Jean.
"The fans love it," says Blue Jays CEO Paul Godfrey. "Never before in this sport had I seen kids walk through the gates saying to their dads, 'Think some people will tag out at third today?.' I mean, the mascots are background attractions now compared to this umpire."
And so are the players, according to Tony Batista. "Three years ago, I sold 400,000 jerseys. Last year I sold 18,000, but guess what Hux merchandise has done? Bobble-headed Hux, Dancing Hux...they have a line dance forming in DC now named after the man. He's just an umpire," said Batista, kicking a dugout bench. "And when my son asked for an autographed Hux cap, that was it. We need to stop this fool."
Another crowd favorite is the "Foul Cow Buckin' Bronco," also coined by Hux. If a ball goes foul, he runs full speed in reverse around all the bases mooing, bucking, and finally crying, "Foul." Yankee catcher Chris Widger enjoys that one. "I usually either trip him or run along with him for fun, but he mule-kicks me and snorts sometimes and I can't keep up. But you know, shin protectors and cups and all; I've only had to get medical help, like, two times."
If a runner is safe, Hux uses his more complex, "Reach Out and Vogue," routine. "You know the runner is safe when Hux pulls the cell phone out," says Red Sox left-fielder Manny Ramirez. "He dials straight down the middle, calls some random phone number, then walks around third base saying, 'Can ya hear me now? Good.' Then he puts the phone away and crosses his legs and does this ballet-type of artistic safe sign, putting his arms up and then apart instead of out and apart. It's all hype."
Hux was also berated in the report for getting into fights with mascots, chasing bat boys off of the field with his, "Crab Pincer Side-Skiddle" run, and taking sips from cups of beer offered by the fans.
Fans are petitioning that Hux not be removed, but more and more players are signing up for the opposite. Says Cal Ripken Jr. from the box seats, "Sometimes I forget I'm at a baseball game; it's all about Hux now. But I gotta give him credit—he's never missed a game."
Although reporters were able to ask Hux questions, he would only answer with, "Diane Sawyer or nobody. Talk to the hand."
Issue #20: Baseball Players Protest Umpire's Animated Calls
American League third-base umpire Jeffy Hux has earned a following in the crowd, but a resistance on the field.
Orioles third-baseman Tony Batista is leading the protest. "The guy is using the field for his own gig," Batista said. "It is distracting our players and the fans away from the game."
Hux, a 12-year-veteran AL umpire, has been calling, "out," "safe," and "foul," in what some protesters refer to as, "...anything but orthodox and very disruptive," ways for the past three years.
Reports state that his favorite is the Hux-coined, "Michael Jackson Rudo Judo." In this move, after deciding that a player has been tagged out at third base, Hux runs over to the base-runner and throws a right hook a mere two inches away from the base-runner's chin. Simultaneously, he gives four mock-karate chops and screams a word described only as, "Odd ADAH!" He then dances and sings a verse from Billie Jean.
"The fans love it," says Blue Jays CEO Paul Godfrey. "Never before in this sport had I seen kids walk through the gates saying to their dads, 'Think some people will tag out at third today?.' I mean, the mascots are background attractions now compared to this umpire."
And so are the players, according to Tony Batista. "Three years ago, I sold 400,000 jerseys. Last year I sold 18,000, but guess what Hux merchandise has done? Bobble-headed Hux, Dancing Hux...they have a line dance forming in DC now named after the man. He's just an umpire," said Batista, kicking a dugout bench. "And when my son asked for an autographed Hux cap, that was it. We need to stop this fool."
Another crowd favorite is the "Foul Cow Buckin' Bronco," also coined by Hux. If a ball goes foul, he runs full speed in reverse around all the bases mooing, bucking, and finally crying, "Foul." Yankee catcher Chris Widger enjoys that one. "I usually either trip him or run along with him for fun, but he mule-kicks me and snorts sometimes and I can't keep up. But you know, shin protectors and cups and all; I've only had to get medical help, like, two times."
If a runner is safe, Hux uses his more complex, "Reach Out and Vogue," routine. "You know the runner is safe when Hux pulls the cell phone out," says Red Sox left-fielder Manny Ramirez. "He dials straight down the middle, calls some random phone number, then walks around third base saying, 'Can ya hear me now? Good.' Then he puts the phone away and crosses his legs and does this ballet-type of artistic safe sign, putting his arms up and then apart instead of out and apart. It's all hype."
Hux was also berated in the report for getting into fights with mascots, chasing bat boys off of the field with his, "Crab Pincer Side-Skiddle" run, and taking sips from cups of beer offered by the fans.
Fans are petitioning that Hux not be removed, but more and more players are signing up for the opposite. Says Cal Ripken Jr. from the box seats, "Sometimes I forget I'm at a baseball game; it's all about Hux now. But I gotta give him credit—he's never missed a game."
Although reporters were able to ask Hux questions, he would only answer with, "Diane Sawyer or nobody. Talk to the hand."
Book excerpts; starting to post them today!
I started posting book excerpts on my Facebook Author Fan Page but it won't allow enough text for context (granted, you could use "notes" or use "comments" but that obscures the view) so I'm posting them here and a handy little app. I'm using will post links to them on the FB page anyway.
PS Liking my FB fan page automatically enters you into all future contests to win free stuff like ink pens, customized bookmarks, calendars, and (later) Nooks, Kindles, and accessories. No entering e-mails. No input of information. Just click. Like. Done. Forever. (See pics of what we are giving/have given away on the page).
All that said, here goes my first blog-born excerpt:
"I just don’t think about it. My dad says the same shit every time it comes up; ‘You can’t see the damned wind, and you know it’s there; what you need to see God for?’ and I’ll be thinking, ‘Shit, dad, wind can be shown; it can be proven. Wind can power a big ass windmill. Tell God to power one on command; nigga, show me that.”
Tim covered his mouth and held the phone away from his head to try to collect his composure since he wasn’t entirely certain of Von’s position yet, racially or religiously, but slipped into snort-laughing. “I’m serious, though,” Von said. “Let God come turn a windmill when I call him. A nigga will be in church this Sunday if that Nigga does that. Cuz you know God is black, right?,” he said, drifting off into laughter himself, a quick sputter of a laugh at first, slipping into a complement to Tim’s spectacular display, a little over what he had said but mostly over Tim’s laughing fit that made Von imagine an angry pig having his hooves tickled.
“Stop it! I can’t…” were the only words Tim could get out for the next couple of minutes, and Von egged him on a little more to wring every bit of humor out of the moment that he could, because he knew that they both needed humor, especially now, when things were beginning to get real… when crimes of conspiracy against a government had already been committed, and many serious charges would be coming, if their luck held out.
(Von, a black guy, and Tim, a white guy -- Flight Fortamente, second book of the People Phenomenal series)
PS Liking my FB fan page automatically enters you into all future contests to win free stuff like ink pens, customized bookmarks, calendars, and (later) Nooks, Kindles, and accessories. No entering e-mails. No input of information. Just click. Like. Done. Forever. (See pics of what we are giving/have given away on the page).
All that said, here goes my first blog-born excerpt:
"I just don’t think about it. My dad says the same shit every time it comes up; ‘You can’t see the damned wind, and you know it’s there; what you need to see God for?’ and I’ll be thinking, ‘Shit, dad, wind can be shown; it can be proven. Wind can power a big ass windmill. Tell God to power one on command; nigga, show me that.”
Tim covered his mouth and held the phone away from his head to try to collect his composure since he wasn’t entirely certain of Von’s position yet, racially or religiously, but slipped into snort-laughing. “I’m serious, though,” Von said. “Let God come turn a windmill when I call him. A nigga will be in church this Sunday if that Nigga does that. Cuz you know God is black, right?,” he said, drifting off into laughter himself, a quick sputter of a laugh at first, slipping into a complement to Tim’s spectacular display, a little over what he had said but mostly over Tim’s laughing fit that made Von imagine an angry pig having his hooves tickled.
“Stop it! I can’t…” were the only words Tim could get out for the next couple of minutes, and Von egged him on a little more to wring every bit of humor out of the moment that he could, because he knew that they both needed humor, especially now, when things were beginning to get real… when crimes of conspiracy against a government had already been committed, and many serious charges would be coming, if their luck held out.
(Von, a black guy, and Tim, a white guy -- Flight Fortamente, second book of the People Phenomenal series)
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Book signing map
Mathews Memorial Library
3-26-11, noon-2:00 p.m.
Book Signing
Kevin A. Kierstead
Book signing location has changed! Please e-mail me for details with "New Location" in the subject line (in case it goes to spam) @ wutzthedeal at ya h o o dotc om.
3-26-11, noon-2:00 p.m.
Book Signing
Kevin A. Kierstead
Book signing location has changed! Please e-mail me for details with "New Location" in the subject line (in case it goes to spam) @ wutzthedeal at ya h o o dotc om.
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