So it seems that getting epubs to work is harder than it looks. I’m going to try to test them out some more, but if they don’t pan out, I’ll switch back to pdf files. Those should work just as fine on e-readers (including kindles). We’ll see.
Blog
Manuscript revision update
As I sit here in bed (yes, really) sick and remorselessly missing a day of work, my thoughts roll back to that manuscript I wrote way back in 2008. A story upon which I placed a large focus of my life at the time, sadly now just floating in my personal limbo. I started “Short Thursdays” with the intent of pushing the writer’s edge of Tales of Maora, but I have yet to get any headway on revising my original manuscript, the one I wish to make a book.
But there is some good news! With the discovery of epub (and I admit I was a late-comer to the format) I have new vision with what I can do with my writing. Along with putting my short stories in this format (making them available for free on the site) I will pursue epub for future writing ventures.
I also intend to continue revising my manuscript.
Refining Short Thursdays
Short Thursdays has been running for only 3 weeks and it is already a smash hit! (in my mind at least!) To develop this into a more legitimate project, I will be publishing the short stories in the open epub format. Folks with e-readers that can use this format will benefit from this. I plan to create a separate section of the website to catalogue all the stories. I hope to one day distribute full length novels in this format, so let’s hope I figure this out!
Those of you that don’t own a shiny e-reader will still be able to read the stories right here online.
For those that are unaware, Short Thursdays is the new literary feature of Tales of Maora. Every week I publish a new short story written by yours truly. Archives are easily accessible here, so go get reading!
Beyond the White Stars, Part 1
Story by Adam Casalino
The cruiser crashed painfully to the earth. It skidded across the rain-slicked runway for several feet before coming to a stop. The chief engineer came running from the observatory. She jammed her hand into the emergency retrieval switch and held her breath as the crumpled hatch slowly rose. To her relief the man inside was alive.
“Are you insane?”
“Yes.”
“We told you not to jump back,” she groaned, “there were too many near the atmosphere. And look at you! You’re not even wearing your flight vest. You could’ve caught your death of cold.”
“If only.”
The chief engineer extended her arms and helped the pilot out of the damaged space craft. He was only wearing a light shirt and jeans—far from the standard uniform—and the rain quickly soaked him to his skin. Blood was dripping from his forehead and it ran down the side of his face. He favored his left side and after several unsuccessful attempts at walking, leaned heavily on the chief.
“I swear, Hank, sometimes I think you want to get yourself killed.”
“It’s the only thing I’m not good at, eh Becky? Who the hell are they? Don’t tell me you sent for medics?”
A swarm of men—draped in macs—were rushing towards them.
“Those are my engineers,” Rebecca replied. “They’re going to see just how much damage you caused my cruiser.”
“The States’ cruiser. Is it too much to ask to be forgiven a few bumps and scratches for defending the planet?”
“You won’t be doing much defending if you keep wrecking ships, Hank.”
“Ah, Becky…”
They entered the base through the take-off observatory, a many-windowed station swarming with satellite monitors and orbital engineers. Rebecca’s supervisor shouted some order, barely heard over the general noise of the room.
“I’m taking Captain Brillson to Medic.”
“Well be quick about it. We got four more cruisers coming in and they’re in worse shape that his!”
“You see,” Henry replied. “I’m not the only one who got banged up out there.”
“You’re just the one who started all the trouble,” Becky said.
They exited the observatory and Rebecca started down the left terminal. Henry pulled her around.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“Mission Control.”
“Mission Control? No, I’m taking you to Medic.”
“I need to report in.” It was a lie. Pilots who survive a crash always go to Medic first. Reports can be filed at any time. They both knew this.
“Hank, there is nothing at MC that concerns you.”
“It always concerns me.” His voice lost its usual charm and grew cold. “I need to know if we broke through the blockade.”
The round chamber of Mission Control was crowded with pilots. Brigadier General Grieves stood in the center. The murmur died down at the raise of his hand. Only the soothing beeps of the myriad consoles were heard. Henry and Rebecca entered and stood in the back as Grieves began to speak.
“Thanks to the courageous efforts of our cruiser fleet, our enemy was forced to withdraw. However, what we thought was a blockade was merely a disguise. The so-called blockade ships were actually transmitting false-data to our satellites. Our view of the space surrounding earth was cut off, allowing them to bring in invasion carriers. They pulled the wool over our eyes good and tight on this one.”
The large screen behind the commander lit up, displaying several rotating images.
“These ships can carry five thousand single-manned fighters, fast enough to slip past our patrols, with enough fire-power to level an entire city. We estimate there are fourteen of these carriers just beyond the moon’s orbit.”
The room was silent for an entirely new reason. Grieves cleared his throat and continued.
“The US Space Corps is coordinating with our allies to prepare defensive measures. However, with the British Empire’s fleet largely beyond the Solar system’s edge and China’s recent defeat at the Belt, it will be days before an adequate force can be put into place. So, our only option—for now—is to send a small team to disrupt the enemy’s convoy any way they can. The carriers are not yet in position. Their fighters are most likely not ready for flight. Now is our one chance of delaying their assault. A fleet will be assembled within three days time, though we are taking volunteers.”
No one spoke. Pilots with years of experience looked at the floor, stared at their fingernails, or quietly edged towards the door. They knew the reality of the mission. The carriers were not defenseless. Scores of warship were undoubtedly guarding the convoy. A petty team of ships would barely make a dent against them. Everyone involved would surely die.
“Alright,” Henry said. “It seems no one else wants a go at it. I guess it’s up to me again.” The entire room turned and stared at the smirking captain.
Brigadier General Grieves exploded. “Captain Brillson you’re in no condition for flight. What are you doing here anyway? You should be in Medic.” He scowled at Rebecca. “Miss Sorenin, please take him away.”
Rebecca nodded sheepishly and pulled at Henry.
“None of these men are willing to commit suicide,” he said, refusing to move. “I doubt most of them can even devise a strategy that’ll work!”
“Captain if you don’t leave now, I’ll have to remove you by force.”
Henry glared at Grieves before finally relenting to Rebecca’s persuasion. He spent one restless night at Medic before returning to his quarters—the medical staff unable to stop him.
The Corps had trouble assembling the team, but by the day before launch they managed to pull pilots from each fleet to partake in the assault. The engineers gathered in the observatory to prepare. Rebecca was given the list of pilots—she was responsible for charting their flights. She scanned the list for the types of ships that would be flying. Her eyes froze on the one name:
Captain Henry Brillson: forward guard of Cruiser Fleet
Rebecca threw the list down on her desk and rushed from the observatory. She reached Henry’s room in less than a minute.
“You’re leading the cruisers?” Her anger and fear wrestled with each word.
“Would you expect anything different?”
“How?”
“Come now, it’s not hard swapping places with someone on this mission.”
“There’s no way Grieves would have allowed it.” She was on the verge of exploding.
“Grieves doesn’t have the last word in the matter, or did you forget he’s just a Brigadier?”
Her anger gave way to frustration. “Hank, you can’t keep doing this.”
“Doing what?” he replied in offense.
“Putting yourself in reckless danger.”
“I’m sorry, I thought there was a host of ships ready to invade the planet!”
“That’s not why you’re flying,” she said. “That’s never been why. I’m convinced you won’t stop until you are dead.”
Henry did not reply. The certainty of her words grew in the accumulating silence.
“Killing yourself is not going to bring her back…” Her voice was small and desperate.
“I know,” he finally said. “But staying alive won’t either.”
Mr. Brandon Lukney
Story by Adam Casalino
Brandon Lukney hated the sound of his own voice. It didn’t help that he was a teacher. He would climb the steps of the wooden podium, calmly clear his throat, and proceed to block out the next hour and a half of his life as he lectured on European history. Once the clock struck twelve he would wave his hands, dismissing the anxious-to-leave class, and slink down from the podium—exhausted and defeated.
He tried for years to make his lectures interesting. He bought colored chalks, printed out large cardboard displays. Once he even tried wrangling with a laptop in an effort to use “Powerpoint.” In the end he found no way to make the Magna Carta any more interesting than it already was, which wasn’t much. After years of droning on about the same, dry subject, all life in his voice drained away. It was now a dull, creaking sound. He cringed whenever he heard it.
To make matters worse, there were the students. Each new crop was dumber than the last. In the past many selected his class out of genuine, good old fashion hunger for knowledge. Now it was merely a requirement and the dull-eyed pod people that filled the room barely glanced up from their notebooks. Some of them even slept during class. Brandon hated them the most.
It was Monday, April the 21st when Brandon Lukney decided enough was enough. He packed a few special items into his bag before heading to the university. That morning he climbed the steps quickly, dropping the bundle onto the desk beside the podium. He rifled through it momentarily as the apathetic students murmured to themselves. A loud piercing voice arrested their attention.
“Who can tell me the year Henry VIII was crowned king?”
Professor Lukney’s lips slightly curled into a smile behind the megaphone. The students were stunned—for a moment. A few chuckled at the surprise, some of the more alert sat up straighter. Soon, however, most of them slumped back into their usual daze.
“If you don’t answer, I’ll continue to use this.”
More laughs. Nobody believed him.
“Mr. Oreson, do you have an answer?” Everyone turned and looked in the direction of Michael Oreson. A baseball cap was pulled low over his face. His feet were propped up on the chair in front of him. He was asleep. Normally one would expect to find a sleeping student at the back of the classroom, but such was the boldness of Mr. Oreson, he sat in the second row from the front.
At the sound of his name, Michael stirred, but remained asleep.
“I see Mr. Oreson prefers a more meditative form of instruction,” said Mr. Lukney through the megaphone. The few students who got the joke laughed. “Let’s see if we can better acquire his attention.” Lukney reached into his bag and grabbed another item. He pulled the rather long pointer from the blackboard and used it as a makeshift cane as he strode towards the row of seats. The students tensed and glanced nervously at Michael. Had anyone who sat near him possessed common sense, they would have elbowed him awake, or at least thrown a wad of paper his way.
Mr. Lukney stood over Michael, arms crossed. He waited one last moment for the student to awake on his own volition. He didn’t stir. Mr. Lukney lifted an air horn and pointed it squarely at Michael’s face. The other students grimaced and covered their ears as the berating noise flooded the lecture hall.
Mr. Oreson woke up. The ball cap fell off his head as he clutched his ears. White faced he looked up at the smiling professor.
“Good morning, Mr. Oreson,” Lukney said. Michael Oreson nodded. He didn’t hear a word. “Now that you’re awake, we can resume. I trust everyone else is awake as well?”
He looked up to see forty-five heads straighten and look at the chalkboard. Books were pulled out from underneath chairs as pens began scratching across notebooks.
“Good. Oh and keep your feet off the chairs, Michael.” He swept the pointer under Michael’s legs, lifting them off the chair and bringing his feet crashing to the ground. Brandon Lukney strode confidently back to the podium where—in an entirely new voice—he began his lecture on Medieval England.
The Fear
Story by Adam Casalino
Alastair the butler always walked fast as he crossed the open courtyard where he watched his former masters die. The thick, marble floors had been long scrubbed clean of the stains, the walls were painted afresh, and even the grotesque, ancient fountain was removed–but in the dark none of that mattered. A winter wind chilled the aperture, whipping up small pieces of debris and shuddered the gnarled tree that climbed up the North corner. In Alastair’s mind it was happening all over again.
His trembling hands lifted the iron bar across the far door and he feverishly stepped through. He let the door clanging loudly shut; for a moment his sensibilities were dwarfed in the panic. Alastair composed himself, waited for the trembling to subside, and continued with his duties. In the beginning the perfunctory tasks that filled his day kept his mind from wandering to where it wanted to go. After so many years that was not enough, so began numbering the steps he took in the vast mansion.
One hundred and forty steps from the antechamber to the guest rooms. Fifty steps as he tidied the beds and furniture. Every groan and creak was well-catalogued in his mind; nothing took him by surprise. The wind in the chimney moans every ten minutes; the first and fifth steps on the West stairs creak subtly; the mirror in the server’s corridor reflects the image of Madam Susan, bleeding from the throat.
Alastair dropped his serving tray. Instinctively he bent down, collecting the scattered silverware and broken dishes. Mustering a crazed courage, he turned back to the mirror. Only the image of a small, shaking man, stared back into his eyes. His hands trembled again as he retrieved a handkerchief from his chest pocket. They trembled as he wiped his face and lifted the tray from the floor.
The furnace in the basement was malfunctioning. Alastair put in his tattered gloves and slunk through the gray, dusty chamber. There the shadows were deepest in all the house. His meticulous mind could not abate the glaring eyes that watched him from the dark corners. The heater was at very back of the basement, rattling and grumbling cantankerously. Alastair wrestled with it casing. He stopped to glance over his shoulder, just missing sight of the figure darting back into the recesses of the room.
Outside by the back entrance the woodcutters left a mess again. Alastair, missing his gloves, grappled with the stray lumber, wearily stacking them into piles. A frosty, autumn wind was moaning through the trees. In his right ear, he heard the voice of Master Thomas groan in agony. Alastair left the wood and rushed into the house, letting the back door crash shut.
The main corridor was the dirtiest and Alastair always seemed to be sweeping it. The scratching of the broom filled the lonely silence, met only by his footsteps. He reached the far end of the hallway with his large pile of dirt. At the other end he heard high, clicking steps, slow and rhythmic, moving towards him. Alastair dropped the broom and stared down the corridor. He saw no one. The steps grew louder. He left the dirt where it was and fled the hall.
It was the Fifteenth of December and Alastair could not work. He laid in his bed, gripping the covers with his frozen, white hands. Almost eleven-thirty; it would be ten years since the day. He clenched his teeth and shut his eyes tight as the sounds grew around him. Alastair held his breath and told himself it was all in his mind, when they started to speak.
First they called his name. Alastair rolled in bed and convinced himself it was the wind in the timbers. There came steps from outside his bedroom door. He pulled the covers over his head. The doorknob slowly turned and the door creaked open. Two pairs of footsteps walked into the room. They called his name again.
The sweat covering Alastair’s face chilled at the sound. It dripped down his spine, freezing his back. Master Thomas said his name. He did not answer. Madam Susan spoke; her voice was garbled from wound in her throat. Alastair did not move. Finally Master Thomas’ voice rose to a shout. Alastair’s blankets were pulled from the bed. He sat up and he saw them.
They stood at the end of his bed. Master Thomas wore his neat, black suit. The tie was undone and his shoes were covered in mud. The side of his skull was still smashed; the left side of his face dark and sunken in. Madam Susan was still in her white evening gown, stained down to the feet in her blood. She still was trying to speak, though little sound was heard.
“Why did you not answer us, Alastair?” asked Master Thomas.
“I cannot see you this way, sir” Alastair moaned.
“But you are our servant,” Master Thomas replied, “we have need of you.”
“No… you do not need me anymore. You have need for nothing.”
“Alastair,” Master Thomas said, a tinge of sorrow in his voice, “what are we to do?”
“You must leave me alone. I am no longer your servant.”
Master Thomas and Madam Susan grew silent. They stared at Alastair dejectedly, their dead eyes cold and searching.
“If that is what you wish, Alastair,” said Master Thomas, “we will go.”
Slowly, his former masters left the bedroom. Alastair followed the sound of their footsteps until they reached the end of the servants wing and disappeared. Cautiously, he gathered his blankets from the floor and crawled into bed. That night the noise in the chimney was only the wind.
Alastair the butler returned to his methodical tasks in the large, empty mansion. He ceased counting his steps. The furnace stopped malfunctioning. The woodcutters even stacked their lumber. Quietly he swept the main corridor; no footsteps came. The giant house was calm and undisturbed. Alastair grew unsettled.
On the fifteenth of December Alastair found himself in the courtyard. It was dark and the wind whipped wildly. Alastair just stood silently in the opening, waiting for something, but it never came. He sighed to himself and shook his head. Slowly he crossed the courtyard, opened the outer doorway, and left the mansion. He never returned.