Hubbert's Peak Prologue will be out soon with the complete novel to follow. Check back for details.
JJ
Friday, December 5, 2008
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Sunset is coming!
You can run but you can't hide. Sunset is inevitable. Stay tuned for release notes and how to buy.
Monday, September 29, 2008
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
My Mind’s Eye: Memories of the Post Oil War Era
Carnival
I walk among the rusted machinery of years past and wonder what it meant to be a child. The color long faded and the laughter of children, now ghosts of the past, long forgotten. If I knew no better, the machines could be torture devices used to create terror and fear. My father told stories of days filled with joy; his family spent hours riding and laughing on the antique metal foreign devices.
Silenced forever, the contraptions know no other purpose but that of a museum. What will future generation believe of the carnival? My mind wanders and I imagine a child walking through the midway, eyes open wide in wonder. A corroded, orange rollercoaster rises to the sky in the distance. Rails roll and curve in circles. Faded gray horses sneer and buck against tarnished brass poles of a silent merry go round. Clown faces stare back from a once colorful fun house front, eye full of terror where bliss was danced.
Laughter will never again grace the presence of this place. The sounds of happiness have been replaced by weeping and gunfire. I stand where carnival barkers once stood; they called to the masses in search of contestants to try their luck at games of chance. Their prize a fluffy animal or candy. I stand as guard against the unwanted; their prize is lead and death.
My orders are that no man shall pass lest I be on the receiving end of the rifle. I do my job with no remorse. I have a family to feed and protect and the ones who wish to pass threaten our safety. I have had the opportunity to kill three times and have taken the opportunity on each occasion. One such intruder still lies motionless on the black floor of a covered building. Long ago, riders would steer the small vehicles around the black surface and collide with one another. I fail to see what joy could come from this and know when I look at the dead man that no joy will ever come to the building again.
The cold wind blows against my face. I pull my collar tight around my neck to ward off the chill as I make my rounds. Grass and weeds grow from the cracks in the concrete. I cannot imagine a time when pavement was the norm and not the exception.
My relief arrives and I nod as he resumes my place as sentry. I am given leave for the night and I walk slowly back to camp as I think about the time when I can see my family again. Three months in this cold and desolate place can turn a man’s mind to thoughts not wanted. A fine line separates vigilance and insanity, especially when one is left alone in a place such as this.
I enter my tent and lie down on my bunk. Hopefully sleep will come quickly and be without dreams. The carnival rules my dreams and the ghosts that dwell there terrorize my slumber. Less than thirty days remain until I can return home and shake off the cold embrace of this place. I can only hope that our replacements arrive before I go insane.
I walk among the rusted machinery of years past and wonder what it meant to be a child. The color long faded and the laughter of children, now ghosts of the past, long forgotten. If I knew no better, the machines could be torture devices used to create terror and fear. My father told stories of days filled with joy; his family spent hours riding and laughing on the antique metal foreign devices.
Silenced forever, the contraptions know no other purpose but that of a museum. What will future generation believe of the carnival? My mind wanders and I imagine a child walking through the midway, eyes open wide in wonder. A corroded, orange rollercoaster rises to the sky in the distance. Rails roll and curve in circles. Faded gray horses sneer and buck against tarnished brass poles of a silent merry go round. Clown faces stare back from a once colorful fun house front, eye full of terror where bliss was danced.
Laughter will never again grace the presence of this place. The sounds of happiness have been replaced by weeping and gunfire. I stand where carnival barkers once stood; they called to the masses in search of contestants to try their luck at games of chance. Their prize a fluffy animal or candy. I stand as guard against the unwanted; their prize is lead and death.
My orders are that no man shall pass lest I be on the receiving end of the rifle. I do my job with no remorse. I have a family to feed and protect and the ones who wish to pass threaten our safety. I have had the opportunity to kill three times and have taken the opportunity on each occasion. One such intruder still lies motionless on the black floor of a covered building. Long ago, riders would steer the small vehicles around the black surface and collide with one another. I fail to see what joy could come from this and know when I look at the dead man that no joy will ever come to the building again.
The cold wind blows against my face. I pull my collar tight around my neck to ward off the chill as I make my rounds. Grass and weeds grow from the cracks in the concrete. I cannot imagine a time when pavement was the norm and not the exception.
My relief arrives and I nod as he resumes my place as sentry. I am given leave for the night and I walk slowly back to camp as I think about the time when I can see my family again. Three months in this cold and desolate place can turn a man’s mind to thoughts not wanted. A fine line separates vigilance and insanity, especially when one is left alone in a place such as this.
I enter my tent and lie down on my bunk. Hopefully sleep will come quickly and be without dreams. The carnival rules my dreams and the ghosts that dwell there terrorize my slumber. Less than thirty days remain until I can return home and shake off the cold embrace of this place. I can only hope that our replacements arrive before I go insane.
Friday, August 22, 2008
My Mind’s Eye: Memories of the Post Oil War Era
A New Middle Age
I was ten years old and not able to comprehend the situation. During the day I would play with the other children. At night we would have to return to the safety within the city walls. Gunfire and explosions were the soundtrack of my childhood. They were nothing more than fading noises barely heard by someone who was used to them. Like a person who has lived near train tracks for years barely registers the sounds of a passing locomotive.
We lived on the outskirts of Chicago. The useless skyscrapers were the backdrop of many days spent roaming the fields and exploring abandoned towns. Many of the buildings were torn down; the materials used to build the wall that separated us from our enemies beyond.
Prisoners of war would be brought into the city on occasion. I asked my father what would become of them and he would reply that they would be interrogated then hung. I asked him why and he said that ammunition was too valuable to waste on executions. No, I said, why must he die? Because he is starving just like us, he would reply.
I didn’t understand until I grew into manhood but it soon became clear. Food and water was gold. Cities were fighting other cities for crops and fertile land. I grew up knowing nothing else but my father told me tales of cars and planes and concrete highways stretching from coast to coast. It was all because the oil ran out he would say. We thought it would last forever but when it ran out we were like children without their mothers. We were lost and confused without our Sport Utility Vehicles.
I asked him what a Sport Utility Vehicle was but he said it didn’t matter. What mattered was that we learn to live without luxury. He said if we could survive with what we had inside a five mile radius we would be just fine. I didn’t understand at the time but I do now.
My family was one of the lucky ones. My father was a farmer. We were treated like kings. I never went hungry and wanted for nothing in my younger years. Other children would ask me why my face and clothes were clean and why I didn’t have to work. I shrugged my shoulders. I didn’t know.
Other families were starving. Children of six and seven years old had to work in the fields all day harvesting or planting crops. Their pay was a meager meal at the end of their work day, almost always at dusk. To them it was a feast; to me it would have been a snack.
The winters were harsh but my family was warm and fed well to keep us safe for the next growing season. My father taught me the trade as I grew. He taught me how to spot a good field, how to rotate crops for the best return, how to spot disease and insect damage. He showed me the ways of cultivation, plowing and growing until it was time for the harvest. He said this knowledge would ensure my children’s survival. He was right.
I was ten years old and not able to comprehend the situation. During the day I would play with the other children. At night we would have to return to the safety within the city walls. Gunfire and explosions were the soundtrack of my childhood. They were nothing more than fading noises barely heard by someone who was used to them. Like a person who has lived near train tracks for years barely registers the sounds of a passing locomotive.
We lived on the outskirts of Chicago. The useless skyscrapers were the backdrop of many days spent roaming the fields and exploring abandoned towns. Many of the buildings were torn down; the materials used to build the wall that separated us from our enemies beyond.
Prisoners of war would be brought into the city on occasion. I asked my father what would become of them and he would reply that they would be interrogated then hung. I asked him why and he said that ammunition was too valuable to waste on executions. No, I said, why must he die? Because he is starving just like us, he would reply.
I didn’t understand until I grew into manhood but it soon became clear. Food and water was gold. Cities were fighting other cities for crops and fertile land. I grew up knowing nothing else but my father told me tales of cars and planes and concrete highways stretching from coast to coast. It was all because the oil ran out he would say. We thought it would last forever but when it ran out we were like children without their mothers. We were lost and confused without our Sport Utility Vehicles.
I asked him what a Sport Utility Vehicle was but he said it didn’t matter. What mattered was that we learn to live without luxury. He said if we could survive with what we had inside a five mile radius we would be just fine. I didn’t understand at the time but I do now.
My family was one of the lucky ones. My father was a farmer. We were treated like kings. I never went hungry and wanted for nothing in my younger years. Other children would ask me why my face and clothes were clean and why I didn’t have to work. I shrugged my shoulders. I didn’t know.
Other families were starving. Children of six and seven years old had to work in the fields all day harvesting or planting crops. Their pay was a meager meal at the end of their work day, almost always at dusk. To them it was a feast; to me it would have been a snack.
The winters were harsh but my family was warm and fed well to keep us safe for the next growing season. My father taught me the trade as I grew. He taught me how to spot a good field, how to rotate crops for the best return, how to spot disease and insect damage. He showed me the ways of cultivation, plowing and growing until it was time for the harvest. He said this knowledge would ensure my children’s survival. He was right.
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
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