Saulander Evans

Earth Day poem on Insomniacathon

2007-04-22T11:15:00.000-07:00

Hey! I'm excited to say that my poem, 'Hunger for a Better Tomorrow', is one of 2 featured poems for Earth Day on Insomniacathon. I'm elated to be featured along with Kurt Vonnegut and his poem, 'Requiem'. I hope ya'll will check out the website. It's really a great place with over 30,000 readers monthly.

Dueling Whites - Promotional Video

2007-02-17T22:11:00.000-08:00

I am pleased to announce that my second novel, Dueling Whites, is now on sale! Here is a promotional video that I'm sure you will enjoy.

Choices Born of Prophesy - Promotional Video

2007-02-13T10:30:00.000-08:00

I hope you enjoy this promotional video for my first novel, Choices Born of Prophesy.

Entropy and Newton's Third Law of Motion

2007-01-01T06:24:00.000-08:00

2006 was a year of vicissitudes; sadness and joy, elation and frustration -- a year of transition. Even as I tried to measure the entropy of my life, those things that were in disorder managed to align and joined forces to form a ‘more perfect union’, and those that were already aligned, zoomed out of control once again. Equal but opposite? Yes, that is what it seemed to me.

Newton’s Third Law of Motion states that for every action there is an equal yet opposite reaction. Frankly, I believe that this law applies to all aspects of life, not just motion. Life is in a constant state of motion – right down to the cellular level. Yet emotions are in a constant state of flux as well, and they tend to oscillate between highs and lows in equal numbers and intensity when summed up over the course of the year.

Even our perception of the passage of time is at opposite poles from youth to old age. When we are young and can handle a multitude of events in our lives, time passes so slowly that it seems to defy reality. Then as we mature, time accelerates past warp, blasting reality away but in the opposite direction – we seemingly have less time to perform the tasks that once took milliseconds in the vast scheme of our ‘virtual reality’.

Most people look at the New Year as a time to look ahead – to the future. Me, I tend to think about those things for which I am truly thankful. Yes, I know… that is supposed to be reserved for Thanksgiving; right? Well, I guess that is one of those differences in perception that I spoke of a moment ago. I think of Thanksgiving day as one where we enjoy the camaraderie of family and friends over a labor intensive meal that may disappear unusually fast, but is enjoyed more so than any other meal of the year. Then, after the madness surrounding the Christmas and Chanukah season, there is that brief time – at the stroke of midnight that ushers in the dawning of a new year – when reality shifts once again. During that infinitesimal moment, we tend to look back over the course of the year that just finished and make resolutions that will somehow improve the quality of our lives from that day forward. Unfortunately, most of those resolutions fail to materialize due to lack of forethought of the ‘virtual reality’ in which we live, Newton’s Third Law, and above all else, entropy.

Somehow, as my cells continue to age and time passes with an acceleration that increases with cruelty, I’ve realized that I should have made certain decisions well before the time that I got around to making them. It wasn’t as though I was a procrastinator, though. It was just that reality moved quicker than my brain cells and this shell of a body could match. Thus, I conclude that entropy will continue and Newton will buffer it to keep some semblance of order in my life.

In 2006, I divorced and remarried. I have already experienced love and devotion from my new husband, Joel, which surpasses my wildest imagination of what true love could possibly be. I gained a wonderful mother-in-law, who I call, Mom and who calls me her daughter. I have gain four wonderful children as well – two who are adults and two who are still in their formative years. Joel has gained another whole family as well, who loves him as if he were always one of the clan… always a close-knit family.

In addition, in 2006, my first novel, Choices Born of Prophesy, hit the bookstores, and there are more tomes to follow. I hope that those who read it will find it worthy of the page space and that the story instills hope and happiness, especially as the series continues to unfold in future volumes of the saga that depicts an alternate history of our world, one based in magic. Moreover, I have had the privilege to assist other authors with their work on their way toward a possible future as published authors.

Oh, that reminds me… many people have asked whether I have misspelled Prophesy. Although the most common spelling is prophecy, these two words do have a distinct difference. Prophecy can be any prediction of the future, whereas a Prophesy is a prediction with Divine Authority and in this context, always capitalized. Prophesy is rare in current times because most present day prophecies are not Heaven-sent. I hope this clears up the misunderstanding.

Anyway, as we march into 2007, let us do it without reckless disregard. May the forces of entropy align with Newton’s Law and culminate in a rich, full year of love, happiness, hope, and fulfillment of your dreams and aspirations.

1/1/2007

I thought I'd share some photos taken at the book signing on December 30, 2006 at the Waldens Book Store at Military Circle Shopping Mall, Norfolk, VA.

Four-Legged Children

2006-09-10T04:53:00.000-07:00

Amid all the excitement of my first novel’s publication, I’ve also been dealing with the reality that two of my four-legged children were preparing for their final journey. There was a time when I had six (2 cats and 4 dogs). Samantha, my Calico kitty, was the first to pass, so young as compared to the others. A few years later, Smoochie Woochie, my black lab, battled Addison’s Disease -- a non-painful affliction that required medications to keep her electrolytes in balance to prevent her from dehydration. The vet said it would be a miracle for her to live two years with Addison’s, even if I did everything right with her care because dogs, and especially labs, are emotional beings and high emotion, both positive and negative, can throw off the delicate balance of sodium and potassium in the body. Miracle of miracles, Smoochie Woochie lived three years after her initial diagnosis; yet, nine years after her death I still mourn her loss. Last year, after 20 years of life, Dijon Pretty Kitty left me mourning once again. Her passing left me with three remaining four-legged children already advanced in years.

Unfortunately, my two eldest dogs, Grunt and Sheba, both of whom were 16-years old, are no longer with me, having left this world on the same day, September 7, 2006. Grunt dealt with food allergies the last few years of his life, but once I learned what he had to avoid, most of those problems fell away. However, since late July, he lost so much weight (even with eating multitudes of food) that he became frail and the vet believes that cancer was the culprit. Sheba, on the other hand, had hip problems that finally stole her vitality. Now I have one child left who is 15-years old but I am fortunate that Wolfie enjoys good health.

Below are a few poems I wrote this summer about my four-legged children. Perhaps you have experienced similar events in your lives.

There is Never Enough Time

Two plus four minus one left five,
four-legged children –
one feline and four canine.

Never to have two-legged offspring,
simply wasn’t in the tarot cards.

Life for our four-legged kids
rarely exceeds a few years at best.
Many say one should be happy
no matter the time clock,
satisfaction has no guarantees.

You raise them,
nurse them,
teach them some manners.
They love you,
heal you,
teach you humanity.

Like a child, they quiver at thunder,
marvel with newfound pleasures or toys,
want only to be a part of your life --
family, is what they are not a possession,
not chattel –
mutual friends, confidants and protectors.

Was two enough with Samatha, the first to have passed?
No, Gods no!
Oh, how I miss how she’d suck on my hair,
thinking I was her mother!

Was seven enough time with Smoochie Woochie?
No, Gods no!
I still agonize over her loss and miss
how she’d sing for food or steal it off the back of the stove!

Was twenty enough time with Dijon Pretty Kitty?
No, Gods no!
Oh, how I miss how she thought she was a dog,
how she’d sleep with her head
inside the mouth of her canine brothers,
using their tongues as a pillow!

Will sixteen be enough time with Grunt and Sheba? Or however much time I’ll have with Wolfie?
No! It won’t be, but I have no control
over when their clocks wind down.

I’ll miss Grunt’s grunting and his
traipsing in and out of the doggie door as if on speed.
His days are running out and I mourn for him already.

I’ll miss Sheba’s calm demeanor that suddenly
reverts to her alpha pack-leader conduct.
It pains me to see Wolfie taking over her job,
Sheba does well just to stand on all fours of her own accord.

I’ll miss Wolfie’s seal-like stature,
his expressions, and the way he was always my shadow.
Wolfie, the only one of my three
remaining four-legged children who enjoys
good health and many more days before his
clock winds down.

Two plus four minus one left five,
Less two leaves me with three right now –
four-legged children,
but mine all the same.
Gods! There is never enough time.

8/20/06

Black Death

Black fur peppered with gray,
lying there like lumps of clay.
Anxiously I ask, ‘Are ya’ll okay?’
Cautiously, approach and pray --
‘Ka please, please! Not today.’

Darkness advances with the break of day.
Eons of love, more than I could say
and cherished memories of how we’d play.
Thank You Dear Lord for taking away
his and her black futures with another delay.

8/28/06

Mercy’s Needle

After sixteen long years, shortened by perspective,
heart wrenching decisions came pounding at the door;
one emaciated, the other saddled with hip pain,
both well beyond their breeds’ usual life span,
yet neither seemed anxious to leave this world behind.

Perhaps they knew how much I’d mourn their loss,
thus fought to stay each consecutive day.
Though both reached their sweet sixteen,
in their world they were closer to one-hundred-twelve.
Old Man Time took his pound of flesh and bone
but until then couldn’t rob them of their desires.

Looking in their eyes,
they related their new longing – release.
Mercy’s needle impaled two veins,
loving intonements chanted in whispers,
trying to remain calm for their benefit
as I watched their spirits lift from
their worn-out shells
paw-in-spiritual-paw
to frolic on another plane of consciousness.

Lump in throat,
tear streaked cheeks,
guilt filled my breaking heart
that I hadn’t made the decision earlier,
having waited until they asked me to let them go.
My mourning period now truly begins.

With all my love,
Rest in Peace Grunt and Sheba
and show each other the way.

9/7/06

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Choices Born of Prophesy - NEWS UPDATE!

2006-08-25T05:54:00.000-07:00

As mentioned in my previous post, my first novel, Choices Born of Prophesy (ISBN: 0-9774714-0-3) is now on sale.

Here are a few poems I've written lately that I hope you will enjoy reading.

Drama Queen
by Saulander Evans

Spinning her intricate web of deceit
she saunters about her silky stage
practicing her lines for her audience to hear;
prose of the script memorized in her mind,
before the mirror, twin orbs of blind-sight,
lying in wait for her next meal.

Nightly the curtains rise,
characters battle for dominance in the
drama set out by the director for the
two star attractions to join forces
and entertain the onlookers for a while.

Yet the understudy is just that --
never the first choice for the play;
silently or not, plotting her rival’s demise
that she might have the singular
role as the Drama Queen.

Tranquility Kissing the Sky
by Saulander Evans

Orange reds then tantalizing yellows
brighten the eastern horizon of my soul,
vanquishing the dark blue and purple
bruises from the long endless nights,
months and years of accumulation,
warming the psyche like a hot cup of joe;
silent meditation, tranquility kissing the sky.

Hunger for a Better Tomorrow
by Saulander Evans

Gilded images, substantial, full;
woven into the pulp;
intricate nuances later giving rise to the
epiphany – the vision of hope,
twisted history, monumental consequences
arising from miniscule actions
playing at warp speed, thoughtless
gestures made meaningful with time.

Hunger gnaws in my belly,
insatiable thirst to translate the
multitude of languages, letters, emotions
comprising their lives.
Thunderous screaming rebounds
amongst the clutter –
‘Hurry, hurry’ –
relentless in their prodding.

Waves of energy radiating off those
charged to catalyze our future existence,
contracts made, battles fought –
some won and others lost –
but always along the web,
the chosen path to salvation
though many died for the cause
because they
hungered
for
a
better
tomorrow.

NEWS FLASH! UPCOMING PUBLICATION OF CHOICES BORN OF PROPHESY! SEPTEMBER 12, 2006.

2006-07-21T07:57:00.000-07:00

IT'S OFFICIAL!!

The time is approaching when my first novel, Choices Born of Prophesy (ISBN: 0-9774714-0-3) is supposed to hit bookstores. Yep! You read correctly, the publisher is finally releasing Choices for publication this September 12th. You can place a order for you book now though. Uh huh! That's right. YOU CAN PREORDER CHOICES BORN OF PROPHESY AT BARNES & NOBLE.COM .

I have to thank Sandrilyn Publications for all their patience with my legal wrangling with my ex-husband over this past year in that they postponed its release until my attorney gave the thumbs up to protect my financial interests. Now it seems that September 12, 2006 is approaching at warp speed and there doesn’t seem to be enough time in the day to fulfill my obligations to promote the book, supplementing the publisher’s advertising, to ensure the success of the first installment of this epic series of fantasy novels.

I have been fortunate that several online magazines, Insolent Rudder, StaticMovement, and The Write Side Up (both in print and online) have graciously agreed to publish a 3-chapter excerpt from Choices Born of Prophesy to allow readers an opportunity to get acquainted with a few of the characters that populate the fantasy world this saga will create. I would also like to thank The Redrum Tavern for donating advertising space for my novel. I am also in the process of pulling together my official Author’s Website SaulanderEvans.com to promote my books as well as my other work. Other than that, every time I leave the house I tell people about the book’s upcoming release, striking up conversations with people I don’t know, which is a biggie for me in that I’m shy about speaking candidly to strangers.

I spent the Spring writing a series of poems that I likely will compile and submit somewhere for consideration for publication. However, being a fledgling poet still, the prospects of finding a publishing company who will accept my prose poetry is slim, but so be it. I’ll never know until I try, right?

It is mid-July and hotter than hell. My air conditioner broke recently and it looks as though I’ll need to purchase an entire unit (both exchanger and compressor). July 16 was National Ice Cream Day and I wrote the following poem to commemorate it as well as describe the heat wave running rampant all over the country.

Banish the Baked-Alaska
By Saulander Evans

Wilted limbs and brain cells scream,
"Please!
Something cold;
reminiscent of pristine snow, or
solidified ice-chilled breeze!
Anything, anything to cut the unrelenting heat!"

While cubed cold water hydrates my body,
satisfying its thirst, keeping it running,
it’s still not cold or substantial enough to
satisfy this body’s desire.

Creamy concoctions,
ambrosial confections!
Banish the Baked-Alaska of
this shell with scoops of
mint with chocolate chips
nestled within a sugar cone.

Thick lines of drippy yumminess
waiting for my tongue to lap it up
then devour the heavenly flavor in a flash!
Oh how I long to complain,
"Eeeek a brain freeze!"
after eating it too fast.

Alas, even this delightful diversion
fades too quickly to afford much relief.
Eaten to excess, it causes a sour stomach.
AH! Perhaps an ICE CREAM BATH
can banish the Baked-Alaska of this shell!

7/16/06

No, I’m Not MIA

2005-09-08T21:37:00.000-07:00

My, oh my! It’s been a while since I’ve updated my Blog, hasn’t it? I have been so busy I could hardly breathe. I even wrote a quick poem denoting that, entitled, Breathe, which I will post for your ‘breathing’ pleasure, oops I meant reading pleasure. Life in the Saulander Evans blogosphere keeps me on my toes, that is for sure. I’m happy to report that my online editing firm Red-Line Editing Services is up and running, and servicing clients' editorial needs. We have many talented editors, proofreaders, and professional ghostwriters working with us to provide quality editing services for new authors as well as seasoned ones. I’d like to give my deepest, humblest thanks to C.W. Smith for designing and hosting my website. He is truly a genius when it comes to talent in designing websites. If you ever need a website, I’d highly recommend him and you can contact him at cwsmith@cwsmith.net to discuss your online website needs.

I also now have three publishing credits that I can add to my resume. The Lampshade and The Writers Tavern both published some of my work in September. My poem, The Empty Shell, is in Issue Two of The Lampshade. My Flash Fiction pieces, Good Food For Thought, and Twelve Days Out of Every Fourteen are both in the debut issue of The Writers Tavern (updated quarterly). Both ezines have a wide variety of work that they publish and I feel privileged to have my work showcased with all the other talented writers in these ezines as well.

I know this is a short update this time, and I apologize profusely. However, I’m running on some deadlines that require my undivided attention, so I must sign off for now. I’ll try to be better about updating you about events in my blogosphere.

Breathe

Beneath the field of white
Unforgotten melodies resound,
Echoing cries of poverty
Contemporary and ancient
Transparent above the plane
Blowing with gale force – howling…
Eternal life -- oxygen.

Screaming with pain, lungs
Intrinsic with the need
Seek the weakest point they can find
Equalizing the playing field
Creating a fissure inside solid ice
Now traveling with irregular
Angles, triangulating,
Opening a source to relieve the stress.

Explosions erupt like yesteryear
Only the answer lies within the
Urn, tossed into the air,
Returning again, caught, and
Artistically balanced between the
Rollercoaster of emotion; good and bad
Rendering thought as unnecessary.

Simply put just inhale.
Seal the fate of your words.
Entrust them to the toolbox and breathe.

What a Whirlwind I've Been Caught Up In...

2005-07-14T23:04:00.000-07:00

Life in the Saulander Evans Blogosphere has been productive. I still work from 8 AM until 4 AM the following morning, but this week I started taking more of that time to write than I have over the past month and a half. As I told you before, I am a fantasy writer who has a vision that spans some four thousand years. Furthermore, the characters of those books have felt neglected. Frankly, I don’t blame them for feeling ignored. I made a conscious decision to lay them aside for a while. I needed to work out other important issues surrounding my life, and to be perfectly honest, I feared those issues would bleed off into my work and fuck it up royally. Yet it wasn’t as if I didn’t write during that period. I simply chose other things about which to write.

I’ve also been involved in a very interesting project of late. A colleague of mine at Zoetrope has the most wonderful screenplay called Santa’s Got a Dark Side. I learned about its existence from a message board in one of the virtual offices there. He was announcing a casting call for voice-overs for the characters. I read the script and fell in love with it instantly. It’s dark, raunchy, and downright funny. In other words, it was right up my alley. Since then, I’ve promoted that project with a fervor, helping to recruit talent, including myself – ahem (batting my eyelashes and pursing my lips), “I’m Mrs. Claus, it’s so nice to meet ya!” – and was recently promoted to Associate Producer for this independent film. I mean…WOW! I’ve branched out into acting and executive type work on an independent film… just where will I stop? I haven’t a clue, to be honest, and I don’t want to think about it either. I simply want to experience as much in this creative profession as I possibly can. If you are interested in participating in this marvelous screenplay, you can contact Ray Biddle at Biddleproductions@comcast.net or you can contact me at saulanderevans1@yahoo.com. You will need to have a mic and a way to capture voice files. I sure hope you join us on this wonderful adventure! I am meeting some marvelous people at zoetrope with unique visions, I’m learning so much about my own writing, and sharing that information with those who want more creative feedback as well.

Now, if that weren’t enough, I am also in the process of expanding my editing business. I currently freelance as an editor for an editing firm, reviewing manuscripts as well as editing them. Another colleague of mine at Zoetrope is assisting me with my web-design, and is the author-developer of a marvelous piece of software that I’m trying out as a beta tester. The software, ‘Writer Submission Tracking Software’ (WSTS), will have two versions for sale sometime hopefully in the near future. One version is for authors to track their own manuscript submissions to publishers, and agents. The other version will be for editors to utilize to maintain intricate files for a multitude of authors and should have such lovely business functions as tickler files, etc. I will have a link to his website for all those interested in this marvelous tool for prolific writers and busy editors out their in the literary world. WSTS is gonna be a writer’s best friend, I can just feel it!

I’m still waiting on word from two publishers for two of my novels. I submitted Choices Born of Prophesy to Mundania Press on June 3, 2005, which could take up to 120 days to hear a reply. I also submitted Terror in a Pill to DAW/Penguin Group (USA) on June 16, 2005, which they say could take up to 90 days to hear a reply. So…I’m keeping my fingers crossed, and sigh with a mixture of relief that the mailbox is empty, and anxiety that I’ve not heard anything yet – always hoping that they are taking their sweet time because they are looking it over with major scrutiny… hoping, waiting, and needing a good slug of Mylanta.

Today’s posting will be a mixed bag, just like all the sundry things going on in my hectic life. I’ll first post a piece about ‘keeping with the pure thought’, then a couple poems, a piece about thunderstorms, and then my synopsis of Terror in a Pill. I guess this is going to be a long night for you to read all of this. You probably have the opinion that I blither quite a bit and you are probably right. Remember, in cyberspace there is no air, so the only way you can hear me is through the written word. :^)

Keeping the Essence of the Pure Thought

I know people have their own methodology to their writing. Some sweat bullets over each word, stress over where to place their next comma, or if they should use a semicolon instead of a period. So many spent years learning how to draft a perfect sentence, and others seem simply to possess a gift, allowing them to string words together, devising a coherent thought that moves the story forward. I can’t say that either method is better than the other, I can only say what works for me.

When I write, I do so with my eyes shut, allowing my mind to concentrate on the pure thought that rolls through my head. If I must open my eyes, I look away from the screen so as not to tempt myself with the desire to edit the sentence I wrote five minutes ago. I don’t analyze it for structure, or form; I simply type the first words that come to mind – the pure thought – and the punctuation that flows with it. Then I move forward, ever forward, trusting that the thought will somehow knit in with the story I see behind my eyelids.

I have in mind the physical and emotional characteristics about those whom I am writing, and because I see and hear them in my mind I allow them to dictate to me what they are saying and doing. I trust in them to be true to their own character, so I don’t question their desire to use a certain word to describe their action or emotional response. I simply let their pure thoughts roll through the tips of my fingers as they tap out the letters on the keyboard.

Is it natural for a character to say, “Stop this automobile at the next rest area because I am experiencing pressure against my rectum, which I must relieve?” Hell, no! No one speaks that way, but I see that sort of crap come across my computer screen in the form of someone’s manuscript, a piece of writing I am to edit, or review. At those times, I stop and wonder just what the fuck this person was thinking to allow himself to write such bullshit! He was interjecting himself into the narrative, disallowing the character’s voice to come through. Damn it, if the guy needs to take a shit, just say it. Stop worrying about what your mother will think when she sees that four-letter word written on the page. Be true to the pure thought, write down the first word that comes to your mind, and I’ll guarantee that the story will be better for it. Then move on.

The other part about keeping with the pure thought is not to interrupt it with other bullshit. Quiet time is a must. It is impossible to keep your train of thought with the kids running around like wild Indians. Likewise, how can you hear what your characters are thinking when the latest newsflash crosses the television airwaves or some political talking head begins his daily recitation of the half-truths they received in their morning briefings before hitting the talk show circuits (or is that circus LOL). My point is this… find a quiet place to write so you can hear that pure thought. Keep it honest; keep it true to what they are telling you, and let your fingers transpose it. End of story.

Now I’ll open my eyes and see just how much I captured. I may need to tweak a word here or there because I used it in the sentence before it. A quick scan through the thesauruses for the right word that means EXACTLY the same thing as I originally intended, plunk that baby into its place, and I’m off to the races again – listening to those inner voices and taking their dictation.
Finally, I don’t edit my own work. If the piece of completed writing is one that I expect to submit to a publisher or agent, then I send it to my trusty editor to pick it apart, with her red-lines and commentary. I am simply too close to my own work to be objective in that respect because I’ve already trusted in those character’s pure thoughts. If the piece is not of that level of importance, I simply post it as it is…with whatever warts that you, my friends and colleagues, find within the prose. For that, I thank you kindly.

The Empty Shell

The vast void of familial sentiment
Slashes through me like a knife.
Enunciated double-edged swords
Of words; inactions aimed through
The heart, and soul; assassinating
The spirit, and mind of the woman
I once was. Now inept to apportion
The empty shell of human flesh,
I slowly wither away into dust
With each passing day living
This life with poignant oblivion.

Caricature of a one and guise of another
Neither complete nor incomplete
Of ego, id, or self-consciousness.
The core of said identity siphoned through
The fissures in the shell many moons ago
Trickling out the essence of humanity.
Reduced to the four paws of a female dog
Barking at the trainer of self destructive
Acquiescence of the deplorable excrement
Dished out as the kibble in the food bowl
A fatal chicken bone caught in the throat.

Warm saline drops streak down ivory softness
Leaving a film of salt behind to seal the wounds
And stop the vacuum of space within the shell
From the imminent implosion of the protective
Barrier between the lightness and the dark.
The ethereal Hell of loneliness will soon be
Vanquished by the shoring up of my resolve
To do what is required to reacquire substance
To complete the caricature and transform the guise
Into a single hatchling with a fully functioning
Sense of ego, id, and self-assurance/consciousness.

SSE 7/7/05

Emancipation

Wind blowing through my hair
Tickling the pleasure sensors
Within the mind; the scent
Of a rose duly described on
One page elicits a long sigh;
Anticipation.

The pulsing rhythms of

Thrumming drums, instruments of wind,
Strings that soothe the soul then
Smooth away past inhibitions
Renewed tribal instinct transformed;
Sensuality.

Three o’clock whisperings
In my ear whilst the rest of the
World slumbers beneath sheets
In ignorance of the pleasures
We share together, you and me;
Sexuality.

Respect of bygone days
When body and soul understood
That life, liberty and
Pursuit of happiness was what
Led to the ultimate reward;
Emancipation.

SSE 7/10/05

Thunderstorms

I love sitting in the dark, like now, waiting for the next flash of lightening to brighten the sky temporarily. The black silhouettes of lifeless objects outside suddenly are colorful and real, before draped in darkness again. Then I wait with anticipation to hear the thunder roll, a melody of sorts. At times like this, there is a constant rumbling that some find disheartening or ominous, but not me. I find that reverberating titillating in a way to which fair weather can never compare. It’s the result of unbridled energy, like the passionate exchange between two lovers – in this case the electrons stroking the air eliciting an audible response. The lightening dancing across the sky, flitting here and then there, never exactly in the same place, or with the same intensity, just randomly caressing the air, and rewarded by her reply…rumble (moan), crash (pinnacle)… rolling along in that energetic way that only nature can produce so purely uninhibited. Truly more the pangs of foreplay.

Then the rain begins to fall, first a few drops, a moment later it sprays a little harder. Then suddenly, the bottom falls out of the clouds, dumping torrents of rain to tinkle and thrum against the rooftops, windows, and the planks of the deck outside the sliding glass door behind which I continue to watch in rapt fascination. The storm can be a long, sustained interaction of the forces of nature, or it can be a quick moving front. Either way, they travel along finding new territory on which to play.

SSE 7/13/05

Synopsis of TERROR IN A PILL
A Fantasy Novel
By
Saulander Evans

On September 11, 2001, Al-Qaeda attacks the United States and kills thousands of people in the process. Will we ever truly discover the reason behind their attack against us? What will the U.S. population think if it discovers that Al Qaeda perpetrated the attacks to dispatch three individuals who were about to have their internal organs decompose spontaneously due to their participation in the clinical trials for a new pharmaceutical drug to treat Erectile Dysfunction? Would this knowledge instigate a worldwide health crisis due to distrust of the pharmaceutical industry? Likely, but more importantly it would prevent the marketing of the synthetic form of the most magical substance on Earth that is needed to keep our world from self-destructing.

CLAIR SYBIL JACOBS and her sister, SAUL/SAULY BEAU, are not human, and they have had many names attributed to them throughout their long lifetimes, periodically staging their deaths and picking up new lives with another name to hide their apparent immortality. They continue to assist the lesser Gods of our world to maintain the cure to the final problem that God Almighty created as his final punishment of our Gods for their past sins. With successful completion of God’s Divine task four-thousand years earlier, Sauly and her family afforded the world two special gifts as God’s rewards for a job well done. One is the spiritual salvation of every person on Earth; the other is God’s promise that he will reincorporate our galaxy into our home world at the center of the universe, reuniting us with our ancestors and their descendants. God’s appointed time for the delivery of his second gift is at hand. However, MEPHISTOPHELES (the Evil God of our galaxy, better known as the Devil), who walks the Earth as DR. JEAN-CLAUDE PETRIE (a chemistry consultant for Rhamin Pharmaceuticals) alters the packaging of the gift from one with life and happiness for all, to one with death and destruction for some. It is time for Sauly to perform her final duty related to her first vocation in life, and present Mephistopheles with the Ultimate Choice and to convince him to choose Good over Evil.

On September 11, 2001, during the terrorist attacks, Clair realizes that she prophesized the incident four-thousand years before, but had dismissed the Prophesy as only a morbid dream. While thousands of people’s thoughts bombard her with the horror they are experiencing, Clair telepathically intercepts a conversation between three of the co-conspirators of the assault and learns that they have three other operations underway to dispatch the remainder of their targets, but not the exact nature of those future strikes. That night, while she sleeps, she revisits her prophetic dream. Within it, the attacks come between two other events, men finding the cure for their impotency, and the subsequent spontaneous decomposition of their internal organs. Before she marries DOVID, Clair works with him at Rhamin Pharmaceuticals where she designs an erectile dysfunction medication by the name of Fyrmanagin, which has a company designation of RP-911. Therefore, she reasons that her E.D. drug is somehow involved with Al-Qaeda’s attack against the United States.

The following day, she is convinced that Dovid and three other researchers employed at Rhamin Pharmaceuticals are involved with the plot. With Sauly’s urging, Clair takes her suspicions to JASON SEEVERS, asking him for his assistance in uncovering the truth behind her prophetic dream. Jason is Clair’s former partner at the FBI, having worked together from 1965 to 1975. However, on September 12, 2001 she meets him under the guise of his partner’s daughter because Jason believes she died in the plane crash in the Moroccan mountain range in 1975. Jason is retired from the Bureau, but agrees to ask a couple friends to investigate the four scientists Clair suspects of terrorism (her husband, two of his co-workers, and Jean-Claude Petrie). However, Jason sees through Clair’s guise, and receives her promise for a full explanation of how she appears to go through life without ever aging. On September 12, Clair also discovers that her one-year-old adopted son, KIEL, has psychic gifts. Kiel provides her with information concerning the location of the first victim of the bioterrorism plot, Kiel’s biological father, who dies that day from what Kiel calls ‘Jelly Guts’. Furthermore, Kiel telepathically witnesses Dovid’s murder by Jean-Claude Petrie that night.

On September 13, as Clair prepares for her husband’s funeral, Kiel reveals to her the details of Dovid’s murder, as well as other information he extracted from within the bad man’s and Dovid’s minds. His visions incorporate every physical sensation except one; they are void of sound. The information relates to two of the three future operations her husband and his cohorts have in the offing (sniper shootings and a possible nuclear war). Clair shares this intelligence with Sauly, Jason, and Agents DEAN MARROW and ROBERT EVANS. Robert, who also was one of Clair’s former colleagues at the FBI, has a MD-PhD in biochemistry and nuclear physics, and is a WMD specialist with the Bureau. That evening, before leaving the cemetery, Sauly sees Petrie and feels she knows him. She silently vows to find out who he truly is.

On September 14, Sauly meets Petrie in Rhamin’s parking lot. He reveals he is Mephistopheles. During the meeting, he tells her to examine the lyrics of a song she has been singing under her breath for millennia. She then recognizes the song for what it is – a Prophesy. The cryptic lyrics reference her sister as the person to design the packaging of God’s second gift to the world through the creation of her E.D. drug. It also references the alteration of her drug into a deadly version of it that will also deliver God’s gift to the world. Furthermore, the Prophesy reveals the connection between Fyrmanagin and the September 11 attacks through the Taliban. Sauly reasons that Clair created synthetic Talent when she designed Fyrmanagin, and that Kiel’s visions are actually the physical manifestations of using his magical Talent. Talent, the most magical substance in the world, is the substance utilized to keep our world from self-destructing. She also knows that natural Talent is on the verge of disappearing forever. If men use Fyrmanagin as a fertility tonic, the resulting offspring will have Talent, and thus will have the mental and magical capacity to move our galaxy from its stagnant position in space and direct it back to our home world. Because Sauly understands the importance of her Prophesy, and that Mephistopheles will not face mortal justice for his actions, she develops a bartering offer to present to him. In return for his promise to allow the non-deadly version of Fyrmanagin to go to market, he will receive what he has wanted for millennia – his freedom from his duty to the world.

On September 17, Mephistopheles accepts Sauly’s proposal. The following evening, Clair’s son, Kiel, has a Talent-Dream in which Clair and Mephistopheles are the subject of a shared dream. Kiel telepathically relays their responses back and forth, unwittingly making Clair’s participation in the dream into a deadly reality.

The novel ends on December 18, 2001 with Kiel, Sauly and her new husband, Robert, arriving on an island in the Pacific where Sauly plans to teach her nephew how to use his magic safely and wisely because Kiel is destined to lead the other Talented children to take us home. Moreover, Robert convinces her to write her memoirs to share with the world, so that people will know the sacrifices that she and her family made for the common good of every man, woman, and child on Earth.

Well...I'm new to this, so let's have a little fun, shall we?

2005-06-30T20:01:00.000-07:00

I’ve never created a blog site before, or anything else on the web, to be honest. So this is going to be an adventure for me, as I delve into the land of the unknown – the Saulander Evans blogosphere. I feel as though I am in a completely different universe, but I’m sure you know the one of which I’m speaking – cyberspace – the place without air for your voices to travel upon and yet all of you can have your words travel through that cyberspace-time-continuum to reach me, if only to tell me I’m being silly. Yes, silly. I suppose that should be my middle name because I do have that strange, quirky side to my personality that others find silly.

On the other hand, I am dead serious when it comes to my craft – writing. I came to creative writing just a little over a year ago. Since that fateful day when I sat down to my laptop computer, trying to clear my mind of all the imagery that intruded into my mind a month and a half earlier, I have completed writing three fantasy novels. In addition, I am in the process of writing the fourth of the seven part series, as well as a screenplay derived from within the pages of my third novel. Moreover, I have the remaining three novels tucked firmly into the fabric of my mind, the characters screaming at me to hurry up and write down their story. I simply can’t write fast enough to keep those people happy!

I will keep you up to date on my progress from time to time. I hope you won’t find me too boring but perhaps I can lighten your day with whatever silliness has come my way.

Today I'm going to post a poem I wrote at 4:30 in the morning. And I'll follow it up with a couple of Flash Fiction pieces I've written recently. I hope you enjoy them.

Budding of a Cherry Tree

Silent musing of past existential relations
Mind, body, and soul drowning in microbial essence
That blossomed into a mushroom cloud of
Demoralization, reduction to nothing more
Than the sludge of remnants left behind
After eons of poignant turbulence

The tide of change ebbed ever closer
Lapping against the shoreline of insufficiency
Filling in the abyss with the catalytic
Converter of my future prolificacy
And the expurgation of gray matter and physiology
That enlightened my body to sensuality

The desert-dry thirst found the oasis
Transforming, through hydration, the withered shell of
Ancient scars of inadequacy, replacing the suffocating
Radioactive cloud of disease-filled abhorrence
With the budding of a cherry tree, whose blossoms
Long for rapturous strokes of your masculinity

SSE 6/29/05

Good Food for Thought

In the dark early hours of the morning I sit, silently waiting for something to happen – a nibble, a tap, a nudge – anything that will indicate that I have not wasted my time being here. I have been sitting here for hours now, rarely moving, simply staring at one of three points, each approximately eight feet away from me at a forty-five degree angle from where I sit, patiently waiting and waiting and waiting…

Come on; show me a little action over here! I mutely exclaim from within my mind. Then my unspoken commentary continues with a small smile plastered across my face. You know you want it. So why don’t you just take it? Do I have to be more blatant to get your attention?

My body aches; the coolness of the air is creeping into my bones. I pull my blanket closer around me as I close my eyes and roll my head around in circles, first one direction, and then the other, trying to loosen the tension in my neck. I take a deep breath and expel it slowly. I know you want me to give up on you tonight, but you can forget that. I am not going to sleep until I am completely satisfied. Still I wait.

I let my thoughts travel down the hair-like filament into the depths beneath the surface, searching for the answer to my unspoken request. Yet it is too dark truly to see there, I can only image. There is a myriad of activity down there, in the murky depths. The hunter and the hunted; the way it has always been. Whether it is a matter of putting food on the table or simply doing it for sport, the hunt always seems to continue in the depths of that shadowy place.

I stretch and arch my back. I hear it crack, and I wince at the noise it made. I look at my watch. It is getting late. Then I lay my head back on the soft cushion, all the while keeping my eyes on one of the three points that I’ve been watching. Are you going to come back to me tonight? I continue to wait.

Then my thoughts turn to those events that have plagued my mind recently. The excessively high stack of work that awaits me on my desk in the office, the image of the echocardiogram, my surreal life outside the realm of reality – the fantasy word that little by little takes form upon the page. Somehow, sitting here in the dark dampness, they seem so unimportant. The silence around me is a healing silence, not a condemning one. I glance at my watch again; forty-five minutes has passed since I lay my head back to rest as I watched those three points above me, and yet, I continue to stare. It mesmerizes me; I’m wrapped within a spell of tranquility that I simply do not want to break. So, I wait.

(Tap). My heart quickens with a sudden surge of adrenalin with the sound of that tap. I sit up slowly from my comfy pillow, and drop the blanket from around me, all the while watching those three points above me. The center point jostles with four violent movements, first down, up, down, and then back to its original position. I smile. The waiting is over.

I slowly reach out one hand, trying not to disturb the air around me, until my fingers slip around the smooth, thin, flexible device that relayed the message of my tentative dinner guest. Finally, you’ve stopped your frolicking out beyond my reach. I sit motionless for a few moments, waiting to see if it will happen again. (Thump). I wasn’t expecting that. Come on back and try again. (Thump, thump, thump). I close my fingers around the pole, over the clear nylon filament, and then take another slow measured breath. (Thump). I yank back on the pole, and I meet up with resistance.

I feel triumph as I stand, taking the handle of the center fishing pole into my left hand and begin the play of sport to reel in my first catch in the past two hours to add to those already in the large bucket half-filled with water from the inlet in which they lived up until earlier that evening. This catfish is a feisty little fish, that gives me a thrill to bring it up to shore, yet it does come, slowly but surely, and joins his fellow catfish in the bucket.

I look at my watch again. Three o’clock, am I done yet? Nah, not yet. I pull the old bait off the two hooks with a pair of needle-nose pliers, cut off a small sliver of the catfish’s favorite three o’clock snack, bait the hooks, check the knots on the egg-shaped weight at the end of the line, and cast it out into the inlet once again. Then I sit back down on the shoreline, replace the pole against its perch, draw my knees up close, and begin my sentry duty once again, with a smile of satisfaction that fishing is good food for thought.

SSE

Sir! Are You...?

I have a tendency to open mouth and insert foot with raunchiness sometimes without even realizing I am doing it. When that happens, it inevitably is hilarious to everyone around me. Now, let me just say this, more times than not, when I give a come-on line to someone, I deliver it so as not to confuse the issue. It is provocative, sultry and on occasion a bit playful or a little silly, but I have never purposely come right out and asked a man about his anatomy.

Approximately ten years ago, I experienced one of those occasions when my mouth was the instrument to my own embarrassment. My husband, who is a hairdresser, owned a few salons here in Virginia Beach, and at the time, I was the business manager of them. That mid-August day was a scorcher, and as luck would have it, the air conditioning unit decided that particular day was prime-pickings for going on the fritz so that everyone had sweat rolling down their backs as they toiled away trying to make the homely look a little less bedraggled and the pretty women look drop dead gorgeous. I called for a technician early that morning, and he finally showed up at around three o’clock that afternoon.

“I understand you need the air-conditioner serviced,” he said.

Duh, I thought, arming the sweat off my forehead. They sent a nice looking guy this time. I bet his last customer kept him busy. I looked over to where my husband was busy foiling Kathy Sexton’s hair, and then I met the repairperson’s eyes once again. “Yes, thank you for coming. The unit is on the roof.”

He nodded his head and made his way out the backdoor. A few moments later, he returned. “The compressor is on the roof, but the unit must be in the ceiling. I’ll need to check that out as well.”

He brought a stepladder into the salon, and proceeded to poke his head up through the ceiling tiles. “Ah, here’s the little bugger.” He hoisted himself up through the hole in the ceiling as I made my way back to the reception desk to begin the closeout of the cash drawer before the night receptionist came waltzing into the salon to relieve Nikki for the day. A short time later, I glanced down the long aisle between the twenty workstations where the hairdressers were working their magic.

What the hell? The technician’s feet dangled motionless, dead center through the hole in the ceiling. I stared, jaw-opened, eyes bugging out of their socks, heart pumping madly in my chest. What the fuck? I mentally amended to my first silent exclamation. Jesus Christ! Come on, move or twitch or something damn it! Nothing. They remained stock-still, and my shock began to turn into dread, and then panic. I have a dead guy in the ceiling! Shit, shit, shit!

I ran down the aisle of loud, boisterous hairdressers, ignoring the incessant howling of the blow dryers and the high-pitched whine of the nail technicians’ electronic filling tools, as well as Mrs. Maddry’s goose-like cackling as she laughed at one of Delaine’s inane jokes. From my place below his motionless feet, I looked up through the hole in the ceiling. I can’t see a damn thing but the guy’s feet! It’s darker than shit up there!

Still panic-stricken, I called up the hole… “Sir! Are you hung?” There was no reply and no movement whatsoever, so I repeated the question more loudly… “Sir! Are you hung?” Still no reply.

My demeanor, or perhaps it was the question itself, caught the attention of the salon staff, and the blow dryers began to quiet as everyone turned toward the commotion I was making. I didn’t care that I was making a scene; I simply was freaking out over the guy in my ceiling.

“I SAID, ARE YOU HUNG UP THERE?!” Still no reply. In a last ditch effort to deny my sickening realization I needed to call 911, I yelled, “SIR! ARE YOU OKAY OR ARE YOU DEAD?”

“Well, I didn’t know how to respond,” he called down to me. “My wife thinks I’m hung just fine.”

I finally breathed a sigh of relief. The entire salon of hairdressers and clients were staring at me, laughing their asses off at my foolishness. I suddenly realized that I had said something so totally and completely thick and raunchy. Sir, are you hung? Duh! I thought the guy was hanging from the end of a rope or something, and I’m asking if he was hung! I hit the middle of my forehead with the palm of my hand and called back up to him… “Well, I hope it moves more than your feet just were, you scared the shit out of me!”

SSE