NOW FREE IN ALL FORMATS - Sven the Zombie Slayer

The book that started it all is now free in all formats! Enjoy!

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Introducing "Donate"

If you have a few extra cents lying around and (i) you feel that your free download of Sven or a pirated version of another one of my books was too much of a steal, or (ii) you just want to donate into Sven's machete and paleo survival food fund, then please feel "free" to send said extra cents our way via the "Donate" button.

 

All donations are appreciated and will be used to fuel further writing efforts, except where such donations are explicity marked as intended for Sven's machete and paleo survival food fund.

 

Thank you.

City Hall of Blood

The revamped sequel to Sven is out now!

If you bought the previous version of the sequel and would like to read this one, please email me at guyjamesfiction@gmail.com and I will send you a free copy in the format of your choice.

The final installment in the sequel, Mayor of the Damned, is scheduled for release later this month.

 

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The Old City by Katherine Sorin (City of Whispers sequel)

The Old City by Katherine Sorin, the sequel to City of Whispers, is now available on Amazon Kindle.

I loved The Old City even more than City of Whispers, and I recommend the two highly.

For those of you who haven't yet read City of Whispers, it will be available for free on Amazon this Friday (tomorrow), Saturday and Sunday for Memorial Day weekend. Get the two together and get ready for some vampire fun.

Download City of Whispers here.

Download The Old City here.

You may follow Katherine Sorin on Twitter here.

City of Whispers by Katherine Sorin

I am pleased to announce Katherine Sorin's debut novel, City of Whispers. 

This is the description and link:  

When a strange epidemic turns most New Yorkers into vampires, a handful of remaining humans find themselves struggling to survive in a quarantined Manhattan. As their numbers dwindle, Ailis Laurent undergoes a transformation of her own: she becomes a hardened vampire killer. 

It's a fun read. I recommend it.

 

Go to Amazon Page

Sven 2 Status Update and Vampires (City of Whispers)

Hi all, 

I thought I'd share a quick update on how Sven 2 is coming along. The manuscript is 90% done, so there's a bit remaining for me to do before I get into the editing phase, thought I've been editing some as I go.

I'm excited to see what my editors will have to say about it. It continues in the same manner as Sven 1, having what I think is a good mix of gore and comic relief. I tried to be a bit more serious in this one, but dealing with zombies, I've found that to be a challenge. That said, the outbreak in Sven 2 takes place on a grander scale than the outbreak in Sven 1, so at least there's more killing...

As for the vampires, I've had the honor of taking a sneak peak at an upcoming title called City of Whispers, from an indie author named Katherine Sorin.  It's great stuff, and takes place in NYC, a place I'd love to see overrun by vampires.  I'll post the cover and link as soon as they're available.

Best,
Guy

Elliptical: A Short Story

Elliptical

Guy James

Copyright 2011 by Guy James

All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.

The characters and events portrayed in this work are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

I don’t eat breakfast because it slows me down. That’s what my assessment says. I never liked breakfast much anyway, but now that it’s been assessed out of my day, I find myself missing it. Not that I’m complaining. The assessment is right, of course. I am faster on an empty stomach, more productive.

My stomach growls up at me as I put on my suit. It is custom-made for my body to maximize my speed and efficiency. Basically, it’s a lot like shrink wrap. The fabric nips at my hair and skin in the routine places as I put the suit on. The feeling reminds me of the previous day, and of the next day.

I remember, as I do at the same moment every morning, that I’ve forgotten to brush my teeth. I consider brushing my teeth, then decide to rinse out my mouth instead. As I’ve not had breakfast, there’s no point brushing non-existent food particles out of my teeth. I rinse as I pull on the rest of my suit, then spit into the immaculate steel sink. I walk to the door of my living unit. The door slides open automatically, and slides shut behind me after I walk out.

I take the stairs because my assessment says that walking instead of taking the lift down helps limber me, increasing my productive capacity. I walk out onto the northbound feeder ramp to the street and wait my turn to enter the sidewalk and proceed toward the Station. I enter when my turn comes, taking my place behind a portly man dressed in the suit of an assessor.

I note the speed with which he moves in spite of his large size, easily keeping at the prescribed speed in the fastest sidewalk lane. I look up at the sidewalk level above me, the slower level where most of the assessors travel. The movement up there is measured and methodical, as if each step were infused with reflection on how to make our society more efficient and powerful.

I look back to my own level so as to avoid any collisions. Thankfully, I am still within my lane and a safe distance from all those citizens moving around me.

The assessor in front of me takes the exit to the Assessment Bureau. I continue past, on the way to the Station. The Assessment Bureau is a squat building that takes up an entire city block. The Station is two blocks farther, a tall narrow building that strains my neck when I try to see its top.

I imagine there is much sitting and screen-watching at the Assessment Bureau. I imagine there are different drugs, maybe better ones. I, of course, am not unhappy with the drugs I receive as a mover. They’re great.

The man behind me—another mover like me—bumps into me as I daydream about the goings-on within the Assessment Bureau. It is not unusual for such collisions to occur, but no resentments are retained. Our society has long ago moved beyond such simple follies.

I take the exit to the Station, following a long procession of identically dressed movers ahead of me. I enter through the gate into the darkness beyond it. I make my way up two sets of iron, spiral staircases, maintaining my position in the procession. I step out onto my floor and walk into position, among my mover neighbors. We greet each other as we do every morning: with no greeting at all.

There is a moment of silence, as there is every morning. It is not an officially prescribed moment. That is to say, it is not in our assessments. It is simply the moment before the system kicks on, and I imagine that some movers are still getting into their positions, but I know that is only my imagination. I am certain that everyone is already in position.

Then there is a gentle whir, and I step up into the machine, in time with the other movers around me, on the floors above me, and on the floors below me. I position my feet and take hold of the handles. The clamps close on my ankles and wrists, tight enough to keep me secured to the machine, and loose enough to cause only minimal discomfort. As for the discomfort, the drugs help with that, but those come later.

I know that the machine of which I am now a part resembles what was once, many years ago called an “elliptical machine.” The machine was once used for athletic training, primarily, as I understand it, for weight loss. Now that the function of the machine is so different, it is difficult for me to imagine that was its prior use. But I believe it was, because that information is sanctioned by the assessors.

I begin to move my arms and legs in time, finding the efficient rhythm that the assessors say I possess. I move the machine, and the machine moves the world—at least that’s how I like to think of it. More accurately, it’s the multitude of machines throughout my city that provide electricity, and electricity is the lifeblood of the world’s movement.

As I move faster, blocking out the rapid movement of the other movers around me, the screen in front of my machine lights up. It spans the whole of the floor, and if I were to turn to my left or my right—which I don’t—I would not see the end of it.

As I move even faster, an array of swimming colors bursts onto the screen. The colors move in jagged rows, up and down, left and right, and diagonally. There is space between the jagged rows, and there isn’t. This is difficult to explain, but it is true. I believe that the assessors know it too. Between the rows, where the jagged spikes of color meet, there is no space. The colors seem to both cut off and flow into each other, like an optical illusion. But I know that there is a space, because whenever I increase the intensity of my movement, I can see gaps open between the colors, and I can picture myself propelled forward, into the gaps. It is the kind of thing I can only see in my peripheral vision, but I know that it is there all the same. I have considered discussing this with the other movers, but that would be as improper as the utterance of a morning greeting.

This is when I feel the many sensor-tipped needles puncture my skin in the familiar spots. Some stay at shallow points just underneath my skin. Others go deep into my veins. They all come with anesthetic, and are so small that I feel them only because after years of experience, I am able to recognize the subtle pricks.

The needles are there for my benefit. They monitor my body: its levels of blood sugar, lactate, and oxygen, my heart rate, and a plethora of more minute measurements with which I’m not familiar.

The needles are also there as a conduit through which the drugs may travel. The drugs come later, and I know to wait patiently for them. The assessors time the drugs’ release to the optimal moment for each mover, to produce the most favorable overall production rate.

Some time later—I don’t know how much later—I feel it, the magical unicorn cocktail of chemicals that inspires and invigorates. The feeling is sublime, heavenly. I know then that I am at the peak of my being. I redouble my movement efforts, reveling in an extended second wind. I make the machine move faster, and I can clearly envision the electric current that is my body’s contribution to our society.

The drugs have one drawback: I lose sight of the gaps in the array when the drugs enter my system. I lose sight of the gaps and forget them entirely. I only realize that I forgot when I begin to feel fatigue, and by then the array has turned off and it is time to disconnect. I slow, then stop, scanning the screen for afterimages of the array and the gaps that I’m not so sure were there.

I disengage from the machine, in time with all the other movers. The procession to exit the building begins, and from my place within it I notice the exhaustion of all the other movers. I realize that I must be equally spent. I move out through the exit gate into the darkness outside. The multi-colored lights of the layered sidewalks are beautiful in the night, and as I enter the fastest sidewalk pathway at the prescribed time, I appreciate my role in the creation of this beauty, in the provision of the power that lends the glow to the lights that make it so. I approach the exit to my building and totter from the sidewalk pathway, the effect of the drugs in warding away my fatigue waning perceptibly.

I slow as I enter my building, and slow further as I plod up the stairs to my living unit. I enter, remove my suit, and take a lukewarm shower to help relax my muscles. I put on a plain robe and move to my bed. I sit down and watch the plant that sits on my night table. It appears to have grown, but then again, I always think that. It is not a real plant. I look at the leaves, perfectly made to resemble living greenery, and reflect on the last time I saw a plant. It was years ago, and I remember a smell being associated with the experience, but cannot place the smell anymore. I think I would recognize it if I smelled it again. I know I would.

I nod, look away from my artificial houseplant, and lie down. As I prepare to sleep, a familiar ring announces the delivery of my day’s assessment. I look up at the screen and read the lines. There is no change.

I eat my allotted snack while I lay in bed. It is designed to repair any muscle damage and replenish my glycogen stores while I sleep, so that I am fresh for another day of movement in the morning. As I drift off into chemical dreamlessness, my eyes begin to lose focus on the screen above me, to lose focus on my assessment, which bears no name.

How to Banish Writer's Block

Let me disqualify myself from the outset and say that I am no expert on writer's block except to the extent that I've experienced it and have learned to deal with it.

I think it might be useful for me to share with you what works for me to get past the block and refocus on writing.

For me, it comes down to two things: 1) distraction, and 2) positioning.

I don't think any of you will be surprised by the first point. I seem to have varying levels of difficulty writing when there are distractions in the background, whether it is the TV, music, friends talking, or even just my own mind worrying about some chore on my list.

What I've found works in addressing this first point is turning all of the distractions off. I know it sounds obvious, but if you've been there, you know that it can be hard to do. When I turn everything off (including the music that I sometimes mistakenly thinks helps me write), sit in silence and review my outline, the ability to write returns. In our world of ever-increasing distraction opportunities, you have to create your silence as best you can, there's no way around it.

My second strategy is a bit strange, but I've heard other writers have similar habits. I've noticed that if I write in the same spot for a few hours or a few days, my ability to write seems to go flat, and this staleness is easily corrected by switching positions. It is often as simple as shifting over to the other side of the couch or getting up and sitting on the opposite side of the table. 

These two simple steps, together, get me past all of the block that I experience. The hardest part is the discipline to turn all the distractions off.

There are a few more intricacies on this subject and I think I might share some more on it in the future, but for now...back to writing!

Best,
Guy

Writer's Block?

I've been making progress with the sequel to Sven the Zombie Slayer and I'm now most of the way through the first draft.

That said, I'm finding it more and more difficult to write these days, not only because I'm swamped at work, but because when I do sit down to write, my brain is all foggy. I stare at the screen and can't quite find the "write" words. Ugh, puns, I know, sorry.

I think that for me it comes down to a lack of focus. I can't seem to find a quiet place (the jackhammers follow me everywhere), and recently the music has been difficult to turn off (because it's so helpful in masking the jackhammer noise). I just don't work well in other than silence...that and I'm probably a bit worn out from work.

I hope that Thanksgiving will bring a bit of a lull and I'll have some time to recover...and most importantly, to write!

Guy

Blood Spatter Free on Amazon!

I'm very happy to say that Blood Spatter is now free on Amazon, and I hope to make Elliptical free on Amazon too, as soon as possible.

Enjoy Blood Spatter and have a wonderful weekend!