Man Or Monster: An Army Of Angels

“One word kept jumping out at me, a word with enormous implications for me. That one word changed everything. If it was true, I was little more than Frankenstein’s monster.”

An Army Of Angels carries on with plot threads from the earlier book Chasing The Wind in this new short story by the author Norma Beishir. The first book, a novel drawing on themes of love, science fiction, religion, and dark forces, brought together two characters in a life changing journey. This short story picks up with hints and links to that earlier book, while introducing new characters in their own right. It’s meant to be the first aspect of a larger work from the author, and while the storyline has a logical conclusion, there’s room for much more to come.

We first meet Alex Stewart as he deals with the aftermath of the death of his father, Joseph Sadowski, an arrogant and vindictive scientist who he’s been estranged from. He wants nothing to do with his father’s legacy, and yet while going through personal effects makes a discovery that shakes his world to its foundations: he is not a regular person, but a clone of another man.

Alex goes into a tailspin of self destruction, unable to paint, burning his way through inherited money, ending up working odd jobs, living the life of a nomad for years on end. He drifts from place to place, trying to find out the truth about himself and the man he was cloned from, believing himself to be an abomination. Finally he meets Robyn Cantwell, a compassionate young woman who spends her time helping the homeless when she’s not working at animal shelters. There’s a connection between them, and Alex finds himself trying to deal with his growing feelings at the same time as he tries to keep himself at a distance.

It helps to have read Chasing The Wind first, obviously. This picks up plot threads from that book and hints at more to come. The story focuses on the relationship between these two people, very different characters. Strong characterization is its bedrock. Alex  is a sympathetic character from the outset. The clear estrangement he feels about his father is understandable from the glimpses we get about Joseph in flashbacks and journal entries. His father is a monster, and Alex’s reaction to the truth about his existence fits perfectly with that. He withdraws from the world, lives a ghost of a life, and his hesitation about being involved with Robyn is a logical turn of events. Alex is a tortured soul, but not because of a situation of his own making. It makes him compelling.

Robyn herself is automatically sympathetic to the reader. There’s a compassionate and empathetic quality to her personality, and a lighter touch. From the way she lives her life, the reader sees her as a genuinely decent person. And her brothers (a handful in and of themselves) provide some much needed comic relief.

The story has a natural pace to it, and a skilful touch in the writing. It’s somewhat condensed, but that’s merely for a short story format that comes to an end at the right spot. It deals with a tortured soul who has run away from the world, and the woman who coaxes him out of his shell. And it hints at a darker story yet to come. It leaves the reader wanting more, and I look forward to seeing where the author goes with the story of Alex and Robyn.

Have a look at what Norma had to say about An Army Of Angels at her Wordpress blog. And you can find the ebook through her author's pages at Amazon, and over at Smashwords.

So You Want To Screw Up Crisis Management, Huh?

A week and a half ago, the small town of Lac-Megantic, Quebec suffered a tragedy, as an unmanned train towing cars of fuel descended into the heart of town past one in the morning, derailing, setting off explosions that tore through buildings, took lives, and shattered the lives of so many residents. In a town of six thousand people, fifty are dead or missing and presumed dead- nearly one percent of the population. This is a town where everyone knows at least someone who has died.

 Some may have been vaporized by the blast, and so no remains will ever be found. A local bar, the Musi-Cafe, seems to have been ground zero for casualties, filled with customers and employees that night, most of whom were killed in the explosion. Other buildings, including homes and businesses, were destroyed or damaged. The building housing the town's library and archives was destroyed. Fuel spills have contaminated the area. Firefighters from other parts of the province and over from the Maine side of the border joined the fight to put down the inferno. At one point that night, the fires were so intense that Lac-Megantic could be seen from space. NASA took pics before and during that night, and you can see the difference below.

People have been slowly returning to homes, but their lives are changed forever. Many families have lost loved ones. Their town has been torn apart. I've never been to the area myself, but it seems that it was known as a lovely area to visit. Local First Nations tribes knew the lake well, spending thousands of years living in the area. Continental Army soldiers came through on the march to Quebec City during the American Revolution, led by a general by the name of Benedict Arnold. White settlement really started up in the mid-nineteenth century, with the railroad being a key in establishing the town.

And now this happens. The investigation continues on site, with police, firefighters, and other officials working on the scene, looking for other remains. The core of the town remains sealed off, for the moment, a blackened scar. There are inconsistencies as to what happened; we know the engineer- the only crew member on the Montreal Maine and Atlantic Rail (MMA) train that night- shut down operations and went to a hotel for the night, to get some sleep for the night before handing over responsibility for the train to another engineer. We know there was a fire in one of the locomotives shortly after, one that was put out by local firemen soon thereafter. What we don't know is if at that point, someone secured the air brakes on the locomotive, or kept one of the locomotives running, a critical requirement for a train that's sitting idle for the night.

Whichever way it went, the train started moving on its own, unhindered by brakes, hurtling downhill towards Lac-Megantic. In the heart of the town, the derailment happened- the locomotives just kept going- and the explosion took so many lives. Questions are being asked. People are wounded. And people are angry. There might never be closure. 

It is a story that's certainly drawn the attention of my country's editorial cartoonists, who are examining the fire, the response, the questions over lax safety regulations (our federal government thinks it's perfectly acceptable to cut inspection standards, and let the industry police itself)....

It doesn't help when the chairman of the company that owns the MMA takes the handbook for company crisis management, throws it out the window, and proceeds to make a mess of things. Edward Burkhardt and his company Rail World Inc. own the short line that is the MMA, and from the beginning, he made one mistake after another. It took him over four days before he actually turned up in Lac-Megantic. He spent his time on the phone giving interviews and speculating, claiming that he could do better from his offices in Chicago in speaking with insurers and the media. His company issued contradictory statements first in English, then in badly translated French. He speculated on the cause of the derailment, what went wrong, blaming vandals or the local firefighters, contradicting himself at every turn. His failure to come to the site quickly came across as uncommunicative, in fact as distant and remote. He employed completely inappropriate humour in remarks to the press, suggesting that he hoped no one would shoot him when he turned up, since he wasn't wearing a bulletproof vest.

Burkhardt finally turned up in Lac-Megantic a week ago, giving a rambling press conference through the streets. Some of the locals saw him, and jeered, expressing their antagonism. He said he understood the extreme anger against his company from the local residents. He pinned the blame for the brakes not being secured on the engineer- despite the facts not yet being known- effectively throwing the engineer to the wolves. Burkhardt said the company would rebuild through town, that they'd be there for the long term. He turned the conversation more on himself, remarking on how he felt awful, how his net worth was a lot less now than it had been a week ago. Anyone who consults on crisis management will tell you that in this situation, if you're a company head, you don't make it about yourself. Those remarks, along with the joke about the bulletproof vest, was about him making it all about himself.  

What he did not do, and what perhaps he should have, was to actually speak to locals, to go to the shelters where the displaced are staying. He did not face their anger head on. He did not let them rant at him. That might well have taken more bravery than he's capable of. Instead, he's looking more to the company's liability in this disaster, and to the bottom line that claims it's perfectly acceptable to cut corners and labour costs at the expense of safety. One crew member to man a train? Well, in his world view, two engineers would distract each other, and that would be more dangerous.

Sure. Right. Burkhardt has left Lac-Megantic after his awkward press scrum and a tense conversation with the police. The premier of Quebec is disgusted with him. Local police have been managing the crisis far better, all told, giving facts only when they have them, speaking in as calm and precise a manner as possible. Mayor Colette Roy-Laroche is by all indications doing the same, dealing only in facts, responding to the crisis in her community with tact, leadership, and compassion. 

Contrast that with Ed Burkhardt, who has come off increasingly like the former head of BP. You might recall that Tony Hayward was the chap who during the oil spill in the Gulf Of Mexico complained that he only wanted his life back. Burkhardt has completely screwed up crisis management in this matter. If there's justice in this world, it's going to come back to bite him hard. He surely deserves it.

It occurred to me a few days back that he was reminding me of someone else. Not physically, of course; the two men look nothing alike. But both men have completely- and spectacularly- flubbed a crisis in the worst possible way. 

Edward Burkhardt is this year's Captain Francesco "I swear, I fell into the lifeboat" Schettino, who has been written about before in this blog.

I wonder if they're related...

A Day In The Life Of Vladimir Putin

Before getting started today, some business to see to. Our final Authors For Oklahoma blog is up, both at Blogger and over at Wordpress. Head on over to either page, check the last three sets of books out, and look back at the previous blogs. We'll be raffling them off for donations being made to the Red Cross for Moore, Oklahoma, and the instructions can be found at the bottom of the blogs for our Crowdrise link. Also check out Shelly's blog where her dogs have stuff for you to tweet about Authors For Oklahoma. It's a good cause, so spread the word!

Now then.... one more Day In The Life blog until I move onto other things.... and it might well be that I'll get in a lot of trouble for this one.

7:05 AM. Awakened by alarm clock. Sitting up right in bed. Much to do this day. Laws to have passed. "Accidents" to arrange for adversaries. Overseeing plans for the Death Ray 3000 Device. So much to do, so little time. 

7:25 AM. After the usual morning shower in ice cold water (very handy to wake one up), time for breakfast while reading paper. Eggs Benedict and ham with strong coffee. It seems the editor of this paper believes I am doing a sterling job as the president and should be given expanded powers. Good, very good. Sometimes a little fear and intimidation go a long way.

8:10 AM. Arrival at Kremlin. Everyone defers to me as I pass. Being the man in charge has its perks. Among them, people are terrified of me.

Greeting my staff as I come into my inner offices with a characteristic grunt and scowl. One assistant brings me the schedule for the day. So much to do, so little time....

8:40 AM. Hard at work planning next incursion into Chechnya. Must divert world attention from humanitarian violations. Note to self: see if Lindsay Lohan will provide a distraction again while I make war on innocent civilians.

9:25 AM. Examining plans for the Sochi Olympics. The athletes and spectators of the world might not appreciate the song that I've had commissioned for them to sing during the opening ceremonies. Still, I think the title All Hail Tsar Vladimir, He's The Greatest has a dignified, modest ring to it...

10:05 AM. Placing a call to a judge. Having an extra fifty years added onto the sentences for the members of Pussy Riot. Disparage my good name from inside prison, will they? I'll have to teach them some manners. 

11:15 AM. Having morning meeting with oil tycoon Zaitsev. For some reason he doesn't want to sign over his holdings to me.

Note to self: have Zaitsev meet with an accident. Or a poisoning. Or whatever latest trick we have in mind for people who don't do what I tell them to do.

12:10 PM. Lunch with the Prime Minister. We discuss urgent matters. Price of vodka. Status of nuclear reduction talks. Why the winner of the Miss Russia pageant looks like a babushka only three weeks after her victory. 

1:25 PM. Sitting down with Alexi, who handles my discreet special operations as required. Bringing up the matter of Zaitsev. Alexi assures me he can see to it that Zaitsev meets with a tragic accident. Advises me to look concerned for the cameras when the news gets revealed. 

Shake hands with Alexi. He's the best at what he does, after all. 

2:10 PM. Phone conference with the American President. He sounds tired, but it's just morning there. And he sounds annoyed. My holding onto that Mr. Snowden will do that. Which reminds me, have another conversation with Edward. Glean as much information as we can before turning him loose.

Da, da, Mr. President, I know you're frustrated. And really, I am trying not to laugh.

3:05 PM. Time booked aside, no interruptions, not even if we're starting a war. I lock my office door, and open up my desk drawer. There sits my teddy bear, Nicolai. I pick him up and hug him. It is all I can do to remind myself that, after all, I am still a human being. 

3:25 PM. Nicolai goes back into the desk after some cuddling and one sided conversation. Time to get back to work, Vladimir.

3:55 PM. Out on Kremlin grounds to do a PR stunt for the press. It has been too long since I have done one of these, and every once in awhile, the people need to be reminded how brave a leader I am. A big Russian bear is brought out into the courtyard. I take off my suit jacket and dress shirt. Time to teach that bear some manners.

4:00 PM. I have easily dispatched the bear and made him submit. He is taken away in defeat to mend his aches and pains. I went easy on him. After all, he did agree to take a dive. In exchange for a good supply of blueberries and fish. Yes, good bear, very good. You made me look good in front of the cameras. 

4:05 PM. Heading back to office. I certainly hope no one ever finds out I rig half of these photo op stunts in my favour. People would start to lose respect, after all...

4:20 PM. Message from Alexi. Coded words, but he informs me that the Zaitsev situation will be resolved later today. 

4:50 PM. Chatting with the ambassador from Iran. He assures me that the new President is just as much of a crackpot as the last one. Excellent, excellent. Every once in awhile I need a good distraction, and a lunatic in Tehran makes for a very good distraction.

5:10 PM. Making arrangements to ship arms to the leadership in Syria for their war against the rebels. And just to make things interesting, I'll send some more arms to the rebels. See what we can do about keeping that war going a little longer. 

6:35 PM. Conferring with Interior Minister over dinner. Interrupted by assistant. News breaking that I must know about. It seems Zaitsev's body has been found. After mysteriously falling out of a plane and crashing into a dacha west of St. Petersburg.

Alexi, Alexi, Alexi... I don't know if you succeeded marvelously or failed spectacularly.

7:00 PM. Making a statement to press about the high profile death of Zaitsev. Making a point of looking very sombre. Not a problem for me. If those fools in the press only knew...

7:25 PM. Word comes of Zaitsev's amended will leaving his many holdings to the Russian people. Excellent, excellent. Just as I wanted. I wonder if Alexi got Zaitsev to sign off on it, or if he forged the whole thing.

I might have to promote Alexi. Minister In Charge Of Justice sounds about right.

8:25 PM. Watching press conference. Zaitsev's widow Katya seems shocked. Whether or not it's by her husband's unfortunate death or the fact that he left every ruble to the country is uncertain. 

9:15 PM. Stopping in at concert performance. Orchestra playing Tchaikovsky. Good Russian music.

10:15 PM. Conductor bows to me while taking his bows from the audience. I could get used to that. Once I've passed the laws designating me as Tsar Vladimir, I will get used to that. 

11:15 PM. Late nightcap. A glass of vodka to celebrate a good day. An oil empire worth billions now nationalized into my control. Oh, and the tragic accidental death of Zaitsev. And I actually got away with it.

12:05 AM. Time for bed. Much to do tomorrow. There will be official duties and sombre looks about the death of Zaitsev. Not to mention another day of taunting the American President without actually being too overt about it. 

Life is good. I don`t imagine this will ever come back to haunt me.

Of course not! 

A Day In The Life Of A Garden Gnome

Before setting to the mischief of the day, we have our fifth Authors For Oklahoma blog set up at Blogger and over at Wordpress as well. Head on over to either, check out the three sets of books being raffled off with proceeds headed to the Red Cross in the wake of the tornado in Moore Oklahoma. It's a good cause, with plenty of good books at hand.

Now then... I should probably say in advance of this that I had a few moments where I asked myself, "did I really write that?" Just so you're warned.

8:10 AM. Day 296 457 of my imprisonment in this stone form. Pretty much the same as yesterday. Just the odd variation on the weather. Who could have imagined eight hundred plus years would go by so slowly?

8:25 AM. I find myself musing on how angry that witch had to have been to curse me like this. I often muse on that. It's not as if I can actually do anything else. How was I supposed to know she might take my jeering personally? I mean, after all, I was Prince Rupert. My friends and I jeered everyone who didn't fit in. How was I supposed to know the next woman I'd insult would end up casting a spell turning me into a gnome figurine? Doomed to be inanimate, staring out at the world around me for all time and unable to say a word?

It's not fair!

9:47 AM. The people who bought me five years ago are spending the day at home. I can hear the television inside their residence. I imagine listening to enough of regular people speaking has allowed me to keep up with changes in language structure. Otherwise I might still be thinking in thirteenth century terms. I imagine forsooth has gone quite out of fashion. You never hear it being used anymore.

10:05 AM. Back in my day, we had town criers to yell at people if there was some critical bit of information they needed to know. Now we get television anchors. I hear more of them than I see them... I can just see a glimpse of that infernal device's screen from here. I wonder what powers it. At any rate, these people are rather dimwitted. They're paying attention to something called Fox. In my day, we hunted a fox. Not relied on it for critical information.

10:35 AM. The dimwits are out gardening in the back yard. Hey! Over here! I'm talking to you!

It's no use. None at all. In these hundreds of years, none who have possessed me have been able to grasp that I am not merely a garden gnome, but a human being trapped forever in this form.

They were all dimwits.

10:50 AM. Watching the lady of the house trimming the rose bush. She might be a dimwit, but she's a fetching dimwit. She has quite lovely thighs. Back in my day...

Can't think like that. Over eight hundred years without fornication has me frustrated enough.

11:05 AM. I can't help but look at her. She reminds me of the Duchess Carlotta... oh, now she was quite a lovely one. And so very bold in closed quarters too... A shame the Duke walked in on us that one time....

12:10 PM. I suspect the pink flamingo and the stone St. Francis statue are plotting against me. I see the way they look at me when they think I`m not paying attention...

12:50 PM. Ninety nine bottles of mead on the wall, ninety nine bottles of mead...

2:10 PM. The dimwits are departing. I can hear that vehicle of theirs starting up out front. I wish they'd take me along for the drive. The only change of view I get is when they move me out of the shed in the spring and back inside for the winter. I want to see something aside from the usual.

3:15 PM. A stray dog has wandered into the yard. Of course you can't hear me, hound, but at least you're breaking up the routine of the day for me. 

3:16 PM. You're getting a bit close, aren't you... now see here, don't you even think about raising that leg..

No!!! Not on me!!!

3:17 PM. I have never been so humiliated in all my centuries in this form. That foul hound has relieved his bladder on me. Back in my day, we'd have you in the stocks, and then drawn and quartered! 

Come back here! I wasn't done yelling at you yet!!!

3:19 PM. What I wouldn't give right now for a good downpour from the heavens. Something to wash this smell away. If the dimwits don't water their lawn for a few days, I'll have to put up with it.

This is a travesty!

5:15 PM. The dimwits are back home. They're sitting out on the patio, drinking ice tea. I don't suppose one of you could turn the sprinklers on, would you? Just a thought.

5:25 PM. They're barbecuing some delicious meat. I miss food. Almost as much as I miss fornicating.

5:45 PM. A neighbourhood cat is wandering through the yard, walking towards the man of the house. Otherwise known as Mr. Dimwit. No doubt drawn by the smell of cooking meat. I swear, if that feline relieves itself on me...

5:47 PM. Mr. Dimwit gives the cat a bit of meat. You do realize that cat doesn't look like it's starving, don't you? 

5:50 PM. The cat walks towards me, stopping no more than three feet away. She stares. And stares. And stares some more.

Then she hisses at me.

Hey! Do you know I'm something other than a garden gnome, or do you do that with any garishly decorated lawn ornament?

5:52 PM. It's no use. The cat has left the yard. I'll never know if she understands my true nature or is merely being a cat.

6:10 PM. Mr. and Mrs. Dimwit are having their grilled dinner out on the patio. Has it ever dawned on you that it's cruel to eat in front of anyone who hasn't had a proper meal in eight hundred years?

7:30 PM. Finally! A downpour has begun. I can at least get the scent of dog urine off me. Yes, blessed heavens, pour down that rain right on me. And if you don't mind, send a bolt of lightning to kill that accursed dog.

8:45 PM. It's remarkable what an hour's rain will do to lift the spirits of a humiliated garden gnome. 

Hmmm, Mr. and Mrs. Dimwit are coming outside. It would appear they're going to take a dip in the pool.

8:55 PM. They really aren't swimming much. Instead they've removed what little swimming attire they were wearing, in favour of no clothing at all. And they are presently engaged in some rather intense fornication in the shallow end of the pool.

Take your mind off it. Think of something else, Prince Rupert. Think of that old crone Sister Mathilda, who once warned me I'd get what was coming to me.

How was I supposed to know she was right?

9:45 PM. They're finally finished with their fornications in the pool, and going back inside.

Eight hundred plus years since I last had carnal relations. Eight hundred long, long years.

I don't imagine telling the ghost of that witch that I'm sorry would help?

3:10 AM. Knocked over by a nocturnal visitor, a raccoon that regularly raids the trash container and digs in the yard for roots.

You, sir, are a thief and a scoundrel, and if I had my way, I'd be kicking you from one side of this yard to another.

Now come back here, I say! Come back, I'm not through ranting.

Sigh. How many more centuries am I to spend like this? Until the end of time?

All for laughing at a witch's wart????

It just isn't fair!