My friend Jim Moore passed along a galley of his upcoming young adult suspense-thriller Subject Seven, and I just got a chance to read through it. I try to avoid hurting friends' feelings, so I don't write about books I didn't enjoy.
I'm writing about Subject Seven.
The book follows a group of teens who are the results of a program to create genetically engineered sleeper assassins. The plans are simple: keep trying until the program is perfected, destroy the failed experiments.
Then things to wrong. Subject Seven escapes... and in doing so, reveals that he possesses the very skills they've been hoping to instill in their subjects. He's so good, in fact, that even though he's only ten years old, he's able to best his captors and disappear from the program.
Jump ahead five years, and a seemingly unrelated group of teenagers comes together at the behest of a mysterious caller. Once they assemble, they learn that each of them is a failed experiment, and those responsible for their existence want them dead. But that's not as easy as it sounds...
Subject Seven is a fast-paced young adult novel, filled with insightful glimpses into the lives of teenagers who feel that they don't quite fit in. That's normal, of course--and it's the commonality of that makes this such a strong young adult novel. Every teen feels like there's something different about him or her--but in the case of Hunter, Cody, Gene, Tina, and Kyle, there's a good reason to feel that way. The novel takes the commonality of the adolescent experience and uses it as a launching point for a compelling adventure novel that's the kickoff of a potential series.
Moore's writing is taut, lean, and fast-paced. The prose is vivid and energetic, and the storytelling is sufficiently strong to propel the reader through its 300+ pages. As is the case with many young adult novels nowadays, Subject Seven leaves the door wide open for a sequel; hope that we don't have to wait too long! I'm eager to hear more about the true purpose of the program and how Seven and his teen comrades-in-arms find a place for themselves in a world that seems to want them dead and gone.
Look for it in a Razorbill paperback edition in January.
Saturday, October 16, 2010
Comics in Bad Taste
My current idea for a comic in such bad taste that no one would ever publish it (or would they)?
A young Jewish girl hides from the Nazis. For many months, she keeps a chronicle of her life in hiding. Then she is found, sent away, and dies in a Nazi concentration camp...
...at which point a scientist finds a way to bring her back to life and turn her into an engine of destruction against her Nazi tormentors.
The title?... Wait for it...
The Diary of Ann Frankenstein.
(Yes, I know it's in wretchedly bad taste.)
A young Jewish girl hides from the Nazis. For many months, she keeps a chronicle of her life in hiding. Then she is found, sent away, and dies in a Nazi concentration camp...
...at which point a scientist finds a way to bring her back to life and turn her into an engine of destruction against her Nazi tormentors.
The title?... Wait for it...
The Diary of Ann Frankenstein.
(Yes, I know it's in wretchedly bad taste.)
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Giving in to my Plebian Pizza Tastes
I've mentioned from time to time that I have fairly plebian tastes (probably developed during my childhood--I think we often grow to like those foods that remind us of our favorites from the first sixteen years of our lives). I'm about to demonstrate that once again.Susan and I succumbed to the urge to sample a Pizza Hut Big Italy pizza--and I enjoyed it quite a bit!
We'd barely finished our first piece when we both remarked that the pizza reminded us of the Village Inn pizza we used to enjoy when we were dating and when we were newlyweds. The crust was thin but not cracker-like in texture; the sauce was well seeasoned and thick (a necessity on a thin crust pizza, or else it'll soak right through), the cheese was flavorful but not too heavy, and the sausage, pepperoni, and mushroom were savory and plentiful.
Over the years, we've moved on to a lot of other pizzas, from the multi-storied construction of the Upper Crust (oh, how I wish that Galleria restaurant was still there!) and Chicago's (the best pizza restaurant in the old Parkaire Mall area) to the sizeable, loaded Mellow Mushroom to the hearty, heavy-crusted Everybody's to the spicy, piquant, full-flavored Rosa's to the distinctive, refreshing Bellacino's... and none of those pizzas are thin crust. I didn't even know if I would enjoy a thin crust pizza any longer--but I found it to be a refreshing change to the heavier pizzas that we normally prefer.
Don't look for this one to last for too long--at $12 for a large three-ingredient pizza, I look for Pizza Hut to retire it or modify it very soon. I think we'll probably try it another time or two before it goes away, though--where else can we get a full pizza meal and culinary nostalgia for such a low price?
Friday, September 10, 2010
February 1, 1964
Fun with numbers...
As of today, I have been alive for 3810 days since my heart stopped beating for seven minutes on April 7, 2000.
That works out to a little over 10 years, five months.
As it turns out, February 1, 1964 was 3810 days after my birth. So I've lived as long in my second time around as I have had been alive my first time around on 2/1/64.
Yeah, I know it doesn't mean anything to anyone else, but it's the sort of numbers games that I love to play. I can remember a great many details of my life in early 1964, and have even written about some of those details in other blog posts.
It's been a great 3810 days...
(And to complete the calculations, I've been around for a total of 20,839 days...)
As of today, I have been alive for 3810 days since my heart stopped beating for seven minutes on April 7, 2000.
That works out to a little over 10 years, five months.
As it turns out, February 1, 1964 was 3810 days after my birth. So I've lived as long in my second time around as I have had been alive my first time around on 2/1/64.
Yeah, I know it doesn't mean anything to anyone else, but it's the sort of numbers games that I love to play. I can remember a great many details of my life in early 1964, and have even written about some of those details in other blog posts.
It's been a great 3810 days...
(And to complete the calculations, I've been around for a total of 20,839 days...)
Thursday, September 09, 2010
A Life in Four Colors (Part Thirty)
1965 was also the year that I began junior high school. West Rome Junior High was radically different from West End Elementary, Elm Street Elementary, or Garden Lakes Elementary; suddenly I was expected to take responsibility for myself, and it seemed that the focus of the subject matter became more focused and more caefully honed.
And I loved it.
I learned a multitude of things in elementary school, but all in all, I thought of that phase of my education as a six-year preparation of the foundation by which I could really begin to learn. I learned to read--and not just to read basically, but to read well, and to read well. I learned basic mathematical skills of addition, subtraction, multiplication, and division. I learned to spell. I learned to write clearly and readably (a skill that my elementary teachers would be dismayed to learn that I squandered in my later years--I blame too many hastily written hall passes and hastily jotted notes for the loss of any penmanship skills I once had). I learned how to find facts and reorganize information. I learned to alphabetize, to prioritize. I learned social skills.
And then I moved into junior high school, where I saw immediately that everything I had learned up until that time served as tools for the learning I would do next. I had done summarizing book reports in the past; I now was expected to do analytical writing on characterization and themes. I had drilled on basic math fundamentals previously; I learned to do proofs and solve complex equations. I had memorized geography and natural resources; I now compared governmental structures and historical movements. did rudimentary literary analysis; I discerned symbols in what I read; I recognized the difference between simple drawing and artistry. It was a remarkable time, and I felt like I was truly where I belonged.
That doesn't mean that I didn't love school holidays and teacher workdays and snow days and weekends; like very adolescent, I thought that school could be too demanding. But I still enjoyed it enough that, when Mom and Dad wanted me to accompany them to Callaway Gardens for some spring press event--a trip that would mandate that I miss two days of school--I wouldn't agree to go until my parents talked to my junior high guidance counselor and he personally told me that it would be acceptable, that my absence would be excused, and that I would have no trouble making up the work.
I also learned to type. That's a little bit deceptive, of course; I had learned the basics of typing from my parents, both of whom were skilled typists. Dad was a newspaperman, so we had typewriters at home--two Royals, in fact, both worn and black and heavy as anchors. I wanted to be like Dad, to sit at that typewriter and make words appear on the page as fast as my fingers could move. Dad taught me the basics--where to put my fingers, where the keys were located, what keys to hit with which fingers.
But I wasn't good at it. That's where junior high typing class came in; I learned to type for speed, to improve my accuracy, to listen and type at the same time. And I also learned how to lay out type on a page. We did numerous exercises wherein we designed letters, prepared newsletters in two columns, left space for an illustration,justified type, and even used typography to design graphics.
I don't know how many other junior high students found this fascinating, but for me, it opened the door to new opportunities. You see, 1965 was also the year that I discovered fanzines. In response to an ad in the back of a comic book, I had ordered my first fanzines while I was in the 7th grade. And in those days before computers, before printers, before word processors, fanzines were generally produced with typewriters, designed by people like myself who used typing skills to produce amateur magazines that were ambitious in scope--amateur magazines with illustrations around which type had to be designed, magazines laid out in two and three columns per page.
It was as if junior high school knew of my growing interests in fanzines and my newfound desire to produce my own publications, so the junior high powers that be determined that I should be given those skills.
Junior high also taught me to be more discerning in what I read--to tell the difference between what I enjoyed and what was good literature. And it taught me to find the good elements and the weak elements in literature. I learned many of those skills from Miss Kitty Alford, one of the most quirky, delightful, and demanding junior high teachers I ever had. She loved what she did, she loved to read, she loved music, and she loved learning. And she helped me to love all of those things even more.
And I loved it.
I learned a multitude of things in elementary school, but all in all, I thought of that phase of my education as a six-year preparation of the foundation by which I could really begin to learn. I learned to read--and not just to read basically, but to read well, and to read well. I learned basic mathematical skills of addition, subtraction, multiplication, and division. I learned to spell. I learned to write clearly and readably (a skill that my elementary teachers would be dismayed to learn that I squandered in my later years--I blame too many hastily written hall passes and hastily jotted notes for the loss of any penmanship skills I once had). I learned how to find facts and reorganize information. I learned to alphabetize, to prioritize. I learned social skills.
And then I moved into junior high school, where I saw immediately that everything I had learned up until that time served as tools for the learning I would do next. I had done summarizing book reports in the past; I now was expected to do analytical writing on characterization and themes. I had drilled on basic math fundamentals previously; I learned to do proofs and solve complex equations. I had memorized geography and natural resources; I now compared governmental structures and historical movements. did rudimentary literary analysis; I discerned symbols in what I read; I recognized the difference between simple drawing and artistry. It was a remarkable time, and I felt like I was truly where I belonged.
That doesn't mean that I didn't love school holidays and teacher workdays and snow days and weekends; like very adolescent, I thought that school could be too demanding. But I still enjoyed it enough that, when Mom and Dad wanted me to accompany them to Callaway Gardens for some spring press event--a trip that would mandate that I miss two days of school--I wouldn't agree to go until my parents talked to my junior high guidance counselor and he personally told me that it would be acceptable, that my absence would be excused, and that I would have no trouble making up the work.
I also learned to type. That's a little bit deceptive, of course; I had learned the basics of typing from my parents, both of whom were skilled typists. Dad was a newspaperman, so we had typewriters at home--two Royals, in fact, both worn and black and heavy as anchors. I wanted to be like Dad, to sit at that typewriter and make words appear on the page as fast as my fingers could move. Dad taught me the basics--where to put my fingers, where the keys were located, what keys to hit with which fingers.
But I wasn't good at it. That's where junior high typing class came in; I learned to type for speed, to improve my accuracy, to listen and type at the same time. And I also learned how to lay out type on a page. We did numerous exercises wherein we designed letters, prepared newsletters in two columns, left space for an illustration,justified type, and even used typography to design graphics.
I don't know how many other junior high students found this fascinating, but for me, it opened the door to new opportunities. You see, 1965 was also the year that I discovered fanzines. In response to an ad in the back of a comic book, I had ordered my first fanzines while I was in the 7th grade. And in those days before computers, before printers, before word processors, fanzines were generally produced with typewriters, designed by people like myself who used typing skills to produce amateur magazines that were ambitious in scope--amateur magazines with illustrations around which type had to be designed, magazines laid out in two and three columns per page.
It was as if junior high school knew of my growing interests in fanzines and my newfound desire to produce my own publications, so the junior high powers that be determined that I should be given those skills.
Junior high also taught me to be more discerning in what I read--to tell the difference between what I enjoyed and what was good literature. And it taught me to find the good elements and the weak elements in literature. I learned many of those skills from Miss Kitty Alford, one of the most quirky, delightful, and demanding junior high teachers I ever had. She loved what she did, she loved to read, she loved music, and she loved learning. And she helped me to love all of those things even more.
Saturday, August 14, 2010
Missing Dad
Today is the third anniversary of Dad's death. We celebrate his birth and his life, but we can never forget that afternoon three years ago that Dad left us.In many ways, I'm grateful for my own writings from that time; while I remember the details and the events, it's my own contemporaneous narratives that help me keep the events in order, help me to see the bigger picture.
And now more than ever I'm so happy for those posts I made about Dad prior to July 29th, when we thought we had many more years to share. They are sometimes happy, sometimes sad, but they remind me of the joys that we took for granted.
Emily said it far better than I, in the pages of Thornton Wilder's Our Town:
"Oh, earth, you're too wonderful for anybody to realize you. Do any human beings ever realize life while they live it?"
Good night, Mom and Dad. I think of you every day, and I wish you were here with me.
Friday, August 13, 2010
Dreams and Portents
Ever had a dream strange enough that you found yourself wondering, after awakening, if there was some meaning buried in the surreal events?
Last night I dreamt that I went into my garage and found a strange car there. Even though I had never seen it before, I opened the door, got in the car, pulled the keys from my pocket, and began driving. I was soon on a roadway overshadowed by heavy, darkly leafed, overhanging trees. I drove seemingly for hours, then arrived at a hotel that appeared small and old, but actually had 14 floors of rooms... or more.
Without asking anyone where I should go, I got in the elevator and stopped on a floor located midway between 13 and 14.
Mom and Dad were there, as was my cousin Frank and other people who were in shadows. They told me that my cake wasn't ready, but Frank said that he was making french fries to hold us over. The fries were almost ready. We smiled at each other for a few moments, saying very little but glad to see one another; then he removed the fries and divided them for the two of us.
And I munched on fries and talked with Mom and Dad for a while, again quite pleased to see them again. We never talked about life or death, just about joy and sorrow. Again, they told me the cake was so very close to being ready, but not quite yet.
And then I awoke.
Last night I dreamt that I went into my garage and found a strange car there. Even though I had never seen it before, I opened the door, got in the car, pulled the keys from my pocket, and began driving. I was soon on a roadway overshadowed by heavy, darkly leafed, overhanging trees. I drove seemingly for hours, then arrived at a hotel that appeared small and old, but actually had 14 floors of rooms... or more.
Without asking anyone where I should go, I got in the elevator and stopped on a floor located midway between 13 and 14.
Mom and Dad were there, as was my cousin Frank and other people who were in shadows. They told me that my cake wasn't ready, but Frank said that he was making french fries to hold us over. The fries were almost ready. We smiled at each other for a few moments, saying very little but glad to see one another; then he removed the fries and divided them for the two of us.
And I munched on fries and talked with Mom and Dad for a while, again quite pleased to see them again. We never talked about life or death, just about joy and sorrow. Again, they told me the cake was so very close to being ready, but not quite yet.
And then I awoke.
Monday, July 19, 2010
What's Up? Doc!
In the past week or so, I've been reading some of the later Doc Savage novels that have sat untouched on my bookshelf for far too long. First up was Death Had Yellow Eyes, a late-war-era adventure from 1944 that had high-tech gadgetry, a locked room mystery, a near-perfect frame-up, archetypal Monk and Ham interplay, and lots of Nazis. The latter isn't necessarily a good thing, by the way; all too often, once Nazis enter the villainous picture, characterization falls by the wayside (after all, we all know what Nazis are like, right?). Still, it was an adequate book; the biggest problem is that Doc himself makes several mistakes and spends far too much of the book obsessing over any potential damage to his hands; it's out of place enough that it actual hinders the story at times.
Then came One-Eyed Mystic, the abbreviated paperback title for the 1944 pulp adventure According to Plan of a One-Eyed Mystic. Apparent body swapping, an enigmatic mystic who seems Indian-by-way-of-Mexico, more Nazis (I hate those guys), and yet another frame-up. After a while, you'd think the police would realize that, if the evidence pointed to Doc, Ham, Monk, Renny, Johnny, or Long Tom, that's should be proof positive that they didn't do it. This one flows a little better than Yellow Eyes, but it's obvious that either of these are as energetic or inspired as almost any of the 1930's Doc Savage novels.
Even so, these tales are heads and shoulders above the disappointing Doc Savage comic; I haven't figured out how that book went so badly awry, since writer Paul Malmont had done a great Lester Dent-Walter Gibson adventure novel (Chinatown Death Cloud Peril) before tackling the comic. Alas, Malmont got no guidance on comic book story construction or development, it appears; he seems to have been more or less thrown in the deep end and left to flail around on his own, all the while being critiqued for his lack of swimming technique. In fact, it was that disappointing comic book series that inspired me to revisit the Doc Savage pulps; I wanted to make sure that my appreciation of those pulps wasn't overly colored by nostalgia. It wasn't--even the more lackluster pulps still have a verve and a vitality that the comic book Doc Savage lacked.
Then came One-Eyed Mystic, the abbreviated paperback title for the 1944 pulp adventure According to Plan of a One-Eyed Mystic. Apparent body swapping, an enigmatic mystic who seems Indian-by-way-of-Mexico, more Nazis (I hate those guys), and yet another frame-up. After a while, you'd think the police would realize that, if the evidence pointed to Doc, Ham, Monk, Renny, Johnny, or Long Tom, that's should be proof positive that they didn't do it. This one flows a little better than Yellow Eyes, but it's obvious that either of these are as energetic or inspired as almost any of the 1930's Doc Savage novels.
Even so, these tales are heads and shoulders above the disappointing Doc Savage comic; I haven't figured out how that book went so badly awry, since writer Paul Malmont had done a great Lester Dent-Walter Gibson adventure novel (Chinatown Death Cloud Peril) before tackling the comic. Alas, Malmont got no guidance on comic book story construction or development, it appears; he seems to have been more or less thrown in the deep end and left to flail around on his own, all the while being critiqued for his lack of swimming technique. In fact, it was that disappointing comic book series that inspired me to revisit the Doc Savage pulps; I wanted to make sure that my appreciation of those pulps wasn't overly colored by nostalgia. It wasn't--even the more lackluster pulps still have a verve and a vitality that the comic book Doc Savage lacked.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Shelf-ish Memories
I built bookshelves for my father.
It may not seem like much, but it's a memory I'll always cherish.
Back in the summer of 1974, when Susan and I realized that our books were expanding well beyond our ability to store them, I built a set of bookshelves for our house at 621.5 Olive Street. They weren't anything fancy (a couple of decades later, my former brother-in-law Johnny Pearson built bookshelves for me that were true furniture-quality shelves, whereas mine were basic and functional), but I was incredibly proud of the fact that I had built them myself, had finished them myself, and that they were both useful and attractive it. (I still have those shelves in the basement, in fact, and they serve as the home to many of my Ballantine Adult Fantasy titles, my HPL, my REH, my Doc Savage, my ERB, my Heinlein... in short, they house the same books they would have housed in 1974, since these are authors who have been an integral part of my reading and collecting since the 1960s.)
A few weeks after I finished the shelves, Mom and Dad came to Cedartown to visit my grandmother, who lived next door to us; Dad came over to our house for a little while, and was quite taken with the bookshelves. "I'd love to have some shelves like that for our living room," Dad said, "but we don't have a wall we can put shelves against since we have the big Sony television." (Of course, in 1975, "big" meant a 27" Sony that weighed as much as a steamship anchor, and the living room was the very small room in the front of the house that served as the central room for family activities, since my parents hadn't yet built the spacious den off the back of the house.)
I believe that Dad had forgotten about it at that point, but I kept thinking revisiting those shelves. Finally, I came to Dad with a plan. I could build shelves that would work with his television set--two tall two foot wide units that would flank the television, and a three foot bridging unit that would begin above the television, leaving a hole for the Sony and its stand. I sketched it out, and Dad was enthusiastic.
I built the shelves during a school holiday, preparing them while Dad was at work. It took a couple of days to finish the shelf units properly; once they were done, I assembled the three parts on the floor, then lifted them into position and anchored them against the wall.
And they fit perfectly!
I'll always remember the look on Dad's face; I don't think he had really believed it would all come together, but he was quite pleased that it did. He and Mom spent quite some time deciding what would go where on each of those shelves--the books, the records, the pictures, the decorative items, each placed carefully for maximum appeal.
Those bookshelves were the only thing I ever built for Dad. I'm not a handy person; I don't build things very often, and I'm not particularly skilled at it. Neither did Dad, which was why he had never attempted to build the shelves himself. Dad had an impressive array of skills, but woodworking and carpentry did not number among them; I never saw him attempt to do anything more than hang the occasional shelf.
In this case, though, I had assembled something just for Dad, and he loved it. In that, I found a sense of satisfaction that was almost surprising. I had done something for Dad that he did not believe he could do for himself; even better, he was impressed with the finished product. I will never forget the feeling of pride and satisfaction that came with the completion of those shelves...
It may not seem like much, but it's a memory I'll always cherish.
Back in the summer of 1974, when Susan and I realized that our books were expanding well beyond our ability to store them, I built a set of bookshelves for our house at 621.5 Olive Street. They weren't anything fancy (a couple of decades later, my former brother-in-law Johnny Pearson built bookshelves for me that were true furniture-quality shelves, whereas mine were basic and functional), but I was incredibly proud of the fact that I had built them myself, had finished them myself, and that they were both useful and attractive it. (I still have those shelves in the basement, in fact, and they serve as the home to many of my Ballantine Adult Fantasy titles, my HPL, my REH, my Doc Savage, my ERB, my Heinlein... in short, they house the same books they would have housed in 1974, since these are authors who have been an integral part of my reading and collecting since the 1960s.)
A few weeks after I finished the shelves, Mom and Dad came to Cedartown to visit my grandmother, who lived next door to us; Dad came over to our house for a little while, and was quite taken with the bookshelves. "I'd love to have some shelves like that for our living room," Dad said, "but we don't have a wall we can put shelves against since we have the big Sony television." (Of course, in 1975, "big" meant a 27" Sony that weighed as much as a steamship anchor, and the living room was the very small room in the front of the house that served as the central room for family activities, since my parents hadn't yet built the spacious den off the back of the house.)
I believe that Dad had forgotten about it at that point, but I kept thinking revisiting those shelves. Finally, I came to Dad with a plan. I could build shelves that would work with his television set--two tall two foot wide units that would flank the television, and a three foot bridging unit that would begin above the television, leaving a hole for the Sony and its stand. I sketched it out, and Dad was enthusiastic.
I built the shelves during a school holiday, preparing them while Dad was at work. It took a couple of days to finish the shelf units properly; once they were done, I assembled the three parts on the floor, then lifted them into position and anchored them against the wall.
And they fit perfectly!
I'll always remember the look on Dad's face; I don't think he had really believed it would all come together, but he was quite pleased that it did. He and Mom spent quite some time deciding what would go where on each of those shelves--the books, the records, the pictures, the decorative items, each placed carefully for maximum appeal.
Those bookshelves were the only thing I ever built for Dad. I'm not a handy person; I don't build things very often, and I'm not particularly skilled at it. Neither did Dad, which was why he had never attempted to build the shelves himself. Dad had an impressive array of skills, but woodworking and carpentry did not number among them; I never saw him attempt to do anything more than hang the occasional shelf.
In this case, though, I had assembled something just for Dad, and he loved it. In that, I found a sense of satisfaction that was almost surprising. I had done something for Dad that he did not believe he could do for himself; even better, he was impressed with the finished product. I will never forget the feeling of pride and satisfaction that came with the completion of those shelves...
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Literary Mish-Mash
These are just for Tom, 'cuz he brought 'em on by lamenting the literary trend that began with Pride and Prejudice and Zombies and has continued through the upcoming Android Karenina. Just wanted him to see that no matter how bad it is, it could be worse...
•Romeo falls in love with a woman who sells crafts online--Romeo and Juli-Etsy
•Mechanical hero of Scotland: Robot Roy
•Romantic comedy set somewhere over the rainbow: Oz You Like It
•Female vampire among the hillbillies; Lilith ABner
•Willa Cather's story of the first people to sell overstocked merchandise online: O Pioneers
•Gothic novel that shuts down abruptly: Northanger Ab-End
•Novel spotlighting the crazy man of Mayberry: The Importance of Being Ernest
•Mystery novel in which the detective tries to figure out in which person a missing Alien fetus has been implanted: Parasite Lost
•And of course, the tale of a genetic engineer who blends the DNA of a Greek king and a vicious dinosaur: Oedipus Rex
•Romeo falls in love with a woman who sells crafts online--Romeo and Juli-Etsy
•Mechanical hero of Scotland: Robot Roy
•Romantic comedy set somewhere over the rainbow: Oz You Like It
•Female vampire among the hillbillies; Lilith ABner
•Willa Cather's story of the first people to sell overstocked merchandise online: O Pioneers
•Gothic novel that shuts down abruptly: Northanger Ab-End
•Novel spotlighting the crazy man of Mayberry: The Importance of Being Ernest
•Mystery novel in which the detective tries to figure out in which person a missing Alien fetus has been implanted: Parasite Lost
•And of course, the tale of a genetic engineer who blends the DNA of a Greek king and a vicious dinosaur: Oedipus Rex
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