TOC: The Paranoid Cat and other tales.

The Paranoid Cat
The Acolyte
Thirty Years Gone
Sea of Tranquility
The New School
Wendigo
A Near Miss
Flash Video
The Jesus Christ Show
The Bottle Cap
Repelatron Raceway
Nanobots in the Lawn
Whale-Mart
Fortean Phenomena
The Comet
Bloody Dream

Gut Instinct.

by Louis Bertrand Shalako

c2010

All Rights Reserved


‘The Paranoid Cat and other tales’ is my fourth release and it’s kind of scary just how quick it went together. Seriously, folks, this is just too easy. What is wrong with this picture? But these tales were written more recently, rather than ‘over many years.’

I could upload this thing in a heartbeat, and that has its dangers. One more run-through, right? What the hell, it's worth it. The book will be out in three or four days.

No one can tell you how to write, what to write, or what you should write. No one can tell you what it is permissible to write, or what you should not write. Recently I read an interview of a prominent fantasy writer, David Farland. Peter Orullian did the interview. According to David, people like fantasy for its moral elements.

Another interesting thing he said was, ‘I don’t want to tell someone how to kill someone.”

Bearing in mind that a lot of fantasy deals with swords, lances, bows, laser beams, doomsday spells and curses, there is plenty of ‘instruction’ in fantasy. So it is just plain bullshit. There are some things which should not be published, I agree with that. It is self-evident and we all know what it is. Especially insofar as Mr. Farland also advocates certain types of censorship although he doesn’t want to be put in charge of it. Neither do I, which is why I have to have some form of self-checking routine when making editorial and publishing judgment calls.

Someone with a lot of guns and power is always slavering at the jaws to put a crimp in the freedom of expression we all enjoy, and there is some level of intimidation by interest groups as well. But in the end, the ‘moral majority’ turns out to be fifteen crackpots writing vile and anonymous letters in a church basement somewhere. (Handy Hint: Use your spell-checker.)

Recently on the news there was a report of broken glass put at the bottom of a slide, and police are investigating. There is some ‘instruction’ there; if one is a problem individual, prone to devising new ways to hurt people. That’s mainstream TV for you, by the way.

I have always believed that I would not be too good as a fantasy writer, because I simply don’t believe in the supernatural. It would be dishonest for me to attempt to write it, and in the end I would fool nobody but myself. Right?

Wrong. Due to my policy of ‘inversion,’ the next time I attempt to write any sort of fantasy, I intend to approach this literary problem from a point of view of pure and abject cynicism. I can’t really explain why, exactly…just call it ‘gut instinct.’

Holy fuck! You know what? That would be a pretty good title for a book or a story or something.

Excerpt. Thirty Years Gone.

by Louis Bertrand Shalako

c2010

All Rights Reserved









God, I love my job. Here is an excerpt from, 'The Paranoid Cat.' This is from the short story, 'Thirty Years Gone.'

‘Much of the city has simply been abandoned to the wilderness, although any property with a decent sized open area is inevitably farmed. What used to be wide, open thoroughfares have become little better than footpaths through an amazing variety of trees, underbrush and small garden plots on what were once front yards. Once the tarmac cracked, people tore it up and grew crops. The bulk of all houses in the city are moldering ruins, as no one needs the housing. Soon enough the windows were broken, the roofing shingles and plywood began to rot, the doors were all kicked in by vandals and looters, and then whole areas were burned out by drunks and fools…’

Almost daily, Trevor was troubled by the thought that each and every street in this city was like that, and that each and every city in the land was like this, and the situation was the same, all over the world. That one was a hard one to take, sometimes, for Trevor.

The young people, of course, had grown up within existing conditions.

It was perfectly normal, and totally accepted by them.

But he knew what things were like before. They didn’t. In that sense their ignorance encouraged their indifference.

The Paranoid Cat

The Paranoid Cat

by Louis B. Shalako

c2010

All Rights Reserved




“Come on people, get with the program,” called Bootsy, impatiently to say the least.
Bootsy clawed at the screen door, hoping against hope that it wasn’t too late to save them. The blue glare and the raucous noise of the television set assaulted his senses. It wasn’t usually turned up this loud. Perhaps Jane was right in the middle of looking for the dancing show and the phone had rang. Maybe that was it. Perhaps she was in the bedroom. Bootsy couldn’t hear the usual creaks and clunks of footsteps moving through the interior, but then that TV was loud.
From where he stood on hind paws, peering through the screen and around the corner and through the gap…he couldn’t see if Mark was in his easy chair or not. Dropping back down on all fours, Bootsy quickly shoulder-checked, but there was no one about except the Williams boy down the street with his dratted radio-control truck.
“Mark? Mark?” called Bootsy plaintively; urgently. “Jane? Jane? Jane, can your hear me?”
There was no reply. Hopefully Mark hadn’t taken one of the ‘little brown houses,’ which in combination with a few brewskis, made him go all rubbery-legged and sleepy-eyed. Stupid enough at the best of times, Mark was practically unmanageable at that point. Trying to get Mark to put some food down when he was in that state was hopeless. One was better off not to be stuck inside when Mark went down for the night.
“Jane? Jane?” he called again. “Are you guys in there? Where is everybody?”
Of course they were in there, and he had no time…there was no time left at all.
“Guys?” he called again in some forlorn hope that they could get it through their thick heads that this was an emergency…
What if Mark had taken one of the little blue pills? Bootsy’s heart sank, and he quickly dropped off of the porch and ran around the side of the house and up the driveway to the back yard. Skipping over the rhododendrons, and through the narcissus vines, rank with Butch’s piss-markers, Bootsy hovered under the bedroom window for a moment. His ears were cocked for any hint of the disaster which he was sure had befallen them all…but no.
Thank God, but no.
No whispers, no giggles, no heavy breathing, or gasping. No screams and slaps. No uproarious laughter from Jane, like the time they came home from the Hallowe’en party at Susan’s place, and Mark was dressed up like Mickey Mouse.
What the hell was going on in there?
With all his heart, Bootsy prayed that it wasn’t already too late.
As far as he could reckon, the pods in the garden might snap open at any time, although he hoped it wouldn’t be for another day or two.
But honestly, it was time to get the hell out of here.