Digital Publishing, Quality Control.

Like that sullen Alex look.

Quality control is important in digital publishing because very often one person is doing everything themselves. If you haven’t done it too many times, it can be a murky process. More than anything, I want to be fresh and with a rational time slot available. I can upload to Smashwords or Kindle in about ten minutes, but if there is a problem, you don’t want to be running out the door to get a box of diapers or whatever right in the middle of fixing a problem with a book

When uploading to Smashwords, you need a clean .doc file as per the Smashwords Style Guide. As soon as it’s done converting, I download Epub and Kindle versions onto my desktop where I have the desktop Nook and Kindle reading apps. What I am looking for is good formatting. I want to see clean scene breaks, with the blocks of text above and below set at the right distance apart. Generally speaking, if the Kindle version looks good my Epub usually will too, but I flip through both of them right to the end. Then I go back to Smashwords and assign an ISBN, submit the converted file and have some fair degree of assurance that it will make it into the Premium Distribution Calalogue.

You want to read the chapter numbers on that Kindle version—recently I read : Chapter Four, Chapter Four, Chapter Five, Chapter Six…Chapter Seventeen, Chapter Nineteen…this is the time to fix it, right?

You want the right number of chapters!

What you are hoping for is a clean upload. Sooner or later the book will pop out onto the home page as a new release, and this puts a little pressure on the new author to do it right.

Before uploading to Kindle Direct Publishing, I take out the Smashwords standard disclaimer, as I have my own anyway, and Kindle certainly doesn’t require the Smashwords disclaimer!

On Kindle Direct Publishing, there is now spell-check for English-language titles. I always read this report. If you have a lot of made-up words, alien names or planets or whatever, those will always be ‘errors’ to the computer program, so make sure you proofread those for spelling thoroughly.

Fix all the ‘real’ errors and upload a corrected file. Use the digital previewer, and go right through to the end, as this is exactly how your book is going to look in a Kindle device. This is useful in helping an author to sleep at night—one or two reviews have mentioned “well-edited,” and good formatting, et cetera. (They also liked the story.)

I never use Digital Rights Management, as on Smashwords there is no provision for it anyway. If someone wants to pirate the book, they can do it easily enough. Since I give away thousands of books in a year, there’s not much demand for pirated books. I click ‘enable lending,’ and MatchBook since I have PODs.

There was a site once that had a free download of a title that I had been giving away for free. It was an old version, with an old and not very good cover. You can try and find a contact form, or an email address on the site. Generally speaking, they do take it down. If it’s just a ‘cheap ebooks’ site, and if all that is there is an image and buy link going back to Amazon or something don’t worry about it. Hope that they sell a few copies for you, as most likely they have an affiliate account and they’re making a small commission. It is not necessary to thank them.

Be glad someone thought they could make money on the book.

Uploading to Createspace is easy enough. For that I use the ebook file, format it, then save it as TitlePOD or whatever, and if I update a version I’ll put Oct13 or something on the end of the file name.

I wrote a blog post on version control, because after a while you just spawn so many files. In my case I tend to back them up like a squirrel, all over the place. I’m sort of worried the computer will crash, and every so often there is an odd-ball glitch that just locks up a file on me.

Another thing is to e-mail those files to yourself at the end of every working day. For that you need maybe two accounts.

My chapter number is six 12-pt spaces down.

A paperback is obviously formatted differently than an ebook. You can and should have page numbers for example. But also, I put section breaks in for the front matter and end matter, so the page numbers are only in the actual book. If you have a foreword, stuff like a dedication, acknowledgements, that’s front matter too—no page numbers, no headers, etc.

The free cover templates on Createspace are easy to use with a little fiddling around, and like many other self-publishing sites there are professional cover and formatting services available.

Learning to do everything myself keeps the cost down and gives me a bit of power in a sense—now I can write how-to articles and post them on my blog, and it might be helpful to someone else along the line.

Before uploading my next two ebooks and five more POD files, I will proof each file at least one more time, take a look at the covers again, get a marketing image (and maybe a better title for Collection # 4 Dark Satires) and ISBNs, write blurbs for new titles, and stuff all that into a folder on the desktop. For one thing, 

I’ve been thinking of a new image for Core Values. It’s not ready to upload until I have a cover.

The books will be uploaded in order of priority:

Third World > my new science fiction novel > ebook > Smashwrods > Kindle > POD

Collection # 4 > ebook SW > K > POD

Engines of Creation > POD after ebook published around Dec 1. The ebook is already on the platform, it’s just been unpublished after uploading. (That one had a small error which I think has been fixed as well.) 

But the Kindle version is not fixed. That’s why I make lists in the first place.)

Ghost Planet > upload POD file and cover to Createspace as the ebook is already published.

Core Values > POD this book has been out for three years so it’s high time I made the POD, however it’s not my highest priority in uploading. During the POD file creation process, I noticed one error, so after this is done I will go back, fix the .doc file, upload to SW and then upload an .html file, a corrected one, to Kindle.

During the POD process I might have to go back and forth between Createspace and my desktop via tabs to fiddle with marketing images; as often the name and title are off-center a wee bit, and sometimes it can’t be adjusted properly with the free templates that I use.

Once your POD goes live on Createspace, it will be automatically linked to your ebook on Amazon after about a week, but you have to check and if it doesn’t show up, contact them through the form on the site and tell them. On Smashwords you can also link to a print version from the ‘manage links’button on the right side of your book’s page.

Notes: on Kindle, as long as you haven’t completed the second of the two publishing pages, you can quit and the thing will be saved as a draft. You can trouble-shoot and go back later with no harm done. On SW, you can always unpublish and when you come back a few minutes later, uploading begins the conversion and submission process again. Simply do the coversion and proof them puppies one more time.

On Createspace and other platforms there are digital proofers, human review, and in many sites you can download PDFs to your computer and see how your book turned out.

Since it takes about a week for a POD to pop up on Amazon, presumably you could do PODs first and then upload your ebook. As an experiment, I loaded up to Amazon and used their spell-check as it saves me the time of scrolling through fifteen times. Then I fixed the .doc file and published it first on Smashwords. Over time, I have evolved a process, and yet if you haven’t done it in a while, or if you’re nodding off to sleep, it can definitely still be irritating. That’s why I like to have a bit of time—enough time and forsight and it’s just less stressful.

Ebooks and paperbacks of the same title must have different ISBNs, and if you even change the colour of paper, (I read this on Createspace) you will need a new ISBN.

With a Createspace assigned ISBN, (free) they are the publisher of record.

With a Smashwords-assigned ISBN, they are the publisher of record, with your own ISBN, you are the publisher of record.

POD tips: Use mirrored margins, and use the format header and footer feature to raise your header and lower your page numbers away from the text. There is a minimum gutter depending on the number of pages. A wider page margin at the top lowers the top of the text.

You can stop the process and go back to the document in order to fiddle with that. Upload it as many times as necessary to get it as good as you can get it.

As things stand right now, (Friday, October 18,) I have had to ‘nuke’ my new collection Dark Satires, but Third World went through just fine. The collection has stories that go back some years and have been through two or three computers and two or three crashes. So now I upload Dark Satires to Amazon, and this evening I’ll put them up on Createspace as PODs.

After that, I have another several PODs to do, but no more ebooks for a while.

Nuking a File.

To nuke a file, save it as a .txt document. Highlight the whole .txt document and then copy and paste that into a fresh, blank .doc file. Now re-format the thing from scratch, although the .txt saves scene breaks and indents. It will strip out bold, italics, bigger fonts for titles, stuff like that. Comb through the file carefully, and if it takes an hour to redo it, it’s better than releasing a badly-formatted product.

Here’s my new science-fiction novel Third World on Smashwords.

END

The True Face of Glory.

Morguefile.

“Hey, Mister. Can you spare a dime?” The man at the mouth of the alley had a rasping voice.

Zeb turned to look, about to tell him to get lost.

He stopped short on seeing the stained cheesecloth rags tied around his head and face.

“What the…?”

“It’s okay, Mister.” The man’s sloping shoulders slumped further still.

Zeb dug in his pocket to see if he had some loose change. 

The sight of a double row of campaign ribbons and the Military Medal wrenched at his guts and made his heart beat faster.

“What are you selling?” Zeb recovered quickly.

The man stood awkwardly, trying to stay out of the streetlight’s glare, and yet still make a pitch to passing strangers.

“Apples.”

Zeb handed him a three-dollar coin, one of the green-anodized hexagonal coins the government had just issued to commemorate the Empire’s final defeat of the Republic.

“Here.” The guy handed over three apples, as Zeb sniffed the air suspiciously. “Thank you for your kindness.”

Zeb was hungry enough, as dinner had been three or four hours ago. He stood there a little self-consciously polishing the apple on his jacket, and then taking a bite out of it. The fellow didn’t smell as bad as he looked, although there was a perceptible aroma. The hands seemed clean enough.

“It’s good. Really good.” Zeb chewed, wondering at his feelings. “I hardly ever buy them, myself.”

Normally he brushed past such people without a backward glance.

“So…if you don’t mind me asking…what happened?”

The head jerked in the semblance of a nod. The question was a familiar one, and the answer came easily enough after years of dereliction, deprivation, and despair.

“Laser blast. The cavity—that’s like the breech of a gun. It failed and blew up in my face. Most likely it was stress cracks from overheating.”

“Ah.” Zeb took another bite.

“We were on Alpha-Seven.”

“Oh, really?”

Alpha-Seven was a glorious page in Imperial military history. Its small garrison, seven hundred Marines, if Zeb remembered the news stories correctly, had held out for three months before being overwhelmed by vastly superior forces. Alpha-Seven was an airless rock not much bigger than Rhode Island. In Zeb’s private opinion, the Empire had provoked the war with its trade embargo of resources vital to the other’s economy, although the Republic struck first, in a surprise attack that had come within a whisker of success during the first six months.

Zeb couldn’t think of a thing to say.

He had an inspiration.

“Thank you.”

The man twitched and expelled breath noisily.

Zeb took another bite, working his way around the core.

“That’s a good apple.”

“I steal them.”

Zeb grinned.

“Can’t say as I blame you.” Zeb threw the core into the alley.

He stuck out a hand, after carefully putting the other two apples in the side pocket of his jacket.

They shook, as the liquid pools of darkness that were the man’s eyes searched his face, looking for signs of contempt or pity or even compassion.

“Thank you, Mister.”

“I’ll give one of these to my little sister, and one to my mom.”

Zeb could almost sense a tired smile under the bandages, and the fellow inclined his head.

“Good luck to you.”

There was no response.

Catching someone’s eye, the fellow leaned forward into the light.

“Excuse me, nice lady. Can you spare a dime for an old soldier down on his luck?”

Zeb moved out of the way as she gasped, stopping short. Her hand went to her throat, and then dropped.

“This gentleman was on Alpha-Seven.”

“Oh.” Her eyes glazed a bit and then she remembered. “Oh.”

Her hands reluctantly opened up her small clutch-purse and fished around for some coins.

“The apples aren’t bad either.”

She sized Zeb up with an odd look, and the veteran took something from her outstretched hand. Zeb had the impression she wasn’t all that enamored of either one of them, although she accepted an apple with as much grace as she could muster. There was no room in the purse for it, and the likelihood was that she would throw it away around the next corner. Which didn’t seem right, somehow, but what could you say? It would just embarrass all concerned.

Zeb decided that was the psychological moment to move on.

Yeah, it was a disgrace how the Empire treated the maimed, the crippled and just plain lost veterans, to whom they all owed so much. Their pension benefits were abysmal, and while media reports on the rehabilitation centres invariably glowed with praise for the good work done there, the need was so great that inevitably, far too many fell through the cracks and ended up in the gutter. Zeb had been a year too young for the service, or he might have joined up himself.

That’s what he always told himself.

It was always the way, wasn’t it? When the war started the promises were legion, the recruiting calls patriotic and made with fervent calls upon men’s honour. When it was over, the Empire turned to other priorities, not the least of which was putting millions of returning, able-bodied soldiers back into society, and the workplace, and of course paying down the colossal debt. Wars were won, as everyone knew, by the massive expenditure of blood and treasure. The balance of power remained. Nothing had really changed. 

The balance had been maintained. Zeb figured within twenty-five years, maybe less, they’d be at it again, for nothing would be decided until one or the other system had been destroyed.

That’s what a lot of people said, and it seemed true enough.

This was the true face of glory.

END

Author's Note: my new science fiction novel, (set in the same external frame of reference in relativistic terms as this story,) otherwise known as Third World will be available in the near future. 

Why I Love Edward Gibbon.

Portrait by Sir Joshua Reynolds.

I read Edward Gibbon’s ‘History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire’ about once a year.

There are many reasons for this. For one, it’s a good book, for another, it’s very entertaining.

Gibbon considered himself as a ‘philosophic historian,’ and it has been said that philosophy is the highest avocation.

(It has also been said that all of philosophy is not worth a moment’s trouble.)

If travel broadens the mind, and if the past is a foreign country, then travelling into the past might be good for us once in a while. It is a reminder of who we once were, where we once where, and it shows just how far we have come.

If we know nothing of history, we are probably doomed to repeat it, although changing social conditions make this more and more unlikely as modern technology and communications, modern education changes the world.

There are still plenty of intolerant people in the world.

I would like to think atheism is about tolerance without benefit of religion.

I would like to believe that atheism is all about tolerance without the benefit of divine sanction; one that still requires a rational and free choice of the individual.

That choice is still a question of whether or not we will lead a moral life.

I would like to say that atheism is rational, without necessarily being right all the time, and I would point out that any belief system will eventually become outmoded as social conditions change.

Gibbon’s perspective on the early Christians is certainly interesting and resonates within me, as I will demonstrate in a moment.

“For ordinary Romans, religion was a part of daily life. Each home had a household shrine at which prayers and libations to the family's domestic deities were offered. Neighbourhood shrines and sacred places such as springs and groves dotted the city. The Roman calendar was structured around religious observances.” – Wikipedia.

In Gibbon’s own words:

“It might therefore be expected, that they would unite with indignation against any sect or people which should separate itself from the communion of mankind, and claiming the exclusive possession of divine knowledge, should disdain every form of worship, except its own, as impious and idolatrous. The rights of toleration were held by mutual indulgence: they were justly forfeited by a refusal of the accustomed tribute. As the payment of this tribute was inflexibly refused by the Jews, and by them alone, the consideration of the treatment which they experienced from the Roman magistrates, will serve to explain how far these speculations are justified by facts, and will lead us to discover the true causes of the persecution of Christianity.”

(Gibbon was a wonderful writer, which helps him present his thesis.)

According to Gibbon, the early Christians were surrounded by spiritual terrors. They could hardly participate in the life of the city or the republic without risking eternal damnation.

“But whatever difference of opinion might subsist between the Orthodox, the Ebionites, and the Gnostics, concerning the divinity or the obligation of the Mosaic law, they were all equally animated by the same exclusive zeal, and by the same abhorrence for idolatry, which had distinguished the Jews from the other nations of the ancient world. The philosopher, who considered the system of polytheism as a composition of human fraud and error, could disguise a smile of contempt under the mask of devotion, without apprehending that either the mockery or the compliance would expose him to the resentment of any invisible, or, as he conceived them, imaginary powers. But the established religions of Paganism were seen by the primitive Christians in a much more odious and formidable light. It was the universal sentiment both of the church and of heretics, that the daemons were the authors, the patrons, and the objects of idolatry. Those rebellious spirits who had been degraded from the rank of angels, and cast down into the infernal pit, were still permitted to roam upon earth, to torment the bodies and to seduce the minds of sinful men. The daemons soon discovered and abused the natural propensity of the human heart towards devotion and, artfully withdrawing the adoration of mankind from their Creator, they usurped the place and honours of the Supreme Deity. By the success of their malicious contrivances, they at once gratified their own vanity and revenge, and obtained the only comfort of which they were yet susceptible, the hope of involving the human species in the participation of their guilt and misery. It was confessed, or at least it was imagined, that they had distributed among themselves the most important characters of polytheism, one daemon assuming the name and attributes of Jupiter, another of Aesculapius, a third of Venus, and a fourth perhaps of Apollo; and that, by the advantage of their long experience and aerial nature, they were enabled to execute, with sufficient skill and dignity, the parts which they had undertaken. They lurked in the temples, instituted festivals and sacrifices, invented fables, pronounced oracles, and were frequently allowed to perform miracles. The Christians, who, by the interposition of evil spirits, could so readily explain every preternatural appearance, were disposed and even desirous to admit the most extravagant fictions of the Pagan mythology. But the belief of the Christian was accompanied with horror. The most trifling mark of respect to the national worship he considered as a direct homage yielded to the daemon, and as an act of rebellion against the majesty of God.”

The lessons of history are clear.

For the atheist, at Christmas or Easter, or even New Year’s, when we walk into a store to buy a can of soda pop, and someone behind the counter says ‘Merry Christmas,’ we have a few choices.

We can return the conventional greeting. At that point we become a hypocrite.

We can refuse the conventional greeting. At that point we become a curmudgeon.

We can explain that we are atheists. At that point we are either proselytizing, i.e. attempting to convert, or we are being disrespectful of another person’s beliefs, or we are attempting to draw attention to ourselves, or we might be attempting to demonstrate our own rational, philosophical or moral ascendancy, i.e., we are trying to show that we are better than them—which is to misunderstand the whole ethos of what atheism is all about.

(The author realizes and acknowledges that there are more militant and even deliberately offensive atheists who do exactly these things, mostly for all the wrong reasons.)

We don’t even have proper Atheistic terms to describe such an event: we must use such religion-based terms as damned if you do and damned if you don’t.

Some of what is written here may be offensive to some readers.

There is not much an atheist can do about that without falling into one trap or another.

If atheism is to be of any benefit to the world at all, then it must have a clear and concise message.

It might go something like this.

“There are no gods and there is no unchanging truth. The choices we make come from inside of ourselves, and have no other justification. What you do with your life and how you choose to treat with your fellow man is entirely up to you. Let those choices reflect credit upon you and yours.”

What is the Bourgeoisie?

Al Capp's autobiography. (Wiki.)

What is the bourgeoisie? Can you define it, or identify it, or have any vague notion of what it means in the present socio-economic context, i.e. the world we know in the year 2013?

Not really, eh. However, in the classic sense, the Marxian sense, it can be defined, and if it makes the listener vaguely uncomfortable for unknown reasons, it’s probably done its job.

(Such terms also define the speaker.)

Back in the sixties, I read a book by Toronto radio host Al Boliska. It was called 1,001 Squelches and Putdowns. 

For a radio host, and a comic one, talking about issues, answering phones, being at public functions, speaking to a great diversity of people, it was probably important to be able to control things, to be able to defend oneself ably, to be able to stop a verbal opponent dead in their tracks.

After all ladies and gentlemen, the show must go on.

Everyone thinks they are funny, and the professional radio host makes it look (or sound) easy.

Simply put, everyone and his brother thought he could and should be the centre of attention.

It was a glamour job and everyone thought they should have their own radio show!

And in the modern world that is now technically possible.

My old man had a few terms—eebie-jeebies, rubby-dubs, greasers, and he used them to say things that maybe otherwise would have been a little more unpalatable.

My old man thought rock and roll destroyed the world, incidentally, but these terms are essentially undefinable.

What in the hell is a rubby-dub? No one alive today can answer that question, but it probably is a hell of a lot better than being a little too precise in the definition. Precise definitions are never good when presenting a rather centric viewpoint, and I guess we’ve all had a laugh or two at Fox News and their continuous and ongoing efforts to subvert the journalistic/political/social processes of our neighbours to the south.

Boliska coined a term. He said in the book that you really can’t be too specific. North America has always had some social tension from immigration, inequalities of race, creed, colour, social inequities, and these can be hot-button issues; as certainly bigots have the right to listen to the radio. Some of them owned businesses of their own—bigots and immigrants alike, and it was handy to have a term, for they also bought ads and air time. His term would be a lot more offensive today, but he called them ‘Yougarians.’

It really is an ethnic slur, or at least sounds like one, but it also had some element of humour, and yes, it was undefinable, and therefore somewhat less offensive, and it allowed the radio host to tell jokes that otherwise wouldn’t have gotten on the air.

How could someone who was really offended complain to management?

“He was telling jokes about Yougarians.”

“So? Big deal. What the hell’s a Yougarian?”

There are some good lines in that book, and I’ve used a few of them myself over the years.

“He got all them holes in his forehead learning to eat with a fork,” is the best example I can come up with off the top of my head.

Whether it’s the bourgeousie or the ‘Yougarians,’ or Al Capp’s Slobbovians, it’s probably not a good idea to go off on a tangent and start mud-slinging based on any number of things. For one thing, it’s judgmental, and for another it’s going to get you pulled off the air and you’ll be down the road kicking stones and looking for another job under another handle.

In the modern context, you’ve just offended the president of Pepsi-Cola or something and that’s never good, and it’s also unnecessary and avoidable.

***

Back in the old days, when authors might attend one or two, or at most, a half a dozen conventions a year, it was important to be nice to everybody.

How often have we heard it?

“Be nice to everybody.”

That’s a good rule, and it is impossible to live by, and we all know it.

“Try not to have a meltdown any more often than you absolutely must.” That makes about as much sense.

The thing with social media is that the next day, or even the next hour, we can simply ignore what we just said, and, (quite frankly) set about repairing the damage we have caused.

This is not exactly conventional thinking, which in my opinion, gets conventional results.

Social media is immediate, with no seven-second delay and a producer sitting there alert by the squelch button to save our butts.

It is also continuous. I have likened Facebook for example, to a convention that goes on twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, on and on and on and on. Virtually all my friends on Facebook are writers, poets, painters, musicians, artists, journalists, editors, publishers, etc.

A lot of them are using fake names, so you never can be sure who you are talking to—a strong incentive to say nothing of interest at all.

You cannot be on continously, like a performer with a seven-minute slot on late night TV. Sooner or later you will have a bad day, and if someone is telling you as an author that you can’t afford to have an opinion, that you can’t afford to express your thoughts and ideas, then that world would quickly become very repressive. Maybe that’s what they want, eh?

Facebook and other social media sites are ‘warts and all’ experiences and that’s a bit different.

I’m not advocating flame wars or no-holds-barred ad hominen attacks on the people we disagree with.

(Ad hominem means ‘personal’ as far as I know. My latin, entirely self-taught, is not that good.)

We’ve all seen those attacks, and it is surprising how quickly supposed adults can get out of hand, emotions heated and the words flying back and forth.

Part of the problem is good old fashioned bigotry, or social prejudice, a kind of economic judgementalism.

We are going to run into those people from time to time, and like many an independent publisher, I’ve had a few one-star reviews from the self-appointd defenders of the purity of literature, who in my opinion would be the least qualified to make such judgements if only we knew who they were.

The anonymity provided by the internet(s) and modern social media encourages and enables certain types of behaviour. These folks would be bigots, and seen as such, and known as such in their own hometowns. They are also just as aware as you and I that modern social media will be, in the next few short years, accelerators and enablers of social changes that will be vast. These changes will be sweeping.

Just as an example, the disabled can now break the unspoken social code of isolation and silence, rather than be the sort of untouchables they once were, unseen, unheard, and definitely and deliberately left out of the social and political process.

The world is going to change, ladies and gentlemen. The world is going to change whether it likes it or not—and that’s a big threat to the truly conservative mindset.

The Prime Minister, the Premier of this province, go on Facebook, no doubt under a pseudonym, just as ancient kings once put on a tattered cloak, grabbed a gnarly stick and pretended to be beggars, sitting there listening to the people talk in the taverns and getting a handle on political thoughts of the day.

Their ears must have burned a time or two, eh? And yet the more enlightened ones saw the value in it, and the real bastards would go back to the palace and call for the captain of the guards, and next thing you know some idiot who cracked the wrong joke at the wrong time would be groaning in the rack as hot coals were applied to the genitals, and the questioner sought answers as to who their accomplices might be.

I think feedback is useful. Without a little feedback, changes are made arbitrarily, and with little or no regard for justice or even social utility.

And now you know how I feel about the bourgeoisie; maybe even a little bit more about what that word actually means.

Just for the record, I am an honest man, a hard worker, and a capitalist, and for what it’s worth, a damned good one.

Al Boliska is all but forgotten now.

From Wiki:

 “An important part of CHUM's success was the station's unpredictable morning man Al Boliska, who joined CHUM in October 1957, after working at station CKLC in Kingston, Ontario. By 1959, Boliska had made a name for himself as a disc jockey who got listeners talking. He also made them laugh, and became known for telling what he called the ‘World's Worst Jokes.’ Boliska also did a number of stunts, such as taking part in a professional wrestling match with Whipper Billy Watson. When he lost, that led to another stunt, where Boliska stayed away from his show for several days, saying he was now too discouraged by the loss to do his show. A hypnotist was called in, and Boliska's self-esteem was restored.”

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Al_Capp 

Buried Alive: the death of Frederigo Velasquez

In life, all of our worst nightmares come true, sooner or later. No one could have dreamed this.

This was his best suit and his underwear was obviously silk. The air was close and warm and heavy with moisture. Sweat and tears stung his eyes. The blackness was profound. The silence was worse, only the thudding of what must be trucks going down a road nearby came through the hard-packed earth with any clarity. Dragging up his arm in the tightly-enclosed space, the ticking of his watch and the faint glow of the dial was the only reality. Time must soon run out for Frederigo.

His thoughts raced. He knew what must have happened.

The trouble with the alarm button was that there was no way to test it, as if any living person had ever thought to do so. No one had ever considered the possibility that it wouldn’t work.

Life was too precious to take a chance. He thought he hadn’t.

Frederigo Velasquez, born and bred in Buena Vista, was a cautious man, but also a successful man. It all seemed so logical at the time.

When it came time for the hard-working owner of a small chain of laundromats in this thriving city to do some estate planning, a pre-paid funeral plan seemed like a good idea. Maria had been plaguing him about his health for some time, and finally Hector got in on it.

It really would be in their best interest, to save taxes and avoid withdrawal penalties.

His family, whom he loved dearly, and undoubtedly they loved him just as dearly, wouldn’t have to worry about a thing. It was all taken care of now, all paid for, and first-class all the way.

He had provided for the eventualities as thoughtfully as anything else he did.

Like several of the small businesses he had painstakingly built up and then sold over the last twenty-five years, it was a turn-key operation. Although Maria didn’t much appreciate the morbid humour, his son had.

At the last minute, on the suggestion of Uncle Leo, an uncle on Maria’s side it must be said, he had cheerfully put down a little extra for a very special coffin. It had an alarm bell. He remembered the original news stories, when they first came out. It was good for a laugh, and the perpetual optimist that was Federigo laughed easily. It was a small price to pay for peace of mind.

He could make a joke at his own expense and get away with it. Or so he thought.

At fifty-seven, Federigo was still a young man, and might have thirty or forty years, some of them very good years, still ahead of him. He sobbed at the thought of dying, so very, very slowly in there.

He was going to die today. Now. In the next few minutes.

No one would ever know what happened to him; for how could they?

His thoughts raced. Where did he go wrong?

After all those years of hard work, it had felt so good to give in to an insane impulse. Word of the coffin alarm-button quickly got out, whether via an employee or a relative, no matter, and his business had enjoyed a brief spurt in terms of sales. It lasted about two weeks.

Everyone in town came to use the machines, to do their laundry, as clean as a whistle, or so the radio ads said, and to gossip, and to marvel at his foolishness. To be fair, he had made the money back quite quickly.

Federigo came from the barrio. Fighting his way up from the dregs and the sewers had taken a long time, but it had been worth it, eminently so.

He’d been in a few tough spots in his life. He didn’t think he was going to get out of this one, and the emotions overcame him.

The terrible truth about the alarm button was that it didn’t work. The size, shape and length of the box he was in said everything. The hard knob of the button, dead center on the bottom of the lid, was undeniable. He could see it in his mind’s eye.

“Oh, mama.” His lips moved in prayer.

He must have had one of his spells. They must have taken him for dead. He must have been out of it for a few days this time. His gratitude at not being dissected and en-balmed in his sleep was offset by the fact that the button didn’t work.

The fear was unbearable. He couldn’t stop shaking.

He began to scream, and to pound weakly in the limited space at the silk-lined lid of his coffin.

The terror was beyond his control as he kicked and flailed and screamed like a madman.

***

Rain pelted down outside the open veranda windows and it seemed as if the city had gone silent.

Only the occasional swishing of a vehicle in the street outside broke through the hiss of the rain, quickly fading as they passed.

They were alone at last.

Who could say it was wrong for the funeral director, the charming and rakishly handsome Luiz Alvarro, to comfort the bereaved widow?

Maria dried her eyes.

“Are you sure it will be all right?”

They sat on the couch. He took her hands in his.

“Absolutely.” He nodded tenderly.

She looked away, tragically beautiful with her upturned nose and dimpled chin, her long dark hair sweeping down past the pale oval of her face. Her matronly figure only excited him the more. The simple luxury, the room and its bright complementary colours right out of a magazine, said much about her.

She bit her lip.

“He didn’t suffer. I promise you that.” Luiz lifted and kissed her hands tenderly. “Trust me. It’s better this way. He wouldn’t have liked a divorce, especially coming at him out of left field like that. He would have fought like a tiger—you know that. He was insanely jealous, and ultimately, a very possessive man.”

She nodded, still unable to look at him. Over the last years, she had come to hate Federigo, for his tirelessness, his selflessness when it came to the business. There was never enough time for family. There was never enough time for them. But they always had enough money. That was what angered her the most.

It was time for them, for him, and for her. Frederigo, he could never see it that way.

“You’ll get a million and a half for the laundry chain.”

She nodded, raising her eyebrows slightly and finally looking hopefully at Luiz. She never looked more beautiful to him than at that moment.

“Do you think so?”

“Sure. Absolutely. And you know what I was thinking?”

She gazed fondly into those eyes and somehow knew it would be all right.

“No, my love. What were you thinking?”

“Well, we should think about it a while, I guess. But if I sold the funeral home, maybe you and I, and Hector, we could go away somewhere nice.” He’d been waiting for a good opportunity to bring it up.

There was no time like now.

She would need time to think, and to worry, but he was sure she would come around.

“What? Where?” The very thought lifted her spirits.

Hector was her eighteen year-old son, the last one still living at home. He was employed in his father’s business as a handy-man. The young man was in his room behind closed doors as usual, probably on the computer. The boy didn’t have a girlfriend as far as Luiz knew. Hector could have the internet anywhere, and would soon make new friends. The boy seemed to have that gift. Luiz had put some thought into all of this. The death certificate, the funeral—it all went like a piece of cake. It was unbelievably easy to do away with someone as long as there was no hint of violence. They had all the right witnesses, and there was a good medical explanation. The right pill mixed into the right drink, at a suitable time and place, the right doctor, and the right men waiting to pick up the body.

It didn’t even cost that much, not today. Not in what Mexico had become in recent years, or perhaps more likely, it had always been this way. If only he had known.

“Somewhere nice—like Cannes, or Rio, or somewhere like that. Somewhere like Tahiti, you know?”

It would get them away from the city, the noise, the crime, and the raised eyebrows, of which there were certain to be at least a few. But waiting was madness. There was no time to waste.

They had talked all about this before. Luiz was a patient man. She was sweet, and vulnerable, and of good family, and very much worth the having. He wasn’t getting any younger himself, and maybe it was time to take a rest. She knew all his thoughts. They had talked about it, and dreamt together often. His own wife had left years ago, but he was over all that.

The silence had gone on too long.

“We’ll think about it.” He leaned over and gave her a dry peck on the lips.

“Yes, my love.”

Suddenly she was clinging to him, stirring him with her warmth and her scent. The heavy feel of her breast in his hand was comforting and disturbing at the same time. Her eyes were inches away, and again she was blinking back tears.

“Please don’t leave me.”

He held her tight, loins stirring. She was a magnificent sight in bed, but he wondered if they dared, so soon after the interment…?

And of course the boy was home. They would have to be as quiet as the little mice that somehow eked out a living from the crumbs left behind after Sunday Mass, which was a kind of saying they had around here.

***

Luiz snored lightly on the pillow beside her. His lean, aquiline face was accentuated by the moonlight, filtered by the window coverings. She loved him dearly. He had brought something back into her life, call it excitement. That pencil-thin mustache and huge eyes, the high cheek bones had caught her bored eye. His manners were impeccably romantic, just like out of a book from the thirties. Luiz dressed beautifully, and he had a nice, hard, hairy body.

He was very solicitous of her. He paid attention to her. He loved her, and she knew it. She had no doubts.

Call it hope, call it opportunity knocking. Call it a gamble.

Not turning the bedside light on, she lifted the downy comforter and swung her feet out of bed.

The floor was deliciously cool. Going by the dim light of the hallway, coming in through the crack under the door, as the amber light of a streetlight threw her shadow into sharp detail, she stepped into her slippers and wrapped the housecoat around her.

All was silence in the great, rambling one-floor conglomeration that was their home. It was her home, now. Completely happy to add on a room, and finally a whole new wing, Frederigo had refused to move to the suburbs. He loved the city and its people, another thing that set him apart in their new world of the recently-successful. Her friends professed to hate the city, and she did too. She’d hated this place for a very long time.

Maybe they should go away.

Carefully closing the bedroom door behind her, noting the harsh line of light still visible at this late hour under Hector’s door, she shuffled to the kitchen in hopes of an easy snack. Her mouth just watered at the thought of those rich treats. She really ought to watch her waistline, but the times they were unfortunate. A young widow, or fairly young, recently-bereaved, could be excused some small indulgence.

After the Celebration of Life for poor dear Frederigo, the leftover trays were brought home by a thoughtful Aunt Inez, the thought of which brought some guilt. Aunt Inez was a saint. She’d noticed them in the fridge earlier. Her stomach rumbled at the thought of food, after the long and tedious ordeal of the day, a day of fakery, and a kind of sublime witchcraft.

Poor, poor Frederigo.

How tiresome it must be, to be dead, for one so vibrant, energetic, and full of life.

She had loved him very much, years ago. Now all she had was regrets. He had made her life a boring hell.

***

When she turned on the lights, flooding the big, open plan peasant-style kitchen with crystalline blue light from the overheads and the under-the-cabinet fixtures, at first, she didn’t comprehend the meaning of the dark stains and the crunch of grit and drying muck underfoot.

“Oh…”

Her mouth opened, but the maid was obviously off at this late hour and there was no one there to hear.

There were foot-marks and spots of wet filth all over her beautiful parquet floor, hand laid by the finest craftsmen the local area had to offer. The stuff, whatever it was, was tracked all over the place.

“Nom de Dios…?”

There was the clink of glass on glass and she snapped her head around to confront an apparition.

Her heart stopped dead in her chest as she took in the snack tray, clear plastic wrap peeled back.

A filthy hand popped a petit-four into a gaping red mouth…

A ghastly form, black and wet and muddy and covered in leaves and grass and filth, raised a glass of fine brandy judging by the bottle standing open on the black granite countertop.

It spoke to her in the voice of Frederigo.

“Hello, my love.”

It was the rain, of course, and the soft soil, and the fear. The desperation, and the adrenalin. 

The refusal to die.

That’s what saved him, the sheer stubbornness, that, and one last desperate bid for life, when he rolled over and got his knees scrunched up under him. The rain, the life-giving rain, that and a burial plot in soft soil, right on the edge of a ravine, that was all that had saved him.

She almost died on the spot, chin up, gasping for air and clutching at her throat. Her feet refused to budge.

“Oh…oh…oh.”

“Well, my dear. It’s been a hell of a day.” The grotesque figure swallowed and gasped in fiery gratification. “Perhaps lover-boy would like to join us, eh?”

“Ah, ah…ah.” Words died before they were formed.

“That’s all right. I never liked him anyway.”

Those baleful eyes promised much.

That’s when she screamed, and the glass crashed to the floor. In order to silence her, Frederigo’s big hands found her throat.

No jury in the land would ever convict him.

Besides, he was already dead.

End