Only 40 Self-Published Authors are a Success, says Amazon

The obvious solution here is that some new publishing concept needs to enter the field. BooksForHumanity type of thing where all the proceeds for a novel go to fund a *good cause*.

Claude Forthomme's Blog about Social Issues and Books

The cat is out of the bag, finally we know exactly how many self-published authors make it big: 40.

Yes, that’s not a typo.

40 self-published authors “make money”, all the others, and they number in the hundreds of thousands, don’t. This interesting statistic, recently revealed in a New York Times article, applies to the Kindle Store, but since Amazon is in fact the largest digital publishing platform in the world, it is a safe bet that self-published authors are not doing much better anywhere else.

“Making money” here means selling more than one million e-book copies in the last five years. Yes, 40 authors have managed that, and have even gone on to establishing their own publishing house, like Meredith Wild. Her story is fully reported in the New York Times, here, and well worth pondering over. And wondering what “making money” really means.


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Heavenly Fire

“Explain again how you guide these artificial asteroids to their targets.” The general had followed the basic discussion, but when the projectiles, launched using a SpaceX Dragon orbiting Earth, itself launched from a pad in French Guiana’s spaceport, began atmospheric re-entry — he became lost.

“You’ll recall,” began the astrophysicist, pointing her laser’s red dot onto the image projected on the wall, “that each of the seven astro-shells is comprised of a ceramic casing, the head of which is our impact load; the base containing the navigation controls.”

“Yes, I got that far. But –”

“But, the impact load does not detach from the guidance base until the target is approximately forty klicks out.” She twiddled the laser in a circle around the three small fins projecting from the sides of what looked like a giant space bullet. “These nav-paddles extend out and using trajectory and GPS data to calculate its descent which started, if you’ll remember, when the launch craft orbited to within one thousand klicks of the target, guide the payload before detaching.”

The general, the top button of his starched shirt undone, the sweltering room adding to the stress he was under regarding this clandestine operation, took a sip from his water bottle and repeated for clarification, “The asteroid detaches, the shell part disintegrates — twenty miles or so above the target, and the rock part then “falls” smack dab onto our target.” He took another sip. “Have I got that right?”

“Smack dab,” the woman said, her mouth wide, her lips pursing with the “b” at the end, “is a bit of misnomer. Our accuracy, so far, has been to within five-hundred meters.”

“Well, if the hole you make with the detonation–”

“You realize that there’s no explosives within the iron-nickel impact payload, it’s purely kinetic energy that does the damage–”

The general was getting tired of being continuously interrupted by this woman and her aid, who had interjected, multiple times, with the facts regarding the plausible deniability. This impact payload was a manufactured creation designed to mimic, down to its chemical signature, an asteroid — that would be untraceable. Any impact would be deemed an “act of God.”

“Yes, yes, I know it’s just a rock. But a rock falling at nearly twenty thousand miles an hour. As I was saying, if the hole it makes with the explosion then, is big enough, even if you miss you’ll still destroy the target. Is that right?”

The aid spoke up again. Both the general and the three colonels brought in to assess the results of the prior two test launches had had just about enough from this fellow. “Statistically speaking, there are no guarantees. Our error tolerances have shown that on-the-whole we will destroy, with a fifty percent efficiency, any target we, well, target. Our last two seven-round tests showed results that were optimal when the test was performed during the early morning, reduced wind, and the latitude of the target fell to within ten degrees of the equator. We—”

“All right. Enough.” The general held up his hand to stifle the fellows rehearsal of facts that had already been discussed, ad nauseam. “Can you or can you not destroy something the size of a high school stadium, if, as you say, you fire one of these things under “optimal” conditions?”

The woman shut down the pocket projector connected to her phone and the room went dark before her aid flipped the lights back on. “We can give you a ninety-eight percent probability of success, but only if we deliver three simultaneous astro-shells.”

The colonels seated around the table began to nod their heads. The general looked into the eyes of each one in turn. He nodded himself. “When can we schedule the next launch?”



CNN: “Some are calling the early morning destruction of Syria’s president, Bashar al-Assad’s palace an act-of-God and retribution for the atrocities inflicted on the people of Syria by the Syrian military at the direction and control of al-Assad himself. The entire al-Assad family, including many palace staff, are thought to have died in the devastation, including the President.

Sources say that in addition to the al-Assad royal family, the two brothers, Maher, and Assef were in attendance and also died in the cataclysm.

Residents near the palace claim that the explosion heard was unlike any bomb they’d experienced of the six years of civil conflict. “An incredible noise! And then my whole house shook, as if Allah himself were shaking it with his bare hands.”

“The noise was terrible. Very frightening. This was not a boom. No, this was like a thousand thunders all happening same time. So loud, my ears, I still hear ringing.”

CNN: “As you can see from the drone footage, the craters formed from whatever fell from the sky this morning, military sources say, could not have been formed by any conventional weapon currently known. Not even the MOAB bomb, dropped on Afghanistan last spring could have produced such devastation, they said.”

“We’ve analyzed what we believe to be pieces of the asteroid and find that what appears to have been a single meteor, broke apart some miles above the Earth and each of the three pieces struck within one hundred meters of each other. The fragments, we believe, come from what’s known as a super-dense pallasite type asteroid. Some silicon, but mostly iron and nickel metal. This was one hard, fast and heavy rock!”

CNN: “Could his have been a bomb or missile of some sort?”

“No bomb did this. No, there were eyewitnesses who claim to have seen a vapor trail behind the bolide which did this damage. It was a missile. Absolutely, but a natural one.”

CNN: “The power vacuum left by the death of the much contested Syrian president looks to be filled, temporarily, by the more moderate Moffar Al-Shafei until elections can be organized.”


The general and the engineer met for lunch at a bistro in downtown Sydney.

“The performance of your astro-shells met and exceed our expectations. The accuracy your assistant bickered about appeared to be a non-issue. We understand that there remain a number of these devices still in orbit.”

She set down her fork, the key-lime pie she’d just finished and the success of the project gave her a glow the general found provocative, now that she wasn’t interrupting him.

“Yes General. The orbital craft remains navigable up to about a thousand mile detour in orbit. We’d have to plan the alteration in detail, but yes, there are additional astro-shells, four to be exact, ready for deployment.”

“Excellent. My bosses would like you to arrange an orbit that takes us over the north Pacific. A bit closer to Asia than to North America.”

“Yes, we can do that I think.” She rested her hand on the table just a few inches from his own. He reached and lay his over top of hers and looked into her eyes.

“Good. Set it up then.”

She left her hand beneath his. His was warm and surprisingly gentle. “Do you have a target in mind?” she asked.

“We do. We think we might rain a little heavenly fire down on a certain hermit dictator.”

She nodded in understanding her almond shaped eyes squinting in clandestine camaraderie. “Very good,” she said. “You and I make a pretty good team.”

“We do don’t we; in a Guardians of Earth sort of way.”

“Yes, guardians, I like that.”

FWD: Now vs Then

Now vs Then


Did Edgar Allen Poe ever write a pleasant or happy piece? I wonder how invasive an author’s emotions are on their writing. Can you really write a jubilant uplifting scene when you’re despondent? Can you really write a dejected, woeful scene when you’re skipping on air in ecstatic reverie?

How good are you at pretending? As fiction writers write, they must enter into the minds and emotions of those they portray. If fair Bonnie is having a really good day, picking daisies in a billowing field under a blue sky full of song birds, but you, the author, are feeling like shit, hating life and the crap that’s piled upon your shoulders; will you give Bonnie all she deserves?

I suppose the opposite holds true too. Though I can’t imagine too often feeling like rainbows are following me around, and leprechauns skip across my path aching to show me their pots of gold. Yeah, just try and write like Poe with that kind of saccharine grin on your face.

— The raven, pecking at the tallow in the bones of the deceased, cawed raucously as the whip from the hearse driver snapped above its head. “Bah! Be gone ye foul fowl. Yer likes be givin’ me death’s own shivers.” The raven took startled flight, but circled high over the procession as it wound its way through the stark countryside, the leafless trees bowing their condolences, the stone roadways grinding their pity. The hearse plodded along to the ancient church and the open grave awaiting it. —

Now, am I having a good day or a poor one? Is life shining like a triple sun in my eyes, or is Neptune dangling like an anchor about my neck?

Could I write a happy scene? I could try. But the thought of it pains me to even have bubbling within my mind. Is this how Poe felt his whole life? Damn!


Social Engineering – a novel



The woman looked down her nose at the fellow seated at the kitchen table, “What trial are you on now?”

He flipped through his lab book, “Hold on. Number twenty.”

“And how many did you kill?”

Addesh looked up at the woman, judging whether to answer. “I didn’t kill any of them. You know that. They died of natural causes.”

Tanalia held up her hand and counted to herself, “One, two, three, yeah you killed that one too. At least four by my count.”

“Natural. Causes.” The bio-engineer said stiffly.

“If you think you and that machine of yours is ‘natural’ I got news for you. I’m sure any SWAT truck full of authorities would think the same. Murder is my guess. Oh, they won’t prove it. You’ve torched the evidence by now. How many trials again?”

“All biohazard waste is torched. Two thousand Fahrenheit, minimum. And I already told you.” Addesh turned in his seat and squinted up at her, his glasses dusty, “You keep digging at me and maybe sometime after you brush your teeth you start feeling — a little funny.” He got up, filled a mug from the tap, clanked it into the microwave, tapped in sixtysix and hit START.

“You wouldn’t dare. You fuck with my genes and the NSA will be all over you. You know I’ve set up a failsafe. You’ll get tagged by Homeland, FBI, probably even Interpol, seein’ how you nix’d that Irish woman. What was her name?”

“Gaile. And she was Scottish.” The microwave dinged and he prepared his hourly cup of instacoffee. Holding it to his face, he smelled it deeply.

“Twenty trials and you’re not even close,” the woman scoffed.

Addesh sipped at the cup tentatively. “Oh, I’m close. It’s just that this particular gene lies right next to a couple of others that regulate things like breathing, and body temperature.”

“What was it that the media reported? She ‘cooked in her own juices’? You scratched her with that claw of yours and she boiled away in her bed that night.” Tanalia paced up to the window and peered out at the glimmer of streetlights reflecting off the wet roads.

The man in the lab coat had had enough. “I’ve nailed the problems. This next run is the one. We need a high profile mark. And he has to be a guy we can track. A local. But somebody with a lot to lose.”

“And you want me to set it up, is that it?” The woman strolled up to the man and poked a finger into his chest. “I’m here to deliver Roger Simmons. That’s it. You said ‘ten, you could do it in ten’. Well it’s been twenty now and so far I haven’t seen any progress. Mr. Terrence is not gonna be happy.”

Addesh backed away from the red fingernail. “My research said a ‘probable’ ten. This gene splicing into a hijacked viral payload isn’t like growing bread mold in your fridge. Sure, my research using the prior version of the CRISPR/Cil3 allowed me to turn a rabbit green. That was trivial. I created a glow-in-the-dark chinchilla, and gave chameleon chromophores to a goat. But this behavioral gene modification is a whole other field.” The fellow advanced a step back toward the woman. “So. Back. Off. Missy.” He then sat down at his laptop. “Twenty-one will be the ticket,” he continued over his shoulder. “Get me a mark and be ready by tomorrow morning at ten. Let me know where you’ve set the meet.”


The mark turned out to be managed futures broker Keith Darston. Tanalia came dressed as a jogger. It turned out her concern about attracting the attention of Mr. Darston was a non-issue.

Addesh had passed her the glass tallon containing the viral payload, that slipped over her finger. It had a safety-tip which she would remove prior to use. They’d met at the Starbucks across from the mark’s work place. Addesh instructed, “The wrist would be best. Or the neck. You have to apply the tip directly to skin. It might work through clothing but then you might break off the tip leaving evidence.”

Tanalia was impatient, and a little nervous. “I got it. Now leave me alone. You look like a pervert.”

“Skin. On the skin.” Addesh mouthed as he walked away.

The broker arrived during the mid-morning lull. He came down nearly every day to get a double with a shot of vanilla creme. Sugar and caffeine; a broker’s best friends. Well, not ‘best’ per se, Darston had a meth habit that he’d kicked some months ago. He’d found himself twitching one morning while poised to take a big position in July natural gas; he couldn’t make his finger tap the Enter key.  That lost trade cost his firm nearly two and a half million dollars. So meth was out. Sugar and coffee were in. Lot’s of coffee.

Tanalia played it perfectly. Ol’ Keith couldn’t take his eyes off of her cleavage which she’d managed to stuff into a 34B jogging top. As she walked out with her cup, she stumbled over his shoes, and fell directly into him. As he bent to catch her, spilling half his coffee and all of hers, she reach over the back of his neck to catch herself. In the process she traced the glass needle across his scalp. Mr. Darston, so engrossed in the woman’s physique, not to mention the scalding coffee spreading across the floor, failed to react to the infecting scratch.

A store employee shuffled out to clean up the mess, but by then Tanalia had apologized to the broker, tossed her empty cup and the glass fingertip into the trash bin outside the door, and had jogged off around the corner.

Trial Twenty-one had been successfully delivered. Now all they had to do was sit back, cross their fingers, and watch the news.

The mark didn’t die. Not right away at least. Addesh called that a success. Tanalia remained skeptical. That was the good news. The bad news was that the mark called in sick for three days. Three days of waiting to hear about some dead broker found melted in his satin sheets. Or whose heart had stopped while he sat in a pharmacy waiting for a prescription of antibiotics. No amount of penicillin was going to cure this man’s ills.

The first clue at their success came when Mr. Keith Darston returned to work, looking well enough, despite having recently been sick. When he came down for his trading doldrums pick-me-up, he ran into Tanalia. She was properly dressed this time, if you didn’t count the fact that she had, once again, stuffed Bert and Ernie into a teacup bra. Stuffed them and made sure Mr. Darston purposefully eyed them.

“Miss. Miss. Do you remember me? I was here a few days ago and I think I may have tripped you. I’m awfully sorry about that. I feel compelled to make it up to you. I was hoping I’d see you — here, here’s three hundred dollars. No, here’s five hundred dollars. I just hope you weren’t injured. If there’s anything I can do to help you… here’s my card too.”

Tanalia scanned around discreetly, trying to pick up if anyone was eavesdropping. “Hey, thanks, um, Keith. I’m fine. Thanks for the cash. You take care, okay?” Tanalia slipped away and never set foot in that Starbucks again.

After entering Addesh’s temporary apartment Tanalia fingered the five bills, calculating, “The guy gave me two hundred bucks. He practically forced me to take it. I’d say that was a good sign.” She’d returned immediately to the apartment with her report. “Tell you what, I’ll split it with you,” she said, checking his reaction. She laid one of the mark’s hundred dollar bills on the table next to Addesh’s keyboard.

Ignoring the money Addesh drilled the woman, “What else did he say? Anything? Did you ask him about any charity he’s feeling overly philanthropic about? What about his accounts. No you wouldn’t ask him about those. Was he missing his expensive watch? Anything?”

“I took the cash and split. I wasn’t going to have a heart to heart with the guy. I’d just poisoned him. Be happy the poor fella didn’t turn into soup,” Tanalia replied, indignant.

Addesh bit at his lip. “Yes, I suppose you’re right. We’ll give him a few more days. I’ve nearly got trial twenty-two ready.

Better news arrived the following morning. While scanning Bloomberg, Addesh noticed a news item scrolling across the bottom of the screen about a local brokerage company: “All-Energy Futures has sent the heating oil market reeling with its divestiture of nearly seven hundred and fifty million dollars worth of contracts. Company officials say that it was a ‘fat-finger’ error and that they were investigating the source.’

“Fat-finger. Ha! Try fat wallet.” Addesh was convinced that this was the genetic infiltration mechanism taking effect. “We need to ensure that the mark is fully divesting himself of everything that he owns.”

“Didn’t you say you wanted it to incubate longer than three days. Like ten was better. Is that what twenty-two does?” Tanalia was anxious to get the project going against her personal vendetta, Roger Simmons. “We could use twenty-one on Simmons and you could keep hacking on the delay part.”

“Don’t rush me. All right?” Addesh was adamant. “Once we unleash this there is no going back. I want it to be perfect. Twenty-one lacked the influenza virus’ distribution capability. Twenty-two contains that plus a twelve day incubation which will get it into every major financial institution on the planet. Every trans-global corporation will be infected. Every government, every tyrant, every oligarch and aristocrat in the world.”

“I’ve heard your brochure speech already,” dismissed Tanalia, inspecting her now white fingernails. “You’ve got a name for it. You know, in case it becomes, famous?”

“Of course. I call it the ‘Siddhartha Syndrome’.”

“What’s a Siddhartha?”

“Never mind, just return here tomorrow and we’ll see what other mayhem your Mr. Keith has wrought. If it’s as extensive as I expect, we’ll implement twenty-two immediately. As soon as we do, you can inform your boss.”

“Yeah. I’ll be here. But Simmons is first. You promised,” the woman tossed back as she left, “Oh, and don’t forget, he’s your boss too.”

Writing in the groove

There’s a depth of being that one *can* enter when writing creative fiction.

Imagine camping in the wilderness, by yourself, with little support — just a tent, a bed, a bit of food, weapons to defend or kill fresh game. Raw and exposed you are. But you’re open to the primitiveness of the experience, you relish it. Revel in it.

About the third day you are  no longer who you used to be. You are More and Less than you were. You’ve surrendered part of your humanity to become this other human like thing. This far more human creature that represents an extension of your true Homo Sapiens self.

Though, to descend while simultaneously ascending into this new level of consciousness costs you dearly. Costs you part of your societal soul. But you spend it, without care or worry.

Then you yank yourself out of this reverie and plop yourself back down into your work-a-day chair and your work-a-day trivialities and banality. You’re back. Ugh!

To write fully in the moment, to wedge open your heart to expose your raw self to your story and the characters within it, to give of yourself fully to the creative process — this is like solo wilderness camping. It’s like a drug. No. It is a drug, one so sexy and seductive that you feel no guilt downing your next fix.

When you can achieve it — it’s transcendent, like your voice echoing in a vast and deep canyon, you ache to linger in the sound and the feeling.

But it costs you.

When it’s gone, when you’ve returned, it’s a relief. A gaping loss yes, but a relief.

And then, when you think you’d like to re-enter this chasm of exposure, to write once again in such a evocative, provocative and soul rending fashion, you hesitate. The cost — you think. The depth of feeling and surrender, it’s so great. The elation, yes, it’s glorious, yes, but the sacrifice is great too. It’s a plunge of self investment into another world, a world of your making. A world divorced from this one. This one where it’s so much easier to coast along, detached.

That is where I stand, at the precipice of this next plunge. A dive, headlong, into a pouring of myself into words — the thought of it gives me pause. The time, like an offering, and the collapse of all defense… to give into this fully, it gives me pause.

Cascadia Quake – Chapter One – Tomas

Cascadia Quake

By Dave Cline





Tomas Rendillo rented a faded blue cottage on Old Woods Drive in a cozy coastal town in Oregon. Within the home a glass sunroom provided scenic views out over the Little Nestucca River Valley, a valley that ran from the Pacific coast up into the the coastal range. From his favorite wicker chair, one that creaked with every move, he could see across the river’s floodplain to Cloverdale and the town’s hilltop school, its few storefronts and the US Post Office that sat out in the flats next to the river.

Tomas drifted up and down the Oregon coast, writing his travelogues, photographing unique flowers and bird species, and, for the most part, enjoying his early retirement. The bustle of the crowds and the heat of summer had come and gone, and Tomas settled into a comfortable pattern of reading, writing and exploring. But, sometimes the mid-autumn surprised the locals with a warm cloudless day, where a quick drive down to Pacific City and the beach there, would put him in the midst of happy folks frolicking on the sand; folks who lived their whole year in or around town, struggling to make a living in the off-season. During such excursions he didn’t see many birds but the feeling of community revitalized his sense of the place, reminding him why he chose this lifestyle.

However, today wasn’t one of those inviting sunny tokens of summer. The morning dawned grey with moisture dripping from the cedars around the cottage and thick coastal fog lumbering in in great rolling waves up the valley. A breeze managed to intimidate some of the fog to drift away and it was then he spied cautious birds dabbing in puddles and flitting over the tops of the emerald green grass. During the break, Tomas’ keen eyes noticed these fleeting specs out on the field near the river. Using his ever-handy binoculars he identified spotted sandpiper, killdeer and golden-plover; whether the plover was American or Pacific he couldn’t tell. These last pair of birds were some he would add as newly identified in his bird log. 

His phone’s attendant chimed next to him as he sipped sugary tea, “An email from the Pacific City library has been received.”

Tomas looked down at the phone, a relentless habit, and spoke, “Read email.”

The attendant continued, “Your reserved list of titles has arrived in full. Library hours will be from noon to eight pm tonight. The library is located…”

Tomas cut off the recitation. “Remind me at four pm to go to the library.”

“A reminder to ‘go to the library’ has been set for four pm,” replied the agent in a voice reminiscent of his late wife Rialla.

Rialla had died from a stroke four years ago. 23AndMe had warned them of her predilection to the possibility, a pattern of blood vessels and inexplicable clotting concerns, but they’d ignored it. What could you do with such information? Tomas had allowed the phone attendant to scan through his videos of his wife and extract the pattern and tone of her voice. Some found it disturbing. For Tomas, the small comfort of hearing her musical voice calmed and reassured him. Her name even provided the prompt to enable his phone’s agent to begin listening.

“Rialla,” he began.

“I am listening, Tomas,” replied his phone.

“Please record the sighting of a golden-plover for this time and date.”

Rialla, the agent, replied, “The sighting of a golden-plover has been recorded.”

“Thank you.” The widower could not help his innate courtesy.

“You are welcome, Tomas.”


Lunch for an older man might often be described as bland. But for Tomas, lunch was an opportunity to enjoy the area’s still vigorous produce suppliers. Greens, peppers, late harvest tomatoes, squash and some delicious Japanese sweet potatoes filled his refrigerator. Tart Tillamook cheddar and pepperjack melted over locally crafted masa tortillas, grilled papas, and homemade salsa made a colorful and aromatic meal.

“Rialla, please add avocados and eggs to our shopping list.” Tomas’ natural acceptance of having a digital personal assistant at his beck and call was testament to the success of such technology. He still drove his own vehicle, an old model plug-in hybrid, but that was because he felt uncomfortable riding with a driver or traveling in one of the recently approved autonomous cars. The thought of a seaside cliff plunge into the churning waters of the Pacific, all due to the error of some automated sensor, dissuaded Tomas from ever using such a service.

The fog had returned to the valley that stretched out before him as he sat back in his chair with lunch in hand and a tall glass of water containing an ounce or two of zinfandel wine to give it flavor.

It was obviously chilly outside. The winds swirled the fog, driving it up the small hill where he sat, tossing the fir and cedar branches about like marionettes. But the glass sunroom remained cozy, its double paned windows receiving the pale light and its dark stone floor storing the heat and radiating it back into the room. Tomas felt content, secure. Outside, the air ran with the scent of the shore and the cries of gulls and terns kiting in the gusts. But inside, as Tomas finished his lunch, he considered himself lucky.

And then an odd rattling began, like a lumber truck bearing down the road, shaking the cabinets on their hinges. Tomas looked in awe as a physical wave of earth heaved itself up across the field and rippled from right to left, from the direction of the sea, as though a giant was gripping the earth and shaking it like a carpet, causing a thunderous wave to race across the plain in front of him, disappearing up the Little Nestucca River Valley. Then, a tumultuous rumbling began, throwing Tomas to the floor as it heaved and convulsed beneath him. Instantly, he knew he must escape this room of glass. Scrabbling along he managed to make the doorway as the eight large panels of double paned windows imploded into the room. He felt shards strike his covered legs but he remained unmarked. He lay, crying out to Rialla, as the entire cottage beat against itself, tearing siding and lighting, timbers and flooring into shredded pieces of its once picturesque appearance.

“Rialla! Rialla! The earth, it’s thrashing me, tormenting me.”

“Hello, Tomas, I am listening,” chimed the agent from the phone still in his pants pocket.

“Rialla! The house, it will collapse upon me.”

The agent, attempting to interpret Tomas’ statement, replied, “I can notify the rental agency that the home requires repairs.”

“No, no. Rialla, a great earthquake is upon us. It will destroy this house.”

The raging temblor continued to pummel the home. Every window broken, every picture, trinket or feature dashed to the ground. However, the house stuck to its foundation, which helped it combat a common fault of homes destroyed in earthquakes, that of shifting off of their foundations and collapsing.

The agent responded brightly, “The Juan de Fuca tectonic plate sliding beneath the North American plate gives rise to the Cascade Mountain range. Earthquakes along the northwest are expected to be some of the largest on record. If you are in an earthquake along the coast, once the earth ceases shaking, immediately seek higher ground. A tsunami will arrive within ten to twenty minutes and may flood as high as one hundred feet above sea level. Tsunami warning…”

“Rialla, shut up! I need help, not a lesson!” Tomas barked.

The earth shook for another sixty seconds. Four minutes and four seconds after it began, the ground stilled and the deafening noise of renting wood and shattering glass ceased. The calm that descended penetrated the man’s mind making him think he’d lost his hearing. “Rialla?”

“I am here Tomas, listening,” she replied.

“Rialla, mark the time,” Tomas asked softly.

“The time has been marked at one sixteen pm, October eighteenth of the year 2024. Do you wish to label this mark?”

“Yes, please name this mark, ‘Earthquake’,” he announced gravely.

“This time mark has been labeled ‘Earthquake’. Would you like to record a message to attach to this mark?” queried his faithful agent.

“No. I mean, yes. Yes. Begin, It has come. The devastation is upon us. Upon me…”

In his pause, the lonesome wail of the tsunami warning sirens began.

He continued, “I live, but for how long I do not know. The waters are coming and we must save who we can. I will make it down to my neighbors to help if I may. The hill behind the cottage is above the flood and we will be there until, until. I don’t know how long. But I am safe. I will contact you all after the tsunami.

“Rialla, save the message and send it out as an email to all personal contacts. Please.”

After an unexpectedly long pause, the agent replied, “Tomas, network connectivity is unavailable. Should I proceed when connectivity is restored?”

The winds blowing up the valley warbled the sirens blaring song. Tomas was able to raise himself off the floor in the doorway where he remained for the duration of the temblor. The house stood. He looked out the empty windows across to his neighbor’s home leaning over diagonally like it had been pushed over by the giant that shook the land.

“Yes, please. As soon as you can connect, send it. Oh, what’s your battery level?”

“My current battery power is eighty two percent of capacity.”

Tomas breathed a sigh of relief. He’d often forget to set the phone on its power-plate. Last night he’d been true to one of his wife’s nagging requests, “Charge your damn phone, cabrone!”

“Rialla, power down to periodic listening only.” He would save battery power for as long has he could. “Hold on, what time is it?”

“The time is one twenty-two pm. Powering down.”

The man rummaged through his closet and found his hiking boots and rucksack full of basic survival and camping gear and a few days worth of dried food. He donned a wool sweater, his rain pants, slicker and hat. He found his work gloves and walked out of the cottage down the hill, across Old Woods Drive and up to the leaning home of his neighbors Ben and Adina Zamakis. The tsunami sirens echoed across the valley as the entire area waited in fear of the next phase; the worst phase of the catastrophe, the flood.


“Ben! Adina! Are you here?”Tomas shouted loudly.

As in his cottage, every pane of glass, every precariously balanced memento had been shattered or tossed to the ground. The house had folded to the left, like a parallelogram, and had only stopped when its side had encountered the woodshed packed cords full of fir and oak.

Tomas made his way around to the back and glanced west seeking the wave he dred was coming. “Rialla, what is the time?” he asked his assistant.

After a few seconds and no reply he remembered he’d put her into a slow polling mode, one that would only check once every thirty seconds for her trigger name. He reached for his phone, but the agent responded in time. “I am awakening. I am here Tomas, listening.”

“Rialla, what is the time,” he repeated.

“The time is one twenty-five pm.”

He performed a quick calculation. “Let’s see, nine minutes, we have maybe ten before we must head up the hill. Ben! Ben! Are you here?”

A muffled barking rose from within the fallen home. Tomas stood at the back of the house, the door had burst into pieces from the pressure and the entrance to the home was a dark hole from which a dog’s whining could now be heard.   

“Chief! I’m coming.” Tomas set his backpack down, retrieved the flashlight and crawled into the now Seussian home. Through the kitchen with its fallen chairs and shattered decorative plates, he heard the dog’s pleading to his left and followed it into the short hall to the master bedroom.  At the far side a tall dresser had fallen across the queensized bed and drawers were pinning down Ben Zamakis, who lay struggling. Adina, in her attempt to reach her husband, had been struck by a falling book shelf, she lay on the floor unconscious.

“Ben! It’s Tomas. I’m going to try to pull you out from under the dresser.”

Ben, exhausted from his attempts to free himself, begged his neighbor, “Tomas, oh, thank God. Addy, where is she?”

“She’s here Ben, on the floor, I think she’s hurt. But I can’t move her without your help. So help me free you first.”

Between the two of them sliding scattering drawers Ben was able to shimmy over to the close side of the bed. “Oh, Addy, what happened?”

“Ben, we must drag her from the house, the wave is coming; Rialla, what is the time?”

“The time is one thirty-one pm.”

“Oh, geeze, we have just a few minutes. Pull Ben, pull!”

The two older gentlemen rolled the unresponsive woman onto the bed’s comforter and managed to drag her through the kitchen and out into the grey, windy day.

“Ben, you have sixty seconds, fetch shoes and heavy clothing for you and Adina. Don’t ask questions, just go!” Tomas’ nervous looks across the field to the west filled the other fellow’s mind with fear. He, too, knew what followed such an earthquake as they’d just experienced.

“Damn it, Ben! Adina is not coming around and we must carry her up the hill.”

The older fellow emerged on his hands and knees dragging coats and boots. “We can use the wheelbarrow. It’s in the woodshed,” Ben told Tomas as he stood up from his crawl.

The pair of them managed to lift and settle Ben’s wife and their gear into the deep bucket wheelbarrow, and Tomas slung his rucksack and took the first turn at maneuvering the cart around the house, across the soggy lawn and onto the gravel up to Old Woods Drive.

“Chief! Chief come on, boy!” yelled Ben.

“What’s wrong?” bullied Tomas.

“I don’t know. But I can’t leave him.”

“Rialla, the time?”

“The time is one thirty-five pm.”

“Thirty seconds. Go! I’ll push Adina up the drive. Go! Don’t look at me!”

The top of the drive, with the slight woman, her legs hanging out the front of the wheelbarrow, her arms tucked onto her chest, proved too much for Tomas to achieve in one long push. Nearly to the road he turned to wait for Ben.

The cracking snap of a huge timber, like the sound of close thunder — near enough to raise your arm hair — brought Tomas out of his gasping pause for breath. A half mile distant he could see trees whip down, like the Devil himself grabbing their roots and tugging them under. Then the double story hay barn, three fields over, shifted to the left and started to melt, shrinking in height until it disappeared from sight below the brush along the road. “Ben! It’s coming. Get OUT OF THERE!”

The barking dog burst around the side of the house running up to Tomas. “Chief, where’s Ben, go get Ben!”

The dog, sniffing the stockinged feet of Adina, held fast to the side of the wheelbarrow.

“Damnation. Damn, damn, damn!” Tomas watched as first the shooting face of the front wave blasted the water from the river, flooding the fields. It was followed by a twenty-foot tall monstrous wall of unstoppable mud, water and debris. To his right, down past the second curve where the road vanished around a hill, the hoard of flailing timbers and tumbling chaos pushed up and over the road encroaching the land forty or fifty feet above sea level. Tomas realized he was much too low. “Damn,” he said, one last time.

Tomas grabbed the handles of the cart and pushed with all his might up over the tarmac road, along the twenty yards to his own drive and then up toward his house. He looked back when he reached a few steps on his path, his breath incapable of keeping up with his exertion. Ben was just coming around the woodshed and making his way in a half trot that few of his age with a bum leg could manage. The brown tumbling beast of the massive tsunami, consuming every live or dead thing in its path, rolled over the tilted house as if it owned it. Tomas was still too low.

The edges of the colossal wave of sludge pitched up at times in the uneven dips and crests of the land beneath it, forcing itself up much higher than an observer would expect possible. Tomas made the level on which the cottage was built, but even that, he surmised, might not be high enough.  He turned to look back, remorsefully, knowing what he would not find. The heartless wave had consumed all of the green, the land, the pasture, the buildings and farms and barns and livestock. The gritty foul beast had taken Ben without a sound from the old man as he had, no doubt, watched his friend and neighbor, Tomas, wheel his wife and dog up the hill to safety.

“Come on Chief, you owe your life now, time to earn your keep. Find us a safe spot up above all this destruction.”

Tomas pressed forward, aware that a second and potentially a third wave could push into the valley tearing into the cottage and areas even higher than he currently stood. He knew of a small glade a few hundred yards up from the faded blue cottage. After numerous pauses, each one getting longer than the last, he eventually made the site and, without Ben’s help, awkwardly tipped Adina out onto a tarp he’d spread. She stirred at the rough treatment, moaning out her husband’s name. Tomas assumed, rightly, she’d incurred a concussion. So he spent the next hour setting a camp, tending to Adina and listening to the sirens and the creaking and unholy cracking of large trees, the low rumble of hundreds of buildings, machinery, cars and fuel tanks all being ground down and mixed into the morass of total destruction that was happening from Pacific City all the way up to Hebo; miles of low coastal valley wrecked and ruined in minutes.


“Oh my Lord, not another one!” wailed Adina as she lay under a second tarp Tomas had rigged as a lean-to. The third aftershock wracked the forest around them, doing little further damage; what had survived the first tumultuous shaking would survive these five and six Richter-scale temblors.

“There’s no more danger Adina, we’ll be getting these for days. They can bring down damaged buildings and bridges, but where we are, there’s nothing to hurt us.” Tomas’ steady words calmed the woman back into her strange euphoric state. She thought they were camping at a local state park, the intermittent aftershocks forcing her mind to bubble up into reality for a few seconds, after which she returned to her fantasy. Tomas had determined that her injury was non-life threatening, the swollen bump on the side of her head had begun to subside and she was without lacerations.

“I told Ben, ‘Ben, that bookcase is going to come tumbling down when the big one hits.’ I said, ‘You need to get some of those angle brackets and nail that dark ugly thing to the wall.’ But did he listen? No. And now look at me. I, I… Are you camping with us Mr. Rendillo? Where is Ben?” The poor woman had been babbling like this for an hour after she awoke. Ben figured additional waves had come through by now and the sounds of helicopters had been constant, flying up and down the valley doing what Tomas knew was more important than rescuing a couple of old folks on a hill.

“I’ll get a campfire going, what do you say?” Tomas asked encouragingly.

“I do like campfires. Chief likes campfires too, don’cha boy!” The dog had remained loyal to the woman and had only left her side when Tomas offered him a strip of dried jerky.

Tomas was unwilling to explain their situation until he knew the woman would remain lucid. Even then he was reticent to traumatize her further with the knowledge of the loss of her husband. So he pushed off the task, hoping that perhaps tomorrow she would wake stable, but still confused as to their surroundings.

“I have jerky and curried rice and raisins for dinner. It’s one of my camp-cook specialties. Are you getting hungry, Adina?”

“That’s a nice fire you’ve got going there, Mr. Rendillo.”

“You can call me Tomas.”

“Oh, I don’t think so, not without my Benjamin around.” She took the offered aluminum bowl of food and began to eat heartily. Nearly done she looked up with the spoon halfway to her mouth, “Tomas? Where is Ben?”

“Oh, he’ll be along. I’ve got chocolate and granola for dessert. But first how about some herbal tea?”

“Oh, that would be fine. And this is delicious camp-fare. You are a good cook, Mr. Rendillo.”

“Why, thank you.” Tomas busied himself with clean up and tea preparation. He’d rigged a buried “Y” branch and a long stick as a tripod for heating water, which fascinated the woman as he had set it up.

“Here you are,” he said as he handed the woman a cup of steaming tea. “It’ll be dark soon and in the morning we can talk, all right? But tonight we’ll just focus on trying to get some sleep.”

Adina received the cup, nodding her thanks, “I always sleep so well when we go camping.”

Tomas crossed his fingers that the spell of the outing would last through the night. If it weren’t for the constant drone of the helicopters his wish might have worked. That, and a severe aftershock that occurred in the middle of the night, waking them both, made Adina scream in fright and confusion. She was back, fully cognizant of what had happened until her injury, and Tomas found himself compelled to describe the full story of their predicament. He held her in the soft glow of the campfire coals as she sobbed uncontrollably to learn of the the last few moments of Ben’s life. Chief came to sit next to her, laying his head in her lap. “What shall I do? Where shall I go?” she fretted as her mourning tears streamed down her face.

“Adina, for now, and for some time to come, we will just have to live one day at a time. Tomorrow will bring overwhelming challenges and we must be up to the task, or we will not survive this calamity.”

“Oh, Tomas, I know I should thank you, but I don’t know if I can go on without my Ben.”

“Let’s just focus on sleep, food, water, shelter, warmth. Those are simple things that can keep us occupied while we work things out.”

“I’ll try. I’ll try,” she whimpered.

“We’ll both try. We’ll find help tomorrow. You’ll see, the country will reach out in our time of need.”