Pauline Likes Rites Of Spring, Chapter 2

I can't say it enough: I am very lucky to have some truly fantastic friends - and one of the most-fantastic is Pauline. Just check out this review she sent me for Chapter 2 of my "weird science fiction, bawdy adventure, sideways humor, and delightful strange" project, The Rites of Spring:

In this strange new world, Gazelle runs. Every beat is torture on her aching body. She is proud, she is the Messenger; stopping, pausing to catch her breath, never occurs to her. Her vocation as Messenger, dictates her raison d’etre. It is what she was born to do. Simple as that.

M.Christian opens chapter two of his serialized novel, THE RITES OF SPRING, with the pounding beat of Gazelle’s feet on the hard, unforgiving concrete. The vista of The City opens up before her, spell binding her, mingling with the endorphins racing through her blood; a rushing anaesthetic for her suffering body.

The Elders have whispered tales of the old City, around night time campfires. The mysteries, the mythologies, all the old stories mingle in Gazelle’s consciousness as the City opens up beneath the glaring sun. The City is haunting and holy; so is Gazelle’s run. The City is an infrastructure of totems, just as Gazelle herself is.

And then a shock. The scent of testosterone; the scent of man. Another totem. For the first time Gazelle is distracted from the world of the City. She wants to stop, seeing first one man, then another; then thousands. The men are wild, wanting her; Gazelle wants them too. But she doesn’t falter. The rhythm of her run doesn’t change, but Christian changes the pace into a frenetic frenzy. Gazelle’s imagination tips on the edge of insanity as she craves the naked, erect cocks in her every orifice.

M.Christian’s use of words, his instinctive use of language is a delight. I’ve used the words, ‘lyrical’ and ‘panache’ to describe his stories before. But I can’t think of better words to convey to a reader, what a breathtaking experience it is to read the perfection of a master storyteller. I want to know more about this strange city, that is at once, so familiar and yet so alien. And as with all the very best serializations, I want to know, what happens next in THE RITES OF SPRING?

OUT NOW: The Rites of Spring - Chapter 2

Here we go again, folks: What do you get when you cross weird science fiction, bawdy adventure, sideways humor, and delightful strangeness?

Frankly, I haven't the faintest idea, but if you want to see what might be might be pretty damned close, check out the second chapter of my serial story, The Rites of Spring - which was just published

So, if you like your science fiction weird, your adventure stories bawdy, your humor tilted, and your strangeness delightful then head on over to the great Paper Bag Press site and download the second chapter of my fun new project - or, if you want to pick up the story from the beginning, check out the first chapter.

And, naturally, if you want to write a review of either chapters drop me a line and I'll send you over a copy.

Pauline Likes The Rites Of Spring

I've said it before but it's always worth repeating: I have some fantastic friends - and one of my best pals is the always-sweet Pauline, who just sent me this great review of my new serial story: The Rites of Spring. Thanks again, Pauline!

Is it the future? Is it a parallel world? Is it NOW; a secret tribal world, existing around us? A world; a culture that is there, but which we don't see? M.Christian doesn't tell us, in this first chapter of his serialized novel; RITES OF SPRING. Perhaps he won't tell us. He may leave us to work it out for ourselves; choose the framework we like best.

Gazelle runs. It is what she exists for in this competitive culture. She will achieve the status of 'Messenger', when she has completed her run. Gazelle is proud. Her only purpose is to be the fastest; the best. She pushes herself through the pain barrier; the wall. Her run through the hard city streets, jolts and tortures every muscle in her aching body. Her run is musical, spiritual. Each bead of sweat chimes into a chorus of ecstacy. She's high on the endorphins rushing through her, from her dreadlocked hair, to her tortured feet. The glaring sun beats down on her aching body. The run is both final test, and trophy. The ultimate prize for all her years of training.

M.Christian's opening chapter of RITES OF SPRING, is written with lyrical style, panache, flair. Christian is a natural storyteller. He keeps us turning the page; always wanting to know, 'what happens next.' His use of language is rich and exotic and always a joy to a reader. Perhaps Gazelle's world is a metaphor for our own competitive world, where winning is everything; perhaps not. But I want to know; I want to find out. And that, along with great writing, from an accomplished writer, is what will keep me hanging on for Chapter two.

OUT NOW: The Rites of Spring

What do you get when you cross weird science fiction, bawdy adventure, sideways humor, and delightful strangeness?

Frankly, I haven't the faintest idea, but my serial story, The Rites of Spring, might be pretty damned close.

So, if you like your science fiction weird, your adventure stories bawdy, your humor tilted, and your strangeness delightful then head on over to the great Paper Bag Press site and download the first chapter of my fun new project.

And, naturally, if you want to write a review then drop me a line and I'll send you over a copy.

Here's a quickie taste:

"Sweat, a runner’s thing and not a girlish thing, pooled in her valleys and streamed down her creases. Salt stung her eyes and her shoes. The miraculous devices were wet and heavy; liquid gently surged between her cramped toes. Some of Gazelle’s sweat cooled on the top of her head -- natural air-conditioning made from the run itself and her soaked dreadlocks.

Her belt jumped and wore at her hips, chiming and jingling, adding a sharp downward tug to each step. The tube, the reason for this whole thing, jumped and tapped her back with each step -- a high-pitched feeling compared to the trembling bass of the belt on her itching hips. Her kit, the bag, wasn’t heavy because there wasn’t much in it. But anything, no matter now slight, was an ache as she ran: Her breasts -- hills and valleys -- pulled against her chest; sandbags tied to her lungs and her back.

Despite the fuzzy wonderfulness of endorphins, everything hurt. Painful, sure, yes, damned straight -- but even it was a pain she was used to, trained for, bred for. It was a natural kind of pain, one that was intimate and close to most of her memories: she was a runner from a tribe of runners, and pain was something that was a part of doing anything -- because running was everything.

She was a Messenger: hours, hours, days, days she’d run the track around the ancient fort (from the Age of Slavery), the Runnerdrome. Mile after mile on the crunching and hissing gravel had made her friendly, intimate, bored with the long run. The burning of her lungs, the jumping with a kick of her strong, strong legs (miles and miles and miles on that track) put her over the wall, gave her the high medicine -- the reward of natural drugs.

Excitement, thrill was cinnamon in her mouth. This was her trip. Who cared if her breasts hurt? Who cared if her legs ached? This was her run, the prize. She wouldn’t turn back until she’d completed her task, and then, when she did return, she’d be a woman, a Messenger with merit.

Gazelle ran, absorbed in the action of her arms and her legs, blurred by the chant of her natural stride. She ran through the City, pumping and pounding, proud full to bursting -- after all, she’d won, she’d emerged victorious from the Rivalry. She’d passed all their tests (no matter how weird), she’d run their course (no matter how hard), and she’d emerged the winner and claimed the prize: the honor of the run, this run, her run.

One thing bothered her, though, cutting through the fog of endorphins, the glow of accomplishment, the blister that may or may not have been forming on her left heel:

Spoke had smiled, had wished her well.