Tag Archives: parody

Gay Radical Islamists: The Silver Bullet of Terrorism

After the tragic shooting at the Pulse Nightclub in Orlando, Florida, millions of people around the world felt shock, repugnance and outrage. However, there was one minority group who didn’t seem surprised at all: Gay Radical Islamists. Yes, that’s right, this previously unknown conglomeration of rainbow-loving,Muslim explosive-vest-wearing, infidel-hating, butt-love-making Radical Islamists existing somewhere on the fringes of the margins of society, knows exactly why Omar Mateen shot up that nightclub in Orlando.

While the media advocates against the existence of some “silver bullet” solving the impossibly impossible riddle of mass shootings in America, this writer has not only found the silver bullet through his research into Gay Radical Islamists, he’s loaded his AR15 with it. The silver bullet (or “solution” for those of you who don’t understand the metaphor) does not involve theories regarding lone wolves (There is no such thing. All terrorists are Radical Islamists as stated by both presumptive presidential candidates). The silver bullet does not require any legislation dealing with gun control. The silver bullet does not require banning Muslims or Mexicans or building giant walls around gay clubs. Walling and banning will actually make the problem worse. The problem, as identified by a Gay Radical Islamist friend of mine, has nothing to do with mental health or deep psychological issues. The problem in a single word can be described as follows: closets.

Yep, I know it sounds crazy, but terrSilver Bulletorism in the western world has a single identifiable cause: closets. Described in astronomical terms (for any scientist dumb enough to take any of this seriously), closets are the Big Bang of terrorism, the moment that got it all started.

Just think about it for a second. Just about every Radical Islamic terrorist since the beginning of America has been gay— Nidal Hasan, the Tsarnaev brothers, Barrack Obama, Timothy McVeigh, Eric Rudolph, the Unabomber, Mahatma Gandhi, Julius Caesar, George Washington, Martha Washington, Betsey Ross, Jesus Christ—just to name a few painfully obvious examples. Although this can’t be proven with facts or evidence, a few moments of quiet reflection while looking at the pictures of these men reveals exactly what brought them to terrorist acts. Anyone with gaydar can clearly see that these men were not only gay—they were hiding in a closet of shame and fear.christ-898330__180

Omar Mateen and his custom of visiting gay night clubs and gay dating apps finally proves what the Gay Radical Islamist community has been saying all along: GIVE US MAN-LOVE OR GIVE US DEATH!

While the Western World has welcomed the LGBT community with open arms in the past decade or so (I’m not exactly sure how long. Whenever that Barack Obama guy took over), ISIS has not. At the same time as court rulings across the U.S. declaring marriage as the union of person and person rather than man and woman, ISIS has been diligently executing anyone suspected of homosexuality in the most brutal of ways. Clearly, there is an injustice here. Gay Radical Islamists are forced into a closet of secrecy—unable to hate the western world while still lusting after members of the same sex. No one should be surprised by the results: Gay Radical Islamists bursting out of closets with hate and bloodlust.

Just try to imagine for a moment. You’re an ISIS militant. This is what you’ve wanted to do all of your life. You’ve spent your childhood dreaming about jihad and killing infidels. But wait. Something is wrong. You don’t picture your 72 virgins with big breasts and wide hips. No, no, no. You see ripped pecs and giant wankers. But you can’t tell anyone. And worse yet, you can’t act on it. And the whole time, you know there are people out there in the western world who can be gay whenever they feel like it.

Just try to put yourself in the shoes of one of these Gay Radical Islamists. Just imagine being trapped in a closet with your anger and hate. Try to feel the jealousy! If you can do this—place yourself in the shoes of a Gay Radical Islamist, you’ll understand mass shootings in America. ALL OF THEM! EVERY SINGLE ONE! WITHOUT EXEPTION! THIS IS THE SILVER BULLET!rainbow-68202__180

Thus, the goal shouldn’t be to shut the Gay Radical Islamists out. Now more than ever, we as a society need to extend our communal hand into the darkness of the closet and guide our Gay Radical Islamic brothers out into the light of day. Perhaps, with the storm and struggle of Radical Islamisism over, they’ll see a rainbow of love and acceptance.

I Know why They’ll Vote for Trump

While the media has sought explanation after explanation for Donald Trump’s success in the polls, I think I finally have it figured out. The following short story is based off an experience I had a few weeks ago. It’s another example of fictionalizing an every day experience. In this story, I take some ordinary men talking about an upcoming election for a home owners association and compare it to the upcoming Republican primary election. th (14)This is written as an allegory, but the only hints are in the title and the final sentence. Here it is:


I Know why They’ll Vote for Trump

So I walked back down the gravel road and saw Ned McCumbee and Skip Wright standing beside the old white Camaro parked at the end of the driveway. Caked in dust, the car faced out towards the road and didn’t seem to mind McCumbee’s weight, all three-hundred pounds of it, sitting heavily on its hood.

I had passed the men on the way out to pay Miss Evelyn Thompson a visit. She was an older lady and a tree threatened to smash the roof of her house. She had called from her house-telephone and I could tell because the number didn’t match the one she had given me the week before. “Could you come take a look at it?” she had asked.

Well, that tree was in need of a professional. “Sorry, miss,” I had said, “But I can’t take it down. You’ll need a professional for that. I got the name of a guy. It won’t cost you much. I’ll call him for—”

But she interrupted me and asked for his phone number. “No, I’ll call. Don’t you worry. I’ll call.”

But she wouldn’t call. I knew right then and there. She wouldn’t call and later that summer the tree would come down on its own.

Anyway, I was on way back from speaking with Miss Evelyn when Skip Wright noticed me from his place standing across from the white Camaro. He waved his big hand with his long noodle of an arm. I had managed to pass by unnoticed on my way up, but they noticed me this time. Maybe they’d been talking about me after I passed them earlier.

“It’s been awhile,” I said nodding my head towards Skip. “Heard you’ve been out of town. Didn’t hear what for.”

Skip sucked his lips into his mouth. th (13)He only had one or two teeth, so whenever he spoke, his lips went in and out of his mouth slackly. It seemed as if he were chewing on them, but he had nothing to chew with. “Yep. Been back down in Georgia. Yep. Went down not a month ago. For my son’s surgery. Yep. Wife’s still down there. Emergency surgery. Had to take out nearly half his colon. But he’s ok now. Tough goin’ for him. But he’s ok.”

“I’m sorry to hear—” I began but he kept saying what he was saying without noticing me.

“But I figured I’d come up here and check out the place,” he said rocking back on his heels. His noodles for arms were behind his back and his lips sucked all the way in his mouth. “Make sure it ain’t been robbed. Figured I’d come back for the meeting too. Heard there’s a meeting this weekend. Ned told me so.”

From the corner of my eye, I could see Ned McCumbee who sat with his arms crossed on the hood of the white Camaro nodding his head.

“I’m glad you’ll make it out,” I said. “We’re having a vote on officers and—”

“Yea, I heard all about it,” Skip interrupted sucking in his lips. “What officer are you?” he asked. “I know George was president, but he’s out now for stealin’. And I was thinkin’ that we don’t have no president.”

He stared expectantly. I must’ve bit my lip and I know I looked away. “Yea,” I said. “Well I’m the acting president. Last meeting they voted for me as vice-president. But—”

“Well, if there ain’t no president, I think I should be president. I figure—why not? I can do it.”

“Well,” I began and couldn’t help but smile. I looked down at Ned McCumbee and he was still sitting on the white Camaro. “There’s a lot that goes into the position. It’s a lot of work and a lot of know-how.”

“I can do it,” he repeated. “I’m gonna turn this place around. I’m gonna do it for the people. That’s what I’m good for. I’m good for the people.”

“Well,” I said. “We’ve done a lot already—since George resigned. We’ve…” and then I listed all the things I fixed as the acting president for the association. “Now there’s three spots open for officers. And I need people who’ll do the work. The big thing is communication. We made a website and we’d like to start handling things through email and—”

“Oh I don’t have email,” Skip said. “Nope. Don’t have a cell phone neither. That’s how they get you. Learned that from when I was with Hell’s Angels. Nope. Don’t do nothing with a phone and nothing with a computer. I don’t even like talking on the phone…”

Then for several minutes Skip spoke about his distrust of the government and his trust in conspiracy theories and his favorite conspiracy shows. While he spoke, I half listened and waited for a moment to interrupt. For a brief moment he stopped and sucked in his lips. He rocked back on his heels.

“Yea,” I said. “Well, most of what we do for the HOA is on the internet. The papers we file are all electronic. We talk through email, so—”

“Yep,” he interrupted. “And I think I’d be good for president. Ned here thinks I’d be good and everyone else thinks so too. It’s ‘cause I’m here for the people and we need something different. With George trying to steal our money, we need a change. George couldn’t do a damn thing right. But I’ll know what to do to get this place back in shape. I’ll know what to do.”

I didn’t try a response. “Alright,” I said. “I’ve got to get going. See you two at the meeting.” But this is what I wanted to say: “It’s a job for a professional. It’s a job for someone who understands how the association works. Sure, confidence is great. Sure, it’s fun to make gossip and baseless accusations. Sure, it sounds good to say that you’ll ‘do it for the people.’ But the real world takes special knowledge and special expertise.” I didn’t say this, of course. Neither would have understood. When the vote comes up in the meeting, a few folks might cast their ballots for Skip Wright. It’ll be the same few folks who’ll vote for Trump.

A Travesty – and yes, I did it on Purpose

But the Angels Never Came is on sale next week (OCTOBER 21 – 28) for a dollar. For this reason I’ll be answering some of the most common questions that readers have had about the book. And for each answer I’ll provide a little sample for those of you who haven’t had the chance to read it yet.

One of the most common questions has been this: “What’s the deal with the dreams?”

th (2)

Dreams and visions are common motif in But the Angels Never Came because at its heart, the book is a parody.

So, what’s it parodying? Well, that one’s obvious: the bible.

In writing But the Angels Never Came, my goal was to create a travesty of the “binding of Isaac”, that classic Old Testament narrative where God tells Abraham to go up on top of a mountain and sacrifice his only [good] son. And Abraham actually goes up there to do it.

I wrote the book as a travesty meaning that it is a “grotesque imitation of a serious work.” But that doesn’t mean the book is silly or slapstick. I wrote it to be ugly. I wrote it to challenge the assumptions and point towards the absurdities inherent to the original.

Now, anyone who’s familiar with the “binding of Isaac,” knows that Abraham has lots of dreams. In those dreams, God tells him what to do and makes all sorts of grand promises to Abraham and his future people. It was one of these dream sequences that I parodied in the following excerpt. Check it out, then check out the link at the bottom of the page if you are interested in comparing it to the original:

from But the Angels Never Came

But the Angels Never Came by Eric James-Olson

That night the storyteller woke from a nightmare. The same dream had haunted his nights since he was a young man. It first appeared only in glimpses. He would wake from the nightmare and only remember fragmented moments in time. Then it came to him as a full vision during a time of great difficulty. It was late in the day when the vision appeared, and he had not eaten for a week. In it, he could feel the presence of an inescapable force. His whole frame was gripped with fear.

There were concrete objects in the vision as well. He could see a young boy murdered. The murdered boy awoke. “you have no son,” the boy said. In the vision and in the dream, he always said that. A spirit floats out of the dead boy’s body. “Disinherited,” it would say as it floated upward towards oblivion.

The boy, now spiritless, turned his head in an unnatural direction. His skin was ashen grey. He was naked. From the wound of a dagger, black blood flowed. “He shall NOT,” the boy said “come forth out of thine own bowels who shall be thine heir.”

On most nights the dream ended here, but the original vision had more. The dream the storyteller had that night, was much like the original vision. In the dream, the boy stood up. Behind him, a field of dead flowers, each flower six feet tall swayed with a wind that the storyteller could not feel. “Count the number of these dead stalks,” the boy said, “if thou be able to number them, so shall thy seed be.”

The storyteller believed in the boy. He counted on him for his treachery. From amongst the flowers, a heifer, a female goat, a ram, a turtledove, and a pigeon appeared. Each had its throat slit. Black blood flowed. Carrion pecked at the dead. And the storyteller did nothing.

He turned back towards the boy. “This land shall thee inherit,” the boy said with his arm pointing out towards a vast, untamed wilderness. “Know of a surety,” the boy continued, “that thy seed shall be a stranger in a land that is not theirs, and shall be hunted by them, killed by them, be afflicted by them four hundred years.” At this, the storyteller always felt horror and great darkness. “And after,” the boy said. “When that nation should fall, when the men that hunted thee shall depart from this world, thy seed will inherit the fruitless void, and chaos will reign.”

The wound on the boy’s chest suddenly healed. His skin colored peach. His lips were red. His eyes disappeared into the blackness of hollow sockets, yet the storyteller always felt that the boy could still see.

When he felt particularly brave, as he had during the dream this night, the storyteller walked up to the boy and stared into the empty eye sockets. The boy leaned his head back. From above him, the storyteller stared directly into the sockets. Within the shell of the skin, there is only nothingness, and nothing else. And then, the eyes became mirrors, and the storyteller saw his self.

The storyteller was afraid of this nightmare, but from it he did not despair. The dream appeared to him as a threat not as inevitability. He saw it as a manifestation of his greatest fears during a time of terrible desolation, not as the words from an immutable power outside of himself. There were times when he thought he saw this vision before him. He thought he saw the dream in the people around him. There was one time, long ago, that he lived it not knowing until it was too late.

He closed his eyes, but he did not sleep.

So, that’s it. If you’re interested in comparing this to the original check out the next link. If you’re interested in buying the book for a buck, check out the links below!
Genesis 15




















Flashback to LD 11

Hi again,

About a week ago I wrote a post on overwriting. In that post I promised future explanations of literary devices that cause a piece to feel – well – overwritten. If you haven’t read that post, it’s cool, just click this link: Letters on Literary Devices 11: Don’t Be So Dramatic. If you’ve read it already, you probably remember the following explanation which details the type of literary device capable of making a novel appear overwritten: “Well, any literary device used as a descriptor has the innate qualities necessary for causing readers to throw up.” I then listed a few and proved how “apostrophe’s” (the literary device, not the punctuation mark) when overused, can seem overwhelming.


In this post I’d like to apply the same scrutiny to the literary term “epithet”.

For those who don’t know already, an epithet is a word or phrase precluding a characters name used for description. This strategy dates back to some of the earliest influences in Western Literature. Anyone who’s read the Iliad and the Odyssey, probably remembers the “Swift-footed” Achilles and the “Grey-Eyed” Athena. For ancient writers of epics, the epithet served a duel function. First, it was used as a descriptor. Second, it allowed more flexibility for poets who had to write within the constraints of dactylic hexameter. By having a list of several different epithets for each character, all having a different number of syllables, the poet could plug in the best rhythmically fitting epithet into each line.


Well, that’s great and all, but how does this apply to novelists today? Obviously, no one writes full length fiction in dactylic hexameter anymore. It would be cool if someone tried, but probably unreadable because English doesn’t lend itself to dactyls. Writers still use epithets though, even if the rhythmic function of the device has become outmoded.

Now, I’m not going to point any fingers at my contemporaries. I’ve read some books using epithets for characters that have worked really well; I’ve read some books where the strategy just didn’t work.

Instead, I’ll just point out an example from my own writing.

In my first novel, Farmers and Cannibals, I used a epithet to describe the principal antagonist, “Big” Frank. Here’s the line from when he’s introduced: “Deep, dark, mahogany – the desk was chosen to say a lot about the massive man who sits behind it. “Big” Frank founded General Wheat Corporation sixteen years previously as a small time farmer willing to take a risk.”

“Big,” is Frank’s epithet and I chose the word because of its ambiguous context dependent meaning and relatively neutral connotation.

Now, I could’ve been annoying; I could’ve been guilty of overwriting if I used the word “Big” every time this character was mentioned. I’m glad I didn’t though, because as a descriptor that’s unnecessary. Throughout the novel, I only placed the word “Big” before his name when the character exerted his characteristic “bigness”: his tendency towards viciously controlling the fates of other men. That both gave the word “Big” its meaning within the novel, and served as a recurring motif chastising the behavior of the novel’s antagonist.


Personally, I think this is a good way for novelists to use epithets. Overuse, can be annoying and seem overwritten. When used sparingly; however, the epithet is another tool for constructing layers of meaning.

Well, that’s it, if you have any examples of annoying epithets, good use of epithets, or any questions, disagreements, etc. please feel free to comment below!

If you are interested in my books, check out my links below. KindleUnlimited members can borrow for free. For everyone else, the books are priced slightly higher than the cost of dirt:  between 2.99 and 3.99. If you like this post, hook a brotha up with a like.

















An Announcement… of sorts

Hey Folks,

For all of you out there interested in my fiction, my books can be borrowed free from Amazon. It’s through the KindleUnlimited program which is now offering a free 30 day trial (US ONLY). Don’t know much about the program? Check out this link: KINDLEUNLIMITED

I know – it’s awesome. And if you’re not interested in my books, or have already bought them, there are tons of other author’s with books listed through the program.



To all of you who e-mailed, my next “Letter on Literary Devices” will be out later this week. I know, I know, I haven’t posted much recently. I’m not sure if any of you out there are inclined towards believing excuses, but I do have one for anyone who happens to trust me (Suckers): for the past month I’ve been painstakingly editing and revising a new novel – well, the first half of it at least. I’m planning on having the second half written by the end of the year but am not sure of when it will be published, who it will be published by, or any of that stuff yet. I have a title, but that might change too.

So, that’s it for this evening. Below are the links to my books for anyone interested in a free borrow. As always, thanks for checkin’ out my blog!

But the Angels Never Came:

Farmers and Cannibals:

Just After the Fall:

The Church Peak Hotel: Revisited
If you have any questions or comments, feel free to post in the comment section below. I’d love to hear from you!

Letters on Literary Devices 9: Incomplete thoug…

To all the incomplete thoughts out there,

A few weeks ago I stumbled across an article (I can’t remember where, when, who is was by, or what the title was) explaining the conventional differences between good ol’ American English and the slightly different, slightly more refined version of that same language on the other side of the Atlantic. No, it wasn’t about how American Standard English (AmSE) is the best and British Standard English (BrSE) is the worst or anything childish like that. Rather, it was about one of the most fascinating, intriguing subjects that man has ever conjured: punctuation.

Yea, that’s right folks. I’m talking periods, commas, and yea, that’s right, even the old semi-colon.

The article went on to explain how differences in usage are often cited as typos by readers educated under the opposing standard language. What? Let me explain with an unnecessarily awkward, convoluted sentence: So Brit readers reading American author’s might see a comma “misplaced” that is actually in a standard location according to AmSE, and an American reader reading a British author might see a comma “misplaced” that is actually in a standard location according to BrSE. Yea (1). I know. Crazy (2).

This got me thinking. Yea (3). I know. Scary (4). When a reader posts a review, what other assumptions does he or she make about typos?

Well, I racked my brain. I thought real hard and then had a milkshake. After that, I went to the gym. I lifted some weights. Did a little cardio. Checked myself out in the mirror when it seemed like no one was watching. Did some more thinking. And drove home.

As I drove home I still had nothing. Honestly, I couldn’t think of much. But that’s when it hit me.  Sentence Fragments (5). The bane of secondary school teachers everywhere (6). Sentence fragments (7).

Despite the threats, brow-beatings, scare tactics of English teachers globally, the sentence fragment has always had a home in literature. I would start to name author’s but that would be silly. Everybody does it. Open a book. Read a few pages. You’ll find one. Guaranteed (8).

Right now, you’re probably thinking this: But why? Why? God, Why!?! Mrs. Bonebreaker told me that if I put another incomplete sentence in my paper she’d snap my pencil in half, and I don’t think she was talking about the one I write with.

Relax (9). It’ll be ok. Deep breaths (10).

Let’s go back to the basics. What’s a sentence? Easy (11). It’s a complete  thought. That’s why they’re so good for writing with. It’s good to have complete thoughts. So, what’s a sentence fragment? An incomplete thought (12). Not too useful in an essay (13). That’s why ol’ Bonebreaker threatened to snap your pencil in half. You were probably writing an essay.

In fiction, however, the incomplete thought can be fairly useful.

The most obvious and probably most common use of incomplete thoughts  is through character dialogue. People don’t always speak with completely formed ideas, so  a lot of author’s imitate this when writing dialogue.

Another common use of the sentence fragment is in the imitation of real human thinking. Think about it. Do you think in complete sentences? Unless you’re really weird, you probably don’t. So a common way to show this, to show a characters thoughts is through the employment of sentence fragments. Most of the time you wouldn’t even notice that you’re looking at fragments. Check out this excerpt from a novel I’m working on:


I’m just stuck here. Stuck here watchin’ the old man take a swim every now and then. Stuck here watchin’ ol’ Linda read trashy novels and stroke the armrest of her beach chair. Stuck here bored as hell wantin’ nothin’ else but a chance to meet some chick young enough to take me seriously.

That’s the problem though. All the girls around here are so stuck up and full of shit and three or five years older than me. Sucks being fifteen.


For those keeping track at home, that’s four fragments and only three complete sentences. All those “sentences” starting with “stuck” are without subjects. There’s no subject in the sentence starting with “sucks” either.

So, what does this do? Well, it makes the ideas seem less organized. It makes the ideas feel as if each runs into the next. It makes the ideas sound like, well, thoughts.

Now, do all readers know this? No (14). An author takes a chance anytime he or she uses a sentence fragment or any other break from convention when writing fiction. There is the chance that the break with convention won’t be seen as an artistic choice, but rather, will be seen as a clumsy error.

So what? Good question (15). I’ll try to answer it in three sentences. Complete ones (16). Here it goes: with the explosion of self-published authors into the mainstream of fiction, a huge amount of poorly written, poorly edited, poorly proofread novels have hit the market causing readers to notice unheard of quantities of conventional errors in “published” books. This trend has raised awareness to the possibility of typos in independently published fiction. My point is this: although there may be a preponderance of typos in “indie” fiction, not all typos are typos; some writers are better than others; some writers have the literary knowledge to make artistic choices that bend the rules of convention.

In a free society where everyone is empowered to be a critic, a society that encourages all customers, all readers to share opinions on an authors work, there will always be those who critique without requisite knowledge, without adequate understanding. This isn’t a bad thing; it’s much better than the alternative. But it is a fact for which we should be cognizant.

I don’t know about you, but the next time I see a break with convention, I’ll think twice before I assume it’s a mistake.



Eric James-Olson


P.S. If you were wondering about all the numbers in parenthesis, the explanation is simple. I was keeping track of all my sentence fragments. No, I didn’t include the fragments from the excerpt.






Flashback: Letters on LD6: Literary Fracking

Hi folks,

Today I’m flashing back to an old post I wrote, Letters on Literary Devices 6: Jumpy Writing, and providing an example of “literary fracking” for all of you who were confused by the term. I coined this term based off an actual term in literary criticism: “the fractured narrative.”

Basically, the fractured narrative is when a book travels from one perspective to another focusing on the same event. The perspectives can come from character who took part in the event or even characters who are commenting on the event days or months or years later.

In my novel Just After the Fall, I used this strategy throughout. The main event, the beginning of a religious cult, occurred in real time for the protagonist. Two separate commentaries are provided by a future historian and a future religious leader. There is also a separate narrative that occurs after the main event but during the life of the protagonist. This is important because it shows how the cult developed into a religion which inevitably benefitted its people through the creation of a shared, common culture. Despite the fact that  it was just made up.

The excerpt below shows the commentary by the future religious leader and the separate narrative that occurs after the main event (I couldn’t use the chapters that showed the main event because those chapters are too long for an excerpt). Notice the change in narrative tone. The second chapter, the chapter that shows the beginning of the religious cult, maintains a simple, matter-of-fact voice, absent of the thinly veiled sarcasm found in  the “Sermon”.

Hope you enjoy it! Literary Fracking, everyone!




from Just After the Fall

A Sermon on Suicides from the Year 2540: Part IV


…“Followers of Abraham,” the orator continued, his voice reaching the top of a crescendo. His hands were above his head. “On this day, as you depart, as you leave this holy service, look around yourselves. See that there are powers acting independent of you. See that none of these powers are greater than you. And know that you do not have control of those powers, nor do you need to have control of those powers, for you do control your individual self, for that, above all else, was the lesson Lawrence learned traversing the wilderness. For that was the lesson that brought our people out of the darkness of the mountains and into the white light of liberty. For myself and no-one else!”

“For myself and no-one else,” the flock repeated.


In his private chambers the orator de-robed. Underneath he wore black. Sitting across from him, on a thick mules-leather chair was another man in black.

“Well done,” said the man in black. “You are a tribute to our order.”

The orator nodded his head. He grinned. His teeth were perfect. His canines were sharp.

“Some of the boys at central ran numbers last week. Faith has increased almost six percent since you began here.”

The orator said nothing. He nodded his head.

The man in black reclined further into his chair. “We’ll see productivity numbers next week. The projection from central is showing a three percent increase.” He shifted his weight. “This looks good. You’re looking good. You’re making me look good.”

“Just wait till next week,” the orator replied. “I’m beginning my telling of the Abraham stories. Those, I do particularly well.” He chuckled. “I have a name for it. They’ll eat it up. I’m calling it, But the Angels Never Came.”

The man in black laughed. “They will,” he said. “I know they will. They’ll grow fat on your sermons, and we’ll grow fat on our bonus checks from central office.”



To the East of Eden: Part IV


The top of the mountain was white rock. There were no trees or vegetation. The old man, wearing the brown cloth unique to his tribe, walked across the space separating himself and Lawrence and embraced the younger man.

“It has been too long,” the old man said. There was no hair on his head, but his beard was still thick and long. The dark hairs of his youth had turned a healthy grey.

The old man turned towards Maria. He embraced her.

“How are the boys?” the old man asked.

Maria smiled. “It has been too long,” she answered. “George is a man now. He’s a leader in our tribe. There is talk of him running for the next election. We are proud. And Cain, he was such a smart boy. As a man he’s interested in farming. He has a lot of ideas. He’s been planting trees. He wants all the breadfruit, for all the people of Abraham, to come from the south. ‘Trade,’ he always says the word ‘trade.’ He thinks very big.”

The old man nodded his head.

“So,” Lawrence began. “How are your people Chet?”

“Well fed.” Chet answered. His hands were at his sides. He was old but his back was not curved. The muscles in his legs were thick. “And yours?”

“Well fed and growing. The lands to the south are filling up.”

Lawrence looked past Chet. Resting next to the old man’s bag was an automatic rifle.

“Come across any poachers?” Lawrence asked.

“No, I never do. They see my rifle and they stay away. Besides, I’m an old bag of bones. They go after young meat.”

Lawrence nodded his head.

“It must be nice,” Chet continued, “traveling through the south, traveling without one of those.” He pointed back towards his rifle.

“We stayed as one people.”

“I still remember our splitting off. You were crazy, I thought, staying down there, near the patrols.”

“The first year was tense. But the drones got packed up and shipped off. Never saw one myself. Not after the split. The shared fear. In the beginning, that’s what kept us together.”

Chet nodded.

“How is Abraham?” Lawrence asked.

“Oh,” Chet replied, “last I heard, he’s doing fine. Always on the move. For so long he lived for the people of the Village. Since the split, he has lived only for himself. You see. I knew him. I knew him well. He was always under so much strain. I could never look at him in the eyes before. But now, he is at peace.”

Lawrence nodded. “He was right. He had the right idea all along. He had all the power, but he walked away.”

“It’s his example that they follow,” Chet said in agreement. “They can longer follow the words from his mouth. They follow his beliefs. They follow his morals.”

Time passed. Maria spoke more of her sons. Chet and Lawrence reminisced sitting with backs against the white rocks of the mountain. The sun went up. The sun went down. Maria started a fire and the three ate. It was not until after the meal that Lawrence brought up the matter of official duties. The men talked of trade, new developments in breadfruit farming, and efforts on both sides to maintain the religion of Abraham in their peoples, for the yearly gathering at Church Peak was only a month away.


Thanks for checking out this excerpt! If you still have questions about the fractured narrative or literary fracking, feel free to put those in the comment section below!


Oh, and one other thing. All four novels in the series are still on sale. They are priced between 2.99 and 3.99.  Check out these links if you’re interested:




















Books for Men 2: Ape and Essence

Ladies and Gentleman,

Welcome back to Books for Men. As I mentioned in my post last week, I’ll be reviewing Aldous Huxley’s Ape and Essence .

For those of you who missed last week’s post, I’ll break down the most important parts for you: Books for Men focuses on fiction that emphasizes history, philosophy, politics,  religion, ideas, beliefs. The criticism centers on the author’s development of symbolism, allegory, and milieu, not the author’s development of character and plot. These conditions were decided based on well-documented trends in what men read, not on stereotypes regarding maleness, masculinity, what it means to be a “real man.” My goal has nothing to do with defining masculinity; it has everything to do with suggesting books that I think other men will like.

Without further adieu my review of Ape and Essence:


Ape and Essence starts out simply enough. Two men, both in the movie business, discuss an array of topics ranging from infidelity, to the assassination of Ghandi, to movie scripts that will never see the screen. The focus, however, appears to be the assassination of Ghandi. Through dialogue and inner narrative, Huxley juxtaposes two philosophical concepts: the plight of the marginalized individual vs. the machinery of civilized “Order”. Ghandi, of course, represents the individual serving his own cause,  who is killed because he “refused any longer to go on dreaming our dreams of a national Order,” concluding that “Order begets tyranny,” inevitably.

This representation of Ghandi, this dichotomy between the “individual” and “order” serves as a central theme throughout the rest of the book, an assertion that the plot will seek to make self-evident.

From here, our two men, Bob Briggs and the narrator are nearly ran over by a truck loaded down with movie scripts destined for the incinerator. The truck takes a sharp turn and several scripts fall out onto the pavement. Most of the scripts are trash, but one catches the eye of the narrator: “Ape and Essence.” It is this script, this piece of trash, this meaningless item written by an obscure author, that will serve as the majority of the novel.

Now, the men don’t just start reading. If they had just started reading the script, the significance of the script as an object in itself might have been lost. Instead, they try to track down the author. I won’t go into the details of their search. The search ends like this: he’s already dead. But the point is this: the story that he wrote, “Ape and Essence,” is not a story that other men want to hear. It’s a story that humanity turns its collective eyes from. It’s a story that owes its existence to the exigency of chance and luck. It goes against popular opinion. It isn’t comfortable. It isn’t easy to hear. But it does exist. It’s real.

So, what’s in the script? Well, the second part of the novel titled “The Script,” claims to be a verbatim reading. And it does read a lot like a movie script and begins with a short vignette, an allegory portraying men with power, world leaders, perhaps,  as apes controlled by an inexplicable need to destroy each other. The vignette closes with two warring factions, both in possession of an “Einstein” who pushes a button destroying the entire planet. Literally, this short scene represents a futuristic WWIII. It also represents the control that political powers have over scientific discovery; the “Einstein’s” are literally kept on leashes, and the devastating potential that science can achieve. Think: Prometheus bringing fire to man, except no positives outcomes, only destruction. A more contemporary comparison would be Kurt Vonnegut’s Cat’s Cradle. The message about the dangers of science is essentially the same.

From here, the script travels a hundred years or so into the future. With the exception of New Zealand, the entire world has been destroyed by nuclear blasts. The New Zealanders are scientists and in the midst of an exploration to California.

One of the scientists, Dr. Poole gets ambushed by the local Californian’s, a group of people who’s parents and grandparents somehow survived the initial nuclear blasts and weren’t killed by nuclear radiation.

From this point on, the suspense builds from a want to better understand these people. It becomes a milieu-based or world-building style narrative.

In the wake of nuclear catastrophe, Huxley creates a world where mankind has reverted to a state that is almost inhuman. He does this not by creating an absence of culture, but instead by describing a complete inversion of Western civilization. Instead of God, the people believe in Belial (the devil). Instead of Democracy, the people are ruled by despots (even though they call it a democracy, Animal Farm, anyone?). The women wear patches over their breasts that say “no”. They wear these patches over each of their orifices as well. The most grotesque manifestation of this new reality is in the mating ritual. Instead of marriages born out of love or arranged by parents or agreed upon by mutual recognition of common interests, the Belial worshippers engage in a yearly mating ritual in which any deformed children from the year before are slaughtered. Oh, I forgot to mention. The people are all deformed because of nuclear radiation. Any children who are “too” mutated are killed (This is Sparta!?!).

The slaughter is followed by an orgy. It isn’t a complete free for all. Much like deer during the rut, the men with the biggest horns get the women. The people in these scenes don’t seem like people at all. Reading these scenes was akin to watching the nature channel years ago, when all it ever showed was animals mating.

Much like in Brave New World, Huxley portrays women as a lower, unprivileged class whose main role in society is copulation. He goes further here, describing women as “vessel’s” for Belial. This brings about a strange irony: women are of a lower class because they carry “Belial” or evil with them; and yet, the people as a whole revel in, and celebrate Belial as their God. This also points out the inherent power that man, as an animal, has over women, as animals. Here, the men are shown as physically stronger, and the women are forced to “submit”. Although it isn’t clear, Huxley may have been commenting sarcastically about the inherent absurdity of gender inequality, showing that it’s a feature of our animal nature, not the part of our nature that makes us uniquely human.

After the ritual, our protagonist, Dr. Poole interviews the man who’s really in charge of this civilization, the head of The Church of Belial, the Arch-Vicor, and it’s from this Arch-Vicor the nature of this new world is fully explained, and for those who intend to read the book, I won’t spoil the reveal here, but I’ll give a hint: it has to do with the allegorical conversation from the beginning of the book regarding “Ghandi” and “Order”. He also reveals the reasons for the mating ritual and why the people are forbidden to have monogamous sexual relationships.

The novel concludes suspensefully. In spite of custom, Dr. Poole develops a romantic relationship with Loola, a native Californian who’s mutations are relatively unnoticeable: she has four nipples. Dr. Poole finds himself faced with a difficult choice: he can either join The Church of Belial and become a leader in the community (I forgot to mention that becoming a priest in this society requires surgery. Eunuchs), or he can leave with his new girlfriend in search of place that values individual freedom over collective order.


I won’t say how it ends. I hope you read it and please, feel free to comment below. There was so much more in this book then I had time to discuss and would love to hear your interpretations!

I’ll be posting my next Book for Men in two weeks. I’ll be reading and reviewing To Have and Have Not by Earnest Hemingway

Oh, and if you have any suggestions, know of any books that you think I should review, please let me know by posting them in the comments section below. I’d love to hear from you!




Seein’ that its Tuesday

Seein’ that its Tuesday, I figured I’d dig up an old blog post and re-post it for all you who’ve just started following me. This one’s from my old Blog on Goodreads. It’s one of my Letters on Literary Devices, a fun, mock-epistolary take on literary critique. Hope you don’t mind sarcasm. Check her out!



To all you underdeveloped, two-dimensional, cardboard cut-out flat, uninteresting, unengaging, unrealistic, stereotypical characters out there that ain’t worth the key strokes your author wasted on your creation:
This letter’s for you.
If there is one thing that readers the world over seem to agree on it’s this: you and all your friends are the scum of the literary universe. Yea, I’m talkin’ ’bout all your buddies. The author surrogate, the foil, the stock character, parallel characters, dichotomous characters, all you bastardized step-children of the well-rounded, complex protagonist, and morally flawed antagonist who is still deserving of our empathy.Nine out of ten times (I made that statistic up) when I read a bad review of a novel it’s because one of you son’s of bitches decided to show up in an otherwise merit-worthy book.Characters like you are described as annoying, inconsistent, unimportant, unnecessary, strange, etc. etc. the list goes on and on, you get the idea. But if somehow you didn’t, allow me to be perfectly clear: readers hate your guts.

Now, I’ll be honest. There was a time in my life, a dark time, when I felt the same way too. I’m admitting it. I hated you. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, but what can I say, I was on this kick where I was into reading excruciatingly long novels by writers like Tolstoy and Steinbeck. There’s nothing quite like pages and pages of character development to turn a man against other elements of storytelling such as plot and conflict, allegory and symbolism, all those other aspects of a story that you and your pals are often used to create.

Now, Don’t get me wrong here. Most of the time when readers complain about a flat, underdeveloped character they are talking about the protagonist, the main guy or gal that the story is all about. And I admit, in many cases, an underdeveloped main character can ruin a story.

But you, the less developed minor character, I got your back. I’m on your side. I know you serve a purpose.

Whether your author created you to speak his her own opinions, to serve as the ying for the protagonist’s yang, to represent a stereotypical idea, to serve as a exclamation point highlighting a major characters attributes, or to represent a contrasting extreme, I know you’re doing your job, and I like you now (Sorry if that last sentence didn’t make sense. Each item in the list is a playful definition of the bastardized step-children mentioned in paragraph three).

Yes, I admit it, I have changed my beliefs on characters. And with a newly opened mind I can’t help but wonder: have I been wrong all along. Have I and readers everywhere assumed unfairly that it is well-rounded characters above all else that make a book worth reading?

And immediately I am struck with a realization. There are some seriously flat characters, from some seriously enjoyable classic books that I found to be both gripping and interesting. Coriolanus from Coriolanus, Barkis from David Copperfield, Captain Ahab from Moby Dick. These characters, a protagonist, a minor character, and an antagonist are all flat as can be, all have a single motivation, and yet, each holds my interest.

Why? That’s the question. Why? Each for a different reason I suppose. The first’s inability to change leads to his tragic, and suspenseful downfall. The second’s singularity in purpose serves to develop an important theme. The third’s desire for revenge swallows both him and his entire crew alive.

Although none of the above mentioned characters could be described as round, each contributes allegorical significance to their respective stories, and each functions as a driving force in the plot.

Even though I still love characters, well developed characters that serve as the sole purpose in a character driven novel, I can see now, that stories don’t have to be about characters and characters only.

Come to think of it, I don’t think us readers give you less developed characters enough credit. And I think we’ve been a little hard on those authors that have chosen you over your more fully developed counterparts. It’s funny really. It’s ironic. With all the criticism out there, and all the pressure for authors to develop characters, we, as readers, for the sake of rounding out characters, have limited an author’s ability to create a well-rounded book.

So, in conclusion, I hope you forgive me for past prejudice. I was harsh, but I’m sorry, and I’d like to be friends.

Your New BFF, Eric James-Olson

It’s Monday…How about a book excerpt?

Hey people,

It’s Monday again.  To start the week off right I have a book excerpt for you. Don’t worry. It’s not inspirational or campy or a bunch of crap.

Before I show the excerpt, however, I’d like to give some context. A few days ago I received an e-mail from an author in response to a post I wrote: Flashback: Letters on LD 2. The post gave an example of how the repetition of images can be used to show confusion in a character. In her e-mail the author asked, “So what emotions can repetition be used to show?” And my answer to that is simple: any emotion as long as emotional weight is given to the repeated image. Some images are already loaded with emotion. These are sometimes referred to as cultural symbols. Objects such as prison bars, hearts, doors,  and horizons come pre-packaged with collectively prescribed emotions. Other objects require a some symbolic development by the author. Our culture hasn’t assigned any particular symbolic or emotional significance to extension cords or garage door openers. But, believe it or not, an author could develop these into emotional or symbolic images if he or she wished to. Anyway, in the following excerpt from The Church Peak Hotel: Revisited, I used the repetition of images to show a characters growing insanity, fear, moral deprivation, need for submission from his wife. Look for when the character mentions tits, food, and water. Hope you enjoy it! Happy Monday! (Oh, and one last thing. I know that character is sexist. In context with the rest of the book, his actions are NOT condoned.







from: The Church Peak Hotel: Revisited

For the rest of that night, I sat by the door. I didn’t eat. I didn’t drink. I sat with my knife in my hand, ready. After a while Mayra got up. She wasn’t crying anymore. She seemed like her bitchy self. Whenever I looked over at her, she had a stupid, angry look on her face. She wanted me to see that look. She wanted me to see it.

Morning must have come, but no light came through the solid black of the steel shutter. Every now and then, I looked through the peep-hole. It was black out there now. The flickering light was gone. Maybe he was sitting out there. Maybe he wasn’t. There was no way to tell.

“You can’t sit there all day,” Mayra said. Her arms were folded tightly across her little tits. “Do you want some water?”

I told her that I did. She was looking relatively less bitchy, but I still answered like a smart-ass.

“Well, fuck you,” she said. “Get your own fucking water.”

After that she paced around the room with her folded arms tight against her tiny tits. What a fuckin’ bitch. That’s all I could think. I kept thinking, She’s a bitch; she’s a bitch; she’s a bitch. I couldn’t think about the boy who trapped us in there. I couldn’t think about how it was I who brought us here. It was I who wanted the story. It was I who was responsible for everything. All I could think about was how much of a bitch she was being.

I didn’t try to apologize or make it up to her. I just let her pace the room. I got up with my knife in my hand. I walked towards my backpack. I pulled out the water bottle. I took a drink.


For the rest of the day, I sat in a chair next to the door. I listened. I listened closely for the sound of feet walking down the hallway. All day I sat there. All day I heard nothing.

Mayra made herself useful. She brought me food every so often. At one point she fell asleep. That was around noon. I remember because I made a point to check my watch. In the afternoon she tried to talk to me. It was that nervous type of chatter that some women can’t help but do. I told her to keep her mouth shut, and she did.


Evening came, and I was exhausted. Mayra brought me food. I ate, and my eyes started getting heavy.

I woke up to that feeling of falling. The room was dark. “What the fuck – Mayra, what the fuck!”

“I turned it off so you could sleep.” She said that and then the dim light from her lantern filled the room.

“You let me sleep.” I said. “You let me sleep! You let me fuckin’ sleep!” I screamed and screamed. I don’t even remember the words I called her. I walked across the room. My knife was in my hand. I held her by the throat. I remember holding her and seeing that fear in her eyes. She would have let me do it. She would’ve…

(The subject stopped speaking abruptly. He had been sitting straight up. But when he stopped speaking, he slouched forward. A distant look came to his eyes. He sat like that for several minutes)

Mr. Jeffries.

(The subject appeared surprised to see us)

Mr. Jeffries. Continue, please.

Right. Right.

You were speaking about holding a knife up to your wife.

Right. I did do that. Right. I had forgotten. But. I wasn’t going to tell you that. But I did. I guess it’s alright. I feel like I know you. I do. I know you.

Yes, it does feel that way. Could you continue, please?

Right. Well, I didn’t kill her. She was afraid, and that was enough. Sometimes you just have to scare someone into doing what you want them to do. That’s really what the world is all about. Think about it. That’s what the world has always been about. It’s not about killing. That’s counterproductive. It’s fear. It’s fear that gets you what you want.

Right, so, after that she didn’t let me fall asleep. I stayed by the door. I was there to protect us. I stayed by the door and she brought me water and food. There was a madman out there, an enemy, and it was my job to protect us from him. It wasn’t asking too much when Mayra brought over a water bottle or a meal bar. No, it was fair.

And at some point it was night. If not for our watches, we couldn’t have known. It was always the same color in that room. There were the same shadows on the walls, the same shadow underneath the bed, the same shadow cast from Mayra’s nervous body. Her arms weren’t folded across her little tits anymore. She wasn’t calm, but at least she knew well enough to keep from annoying me. There was no point in her showing me her anger anymore. There was just no point, so she kept her arms to her sides and no expression on her face.

It was a shame really. I liked the way her tits looked with her arms folded across.


And that’s it. Repeating images. Please feel free to comment below. Love to hear from you!

Author’s: If you have an excerpt that you would like me to share next week send me an e-mail: ejamesolson1@gmail.com. Hope to hear from you.

Oh, and one other thing. All four novels in the series are still on sale. They are priced between 2.99 and 3.99.  Check out these links if you’re interested:


















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