Magnus the Lesser. An intro. Of Hecate's Pale Offering

Magnus the Lesser, or what the acolytes referred to as the beneficiary, stepped into the Tower of Man. A doorman, probably in his twenties, put on a plastic smile and greeted him. 'Hello sir'. The lobby smelled of cleaning products and carpet cleaner. The sound of chatter was quickly hushed as he appeared and resumed as he passed.
"Good morning, Eric." He grunted as he passed the reception desk. When he didn't receive a reply, he looked up from his phone to find both his employee and security engaged in a quiet conversation off near the corner of the room. A man from the outside was there. Faint, insistent arguing was well concealed but still apparent. Magnus walked to the reception desk and put down his briefcase, catching a second of the conversation that was being held a few yards away. It was a trespassing issue, but one not likely to be resolved amicably.
"You must be invited to enter the Tower, sir." A security guard said firmly. "We no longer allow visitors to the Tower without expressed permission."
The man said something Magnus couldn't make out and flashed what appeared to be an old invitation, one which would have allowed him entry back when Pious had been the Church of Man. Those times were over. Pious had been soft. He thought. 
His birth brother, Pious McNally had built the Church of Man into a worldwide conglomerate with far reaching influence. Making billions in the real estate business, Pious had shoveled his fortune into the creation of this temple then just before its completion, found himself murdered inside its walls.
Poor fool.
His brother had been the face of the Church. He had been open to the public, an inviting and some say extroverted charismatic who loved his radio sermons and social activities. Magnus was none of those things. As stolid as his brother had been open, Magnus was cut from a different tailor. Even his suits reflected this. Whereas Pious had loved his personal belongings and well thought out wardrobe, Magnus preferred all black all the time. Pious had been showy some heard him remark at his sibling's wake the year prior.
Still, the Church had survived. Flourished in fact since Magnus had taken control. Of course the acolytes knew nothing of the fact he had been a silent partner from the Church's inception. The shock and worry were evident in their faces when he had materialized like a specter a few days after his brother's demise to assume power. But perhaps they did see a ghost. Magnus and Pious had similar features. A high sloping forehead and prominent jowels. Deep, recessed eyes and salt and pepper checkered hair, the two had always looked alike.
As he drew closer, he put on a wooden smile.
"What is the problem?"
Security nodded to him and cleared his throat. "Sir, this gentleman has an old invite pass that was issued when-"
Magnus cut him off. "It's invalid." He said. "We don't allow public entrance into the Tower anymore."
The man scofffed. "But when I got it, it was perfectly valid. Why can't you honor it now?"
Magnus sighed. He had been dealing with these Pious problems for months now- business licenses and real estate contracts, developers still looking to cash in on the Church's sizable fortune.
He thought of having the man simply thrown out of the building. But as much as he despised working in the public domain, a public incident would be worse.
"Sir, this invitation was issued when Pious McNally was the head of operations. Since Pious is now dead, what would you use the invitation for?"
"To see my painting!" The man all but screamed.
Magnus reached out and plucked the invitation from the small, wiry fingers and read it aloud/
"Giovanni Cortan." 
Oh my! He knew this name. Giovanni Cortan was the artist Pious had commissioned to create a giant ceiling mosaic on the West side of the Tower. Cortan was a famous name in art circles. His pieces commanded top dollar. Magnus himself had been impressed with the mural. A dark, cosmic scene, the gods of yesteryear were depicted as torn to pieces by demons while a vibrant human male ascended to the sky. It was controversial no doubt but a lovely mosaic. Magnus had marveled up at it when he first entered the Tower.
"Mr. Cortan. I'm sorry I didn't recognize you."
"Yes, hello." Cortan replied. "May I pass?"
"Of course. Of course."
Cortan threw a look of disdain at security and shuffled past the reception area and onto the escalator that would take him to the painting's showroom.
Magnus glanced at security who slowly followed him up to the second floor. Magnus waited a full minute before heading up the escalator himself. Goosebumps had appeared on his arms and something in the back of his mind told him that Cortan couldn't be trusted.
As he got to the top of the escalator, he stood struck dumb staring as smoke spilled out from the showroom front entrance. The painting! The damned artist had come to burn it! 
Magnus ran swiftly into the room, ducking his head as he entered. Cortan and security were wrestling over a lit zippo that had been used to light the fabric streamers that hanged from the ceiling on either side of the mosaic. Magnus turned, looked up as the lit fabric burned up the seam. An orange line crawled steadily closer to the painting that was perhaps four feet above.
Magnus motioned with his left hand. Security let go of Cortan and ran for a fire extinguisher encased in glass on the side wall next to the exit.
"It's too late!" Magnus screamed.
He knew that it wasn't just the painting that was endanger of being engulfed. The entire Tower was at risk if the blaze got out of control.
"Call the fire department!"
Magnus leaped forward, catching Cortan across his face with his left fist. The little artist tumbled then was thrown onto his back.
"What have you done?" Magnus screamed.
"It's a desecration!" Cortan shrieked shrilly. "It's blasphemous and I won't have it!"
"It's not yours to have," Magnus replied and kicked hard into the man's stomach.
From outside he heard sirens and hoped there was little traffic in front of the Tower. He looked up to see the top corner of the Ascendance of Man peeling away like dead skin. He could smell the paint as it shriveled under the heat. Somewhere, Cortan was laughing manically. "The gods have come to us! You're all wrong. They are here!"
"They're husks." Magnus sneered.
Suddenly, the Tower's fire sprinkler system activated and water sprayed down from sprinklers installed around the painting. Cortan fell onto his behind as he realized the masterwork would be saved. He brushed his hand across his forehead, stared up with blood shot eyes as the painting smoked, singed from the fire. Perhaps a four to five feet area had been burned clear away. The area close to the burn was bubbling and raised from the ceiling. Blue and yellow drizzled down the painting in little streams.
"The Church of Man is a farce!" Cortan said. His eyes red from the tears that streamed down, he raised a tiny fist to Magnus. "You're a devil McNally. Just like your brother was."
To Magnus's surprise, the man began to cry. A low, choking sob, Cortan put his hands over his face and his body spasmed in his grief.
"You're a fool, Giovanni." Magnus said quietly. "You see? Look what the gods have done to you? Look at the anguish you're knowing right now, at this second. They don't deserve you Giovanni."
Cortan wiped his face, glanced back up at the ceiling. His mouth quivered. "Well, they don't deserve that." He rasped. From his vantage point, Magnus had to look straight above his head to see the violence that the mosiac depicted. He covered his face to the sprinkler spray and squinted.
"The gods aren't dead McNally." Cortan said.
"No, but they hate us Giovanni. They hate the humanity they've descended into. How could they not?"
"Bah! You don't know McNally. You don't know that."
"But I do. I do know that. It's the reason they stay in hiding."
"They stay in hiding from people like you!"
Magnus turned away as police and fire department spilled into the room. As they hauled Cortan onto his feet, Magnus looked the old artist in the eye. Putting his head down, he mumbled. "No charges will be filed. The old man has been deceived."
"I think it's you who deceive McNally. You're a deceiver."
Magnus heard a rustle from above and thought the painting had become unhinged and was ready to topple from above. Then he remembered that the entire ceiling would have to come down for that to happen. Still, he didn't feel relieved and couldn't say why he felt no real comfort in the painting being saved.

Preston Copeland: RighteousIndignation: Set meets Hecate. #NeonGodsII

Preston Copeland: RighteousIndignation: Set meets Hecate. #NeonGodsII: "What is it you want?" Hecate asked. She raised the pitch of her voice just slightly. Set kept his eyes lowered to the water. H...

Set meets Hecate. #NeonGodsII

"What is it you want?" Hecate asked.
She raised the pitch of her voice just slightly.
Set kept his eyes lowered to the water. He continued to stare at the fish that swam just underneath the surface. He stretched his fingers, felt sweat run down his back. The goddess was still, unnaturally so. As if she herself were in rigor mortis. Set glanced to his right. Her red hair the color of figs draped down her back. Her lids were half closed, hiding her coal eyes. She waited.
"Draw down the moon for me." He said.
Hecate breathed deeply, her face on the pond below.
"Do you know what they are?" She asked.
Set's face twitched. "The fish?"
Hecate stepped forward, put a hand to her mouth as if she were sharing a secret. "They're red mullet."
Set caught what seemed like pretense in her words. Was she telling the truth?
"You see those ones right there?" She continued. "You see what they're doing?"
Set followed her gaze. There was a group of fish thrashing about, swimming atop one another chaotically.
"The red mullet are eating one of their own. They eat their dead."
She broke off as a passerby stepped past.
"They're known to eat a human corpse as well. It's just what they do."
Set felt more and more at a loss as to what the goddess was getting at. Does she mock me? He squinted at the pond. Was it about the corpse? The pigment perhaps. The red, his beloved Kemet. Does she insult his home? Her thin-lipped smile still expressionless, she turned to him. "They come from the family Mullidae."
"Dead eating fish." He said.
"Yes." She replied. "Did your people eat their dead Egyptian?"
Set's mind traveled back. He heard the pyramid text as if it were spoken aloud once again.
the king orders sacrifices, he alone controls them,
the king eats humans, feeds on gods;
he has them presented on an altar to himself,
the king eats their magic, he gulps down their souls, 
the adults he has for breakfast,
the young are lunch,
the babies he has for supper, the old ones are too tough to eat, he just burns them on the altar as an offering to himself. 
She was mocking him. She was an accuser. Set cleared his throat. "Our Heka required no actual ingestion. Our ways disposed of the dead...differently. But that's why I'm here, is it not? The magic of my people was ineffective for reascending. Perhaps you will fare better Greek."
Hecate ignored him. She stepped back from the pond and brushed her hair back behind her left shoulder.
"I will call you Mullus." She said.
Mullus. The insult hanged in the air between them. Hecate sneered and faced the Egyptian god fully. "Yes, it will be Mullus I think. Like the red mullet."
Set managed a weak smile. "As it were." He stepped beside her and paused, studying the goddess of witchcraft. Somewhere he thought he heard a dog howling.
"Will you imbue me with your lunar spirit? Draw down your moon Greek. Perhaps I can reascend us all to our grace. It is worth a try?"
"Why you?"
"Nobody else will try."
He knew he was right. If the goddess herself had attempted it, she would have denied him outright.
"Well?"
Hecate looked at his face. Her gaze unfocused, as if in thought. But there was something else. She appeared almost eager. He saw now the Descendant behind those dark eyes. He shuddered deeply. 
"What do you offer?" She asked.
"I can give you information."
"Did you know of the killings last year?"
Set glanced over his shoulder to make sure they were alone. He knew the goddess was testing him. curious to see if he would tell her a lie.
"You mean the Christian at the Basement?" He said furtively.
"Yes."
"I know of it."
Revelation seized Set's mind. There was no way for her to know the whole truth of that matter. She had no idea of Sadie Fuller at all. Truth would be wise unless she got into specifics.
"Was it Descended? They never caught whoever it was."
"Yes, it was."
Hecate gasped, covered her mouth. "Which?"
"I don't know."
Hecate gasped again, made a kissing sound with her lips. "This Descendant...lives still?"
Set thought about this as he stared back at the pond. The Androktasiai had been slaughtered outright by the girl. He would have likely joined them had Dionysus not intervened. If ever given the chance, Set would be sure to enact recompense. But the girl was Descended. She had to be. There was no other explanation.
"The Descendant has been missing for some time." He said.
"Do you know the Christian messiah has come back?"
"What? The Christ rose again?"
Hecate spoke quickly. "Not long after. He still performs, although now he has body guards or something."
A look of elation on her face, Hecate took out her phone and nodded to Set. He was a moment comprehending what she meant.
"A number to reach you." She prompted.
"Ah yes, of course."
As Set gave her the number of his disposable phone, he couldn't help but feel unnerved. Thinking back on Sadie Fuller had shaken him. Whatever she was, she was still out there somewhere in the city. Oh, how he'd love to carve into the girl with knives.
Set recovered quickly. He put on a smile and looked back at Hecate who was staring.
"Until next time then." He mustered.
Hecate grinned eerily. "Be ready Mullus. The lunar spirit is...formidable."
Set's eyes traveled up and down the goddess as she walked away. His thoughts elsewhere, he bowed his head, content to see how this played out.

Preston Copeland: RighteousIndignation: Ariadne's Folly

Hey, here's an intro. of Ariadne in the Neon Gods sequel. I had to edit her out of Neon but we got her in Book II and she's really talking. 



Preston Copeland: RighteousIndignation: Ariadne's Folly: Ariadne fell silent, staring at the grocer. A turnip of a man, his unusually large jowls and high forehead gave him the appearance of ...

Ariadne's Folly

Ariadne fell silent, staring at the grocer. A turnip of a man, his unusually large jowls and high forehead gave him the appearance of a cartoon.
"Miss, as I said before, the prices really aren't negotiable."
The food market had opened a couple of hours prior. An outdoor Saturday morning event, Ariadne had been coming since she descended a year before. It caused her to think of home, which really was a burden given there was no feasible way she could get back. And she had tried. Visiting every charlatan, witchdoctor, and paranormal psychologist in the city. They had all referred her to a shrink, even the medicine man, which was depressing unto itself.
She wandered the shabby, little makeshift kiosks trying a lime here or a pear there, ignoring the downtrodden glances of the fruit owners. What good was being a salesman if sampling the product was unacceptable?
Ariadne huffed and kicked her feet. Her marble blue eyes scouring the kiosk stand for a mango that was ripe enough to eat. "Well, I'll tell ya." She began slowly, not entirely confident the man was apt to have this conversation. "Eating a mango that isn't ripe could crack my teeth. Are you prepared for that outcome? Have you taken the necessary precautions just in case? Wouldn't want you to have to live off your...product?"
It really was a question. This vendor looked to have picked these fruits and vegetable out of a restaurant trash bin.
"What did you say?" The man spat arrogantly. "You will not find more delectable fruits anywhere in the city. Look at this mango."
Ariadne glanced sheepishly at him.
"It is of the utmost quality." He said.
"Well, I might be a heathen but I'm not seeing it." She retorted.
"How dare you!" He cried miserably. "You've stood here nearly thirty minutes, not happy with anything! Go bother somebody else."
"You see," She began again. Her voice took on a motherly quality. "You have to wait until the fruit is ripe."
She plucked the mango out of his hand. The man tensed as Ariadne put it to her nose, smelled it briefly. He cocked his head as she slowly squeezed it, rolling it around in her hand."
"And?" The vendor demanded.
"I don't even know if it's worth it." Ariadne spoke slowly, cautiously. "There's only one way to know for sure."
"Don't you dare!"
She took a large bite, feeling the perfectly ripe fruit burst into her mouth, sugary juices on her tongue, running down her chin. She slurped the pulpy texture, let it linger until she could smell it.
She brushed her dark hair away from her face and tucked it behind her right ear. "This one will do, but just barely."
 The man looked stricken, as if she'd given him terrible news about his health. "You did not! You're gonna pay for that!"
"Well, of course I'm going to pay for it." She took another bite. "I'm prepared to purchase all the mangoes. Given they're suitable."
"Suitable?"
"Yes."
"You just ate one! You know they're suitable."
"We're gonna have to discuss that."
The man stiffened. He trembled a little. Ariadne wasn't sure he'd make it through this. She looked at him, seeing the beet face and sweat. The little shakes he had when he mopped his forehead.
Ariadne took a deep breath. "Now then."
He took a step back.
"The pressure is on mister. How much for the pears?"

Forty seven minutes later, Ariadne found herself at a large fountain a half block up from the food market. It was a robust gray, bespeckled with little dots of white and brown. Clearly areas where the city pigeons had an urge. In the middle of the fountain, a statue of her husband had been erected. Oh, not him exactly. It was a statue of Pan, all cloven-hoofed and horned with shit on his face and pipes. It wasn't Dionysus. Some say her husband was the faun's father but she wasn't one to gossip. And Dionysus was mum on the matter. So that was peculiar.
But there she stood, glaring up at Pan's contorted, muscly, shit covered face when she heard a loud "Hmph!" behind her.
That unhinged vendor. She thought pitifully. "Hey, we agreed on ten for the bushel. I can't help if growing fruit isn't easy on a city sidewalk!"
"Look what we have here."
Ariadne turned and grimaced at the face in front of her. He was a bear of a man. Unshaven, unkempt, frightfully fat. He wore a t shirt that looked about to split. But he had a warm smile. Even if he did waddle around. He held a leash in his large hand that was attached to a waist high donkey that, at this very second, was digging into her bag and munching on carrots she had worked twenty minutes to procure.
"Oh, hi Silenus." She said. "Hey Rat!" She bent and patted the animal stiffly on the head.
"His name isn't Rat."
"So what is it?"
"Donkey."
"God, your dense. Well, I'll tell ya. One animal name is as good as the next. Don't be prejudiced."
"Huh?"
"Where's my husband Silenus?"
"Dionysus has been searching everywhere for you." Silenus said. He straightened, arching his back in some show of dignity. Ariadne squinted at him. "He has scoured the city."
She nodded. "From a barstool?"
Silenus's eyes widened. He shivered at her apparent prescience.
"Oh god, where else would he be? I could have found him in days had I not wanted to explore awhile."
"He has been terribly worried. Especially after the happenings last year."
She rubbed at her lips. The killings had been all over the news. One after another until finally they just stopped. Ariadne bent and picked a mango out of her bag. She placed a hand on Rat as she took a bite.
"How did you descend?" Silenus asked,
She forced a smile. "Come again?"
"Descend, child. You're not a goddess."
"Oh, let's not get into that again."
"Ariadne!"
"I don't know! I'm a princess. I make things happen. What about you, Silenus? You're not exactly a god." She sized him up frowning. "How did you make your way here?"
The old tutor hadn't considered the question before, Ariadne surmised. She scowled, slowly shaking her head. "You don't know either. We're as stuck as they are."
Ariadne wiped her mouth, tossed the mango core into the fountain. "Take me to my husband, Rat."
She ordered.
"Silenus, they really captured your likeness with it. The white spots are especially fitting."
"What are you getting on about?"
"Oh sorry, nothing." She smiled sweetly. Taking the leash out of his hand and leading Rat away. Silenus frowned, staring at the ground. As he followed, he glanced up at the fountain statue and his brow furled. He couldn't say why but he felt that he should be offended. 

Barnes & Noble debacle

First, I don't have any idea what that sign is talking about or what I should be looking for. Is it interesting? Terrifying? Should I look for that sign out on the freeway? Will it point me to food? I saw it on the side of a building as I walked past. The florescent popped and there was a slight hum. I stared at it for a short time, maybe forty five minutes then wandered off wondering how the sign knew. The sign knows. Maybe I should hashtag that.

Second, I absolutely don't know how Barnes & Noble publishes any print copies of any author at any time. I was keen on the ebook submission for B&N. I navigated the page effortlessly, it was almost insulting how quick I uploaded my manuscript and cover. I was laughing gleefully but I think that Barnes or maybe Noble knew. Because when I went to create a print copy of my book, the website tightened up faster than a broken back. I uploaded the manuscript fine, thank you, but the cover refused. Refused. Even after I resized the image, downloaded the shoddy B&N template, changed the pixels, prayed to Cthulhu, and danced a jig. It was hopeless. I knew it was personal for getting uppity about the ebook. That's alright, we'll shove off but I'll be back with Adobe or Photoshop and get even.

Third, Neon Gods is now available on Amazon in print form and Kindle, B&N ebook, Kobo ebook, and we're taking auditions for the audio version that you can listen to in the luxury of your car. Eventually, I will have a hard cover w/ dust jacket of the novel. If it's the last thing I do. I'll keep you posted. Keep smiling, don't kill anything.

Cheers.     

Why write fiction?

I've been asked recently what made me want to worldmake? Why, after doing extensive work in academia and non-fiction, did I stare haplessly onto a blank page and attempt an original story? I could say something like, "Karl Popper would approve." And maybe he would. World 3 certainly includes modern myth making. And I've always loved abstract thought. Why not try my hand at creating a World and reality?

Or maybe I say, "Fiction is easier." I don't have to research or defend a thesis. I don't need any primary sources or ethnographic fieldwork. I can just sit naked in my apartment and put pen to paper. What could be easier? Well that's just uninformed. I found myself doing as much research or more when I sat down with Hank Dolan and tried to make sense of New Los Angeles.

No, the truth is: I made a work of fiction because I was compelled to do so. It was a compulsion. I've always been fascinated with myth and folklore. Fiction gave me the opportunity to be a mythologist and arm chair psychologist. This is Sadie Fuller. What would Sadie Fuller do in this circumstance? What would she say? How would she say it? Writing fiction gave me a chance to explore colorful philosophical positions and see how they might play out in certain settings. It was a way to test my own beliefs and thought processes by imagining interactions with people who hold differing viewpoints.

Am I saying that constructing a dialogue between the Greek Dionysus and Egyptian Set is the same, or even in the same ballpark, as Albert Camus and Jean Paul Sartre, sitting at a hazy French cafe, chain smoking and pouring liquor down their throats, while bickering like dogs about what it means to be free. Yes. To me, it was exactly like that. I found it fascinating to ask myself, given the differences in culture and context, what kind of conversation would these deities have. I imagined them despising each other.

Fiction was a vehicle to play out scenarios in my mind that found interesting. Writing the story was a form of thought experiment. Maybe that was the main reason why I wrote a book of fiction. I can't really say, with any concrete certainty. I will say that once it got going, once the words began to fill the paper and page one became ten and then thirty and then a hundred, that inertia took over. By the time Act II rolled around, I was stuck on the train and it was gonna be finished come hell or high water.

The most honest answer about 'why fiction' though, at least for me, is that it became immensely enjoyable. I loved the process. It was delightful, and fun, and grueling, and awful. It was an addiction that Sadie Fuller would certainly relate to. Fiction is all these things and more. Perhaps we see ourselves in our characters. Or we see what we'd like to be. Fiction affords a purity of worldview- we're able to salvage the debris that floats around in our minds and construct a reality where it is useful. It's a zenful experience. Both a meditative experience and creative outlet.

I often ask myself what would my writing look like now had I taken on creative writing as an area of study in college. Would my fiction writing be better? More stylized? I want to say that the content would be completely different.  There's a reason why myth and folklore permeate my book. Perhaps the content is my core interest and I'd have ended up writing about deitic interaction even without the background of academic writing. That's the conundrum of fiction. It's a mystery unto itself. It's a beautiful mystery, full of soaring highs and god awful troughs, but the process is unlike anything else.