Short Story | chronicles of harriet

DO BLACK PEOPLE REALLY DO THIS STUFF? First, Steamfunk; Now, Rococoa!

04 Jun 2013 14 Comments

by Balogun in Adventure, Afrofuturism, Dark Fantasy, Fantasy, Historical Fiction, Science Fiction, Short Story, Speculative Fiction, Steampunk Tags: rococoa, rococopunk, steamfunk, steampunk

DO BLACK PEOPLE REALLY DO THIS STUFF? First, Steamfunk; Now, Rococoa!

Photo from the Toussaint L’Ouverture Mini-Series, France Television.

During last year’s wildly popular Mahogany Masquerade: An Evening of Steamfunk and Film, I inquired about the era that sits between Sword and Soul – the subgenre of African-inspired epic and heroic fantasy that is usually set before colonization – and Steamfunk, which normally takes place between 1837 and 1901. I asked if anyone had a name for that time because it is a time that fascinates me – a time of revolution (in particular, the Haitian Revolution); a time of pirates and swashbucklers; a time of reverence for art and science.

No one at the event had a name for the era, however, everyone agreed the time possessed that “cool factor” found in Steamfunk and Sword and Soul.

Curious by nature and a researcher by choice, I immediately began my quest of discovery, fueled by my determination to find a name for this era that fascinated me so.

After a brief bit of research, I stumbled upon Rococo…and, to my surprise, Rococopunk.

Rococo is derived from the French word rocaille, originally meaning the bits of rocky decoration sometimes found in 16th-century architectural schemes. It was first used in its modern sense around 1800, at about the same time as baroque, and, like baroque, was initially a pejorative term.

The earliest rococo forms appeared around 1700 at Versailles and its surrounding châteaux as a reaction against the oppressive formality of French classical-baroque in those buildings. In 1701 a suite of rooms at Versailles, including the king’s bedroom, was redecorated in a new, lighter, and more graceful style by the royal designer, Pierre Lepautre (1648-1716).

In the world of painting, Rococo style is characterized by delicate colors, many decorative details, and a graceful and intimate mood. Similarly, music in the Rococo style is homophonic and light in texture, melodic, and elaborately ornamented. In France, the term for this was style galant (gallant or elegant style) and, in Germany, empfindsamer stil (sensitive style). François Couperin, in France, and two of the sons of Johann Sebastian Bach – Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach and Johann Christian Bach – in Germany, were important composers of music in the Rococo style.

From the Film “Brotherhood of the Wolf”. Distributed by Universal Studios.

Rococopunk is – like Dieselpunk – a sibling of Steampunk, set in the earlier Renaissance era, primarily in the high-class French community of the time. Participants in this movement wear outlandish makeup and hairstyles and sport bold, brightly colored clothing. Think Amadeus, Pirates of the Caribbean, or The Adventures of Baron Munchausen. For darker Rococopunk – think Last of the Mohicans, Perfume: The Story of A Murderer, Brotherhood of the Wolf, or Sleepy Hollow.

Okay, I had a name for the era. Now, I needed to come up with a name to define the Black expression of Rococopunk; a name to define the subgenre so that – as author and publisher Milton Davis says of Steamfunk and Sword and Soul – “when you hear or read ‘Steamfunk’ or ‘Sword and Soul’, you know exactly what you’re getting.”

Modeling and Costume fabrication by Lee Camara (aka Fev): http://fevereon.deviantart.com/

Before I could come up with a name myself, the brilliant Briaan L. Barron, artist and owner of Bri-Dimensional Images and recent graduate from Sarah Lawrence College, did it for me with her release of the animated documentary, Steamfunk and Rococoa: A Black Victorian Fantasy. While there is not much talk of Rococo or Rococopunk in the documentary – it is mainly about Steampunk and Steamfunk and features Diana Pho of Beyond Victoriana and Yours Truly – the spelling, Rococoa, was perfect!

Thanks, Briaan!

So, with a smile on my face, I now sit down to write Rococoa stories. Stories I will enjoy writing and hopefully you will enjoy reading.

Steamfunk now has a sibling.

Yes!

THE LEAGUE OF EXTRAORDINARY BLACK PEOPLE: Black Folk Heroes in the Age of Steam!

31 May 2013 11 Comments

by Balogun in Adventure, Afrofuturism, Dark Fantasy, Fantasy, Historical Fiction, Science Fiction, Short Story, Speculative Fiction, Steampunk Tags: bud billiken, john henry, john the conqueror, steamfunk, steampunk

THE LEAGUE OF EXTRAORDINARY BLACK PEOPLE: Black Folk Heroes in the Age of Steam!

A folk hero is a type of hero who gains this status based on personal achievement or some action which is recognized by others as revolutionary.

The one crucial trait that every folk hero must possess is widespread recognition of the person as being heroic. Many people commit acts of kindness or generosity but that alone does not make them a folk hero. When society is able to recognize an important figure by their name, personality, or deeds – and those deeds are deemed heroic by a large group of people – then that figure has achieved the status of folk hero.

In this post, we continue with the League of Extraordinary Black People Series and explore Black Folk Heroes in the Age of Steam!

High John the Conqueror

John the Conqueror – also known as High John the Conqueror, John de Conquer, John the Conqueroo and John D. Konkeroo – was an African prince who was sold as a slave in the Americas. Despite his enslavement, his spirit was never broken and because of the tricks he played to evade the back breaking labor and punishments inflicted by his cruel masters, he survived, in folklore, as a revered trickster figure.

In the Rite of Passage Steamfunk universe, he is the mayor of the town of Nicodemus, Kansas, an extraordinary little town, which is protected by four extraordinary guardians who possess extraordinary abilities.

In fact, every inhabitant of the town is, in some way extraordinary, however, among the inhabitants, John and the Guardians are the most powerful, feared and revered of them all.

Joel Chandler Harris’s ‘Br’er Rabbit’, of the Uncle Remus stories, is said to be patterned after High John the Conqueror. Zora Neale Hurston wrote of his adventures (“High John de Conquer”) in her collection of folklore, The Sanctified Church. She also makes reference to him in her novel, Their Eyes Were Watching God.

In one traditional John the Conqueror story told by Virginia Hamilton, John falls in love with the Devil’s daughter. The Devil sets John a number of impossible tasks: he must clear sixty acres (25 ha) of land in half a day, and then sow it with corn and reap it in the other half a day. The Devil’s daughter furnishes John with a magical axe and plow that get these impossible tasks done, but warns John that her father the Devil means to kill him even if he performs them. John and the Devil’s daughter steal the Devil’s own horses; the Devil pursues them, but they escape his clutches by shape-shifting.

In High John De Conquer, Zora Neale Hurston reports that: like King Arthur of England, he has served his people. And, like King Arthur, he is not dead. He waits to return when his people shall call him again … High John de Conquer went back to Africa, but he left his power here, which dwells in the root of a certain plant. Possess that root, and he can be summoned at any time.

Clever, strong, and independent, High John the Conqueror is a child of the merging cultures of Africa and America, and – true to his trickster ways – although John is an Afrikan man in bondage, he exhibits all the qualities of an ideal American.

Railroad Bill

The legend of Railroad Bill arose in the winter of 1895 and is still popular of today from southern Alabama to Florida.

Railroad Bill was an African American outlaw whose action-packed career on the wrong side of the law has been preserved in music, fiction, and theater. He has been variously portrayed as a Robin Hood character, a murderous criminal, a shape shifter, and a nameless victim of the Jim Crow South.

While his identity has never been conclusively identified, it is believed by railroad detectives that he was a man named Morris Slater, but residents of Brewton, Alabama disagree, believing him to be a man named Bill McCoy, who was shot – and erroneously believed killed – by local law enforcement.

In early 1895, an armed vagrant began riding the L&N railroad’s boxcars between Flomaton and Mobile, earning the nickname “Railroad Bill,” or sometimes just “Railroad,” from the trainmen who had trouble detaining the rifle-wielding hitchhiker.

On March 6, 1895, railroad employees attempted to restrain a man they found sleeping on a water tank along the railroad. The man fired on them and escaped into the woods after hijacking a train car. This incident sparked a manhunt by railroad company detectives that led a posse to Bay Minette on April 6, 1895. When detectives confronted an armed man there, he opened fire. Baldwin County Deputy Sheriff James H. Stewart was killed in the ensuing gunfight and Railroad Bill evaded capture again.

Deputy Stewart’s killing by this mysterious, elusive and deadly Black man incurred the full wrath of law enforcement and the media. A notice for a $500 reward posted in Mobile identified him as Morris Slater, a convict-lease worker who in 1893 had fled from a turpentine camp in Bluff Springs, Florida, after killing a lawman. Slater had been nicknamed “Railroad Time” for his rapid work pace. Railroad Bill crossed into Florida where, on July 4, 1895, Brewton Sheriff E. S. McMillan tracked him to a house near Bluff Springs. As the sheriff approached the dwelling, the fugitive opened fire and disappeared into the woods, leaving McMillan fatally wounded.

The killing of Sheriff McMillan marked a turning point and greatly expanded the efforts of both Alabama and Florida in hunting down Railroad Bill.

Despite a massive increase in manpower, the outlaw remained at large, robbing trains and selling goods to impoverished people for prices lower than the local merchant stores and, of course, engaging in an occasional shoot-out with lawmen and L&N Railroad authorities.

And the legend of Railroad Bill grew.

Many Black people admired his courage and audacity. Some people attributed supernatural powers to Railroad Bill, maintaining that he was able to evade capture by changing into animal form and that he was only vulnerable to silver bullets. Other tales said that Railroad Bill had the power to disable the tracking abilities of the bloodhounds on his trail.

The author Carl Carmer, in The Hurricane’s Children: Tales from Your Neck o’ the Woods, describes a lawman chasing Railroad Bill:

So the sheriff decided Railroad Bill must be hiding under the low bushes in the clearing and he began looking around. Pretty soon he started a little red fox that lit out through the woods. The sheriff let go with both barrels of his shotgun, but he missed. After the second shot the little red fox turned about and laughed at him a high, wild, hearty laugh – and the sheriff recognized it. That little fox was Railroad Bill.

By the summer of 1895, the L&N Railroad, the state of Alabama, the state of Florida, the town of Brewton, and Escambia County had pooled together a reward of $1,250 for Railroad Bill’s capture. A host of bounty hunters from places as far away as Texas and Indiana descended on southwestern Alabama and the western swamps of Florida. They were joined by operatives of the Pinkerton National Detective Agency, L&N detectives, lawmen, and vigilante posses.

Soon, a small army – numbering over one hundred men loaded for bear – were after the legendary killer / “Black Robin Hood”.

The hunt for Railroad Bill persisted until March 7, 1896, when a man was gunned down by a host of law enforcement officials at Tidmore and Ward’s General Store in Atmore, AL, a depot town along the L&N.

Some say that authorities surprised and killed the man as he sat on an oak barrel eating cheese and crackers. Other accounts say that he engaged the lawmen in a shoot-out in front of the store, and still others contend that he walked into a trap at Tidmore and Ward’s.

Railroad Bill’s body was placed on public view in Brewton, AL and crowds of curious spectators gathered to get a glimpse. Many Brewton residents recognized the man as Bill McCoy, a local man who had threatened local saw-mill owner T. R. Miller with a knife at around the same time Morris Slater was working in the turpentine camp in Florida. Souvenir hunters paid 50 cents for a picture of Constable J. L. McGowan, believed to have fired the fatal shot, standing, rifle in hand, over the corpse of Railroad Bill strapped to a wooden plank. After a few days in Brewton, the body was taken by train to Montgomery and later to Pensacola, Florida, for public display. So many people came to see Railroad Bill in Montgomery that authorities charged an admission fee of 25 cents. His body’s final resting place is unknown.

Railroad Bill was a symbol of the racial and economic divide in the post-Reconstruction Deep South. During this period of increasing legal segregation in Alabama and the rest of the South, the hunt for Railroad Bill became a theatrical saga in local newspapers. The outlaw’s legacy has been passed down through generations in many cultural representations. Railroad Bill blues ballads began circulating in the early twentieth century and several blues singers have used “Railroad Bill” as a stage name. In 1981, the Labor Theater in New York City produced the musical play Railroad Bill by C. R. Portz.

In the Rite of Passage universe, Railroad Bill is a resident of Nicodemus under the guise of mayor John D. Konkeroo’s Chief of Staff, Henry Turnipseed.

Bud Billiken

Bud Billiken is the Guardian Angel of Black children – a symbol of pride, happiness and hope for Black people worldwide.

The character gained prominence in a comic strip and the Chicago Defender newspaper in the early 1930s.

Bud Billiken is the Black leader of The Billiken family of spirits who are responsible for things as they ought to be; so when Steampunks refer to Steampunk as “Victorian life as it should have been”, they are speaking to life under the guidance of the Billiken.

In the Rite of Passage universe, “Bud Billkens”, along with Harriet Tubman’s pupil, Dorothy Wright, teaches at Nicodemus’ only school.

The Billiken were made into charm dolls, created by American art teacher and illustrator, Florence Pretz of St. Louis, Missouri, who is said to have seen the mysterious figure in a dream. In 1908, she obtained a design patent on the ornamental design of the Billiken, who was elf-like with pointed ears, a mischievous smile and a tuft of hair on his pointed head. His arms were short and he sat with his legs stretched out in front of him. To buy a Billiken was said to give the purchaser luck, but to have one given would be even better luck. The image was copyrighted and a trademark was put on the name.

Today, the Billiken is the official mascot of Saint Louis University and St. Louis University High School, both Jesuit institutions, and both located in St. Louis.

The Billiken is also the official mascot of the Royal Order of Jesters, an invitation only Shriner group, affiliated with Freemasonry.

Every year, on the second Saturday in August, there is a huge parade and picnic held in Chicago in honor of Bud Billiken that focuses on the betterment of Chicago Black youth. The Bud Billiken Parade is the second largest – and largest African American – parade in the United States.

John Henry

John Henry was born a slave in the 1840s or 1850s in North Carolina or Virginia. He grew to stand 6 feet tall, 200 pounds – a heavily muscled man. He had an immense appetite, and an even greater capacity for work. He carried a beautiful baritone voice, and was a favorite banjo player to all who knew him.

His story, now legendary, was told mostly through ballads and work songs, traveling from coast to coast along with the railroads, which drove west during the 19th Century.

“You speak of John Henry as if he was real!” You say.

That’s because he was.

There are actually two John Henrys – the man and the legend surrounding him.

John Henry was an ex-slave from Holly Springs, Mississippi who took his former master’s surname, Dabney, or Dabner, according to some records.

It is known that a Captain Frederick Yeamans Dabney was Chief Engineer for the Columbus & Western Railway Company during the construction of their line between Goodwater, Alabama, and Birmingham in 1887-88. Dabney was a Rensselaer-educated civil engineer who made a career of railroad design and construction. Captain Dabney’s father owned eight slaves, one named John Henry, born in 1844. He would have been 43 years old when John Henry allegedly died in 1887 – a reasonable age for a champion steel driver.

In addition, there is a strong local tradition among Central of Georgia Railroad employees and around Leeds, Alabama, that a John Henry raced a steam drill and died just outside the east portal of Oak Mountain Tunnel, between Oak and Coosa Mountain Tunnels.

In the anthology Steamfunk, I write John Henry as a prisoner who agrees to work the railroad for a lesser sentence in the story Rite of Passage: Blood & Iron. This is closer to the truth than the notion of John Henry working for his beloved railroad in order to make a better life for himself and his family.

Evidence of this is in the prison songs that sing the praises of the “steel drivin’ man”. These songs are sung to hammer blows. The last verse says: “They took John Henry to the White House, and they buried him in the sand, and every locomotive comes roarin’ by says there lies a steel drivin’ man.”

Strange that a brother was brought to the White House during that era. Stranger still is sand at the White House and locomotives “roarin by”, as there is no railroad near the White House.

Strangest of all, however, is the fact that the term “White House” wasn’t used for the executive office until Teddy Roosevelt became president in 1901.

White House is a term that refers to the penitentiary, which was commonly built near railroads and were often “paved” with sand.

During John Henry’s time, convicts were commonly used to do construction for the railroad; you find steam drills side by side with these convicts and you find that the tunnel they worked on primarily was the Lewis Tunnel.

The real story of John Henry is grimmer than the one in song; uglier.

The C&O railroad wanted to get these tunnels dug; it had to get these tunnels dug by 1872 if it was to be granted the rights to the whole run from Richmond to the Ohio River. So, they bought up all scores of convicts; and they bought up several steam drills.

John Henry and all the other prisoners were forced to work on those tunnels, and nearly everyone who was forced to work on them died in the space of five or six years…not from exertion but from acute silicosis – they inhaled toxic crystalline dust from the rock.

With each breath, the poor workers drew crystalline death into their lungs. So, it probably wasn’t the race that killed John Henry, but the disease he suffered after he was forced to work the tunnels.

The legend says that John Henry was hired as a steel-driver for the C&O Railroad, a wealthy company that extended its line from the Chesapeake Bay to the Ohio Valley. Steel drivers, also known as a hammer man, would spend their workdays driving holes into rock by hitting thick steel drills or spikes.

The work was treacherous. Visibility was negligible and the air inside the developing tunnel was thick with noxious black smoke and dust. Hundreds of men lost their lives to Big Bend, their bodies piled into makeshift, sandy graves just steps outside the mountain. As the story goes, John Henry was the strongest, fastest, most powerful man working on the rails. He used a 14-pound hammer to drill 10 to 20 feet in a 12-hour day – the best of any man on the rails.

One day, a salesman came to camp, boasting that his steam-powered machine could out drill any man. A race was set: man against machine. John Henry won, the legend says, driving 14 feet to the drill’s nine. He died shortly after, some say from exhaustion, some say from a stroke.

In the Rite of Passage universe, John Henry does not die. He lives on as one of the powerful guardians of Nicodemus, Kansas; his mighty twin hammers beating back all – natural, supernatural and mechanical – who would bring harm to the residents and property of his beloved home town.

RITE OF PASSAGE: The Web

12 May 2013 8 Comments

by Balogun in Adventure, Afrofuturism, Dark Fantasy, Fantasy, Film, Harriet Tubman, Historical Fiction, Horror, Science Fiction, Short Story, Speculative Fiction, Steampunk, Supernatural, Thriller Tags: black speculative fiction, harriet tubman, rite of passage, steamfunk, steampunk

RITE OF PASSAGE: The Web

The soles of Jake Jessup’s feet were on fire. Pine cones and dry twigs bit into his flesh as he sprinted through the dense forest.

The full moon cast a silver glow upon the leaves that crackled beneath Jake’s heels.

He no longer heard the dogs, or the curses of Master William Jessup’s slave-catchers, so he stopped to rest his weary muscles and catch his breath. “For a short spell,” he thought.

“Welcome to my parlor, said the spider to the fly.”

Jake whirled toward the source of the voice, raising a silver carving knife – still sticky with his former master’s blood – chest high.

The most beautiful woman Jake had ever laid eyes upon stepped out of the shadows. The corners of her full lips were spread in an inviting smile. “I’m sorry, did I frighten you?” Her husky voice revealed a hint of an English accent.

“You obviously ain’t from around here,” Jake said, studying her tall, muscular frame. “You sound like this man who come from England and train me and the other catchers.”

“I’m from London, England,” the woman said. I moved here a while ago. I bought my freedom from…wait…catchers? What did you catch?”

“Runaways,” Jake replied.

“And now, it appears that you are the one who is running away,” the woman said.

“I was the worst catcher ever born,” Jake said. “Every runaway I went after got away.

“They just happened to get away, eh?” The woman snickered.

“My old master got wise to me,” Jake replied. “He decided to make an example of me…killed my wife; my daughter…so I killed him. Been runnin’ since.”

“Well, you are safe here for the night,” the woman said. “The locals are afraid of this forest. They say a terrible beast roams these parts.”

“Then, what you doin’ out here?” Jake asked.

“I love the outdoors,” the woman replied. “Besides, beasts don’t frighten me; men do.”

“Well, this man won’t do you no harm,” Jake said. “My name’s Jake, by the way. Jake Jessup.”

“I’m Tara Malloy,” the woman said, offering her hand.

Jake took Tara’s smooth, mahogany hand in his and kissed the back of it. “Pleasure, ma’am.”

Suddenly, Tara’s hand became a vice around Jake’s fingers, crushing the dense bones as easily as if she was squeezing an egg in her fist.

Jake screamed in agony.

Tara threw her head back as a growl escaped her throat. She snapped her head forward, fixing her maddened gaze on Jake. Her beautiful face had been replaced by what Jake could only describe as the visage of a rabid wolf.

Jake tried to snatch his pulverized hand out of Tara’s grip, but she was too strong and his pain was too great.

Tara yanked Jake toward her. The runaway’s head snapped back from the force as his feet skittered across the dirt and dry foliage.

Tara opened her mouth wide, revealing a mouth full of vicious canine teeth. She closed the toothy maw down upon Jake’s shoulder, rending sinew and bone.

Jake thrust forward with his carving knife, sinking it deep into Tara’s chest.

Tara staggered backward, coughing as a crimson cloud of ichor spewed from her mouth.

Jake collapsed to his knees. Tara fell onto her back, convulsed once; twice; and then, lay still.

Jake crawled to a large tree and rested his back against it. The pain in his hand and shoulder made it difficult to think; to understand what just happened and darkness encroached upon him, blurring his vision.

“Still alive, eh?”

Jake turned his head toward the voice. Tara stood beside him. He turned his gaze toward her beastly form, still lying where she fell.

“How?” Jake whispered. He wanted to leap to his feet and run, but the pain would not allow it. “What are you?”

“What was I, you mean,” Tara replied. “A werewolf; a child of Eshu; blessed with his gift.”

Tara pointed toward Jake’s wounded shoulder. “Now, you have his blessing, too.”

“I…I’m gon’ turn into a thing like you, now?” Jake spat.

“Maybe,” Tara answered. “You become what your spirit is.”

“I’m gon’ kill you!” Jake bellowed.

“You already have,” Tara said, nodding toward her corpse.”

This was all too much for Jake to bear. He shut his eyes and succumbed to the darkness.

****

Sunlight kissed his eyelids, awakening him.

Jake felt soft, warm flesh on his chest. He looked down. Staring up at him was a pretty woman with full, pouty lips and skin the color of sweet cream.

“Good morning, lover,” the woman said, flashing a smile. Her dimpled cheeks accented her beauty.

“You’d better give up that body, Tara,” Jake said, looking at the clock on the far wall of the inn’s room. “You only have a few minutes.”

“Jake, can we talk?” Tara asked, caressing his chest with borrowed fingers.

“Time’s tickin’,” Jake replied.

“I love you,” Tara whispered.

“You what?” Jake pushed Tara’s head off his chest and sat upright.

“I love you, Jake,” Tara repeated.

“We don’t have time for this,” Jake said. “A second past those six hours and this woman dies from shock or goes mad.”

Jake hopped out of bed. His flesh shifted; flowed, as if it was some thick, ebon fluid and then trousers, boots, a shirt and a leather overcoat – all a very dark brown – formed around his naked frame.

“You’re a haint, Tara…a ghost…the undead. I – hell we – hunt the undead. Love ain’t in the cards for us. ‘Sides, you did try to kill me, remember?”

“That was two-hundred forty-seven years ago!” Tara replied.

“Seems like yesterday to me,” Jake said.

A loud, sucking din echoed throughout the room as Tara rose out of the woman’s body. “We’ll talk more later.”

The woman sat bolt upright. She leapt from the bed, locking her gaze on Jake’s broad back. An ebony, wide-brimmed planter hat formed atop Jake’s head. The woman gasped and darted out of the room.

“Creole women,” Tara said, shaking her head. “So…emotional.”

“Let’s go,” Jake said, sauntering toward the door. “Ms. Tubman should have sent that telegram by now.”

****

Bourbon Street was busy.

On the ground, carriages carried people to-and-from the retail shops, restaurants, inns and houses of ill-repute. In the sky, out of the view of the common people – but not out of Jake’s view – the very wealthy and the military traversed the bustling city by ornate airships and hot air balloons.

“Isn’t it beautiful? Tara sighed.

“Nope,” Jake replied.

“What do you see, then, Mister Doom-and-Gloom?” Tara asked.

“I see smoke…and steel,” Jake answered. “I see children worked to death in dirty factories…widows turned into whores to feed their babies…and we’re still swingin’ from the end of the white man’s rope.”

“Like I said…Doom-and-Gloom,” Tara snickered.

“We’re here,” Jake said, pointing toward a large store nestled between a candy shop and a dentist’s office.

Jake entered the telegraph office. A man sat before each of the three telegraph machines.

“How can we help you fine folks?” One of the men asked, looking up from his machine.

Jake and Tara exchanged glances. Jake took a step back toward the door.

“Oh, don’t worry,” the man said, smiling. “Negro money spends here.”

“That’s not our concern,” Jake said.

“What, then?” The man said, rising from his chair.

“Well, considerin’ my lady friend here is a haint and y’all can see her without her willing it, y’all must be haints, too.” Jake replied.

The man directed his attention to Tara. “You’re a ghost, correct?”

“That’s right,” Tara replied.

“The two other men stood.

“We’re ghasts,” the man said. “A bit…stronger than our ghost brethren,”

“Hmm…ghasts,” Jake said, studying the trio. “Never had the pleasure of killing one of you. Ms. Tubman said you’re fast and can possess a body for days at a time.

“Ah, Ms. Tubman,” The ghast crooned. “After we kill you, we’ll have to pay her a visit.”

“The bloodsuckers got you interceptin’ her messages, now?” Jake asked.

“She has been sending her merry, little band all over to hunt down our kind…your kind!” The ghast spat. That nigger has to die!”

“Give me the message,” Jake said, unmoved.

“I don’t think so,” the ghast hissed.

“Jake raised his palms before his chest. His hands shifted, changing into a pair of ebon broadswords. “I reckon I’ll have to take it then.”

The trio of ghasts exploded forward. Jake leapt forward to meet them.

Jake’s body shattered into a cloud of miniscule, venomous spiders. Each of the thousands of spiders was armed with a scythe-like claw on each of its eight legs. The spider-cloud washed over the ghasts. A moment later, a reformed Jake landed in front of one of the telegraph machines.

The ghasts fell, their tattered bodies covered with an uncountable number of gashes; the organs of their hosts reduced to liquid by the venom racing through their veins.

Jake rustled through the telegrams until he found the one from Harriet Tubman. “Ms. Tubman found the nest.”

“Where to?” Tara inquired.

“Atlanta.”

****

The sweet-green smell of kudzu permeated the night air. Jake stood high above the ground upon the thick limb of an old oak tree. “Go check it out,” he said, pointing toward a large ranch house an acre away.

“Be back in a bit, lover,” Tara said, blowing him a kiss as she leapt from the limb. She floated toward the house like a feather held aloft in a gentle breeze, landing gracefully at the door of the house. With a quick step, she passed through the closed door as if it was not there.

Jake studied the house. The windows were all covered with a dense, black cloth, preventing any light from getting in or out; a sure sign of a vampire nest.

Tara appeared on the limb. She fanned her hand in front of her nose. “Lord, it smells like the flatulence of a thousand mules in there!”

“Any vampires?” Jake inquired.

“Three,” Tara replied. “It looks like they are getting ready to call it a night.”

“The sun will be up in a couple of hours,” Jake said. “Coffins?”

“No,” Tara answered. “Dirt. The whole house is covered in about two feet of it.”

“These are Old Ones, then,” Jake said. “Good. Kill an Old One and all their progeny die, too.”

Jake leapt from the tree limb. He landed silently below. The hunter knelt at the base of the tree and thrust his hands into the dirt. A moment later, he pulled out a suede sack that was filled with something metallic by the clinking sound of it. “Good old General Tubman,” Jake whispered. “Right where she said it would be.”

Jake tossed the sack over his shoulder and sprinted toward the house. His boots made no sound as they glided across the soft, red, Georgia clay.

Tara floated closely behind him. Upon reaching the house, she stepped through the door. A few seconds later, Jake heard the door’s bolt lock slide back. He tested the door, slowly turning its knob. The door opened.

Jake slipped into the house. He reached into the sack and withdrew a tiny, wedged shape device. The device, constructed of bronze, had a miniscule, amber crystal at its center.

Tara raised her thumb and smiled.

Jake placed the wedge back into the bag and crept forward down the long hallway. He felt something hard beneath the dirt sink under his feet. Iron shackles sprang up around his ankles. Jake transformed into the swarm of spiders to escape, but it was too late. Walls of thick glass sprang up from the floor, slamming into the ceiling with a tremendous thud. Jake was encased in an impenetrable, airtight cube.

The Old Ones stepped out of a room at the end of the hallway and strode toward Jake. Huge grins were spread across their pallid faces, exposing their fangs.

Tara floated toward them.

“I can feel you, darlin’,” the lead Old One – a tall, lean man, with the dress and ruggedness of a cowboy – said. “Well done.”

“Tara?” Jake gasped.

Tara turned her gaze away from Jake and cast her eyes downward.

“Oh, don’t act so surprised, son,” the lead Old One said. “You’ve been betrayin’ your kind for a couple of centuries.”

“My kind are the servants of Eshu, charged with keeping the balance between the light and the darkness…between the Natural and the Unnatural, like yourselves,” Jake said. “My kind are the livin’.”

“Living; dead; undead…some of us are hunters; some prey,” the Old One said. “That – and blood – are all that matter.” The Old One stepped closer to the glass. “Where are my manners? In all of this excitement, I neglected to introduce myself. I am Henrick.” Henrick pointed his thumb over his shoulder. “The rather large gentleman behind me is Malloy and the enthralling beauty is Bloody Jane.”

“Let me out of here, so we can all shake hands,” Jake said.

Henrick laughed. “I like you, hunter. It’s a shame you’ll be dead soon. We could have been friends.”

The vampires walked past Jake’s cell toward the door.

Henrick glanced over his shoulder. “We are heading out for a quick bite. Don’t go anywhere.”

The vampires left the house. Their sardonic laughter cleaved the darkness outside and echoed throughout the house.

“How could you do this, Tara?” Jake spat.

“I am sorry, Jake,” Tara replied. “One day, you’ll understand.”

“Just a few days ago, you said you loved me,” Jake said. “You sure as hell have a funny way of showin’ it.”

“I do love you,” Tara cried. “That’s why I’m doing this.”

“You ain’t makin’ no sense at all,” Jake said.

“Soon, you’ll run out of air,” Tara said. “You’ll die; then, you’ll have an eternity to fall in love with me.”

“That’s haint obsession talkin’,” Jake said. “After a while, every haint goes mad. I thought you had it beat. I reckon it just took you a little longer.”

“I am not crazy, Jake!” Tara shouted. “But, love makes us do crazy things.”

“If I die on account of you settin’ me up, do you really think I’m gon’ ever love you?”

“I…I’m not sure,” Tara sighed. I hope that you’ll…”

“I’ll hate you,” Jake said. “But, if you let me out of here, there might be a chance for us.”

“You’re just saying that to convince me to set you free,” Tara said.

Jake stared into Tara’s eyes. “Have I ever lied to you?”

Tara stepped into Jake’s cell. “I don’t know where the release switch is.”

Jake nodded toward his suede sack, which lay at his feet. “Then persuade those bloodsuckers to tell you.”

Tara closed her eyes and stretched her incorporeal fingers toward the sack. For a moment, her fingers became somatic and she grabbed it. A second later, she was, once again, incorporeal, as was the sack and its contents. She walked out of the cube, taking the sack with her.

Tara floated down the hallway and through the door, leaving Jake alone in his cell.

Jake launched a powerful side-kick at one of the walls of the cell. His heel slammed into the glass. Jake’s foot felt as if it had slammed into the side of a mountain. “Magically enhanced,” he mused. Jake sat, cross-legged, on the floor. He closed his eyes and concentrated on his breathing, slowing it.

A while later, Tara returned. “It’s done.”

Jake’s opened his eyes. “Did you get all the windows? The roof?”

“I was quite thorough,” she replied.

“Hope so.”

“Tara!” A voice wailed on the other side of the door.

Tara floated to the door. She willed her hand to become corporeal and used it to open the door.

A web of intense light crisscrossed the entrance.

Henrick stood a few yards away from the doorway. Malloy and Bloody Jane stood behind him.

Tara willed herself visible to the vampire’s eyes.

You’ve been a bad girl, Tara,” Henrick said. “What have you done to our house?”

“They’re called Thread Bombs,” Tara replied. Each one releases a thread of light akin to the light of the sun. I planted nearly a thousand around your house to encase it in a web of sunlight.”

“Well, be a dear and turn them off, please,” Henrick said, affecting a warm smile.

“I can’t,” Tara said. “Only Jake can.”

“And why is that?” Henrick asked, struggling to maintain his friendly demeanor.

“Every bomb has to be turned off at the exact same time, or they will explode, blanketing a square mile in their light,” Tara answered. “Jake can become a swarm of spiders and turn off each bomb simultaneously.”

“And how do we know he will do that for us once he is free?” Henrick inquired.

“You don’t,” Tara replied. “But, what choice do you have?” If you set Jake free, he might shut down the web; leave him in that cell to die and you’ll all burn.”

“Quite the fickle one, aren’t you?” Henrick said. “Okay, we’ll bite, so to speak, but know that if you cause the death of three Old Ones and their children, there is nowhere you can run; nowhere you can hide. We will find you…and even a ghost can be destroyed.”

“Duly noted,” Tara said. “Now, where is the switch?”

“In the study,” Henrick replied. “There is a brass statue of a tiger in there. Turn its tail clockwise and the walls will come down.”

“I’ll be right back,” Tara said, vanishing from sight.

“Hurry back, child,” Henrick said, looking skyward. “It’ll be dawn soon.”

A whirring sound rose from beneath Jake. A moment later, the glass walls slid back into the floor.

Jake breathed deeply, welcoming fetid, but cool air into his lungs.

Refreshed, Jake sauntered toward the door.

“We have upheld our end of the bargain,” Henrick said. “Your turn.”

“Bargain?” Jake said. “I don’t bargain with Unnaturals.”

Henrick’s smile faded. “Tara said…”

“Your deal was with Tara,” Jake said, interrupting the Old One. “Not with me.”

Henrick’s eyes turned crimson and his face twisted into a snarl. “Turn off this goddamned web!”

“Nope,” Jake replied, picking dirt from his nails.

“You bastard!” Henrick hissed, baring his fangs.

Malloy and Bloody Jane screamed as sunlight cut through the clouds and seared their flesh.

“Turn it off,” Henrick wailed, his skin turning black where the sun kissed it. “Please!”

“Nope.”

The Old Ones burst into flames. Their chilling screams rending the night sky until their vocal chords were to charred to emit sound.

Within moments, three piles of gray ash lay near the entrance to the house.

Tara materialized beside Jake. “I hope this makes things right between us, lover,”

“Nope,” Jake replied.

“What now, then?” Tara asked.

“We keep killin’ Unnaturals,” Jake answered.

A broad smile spread across the ghost’s pretty face. “So, we’re still partners?”

“For now,” Jake replied. “We make a good team. ‘Sides, huntin’ can be lonely work. But, I promise you, you ever betray me again and you get the sigil.”

“To use a sigil on a ghost, you have to know that ghost’s real name, Jake,” Tara said. “I never told you – or anyone – my real name.”

“Your ex-husband says different,” Jake said.

Tara’s eyes widened and her jaw fell slack. “My ex…?”

“I met a conjurer a few years back by the name of Laveau,” Jake replied. “She channeled your ex-husband, Kayode, and, boy, did he have a story to tell!”

“What did he tell you?” Tara asked.

“Let’s get out of here,” Jake said. This place stinks.”

“Jake, what did he say?” Tara’s voice was shaky. “Jake?”

The corners of Jake’s mouth curled into a slight smile as he stepped through the web and into the welcoming dawn.

For more about the world of Rite of Passage before the release of the movie, check out author Milton Davis’ Rite of Passage: Kiowa Rising Series and the Rite of Passage website.

STEAMFUNK FICTION: A Darker Shade of Brown

27 Mar 2013 8 Comments

by Balogun in Adventure, Afrofuturism, Dark Fantasy, Dieselpunk, Fantasy, Harriet Tubman, Historical Fiction, Reviews, Science Fiction, Short Story, Speculative Fiction, Steampunk, Supernatural, Thriller Tags: steamfunk, steampunk

STEAMFUNK FICTION: A Darker Shade of Brown

On February 22, 2013, the long-awaited, highly anticipated, hotly debated and deeply contemplated Steamfunk anthology debuted at AnachroCon and worldwide.

The book has done exceptionally well since its release, reviews are favorable and the popularity of Steamfunk – the anthology and the movement – is growing exponentially.

Readers are asking for more Steamfunk, which is really quite shocking; not because Steamfunk fiction isn’t absolutely funktastic – it is – but because, after reading nearly five-hundred pages chock full o’ funky goodness, I would figure they would need to take a breather and inhale a bit of funk-free air.

Much to my surprise and glee, I was mistaken. “More Steamfunk!” is the cry. Even the august group of authors who contributed their fascinating fables of funkasticity to the anthology has demanded a second volume – Steamfunk II: Dieselfunk.

To tide you over until the final verdict on the production of a second volume is delivered, I offer you a listing of several books that are either Steamfunk, or Steampunk, with a main character of African descent.

Here goes. Enjoy!

And remember: keep it funky!

Moses: The Chronicles of Harriet Tubman (Books 1 & 2) by Balogun Ojetade

“I’m gon’ drive the evil out and send it back to Hell, where it belong!” – Harriet Tubman Harriet Tubman: Freedom fighter. Psychic. Soldier. Spy. Something…more. Much more. In “MOSES: The Chronicles of Harriet Tubman (Book 1: Kings * Book 2: Judges)”, the author masterfully transports you to a world of wonder…of horror…of amazing inventions, captivating locales and extraordinary people. In this novel of dark fantasy (with a touch of Steampunk), Harriet Tubman must match wits and power with the sardonic John Wilkes Booth and a team of hunters with powers beyond this world in order to save herself, her teenaged nephew, Ben and a little girl in her care – Margaret. But is anyone who, or what, they seem?

The Switch and The Switch II: Clockwork by Valjeanne Jeffers

Includes The Switch I and The Switch II! York is a city of contradictions. Women are hard-pressed for lovers, because lovemaking can be dangerous. The upper city is powered by computers, the underground by steam. And the wealthy don’t work for a living, underdwellers do it for them. But certain underdwellers have a big problem with this arrangement. And so does the time keeper. Welcome to the Revolution…

The Sivad Chronicles: The Possession and A Debt to Pay by Milton J. Davis

Samoht Sivad, sorcerer and warrior, goes missing after a garrison tour. Naheem, his cousin and acting patriarch of the Sivad clan, sets out to find him. His journey puts him on the path of a man who has found a way to seek revenge from beyond his grave.

The Possession introduces the alternate world of the Sivads, a North America whose present is entirely unique from the world in which we live, a land of beauty, diversity…and magic.

In the second Sivad Chronicle adventure, brothers Samoht and Vel find themselves exiled from the Nations by their cousin Naheem for different reasons. They embark on a journey to the Motherland to seek the secrets of their clan and their mysterious power. Naheem sets out to right his cousins’ wrongs while they are away and finds himself in his own adventure, one that will be as dangerous as it is enlightening.

Immortal 4: Collision of Worlds by Valjeanne Jeffers

Rules were broken. Now the price must be paid. “The New World awoke to a roaring wind, light blazed from the mirror—swallowing the planet—a churning, savage vortex. Tundra’s inhabitants cried out, as their flesh bled from their bones like wet clay. The world shuddered. And was still.” The Immortals broke the rules. As punishment, Karla and Joseph are transported to a steam powered realm. Tehotep is now ruler of the empire. Karla is his concubine. Vampires roam the streets. Androids enforce a demon’s will. And there is no way out. Except death…

Steamfunk Issue 0 Written by Eric Doty; Illustrated by Luke McKay

A comic book for all ages, that includes a bit of Steampunk and a pinch of Dieselpunk with Western and Fantasy elements. Its biggest influences are the film, The Wizard of Oz and the television series, Firefly. The “funk” in the title serves a dual purpose, referring to the musical references throughout the story as well as the state of the world the characters exist in. The story follows the adventures of a gutsy delivery girl, Deaux, as she unravels truths that she may not be prepared for.

John Henry: The Steam Age Written and Illustrated by Dwayne Harris

John Henry, a former slave, wasn’t about to let some new-fangled steam hammer replace his ability to earn an honest wage as a steel-driving man. He’d beat that machine, or die with his hammer in his hand. We all know the outcome of that legendary contest. In this alternate history, however, John doesn’t die in his heroic effort, but instead slips into a coma, only to awaken to his worst nightmare. A robotic uprising has occurred, and a new age has dawned – the Steam Age! Now the only thing that can free the human race from the very machines they’ve created is John and his hammer. John Henry: The Steam Age is an exciting re-imagining of the story of John Henry in a steampunk setting.

Clementine by Cherie Priest

Maria Isabella Boyd’s success as a Confederate spy has made her too famous for further espionage work, and now her employment options are slim. Exiled, widowed, and on the brink of poverty…she reluctantly goes to work for the Pinkerton National Detective Agency in Chicago.

Adding insult to injury, her first big assignment is commissioned by the Union Army. In short, a federally sponsored transport dirigible is being violently pursued across the Rockies and Uncle Sam isn’t pleased. The Clementine is carrying a top secret load of military essentials – essentials which must be delivered to Louisville, Kentucky, without delay.

Intelligence suggests that the unrelenting pursuer is a runaway slave who’s been wanted by authorities on both sides of the Mason-Dixon for fifteen years. In that time, Captain Croggon Beauregard Hainey has felonied his way back and forth across the continent, leaving a trail of broken banks, stolen war machines, and illegally distributed weaponry from sea to shining sea.

And now it’s Maria’s job to go get him.

He’s dangerous quarry and she’s a dangerous woman, but when forces conspire against them both, they take a chance and form an alliance. She joins his crew, and he uses her connections. She follows his orders. He takes her advice.

And somebody, somewhere, is going to rue the day he crossed either one of them.

There you have it, y’all! Enough funk to last you for quite some time. If you crave even more funky goodness, please, check out my fiction stories on this site.

Stay tuned! There is plenty more Steamfunk to come!

SEEKING SHELTER: A Steamfunk Tale

18 Mar 2013 16 Comments

by Balogun in Adventure, Afrofuturism, Dark Fantasy, Fantasy, Harriet Tubman, Historical Fiction, Horror, Science Fiction, Short Story, Speculative Fiction, Steampunk, Supernatural, Thriller, Uncategorized, Urban Fiction Tags: black speculative fiction, harriet tubman, horror, steamfunk, steampunk

SEEKING SHELTER

A powerful wind tore across the night sky.

A bitter chill gnawed at the back of Thomas Morgan’s pink neck.

He flipped up the collar of his overcoat and walked briskly up the lonely road. “It will be dark soon,” he whispered. “I must find shelter.”

Thomas continued on, thinking that the feeling of unmerciful winds biting into his flesh must be what it felt like to the countless number of slaves who had tasted the caustic sting of his whip.

The memory of his whip rending black flesh warmed him a bit and strengthened his resolve to continue on.

Finally, Thomas came upon a house. He crept up to it. The smell of cinnamon met him, caressing his nostrils. Thomas peeked through a window at the front of the house. Inside, an elderly Black couple sat before a flickering fire. Steam rose from their brass mugs as they sipped from them.

“Niggers,” Thomas hissed. To Thomas, ‘niggers’ were bad enough, but ‘Yankee niggers’ were the worst.

“Well, their nigger home looks warm,” He thought. “And niggers are too scared to turn away a white man seekin’ shelter.”

Thomas rapped gently on the door.

A moment later, a man’s voice called from the other side of the door. “Who’s there?”

“My name’s Morgan,” Thomas replied. “Thomas Morgan. My airship crashed about a half mile from here. I need a warm place to spend the night until I can find a tinkerer in the morning.”

The door opened a crack. A pair of brown eyes peered out. “You sound like a Southerner, Mr. Morgan,” the old man said.

“Born and raised,” Thomas said, tipping his bowler as he saluted the old man with a deep bow. “But my heart belongs to the North.”

“What brings you to Weeksville?” The old man inquired.

“I’ve been usin’ that ol’ airship of mine to transport runaways for Harriet Tubman,” Thomas lied. He wondered what this old coon would do if he told them that he was really headed to Auburn to kill ‘General Tubman’.

“You can stay,” the old man said. “If you tell me an’ my wife a good story.”

Thomas rubbed his numb fingers under his armpits. “Umm…there once was a man from Nantucket…”

“I said a good story!” The old man said, interrupting Thomas’ limerick.

“I wish I could, but I’m just a transporter of people and cargo,” Thomas said. “I don’t have no stories to tell.”

“Then, Godspeed, suh.” The door slammed shut.

“Black devil!” Thomas spat as he stormed away from the house.

He perused the area. A barn sat several yards behind the house. Thomas scurried toward the barn. He tugged at the door and it swung open. Inside, the barn was empty, save for a few farming tools strewn about and a large mound of straw that sat in a far corner.

Thomas dashed to the mound and dived into it. He burrowed deep into the mound, pulling straw over himself until he was completely covered. He quickly warmed up and, within moments, he was sound asleep.

****

“Drag that peckerwood in here!”

A gruff voice awakened him.

Thomas peered between a few blades of straw, seeking the source of the harsh, baritone voice that had startled him out of his slumber.

In the middle of the barn, illuminated by a single lantern, stood two of the largest men Thomas had ever seen in his life. One man stood about seven feet tall. His massive muscles strained against his leather overcoat as he rapidly rubbed two sticks together over a pile of twigs and dry leaves

The other man, nearly a foot taller than the first and just as massive, dragged something large and heavy across the floor.

Both men’s faces were concealed by the over-sized brims of their top-hats, but their hands were nearly black as pitch.

As the fire came to life and lit the barn, Thomas saw clearly what the man was dragging – the corpse of a portly white man. The flesh on the corpse’s neck was twisted into a sickening spiral pattern, as if someone – or something – had tried to screw his head off.

The first man tied a rope around the corpse’s feet. “Hang him from that beam and let’s roast him.”

The second man tossed the rope over the beam and pulled the corpse just above the fire. He then tethered the rope to a wooden column. “Now, you turn him so he roasts evenly.”

“I’m tired,” the first man replied. “Let Tom Morgan do it.”

Thomas shuddered. “How could they know I’m here? How do they know my name?”

“Come on out,” the second man bellowed.

Thomas crawled out of the mound of hay.

The first man yanked him to his feet. “Turn the corpse…and do not let it burn!”

Thomas’ mouth went dry and sourness gurgled in his throat. He nodded.

Thomas began to slowly turn the corpse over the fire.

The men turned from him. The first man snatched the barn door open. Moonlight poured into the barn, reflecting off the giants’ ebon skin.

“Keep turning, Tom,” the second man said as he disappeared into the night. “We’ll be back soon.”

Thomas shook as he turned the body over the fire.

A loud snap startled him. Suddenly, the corpse plummeted into the now raging flame. Sparks and ashes flew into the air and the barn filled with smoke.

“No!” Thomas screamed. “They’ll kill me!”

Thomas sprinted out the door and back onto the road. He raced into the frigid wind, fear keeping his legs pumping even though they ached terribly. When he could not run another step, he scurried into a muddy ditch, hiding behind a moist clump of overgrown weeds.

He had barely caught his breath when he heard thunderous footsteps upon the road above him.

“I am tired of carrying this charred, fat fool,” a gruff voice bellowed. “You carry him now.”

“Not me,” a second voice – as deep and gruff as the first – replied. “I’m tired. Let Tom Morgan do it.”

A loud thud exploded behind Thomas. He whirled toward the sound. Standing over him was the massive second man from the barn.

The man wrapped his thick fingers around Thomas’ neck and then hurled him high into the air.

Thomas winced as his buttocks slammed onto the road.

The first man snatched him onto his feet.

“Drag this body to Whitmore Ridge so we can bury it!” The first man ordered.

“But…but ain’t Whitmore Ridge about a mile from here?” Thomas asked.

“Move!” The first man commanded.

Thomas tucked the corpse’s feet under his armpits and shambled up the road, dragging the obese, bloated body behind him.

Thomas’ legs burned and his back felt as if it would fold in upon itself, but his fear of the twin black giants kept his taxed legs moving.

Finally, after what seemed to Thomas like hours, they reached Whitmore Ridge. Thomas dropped the corpse’s feet and then collapsed onto his knees.

“While you’re down there, start digging,” the first man snickered.

“With my hands?” Thomas sighed.

“Well, you can’t dig with my hands, can you?” The first man spat.

The second man tapped the first man on the shoulder and then pointed toward the reddening sky. “Sun’s coming.”

“It’s your lucky night, Tom Morgan,” the first man said. “If we could stay a bit longer, we’d bury you with that body.”

With that, the men sauntered away and soon disappeared up the road.

Thomas leapt to his feet and then sprinted down the road in the opposite direction of the giants. Soon, he came upon the same house with the barn behind it in which the two men had found him. He slammed his fists on the door.

The door swung open. The old man of the house stood before him.

“You, again?” The old man hissed.

“Please, sir,” Thomas cried. “Some crazed men made me do terrible things! Please, grant me a place to hide and to rest and I will reward you dearly.”

The old man stepped aside and Thomas staggered through the doorway.

“Take a seat,” the old man said, pointing toward a table with four large oak chairs.

Thomas plopped down in a chair. The old woman of the house – a petite Black woman with smooth, cocoa skin and white locks that fell to the middle of her back - placed a cup before him. Thomas inhaled. The contents of the cup smelled pleasantly of honey, cinnamon and nutmeg. Thomas took a sip. The tea warmed and relaxed him.

Suddenly, heavy footsteps came from the back of the house.

A shiver crawled up the back of Thomas’ neck.

The twin, ebon giants sauntered into the room.

“Have a seat, boys,” the old woman said. “Tom Morgan got a story to tell.”

THE UNMASKING OF AUNT TAMMY

18 Mar 2013 8 Comments

by Balogun in Afrofuturism, atlanta, Dark Fantasy, Fantasy, Science Fiction, Short Story, Speculative Fiction, Thriller, Urban Fiction Tags: atlanta child murders, black speculative fiction, mask

THE UNMASKING OF AUNT TAMMY

Amy closed her eyes and whispered a prayer as the great, stone mansion drew closer.

The ivory Rolls Royce Phantom crept along the winding road towards the immense structure, which loomed on the horizon.

“Fifteen years.” Amy said. Her perfect, white teeth reflected the shine from her gloss-moistened lips as she smiled.

“What?” The chauffeur peered at Amy through the rearview mirror.

“Fifteen years, Tosu,” Amy answered. “Fifteen years of my fellow Senior Executives’ racist, sexist, bullshit. Fifteen years of the black employees calling me ‘Aunt Tammy’ behind my back. It all ends tonight.”

Tosu’s broad shoulders danced back and forth as he chuckled. “Aunt Tammy?”

“Yes, Aunt Tammy, Amy replied. “A female ‘Uncle Tom’ – and that’s not funny, Tosu!”

“Of course, you are not an ‘Aunt Tammy’, little sister,” Tosu said. “Just because you prefer Frank Sinatra to Fifty-Cent…or because you prefer quinoa to cornbread…or because you prefer Steampunk to Street Lit does not mean you are an Uncle Tom or an Aunt Tammy…It does mean, however, that you have poor taste!”

Tosu and Amy laughed.

The driver looked over his shoulder at his little sister. “Today, all that you have endured pays off.”

Amy took a deep breath. “Yes, today it does…for us…”

“And for Malomo,” Tosu whispered, as he fought back the tears that threatened to pour from under his eyelids.

The Rolls Royce Phantom crept into the circular carport on the side of the mansion.

A short, lean, Asian woman – dressed in a blue, silk kimono – opened the door of the Rolls Royce for Amy. “Good afternoon, Ms. Cross,” The Asian woman said, smiling warmly. “My name is Yuriko Sakuraba. Mr. Emilianenko is eager to see you. Follow me please.”

Amy shuffled behind Yuriko, who escorted her to a pair of double doors within the mansion. The doors were carved from heavy African ironwood and inlaid with gold. “This is the dining room,” Yuriko began. “There are a few rules I must go over with you before you enter, but first, a quick search.”

Yuriko perused Amy’s face. Her expression told Amy that the security expert could see the fearlessness in her eyes. Fearlessness…and ferocity. Amy searched Yuriko’s eyes and saw the same.

Yuriko glided her lithe fingers across Amy’s athletic frame. Her skilled hands did not leave even the slightest wrinkle on Amy’s black shark-skin business suit. The search confirmed that Amy was unarmed.

“Now, the rules,” Yuriko began. “First, once you are seated, please remain so, unless you need to go to the restroom. If that is the case, please inform Mr. Emilianenko. He will call me on the radio and I will escort you.”

Amy nodded and Yuriko continued.

“Second, please refrain from any sudden gestures, or talking excessively with your hands.”

Amy smiled and nodded again. Yuriko nodded back at Amy and went on.

“Finally, just remember, I will be right outside this door if any assistance is needed.”

Amy nodded and held her smile. She knew that the final rule was actually a warning that if she tried to harm Mr. Emilianenko, she would have to deal with Yuriko. “I understand.”

Yuriko smiled and then pushed the double doors open. Amy stepped into the huge dining room behind Yuriko. The room was illuminated by a crystal chandelier, which hovered above a ten-foot long, mahogany table, which Amy figured to be over a hundred years old, judging by the hand-carved craftsmanship. Aside from the dining table and chairs, which sat in the middle of the room, the dining room was pretty bare, except for tropical plants, which sat in each corner and gave the room a fresh, pleasant smell that reminded Amy of cantaloupe, sprinkled with black pepper.

At the far end of the table sat Vasiliev Emilianenko, Amy’s boss. CEO of Biochem, Incorporated.

“Please, be seated.” Yuriko whispered.

Amy sat at the end of the table opposite Vasiliev.

Vasiliev waved a well-manicured hand as if swatting flies with the back of it. “You are dismissed, Ms. Sakuraba.”

Yuriko bowed and exited the dining room. Vasiliev turned his gaze toward Amy and grinned. “Good evening, Ms. Cross.”

“Good evening, Mr. Emilianenko.”

Vasiliev shook his head. His curly, black hair bounced slightly as his head moved from side to side. “Please, call me Vasiliev. May I call you Amy?”

Amy nodded. “Of course.”

Vasiliev smiled even wider. “So, Amy, let’s chat while we wait for our meal, yes?”

“Yes, Vasiliev.”

Vasiliev leaned forward in his chair and placed his arms upon the table. His massive arms strained against the sleeves of his soft, burgundy, silk smoking jacket. “So, you are my Vice President of International Affairs, yes?”

Amy nodded. “Yes.”

“And now, you are here to put in your bid for President, now that Radcliff Delmont has retired, yes?”

Amy swallowed and then nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“Well, Amy, I do not dine with V-Ps…only Presidents.” Vasiliev grinned and the light from the chandelier danced across his perfectly veneered teeth.

Amy patted her chest. “What?! You mean the position is mine?”

“Yes,” Vasiliev said. “You’ve earned it. I would be a fool not to promote the person responsible for a two-hundred and twelve percent increase in our international profits. If I do not promote you, my rivals will steal you away from me.”

Vasiliev laughed and then reached under the table and brought up a long white box. “Amy, I understand that you are quite the collector of masks.”

“Yes, Vasiliev,” Amy replied. “I’ve been collecting masks from all over Africa for the past two decades.”

“And I hear there has been one mask, in particular, that you desire, but it has eluded you, yes?”

“Yes, it is called ‘Oya’s Beard’. It is a rare Yoruba mask that depicts the Goddess Oya with a conical beard. “It represents women who possess the power of man, as well as woman.”

Vasiliev shoved the box down the table towards Amy. “I see…open the box, please.”

Amy caught the box as it slid over the edge of the table. She opened the box and peeked inside. “Oh, my God! Vasiliev…I don’t know how to thank you!”

She picked up the mask, sighing as she caressed its long, spike-like beard and dark, mahogany face.

Vasiliev pounded his fists on his broad chest. “That is my thanks to you! You have done so much for Biochem. This is just a small token of my appreciation…but, please, tell me…why such a fascination with masks, Amy?”

Amy stared into Vasiliev’s grey eyes. The time had finally come. “Paul Lawrence Dunbar said: ‘We wear the mask that grins and lies.’ I collect masks to remind me that there are many masks that we wear and I must never allow one of them to become my face.”

Vasiliev leaned forward again. “Explain, please.”

“We all wear masks and, many times, we wear them so long and so often that the mask becomes indistinguishable from the person. The mask has become the face. Thankfully, mine has not.”

Vasiliev smiled. “So, what mask do you wear, Amy?”

Amy patted her chest and then ran her hands across her face. “This is my mask. Amy Cross. Conservative…capitalist…loyal to the establishment…an Aunt Tammy.”

Vasiliev’s right hand crept closer to the two-way radio that sat at the corner of the table. “Continue, please.”

“But my face, Vasiliev, is Esusanya Ogunlana. Former operative of the OPC – Ododuwa People’s Congress…aunt of Malomo Ogunlana, who was a victim of the Atlanta Child Murders…remember those!?”

Vasiliev grabbed the two-way radio. Amy hurled the Oya’s Beard mask towards him. The spiked chin of the mask tore through his esophagus, piercing his spine.

The tip of the mask’s chin protruded from the back of Vasiliev’s neck. His shoulders bounced up and down involuntarily and his legs jerked back and forth in a sardonic tap-dance. The two-way radio was frozen in Vasiliev’s right hand. His eyes stared, unblinking, at Amy’s – or Esusanya’s – chest.

Esusanya was a blur as she sprung from her chair and darted across the room until she was directly behind Vasiliev. She placed her full lips to Vasiliev’s ear and whispered: “Within the next ninety seconds, you will be dead, so let’s make this brief. I know you were responsible for the death of my nephew and all those other boys. I know that you had those boys kidnapped and murdered in order to harvest their melanin and sell it to the highest bidder to use in their tanning lotions, sunblockers and contact lenses. I know you, Vasiliev Emilianenko…your mask has been removed!”

Vasiliev’s eyes rolled back in his head, his body spasmed once…twice…and then slumped forward until his head rested on the dining table.

Esusanya sauntered to the double doors and placed her hands upon the handles. “I’ll have to soak in Epsom salts after this.”

She then opened the doors to face Yuriko Sakuraba…and a life with no masks.

THE MAKING OF A STEAMFUNKATEER: Creating a Steamfunk Persona

13 Mar 2013 7 Comments

by Balogun in Adventure, Afrofuturism, Dark Fantasy, Dieselpunk, Fantasy, Historical Fiction, Science Fiction, Short Story, Speculative Fiction, Steampunk Tags: nerfpunk, persona, steamfunk, steamfunkateer, steampunk

THE MAKING OF A STEAMFUNKATEER: Creating a Steamfunk Persona

What is a Persona?

A persona is the fictional person you wish to have been had you lived during the period of time your Steamfunk setting covers, or had you lived in the world in which your Steamfunk stories are set.

Creating a persona takes some thought, a bit of time and a little research.

Deciding who to be is a fun and creative process. If you find it difficult to come up with a persona and a back-story, remember – do not take yourself too seriously and relax. The ideas will soon flow.

Here are some steps to assist you in the development of a Steamfunk persona:

Decide Upon a Time Period

Choose a particular historical occurrence you want your character to have been around for and, possibly, to have participated in; or choose a time you would like to further reinvent, or explore, or think had cool clothes.

Choose a Culture

Decide what culture your persona is from – are they from the Mandinka of Mali? A group of runaway slaves, now living in their own city in Mexico? The Black British underclass?

Research the clothes worn by your chosen culture during your chosen time period and establish your persona’s dress style.

Choose an occupation and / or skill set based on those used and valued by your chosen culture; or you can choose to be a cultural anomaly that travelled and learned abroad and now uses the skills of other cultures with those of your own.

The reason you need to select a culture and time period first is that it’s easier to determine what names were in use at a particular time and place. If you choose a name first then you may find it difficult to fit it in with the culture your character is from. Naming your persona Shaka Vusumazulu, a Zulu name, would not make much sense if your character is from the Oyo Empire (of what is now called Nigeria).

Select a Name

Every culture had its own naming ceremonies, practices, or manner in which names were given. Investigate the culture and see what kind of names they chose and how and why they chose them.

It is best to be as authentic as possible when selecting a name, because your name can open doorways to activities and points of interest for you to investigate in developing your persona’s history.

If your persona is from the Oyo Empire, for example, your name would represent your mission, your power and your challenge. Your surname would traditionally be given first, as family lineage is very important, and then the names you were given through various ceremonies (including your naming ceremony after your birth), initiations and deeds. If you wear a title, that is given before your surname. My real name – and title – for instance, would be said this way traditionally: Balogun Ojetade Farinmola Aregbesola Efunsegun Ogunyemi Oyabode Abeegunde Ige. My title is Balogun, which means “War Chief” and my surname is Ojetade, which means “The Ancestors are Royal”, indicating my lineage is a royal one. Each of my names tells a bit more about me. To know my entire name is to know my story in a nutshell. As my accomplishments increase; as my life expands, so will my names.

Once you finally decide upon a name, write it down and have your friends pronounce it. Do you like the way it sounds rolling off the tongue of others? Does the name lend itself to jokes or teasing and if so, can you handle that? I once introduced myself to a gentleman as “Balogun”. He responded with “What’s up, Bag-of-Bones?” I found that hilarious and clever, as I was very thin at the time. Others might have not found the humor in that; something to consider before making a final choice on a name.

Flesh-Out the Details

Once you have settled on a name, a culture and a time period, you can stop there. You may simply be Serengeti Jones, a 19th century British ex-slave turned monster hunter; or, you can go into depth, developing the ins and outs of your persona through research and imagination. For example, you may be Serengeti Jones, hailing from the City of Westminster, former valet of Lord Alouicious Jones – member of the London Hunter’s Guild and Lord of the House of the Red Wolf. During an expedition in Kenya, your former master was killed by a rabid leopard – the same leopard you killed with your steam-powered slingshot. Seeing this as a God-sent opportunity for freedom, you fled into the wilds of Kenya, leaving Lord Alouicious’ young son, Brent, to fend for himself. You soon discovered that Brent has become a Simbada – a were-lion – who terrorizes the village that took you in. You now hunt Brent and his lycanthropic kin.

Your persona’s back-story can be as simple or complex as you choose. Just have fun with it.

Of course, to create a more multifaceted persona will take time and research. So you don’t feel overwhelmed and so this stays fun, you can start slow and simple, adding more details to your persona’s story as you go along.

Some questions you can use to help develop a detailed history for your persona are:

Would your persona have been literate in your chosen culture/time-frame?

What type of clothes does your persona normally wear?

What type of clothes does your persona wear for special occasions?

How did people of your culture/time-frame tell time?

How did people of your culture/time-frame keep track of days?

What kind of religion and religious duties would be required of your persona?

What does your persona know of history/science/medicine/geography?

What type of money did people of your culture/time-frame use?

How does your persona personally obtain goods and services?

What were the eating habits of people of your culture/time-frame?

What does your persona eat in a normal day?

What types of wildlife live in your persona’s area?

How did people of your culture/time-frame deal with trade?

Who are your culture’s allies and enemies?

What are the military tactics and strategies of your culture?

Funkdafying Your Fashion

In building your persona, be sure that your chosen style of dress makes the statement you want it to. This statement can be bold, or subtle; serious, or humorous; frightening, or inspiring. Know that all fashion makes a statement, so what you put on will reveal things about your persona (and yourself).

You can spice up your costume with various props and trappings. Goggles, top-hats, bowlers / derbies (yes, they are the same – it is a bowler in the UK and a derby in the U.S.) and modified Nerf guns are common accoutrements in Steampunk.

Yes, I said Nerf guns.

See?

Hell, you could get really funky with your Steamfunk and mash it up with a little Nerfpunk. What the hell is “Nerfpunk” you ask? It’s this:

Heck, if you can Steampunk your Nerf, why not Nerf your Steampunk?

Personally, I am a fan of masks and masquerades. I am fascinated by them and by the implications of the mask becoming the face. I have even written stories about it and one of my favorite poems is We Wear the Mask, which was actually written in the Age of Steam, by Paul Laurence Dunbar:

We Wear the Mask

WE wear the mask that grins and lies,
It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes,—
This debt we pay to human guile;
With torn and bleeding hearts we smile,
And mouth with myriad subtleties.

Why should the world be over-wise,
In counting all our tears and sighs?
Nay, let them only see us, while
We wear the mask.

We smile, but, O great Christ, our cries
To thee from tortured souls arise.
We sing, but oh the clay is vile
Beneath our feet, and long the mile;
But let the world dream otherwise,
We wear the mask!

Soon, many a Steamfunkateer will don masks as part of their personas with the coming of a new and beautiful Steamfunk line of masks from master mask-maker, Shay Lhea, who is taking inspiration from my Steamfunk short stories and from the funktastic stories in the Steamfunk anthology. I am also creating a series of short stories based on the back stories she created for each of her masks. Be sure to check those out on Shay’s Oculto Masks website.

Creating a Steamfunkateer can be a rewarding – and challenging experience. Push the limits of your creativity and have fun with it. And, of course, always…always…keep it funky!

STEAMFUNK IS A TURKEY DRUMSTICK!

08 Mar 2013 7 Comments

by Balogun in Adventure, Afrofuturism, Dark Fantasy, Fantasy, Harriet Tubman, Historical Fiction, Science Fiction, Short Story, Speculative Fiction, Steampunk, Writers Workshop Tags: alternate history, steamfunk, steampunk

STEAMFUNK IS A TURKEY DRUMSTICK

I recently made a comparison between Steamfunk and bacon and made the bold claim that the Steamfunk anthology is, indeed, tastier.

The BLA – Bacon Lovers of America – was up in arms! Ironically, the Turkey Bacon and Vegetarian Bacon branches of this powerful and imposing organization were the most vehement.

For my safety and the safety of my family – who loves bacon (in case the BLA is monitoring this post), by the way – I have decided, for this post, to reserve my comparisons to turkey.

Not the whole turkey, mind you…just a turkey drumstick.

Recently, it was said to me that “Research isn’t necessary. After all, I am just writing fiction. A simple ‘it happens’ should suffice.” To that, I say that the reader is more sophisticated than you give them credit for.

I would also say that fiction is not the art of just ‘making things up’. Fiction – especially Steamfunk and other forms of Alternate History / Alternate Reality – is a turkey drumstick: It is the bone of reality covered by the meat of creativity. Meaning, at the core of good Steamfunk is reality and then you add layer after layer of creativity around that core.

For me, Steamfunk allows me to explore, question and alter history.

I use history as a source and creative tool in most of my writing. Real world history has heavily influenced my writing since elementary school, since –after English – History was my favorite subject. History has been used as a source of terror in most of my writings, and speculative history is a major part of my Steamfunk and Sword & Soul settings.

Among all spheres of knowledge, History – as a device for storytelling – best rewards our research. It is not the absolute that it is often treated as, however. From the perspective of the present, the past cannot be known with great certainty. Thus, history tells stories of past events, and – like all stories – is told by someone for a purpose.

History can be used to enlighten, educate, entertain, inspire, and influence.

Alternate History

Two history types are very useful for writing fiction: Imaginative History is history that is wholly created. This is the history of most fantasy worlds.

The other type is Speculative History. This includes the “what if” of alternate history, as well as the projection of possible events into the future, which is the history of most science fiction settings.

Both types use historical analysis to generate a plausible set of events. This allows us, as writers, to tap into these created histories to add depth and life to our stories.

By far, the simplest technique is to take a bit of real world history and use it for inspiration. Alter a few things, combine fragments together, and you can create something with depth and character.

Begin with a change point – a historical event that you want to alter. From there, you can move on, creating changes until you end at the point your story begins. There are two theories with regards to change points. On one hand you can choose a major event, such as Germany winning WWII, the African Slave Trade never happening, or Frederick Douglass becoming President. The other theory is to change one small event and write what happens as a result, such as President Obama choosing Hillary Clinton as his Vice President, or Martin Luther King avoiding assassination.

Of course, you can combine these theories and come up with something really unique.

Whatever you decide to write, the next step is to show how and why the change in history occurred. For smaller changes, this is easier. The larger changes often require a summation of smaller changes, which result in the larger change. The earlier the change point, the greater the ‘snowball’ effect of changes. To be believable, you must do your research. Otherwise, you may make a mistake in some detail in setting or dialogue and readers who have done their research – a common phenomenon in science fiction and fantasy – are going to call you out on it. The readers’ suspension of disbelief will fade; they will close your book; and they will tell the world – via all the social media sites – how much your book sucks.

Although you do not need to be an expert, it helps to be well versed in history. I cannot stress enough that, if you are going to write speculative history, you must research…research…research!

Alternate Reality

You sit down to write a new story or novel. You want your story to be alternate history, with strong elements of fantasy and science fiction mixed. In fact, you want your story to be about Harriet Tubman. You want the world she operates in to be of the Steampunk subgenre and you want her – and others in her world – to possess “superpowers” (by the way, this has already been done in a cool and funktastic manner). What you are now writing is Alternate Reality – you are going to have to change not just history, but reality itself.

This means adding magic, anachronistic science based on clockwork mechanics and steam technology, psionics, super powers and the like. As with the altering of history, this will cause cascading effects on the timeline that need to be addressed.

If magic is possible, what does that mean to history? How would aether-based physics effect the development of social and political structures? If people can read minds, what does that do to concepts of privacy? If you have people flying around and throwing horses over houses, what purpose does society put these powers to? These are questions intrinsic to certain genres, but they also apply to the alternate history that introducing changes in reality can bring.

One of the pitfalls of altering reality is that suspension of disbelief becomes an issue. The degree to which you convince the reader these things are possible depends – once again – on the degree of your research and on your level of creativity.

Steamfunk is a turkey drumstick.

A grilled one; which tastes better than a baked one…and way better than a boiled one.

Hmm…is there a Boiled Turkey Lovers of America?

Hope not.

Here’s a list of some of my fellow Steamfunkateers. We’re celebrating the release of Steamfunk, so check out their sites for a funky overdose – which, unlike most overdoses, is a good thing!

Milton Davis – Milton Davis is owner/publisher of MVmedia, LLC . As an author he specializes in science fiction and fantasy and is the author of Meji Book One, Meji Book Two and Changa’s Safari. Visit him: www.mvmediaatl.com andwww.wagadu.ning.com .

Ray Dean – Growing up in Hawaii, Ray Dean had the opportunity to enjoy nearly every culture under the sun. The Steamfunk Anthology was an inspiration she couldn’t pass up. Ray can be reached at http://www.raydean.net/.

Malon Edwards – Born and raised on the South Side of Chicago, Malon Edwards now lives in the Greater Toronto Area. Much of his speculative fiction features people of color and is set in his hometown. Malon can be reached ateastofmars.blogspot.com.

Valjeanne Jeffers – is an editor and the author of the SF/fantasy novels: Immortal, Immortal II: The Time of Legend and Immortal III: Stealer of Souls, Immortal IV: Collision of Worlds and The Switch: Clockwork. Visit her at: http://valjeanne.wordpress.com and http://qandvaffordableediting.blogspot.com/ .

Rebecca M. Kyle – With a birthday on Friday 13, it’s only natural that the author is fascinated with myths, legends, and oddities of all kinds. Ms. Kyle lives with her husband, four cats, and more rocks and books than she cares to count between the Smokies and Cumberland mountains. Visit her at http://bexboox13.blogspot.com/.

Carole McDonnell – is a writer of Christian, supernatural, and ethnic stories. Her writings appear in various anthologies, including So Long Been Dreaming: Postcolonialism in Science Fiction, edited by Nalo Hopkinson; Jigsaw Nation; and Life Spices from Seasoned Sistahs: Writings by Mature Women of Color among others. Her reviews appear in print and at various online sites. Her novels are the Christian speculative fiction, Wind Follower, and The Constant Tower. Her Bible study is called: Seeds of Bible Study. Her website is http://carolemcdonnell.blogspot.com/.

Balogun Ojetade – Author of the bestselling “Afrikan Martial Arts: Discovering the Warrior Within” (non-fiction), “Moses: The Chronicles of Harriet Tubman” (Steamfunk); “Once Upon A Time in Afrika” (Sword and Soul); “Redeemer” (Urban Fantasy) and the film, “A Single Link” and “Rite of Passage”. Finally, he is Co-Author of “Ki-Khanga: The Anthology” and Co-Editor of “Steamfunk!” Visit him: http://chroniclesofharriet.com/.

Hannibal Tabu – is a writer, a storyteller, and by god, a fan. He has written the novels, “The Crown: Ascenscion” and “Faraway” and the upcoming scifi political thriller “Rogue Nation.” He is currently the co-owner and editor-in-chief of Black geek website Komplicated at the Good Men Project, and uses his Operative Network website (www.operative.net) to publish his poetry, market what he’s doing, rant at the world and emit strangled cries for help.

Geoffrey Thorne – Geoffrey Thorne has written a lot of stuff in a lot of venues and will be writing more in more. It’s his distinct pleasure to take part in another of these groundbreaking anthologies. Thanks for letting me roll with you folks. For more (and God knows why you’d want more) check outhttp://www.geoffreythorne.com/.

STEAMFUNK IS…

06 Mar 2013 14 Comments

by Balogun in Adventure, Afrofuturism, Dark Fantasy, Fantasy, Harriet Tubman, Historical Fiction, Science Fiction, Short Story, Speculative Fiction, Steampunk Tags: age of steam, black science fiction, steamfunk, steampunk

STEAMFUNK IS…

Life lived in a fabricated Age of Steam.

To fabricate means to “invent or create.”

Thus, Steamfunk, at its root, is the invention or creation of a story set in the “Age of Steam”. For the authors of Steamfunk, this Age is not limited to the Victorian Era (1837 – 1901). A Steamfunk story can take place in the past, present or future, as long as steam technology is the dominant technology in that story’s world.

My story, The Hand of Sa-Seti is set in 12^th Century Kamit (A nation akin to ancient Egypt), while Black Caesar: The Stone Ship Rises is a Steamfunk tale set in the Caribbean of the 18^th Century and Nandi is set in 1973 California.

All are Steamfunk; all are very different from one another.

As far as the “blackness” in the stories goes, co-editor and publisher, Milton Davis says “In some of the stories, the main character happened to be Black; but, in others, the main character had to be Black.”

One story in which the main character had to be Black is Benjamin’s Freedom Magic by Ronald Jones. Benjamin’s Freedom Magic is based on the amazing life of the very real Benjamin Montgomery, an enslaved genius who was also one of the greatest inventors in modern history.

Born in Virginia in 1819, Benjamin was owned by Joseph E. Davis, older brother of future Confederate president, Jefferson Davis. Benjamin was a mechanic who used his skill to invent a propeller that allowed steamboats to maneuver through shallow water with greater ease and safety. In the late 1850s, he attempted to get a patent for his invention. According to author, Ronald Jones “Not surprisingly, the U.S. Attorney General’s office refused to grant a patent to a slave. When the Davis brothers tried to patent Benjamin’s invention, they were denied as well, due to neither being the true inventor; how ironic that, when Jefferson Davis became president of the Confederacy, he enacted a law making it possible for slaves to patent their inventions.”

Upon the end of the Civil War, Joseph Davis sold his plantation and other properties to Benjamin and Benjamin’s son, Isaiah. The sale was made based on a long-term loan in the amount of $300,000.00. Benjamin and Isaiah decided to pursue a dream of using the property to establish a community of freed slaves.

Like Benjamin Montgomery, Ronald Jones – one of the greatest Military Science Fiction writers in modern history – used his skill and genius to fabricate a story from a man’s amazing life that is even more amazing; one filled with intrigue, action and wondrous gadgets.

Steamfunk is… Life lived in a fabricated Age of Steam.

And the heroes and heroines in every story in the Steamfunk anthology live those lives with great pain, weariness, vigor, ambition or zest.

Steamfunk is a life, or, for some of our more zealous Steamfunkateers, Steamfunk is life; however, it is somehow larger than life; more wondrous; more…funky.

And, for the record, the life that is Steamfunk is not “Black Steampunk”; no more than Steampunk is, well, White Steampunk. Steamfunk offers a look at Steampunk through a different set of goggles. Goggles with colorful lenses.

But, alas, I wax poetic. If you really want a great definition of Steamfunk, pick up the Steamfunk anthology. It can provide a much clearer definition than I ever could…and you’ll have the time of your life reading it, too.

Please, check out some of the incredibly talented and skilled contributors to the Steamfunk anthology:

BECAUSE IT’S TASTIER THAN BACON AND THICKER THAN THREE-DAY OLD GRITS!

26 Feb 2013 15 Comments

by Balogun in Adventure, Afrofuturism, atlanta, Dark Fantasy, Fantasy, Harriet Tubman, Historical Fiction, Science Fiction, Short Story, Speculative Fiction, Steampunk Tags: bacon, steamfunk, steampunk

BECAUSE IT’S TASTIER THAN BACON AND THICKER THAN THREE-DAY OLD GRITS!

That’s “Why should you read Steamfunk?” for a thousand dollars, Alex!

While some might argue that nothing is tastier than bacon – Steamfunk is certainly tastier than turkey bacon and, without a doubt, is thicker than three-day old grits.

See?

Now, I would argue that Steamfunk is much tastier than bacon. Whether you agree or not, however, you must agree that Steamfunk and bacon share some uncanny similarities.

Let’s explore the worldwide love affair with bacon and how it is indicative of the success of Steamfunk:

Why do we love bacon?

According to a recent scientific study, it is due to the Maillard Reaction, a form of nonenzymatic browning, which results from a chemical reaction between an amino acid and a reducing sugar. This reaction produces a wide range of molecules that vary in flavor and smell and is what gives us the flavor of toasted bread, roasted coffee, chocolate, caramel and – of course – bacon.

Bacon is made of mostly protein, water and fat. The protein is made up of the building blocks we call amino acids. The fat contains reducing sugars. Get that bacon really hot and the Maillard Reaction starts. And the smell of that sizzling bacon is enough to tempt even the staunchest of vegetarians.

And somehow you know, dear vegetarians…there is something deeper going on inside that sizzling meat. There’s some complex chemistry going on.

Well, the funky goodness that is Steamfunk occurs just like that bacon.

Scientists refer to the phenomenon as the Davis-Ojetade Reaction, a form of creativity and determination born out of a desire to see great Steampunk stories told from an African and African-American perspective (that includes both North and South America, by the way).

After a conversation with other authors online, in which we decided to tell our stories in this fascinating subgenre of science fiction and fantasy called Steampunk and to call such stories Steamfunk, Milton Davis decided to produce an anthology of Steamfunk stories. I came to Milton and offered my services as Co-Editor, extolling my knowledge of Steampunk, my Steamfunk / Steampunk blog and my Steamfunk book. After about five minutes of contemplation, Milton sighed “Okay, you can be Co-Editor.” And followed this with a barely whispered “Damn!”

I think that “Damn!” Was Milton’s way of saying “Oh, happy day,” or something to that effect.

We then posted a call for submissions and received a surprising twenty-one – we didn’t know so many people were interested in telling Steamfunk stories. While all of the stories were incredible, we picked the twelve most funktastic ones and Milton and this author added a story each to this Blacknificent mix.

Marcellus Shane Jackson created some hot artwork and voila…Steamfunk was born.

And somehow you know, dear reader…there is something deeper going on inside that sizzling cover. With such a diverse and talented group of authors, there is some complex chemistry going on.

And the funk created by this thrilling anthology is enough to tempt the staunchest Steampunk and the most reluctant of readers.

But taste for yourself. Pick up a paperback copy of Steamfunk, or grab one for your Kindle or Nook.

You can thank me for all that funky goodness later.

You can also thank some of the other authors – who have graciously joined the blog tour of the anthology – while you’re at it. They are:

chronicles of harriet

DO BLACK PEOPLE REALLY DO THIS STUFF? First, Steamfunk; Now, Rococoa!

THE LEAGUE OF EXTRAORDINARY BLACK PEOPLE: Black Folk Heroes in the Age of Steam!

RITE OF PASSAGE: The Web

RITE OF PASSAGE: The Web

****

****

****

STEAMFUNK FICTION: A Darker Shade of Brown

SEEKING SHELTER: A Steamfunk Tale

THE UNMASKING OF AUNT TAMMY

THE MAKING OF A STEAMFUNKATEER: Creating a Steamfunk Persona

STEAMFUNK IS A TURKEY DRUMSTICK!

STEAMFUNK IS…

BECAUSE IT’S TASTIER THAN BACON AND THICKER THAN THREE-DAY OLD GRITS!

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