Skye, from Becoming Hero--Character Interview

I've never gone to a superhero's house before. I wish I had--someone's living space tells you a lot about them, and I would've loved to meet Natasha's mom. Oh well. Ding-dong, goes the doorbell by a little screen door that looks like it was installed in the 80s, and then the door opens and there's a tiny middle-aged Japanese-American woman in--

"Is that your rapper outfit?" I joke.

She takes off the beanie and adjusts the sagging pants. She's not joking. "Mmhm. You've caught me recording. Can I help you?"

"I was actually here to talk to Skye--I'm a volunteer with his mentorship program at school. But now, wow, I just have so many questions!"

Interview with Natasha, a superhero from #BecomingHero (Comic coming May 2016; Book Summer 2017)

It's interview time again, but this time we're on a rooftop overlooking a city with the wind in our faces and only a hint of motor oil smell filtering up from the streets below. A river sparkles in the sunset as tugboats and industrial ships honk, and thunder sounds even though there isn't a cloud in the sky.

The thunder grows nearer, and rocketing towards us like a shooting star, arrives Natasha. Natasha lands with a thud on the rooftop, her fists pounding the cement before her knees hit. "You wanted to talk to me?"

She's my favorite.

"Yeah, yeah I did." I shake as she offers me her solid grip. The rings over her gloves pinch me a little; I point at them. "Those are cool."

"The Ice Cream Shop"--Short story/Character Interview: Lem Benzaran, Neodymium Series

I cringe as the lock to the ice-cream shop finally gives with a crack and the door swings open, banging against the wall behind it. The mottled counter, the spick and span ice cream machines, and the pop dispensers all cast creepy shadows over the turquoise tile floor, and only the shop's logo floating mid-air over the counter betrays the 1950s ambiance, revealing that I'm in an alternate future world where ice cream is lumpy and beat-downs take place over root-beer floats.

Forget-Me-Not Release Day: Interview with an invisible girl on the run

Do you have any idea how hard it is to create a pocket dimension?

It takes more than a little newt blood and bubble bubble, that's for sure. But the girl I'm about to interview just landed herself in so much bad juju, there's literally nowhere in her world I can pop in for a little Q&A. Anamae's a senior in high school who works part time at a local diner, Joe's, and when you first meet her in the book she's at home with her Dad—but all those places? Totally off-limits and guarded by a mysterious, evil organization called the Collective. She's holed up now in a protected area with an interdimensional shield, so I've had to make a pocket dimension to get in touch with her for this interview. See how hard I work for you?

Hey, shut up, here she comes.

I rise as Anamae enters the little study, her steps muffled by thick wine-colored carpet. The curious teenager glances around for a second at the mahogany bookshelves covering the walls, and at the two overstuffed burgundy arm-chairs, before shaking my hand.

“Sorry,” I say. “It's not usually this formal. I just like old-fashioned studies. Have a seat! Anything you say isn't real, anything that happens here isn't real, and everything you see is less than a dream to you, so you can, you know, cut loose. Or not! No pressure. I'm a big fan by the way. So.” I grin as we both take a seat—“What's the craziest thing that's happened to you lately?”

“Now that's a loaded question.” She leans in and lowers her voice to a whisper: “The other day when I was having a bit of fun with Will, we found this old pendant and, oh my gosh, it turned me freaking invisible. Can you believe that? I put it on and poof, gone. 

I still can’t believe it. Who knew stuff like that actually existed.”                    

“Apparently you're not supposed to, huh? So, we couldn't meet at your house because of the Collective. But your father's still at home, so what do you think is happening with him?”

“Gosh, it’s so hard to tell,” she sighs. “The whole pendant thing led to a whole slew of trouble. I’m scared that may have caused the weirdness. I don’t know though; there’s something a bit...not right going on.”

She looks stressed—obviously, I mean, who likes saying something's wrong with her dad?—and as guarded as she is I'm not ready for the interview to get stressful yet, so I stand and pull two books off the shelf. “Coffee or tea?” I ask.

“Coffee,” she says, glancing around for a clock. There is none. “Only in the mornings though, I can’t wake up properly without it. Any other time of the day, I prefer water.”

“Is it morning here? Let's pretend it's morning, do you feel morning-ish? I do. Here.” I open the fattest of the two books and from its hollow innards pull out a steaming mug of Colombian roast to hand her. I open the other book for a chai tea and sit back down. “So who do you live with usually, Anamae?”

“I live with my Dad, there’s just the two of us. But after the incident with the invisibility...” she shakes her head. “Sheesh, home’s not all that safe. I’m hiding out at this place Al calls a ‘safe house’.”

My eye sparkles like a fangirl's. “Any potential romance there?”

“Ha! Now there’s a likely story. The dog’s pretty cool,” she winks.

You do know you're in a scifi romance novel, right? I'm laughing inside. “Heh, well I guess you've definitely got bigger things on your mind right now,” I say. “Let's talk about that—what's your dearest dream for the future, Anamae?”

“That somehow my family is reunited. I miss my mom something fierce.” She answers without a droplet of doubt—but then pauses. “There’s not a lot of hope that she’s still alive, but deep inside, I kind of feel like she is.”

“What's your sweetest memory from the past? Is it—about her?”

“I have a few. Mom and I used to visit central park a lot when I was younger. She’d always order a takeout coffee and we’d sit on one the benches talking, or I’d play.”

My tea tastes heartsick for a moment; I put it down. I always want to console my interviewees and don't usually know how, and now I gotta bust out the big one. I force down another sip. “Anamae, what are you most afraid of?”

“Boy, that’s another tough one.” She takes a second to respond, but when she does, she sounds pensive, not tremulous. “I think I’m afraid of being alone. That this thing with my Dad won’t get better, that Mom will never be found, that I’ll lose Will too. Without the people I love, I’m not sure I could go on.”

That's that. Nothing fancy, just quiet honesty and a soft, faraway glance into the coffee mug.

“Wow,” I breathe. “You are by far the calmest person I have ever interviewed. With everything you're going through, I think I call that bravery.”

Her face colors just a tiny bit as she shrugs; I smile and gesture with my cup towards the blue pendant she's wearing. “So you've got the little thing that started the trouble here with you. I wanted to ask: turning invisible is kind of cool, but it's not exactly something you chose—if you could choose one superpower, what would it be?”

“You know, that question is kind of irrelevant considering all the cool tech around. Anyone can be a superhero if you know where and how to find it,” she grins. “Just don’t let the Collective catch you. Yeah, that wouldn’t be very good. All of that aside though, I wouldn’t mind being able to travel through time. There sure are some things I’d do differently.”

Like what?

But she stands and whirls, as if she hears someone calling her name, and before I can ask the bookshelves begin to morph into stardust. I'm not a very good pocket-dimension-maker, apparently: the chairs dissolve into piles of sand, grass shoots out of the carpet, and my tea begins to bubble over out of my cup, and before I can become some kind of Alice-in-Wonderland knock-off I smash my mug on the coffee table to close the dimension. Interview over.

And Anamae's gone, back to the world where she's a criminal for knowing something.

If you want to find out what Anamae would do differently, you'll have to follow her into that world. You can check out her story at Goodreads (http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/18130928-forget-me-not), on Amazon and through the Entranced Publishing website. You can follow Anamae's author, Stacey, on twitter, or on Facebook. Anamae is part of a whole series, so you'll probably want to follow her author to find out when the new books come out!

I leave you with one last little tidbit.

(http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MXQ1SigOhx0&feature=youtu.be)

Character Interview: White One, from Nezumi's Children by T.L. Bodine (What's it like to be a rat?)

Purchase the novel here

Sometimes I bend my body to obey the Rules. Today's protagonist is white, fluffy, naked-tail'd, and about the size of my human fist, so to interview her--

Well, I'm disguised as a rat.

It's tough for me to coordinate four limbs in a scamper, but I've got crawling down. The main thing that gets me is the swap between vision and smell--wow the smells! It's like I've been blind all my life, and now I see a painting, a broad palette of scents all speaking to me about--

About how I smell really human. Crap. Totally overlooked this in my transmogrification--just like a human would. I lick myself, but it doesn't help. Now I smell like a human covered in spit.

Well, the show must go on.

I creep to one corner of the plexiglass, wire-mesh, 36'' by 8'' cage on the floor of the pet shop and whisper to the nearest rat inside. "Hello?"

Her nose wrinkles; she slips closer to me, staring at me through the mesh.

"Hey, I have some questions for you!" I say.

"Never mind me," she says. "I have some questions for you! What are you?"

"I'm the Traveller. What's your name?"

"They call me White One. It's not a proper name, but it's what they call me for now, and I can't deny it's practical. Among all of the others, I am the white one."

Oh, good! I've got the right rat.

"How old are you?" I ask.
"I'm five months old," she says. That's just the age where rats reach social maturity and work out their rank within the colony. So she's like--a college kid. A college kid with a curious nose twitching and sniffing up and down without pausing, like a little motor. "What's going on?" she asks me.

"What do you mean?"

"There's something happening outside. No one seems to know what it is, but it's making us all on edge. The prophet is calling it a 'storm.' That might be true. What I know: The air smells damp, and I feel a tingling in my whiskers like something big is about to happen. I wish I could get outside to get a proper look at it."

Her eyes seem to sharpen, or glimmer at me with meaning. I grimace; my tail stiffens. "I get the hint. But I can't help you get out, and I can't tell you what's going on--and I actually mean can't, not may not, or don't want to. I wish I could, but my freedom to travel comes with some handicaps."

She digests that for a moment; I don't know how long I've got before her story begins, but my whiskers are tingling too and I don't want to die, so I jump right in with the biggest questions.

"What's your biggest fear?"
She's still hung up on the whole "outside"-thing. "None of us know what happens when we leave this place.  If you ask Nezumi, the Beyond is like a paradise. If you ask Monster, it's just another cage, a trap loaded with danger. I think they're both right, but probably both wrong as well, and I can't be satisfied with not knowing for sure." She flicks her tail and looks away from me, beyond me. "I'm afraid of never finding out what actually rests outside. But I'm more afraid that I'll get outside and discover that there was really nothing to discover in the first place. Does that make sense? I've tried telling the others that, but they look at me like I've gone mad."

"Well, they're just more easily satisfied than you are," I say. "I understand you--but you probably understand them a little, too, right? You like some things about where you are. Food, for example--what's your favorite food?"

"Every so often, the Great Ones give us a mix of seeds with our kibble, and there's peanuts in them, still in the shell. A lot of them have gone sour with age, but when they're fresh they're the very best. Sometimes we fight over them. Usually it's Cookie who gets hold of them first, but she'll drop them when Bitey challenges her, and I can just sneak in and get them while they tussle. No one ever notices. I think it makes them taste better."

I like the glimmer in her eye, and the way she gnashes her teeth when she says that. I feel my rat-tummy getting grumbly--I distract myself. "And sounds," I say. "What's your favorite sound?"

"Footsteps approaching.  When the sky opens, food comes, and I can get a little glimpse of outside -- and the sky always opens after footsteps sound outside."

"You really want out, don't you." I'm smiling or smirking--I think. I don't know how rats smile. "It's like your personal dream or something."

She twitches her ears 'yes.' "Once, I ran free in the Beyond," she says. "It was a brief moment -- just a few minutes before they caught me and dropped me back in the cage -- but it was amazing. The smells! There was so much out there to explore. I ache to see it again."

"Well--I'm sure you will. Am I allowed to say that?" I glance around as if the Rules might get me. I whisper. "White One, you've got big things ahead of you. Be--careful."

I look around again. That tingling she mentioned--it's tickling my whole face now, and I think I hear an ominous rumble in the distance. I need to get out of here before everything goes to rat-poop--but--

Just a few more questions. I don't know when I'll get an opportunity like this again.

"Hey, could you tell me a little more about--what's it like, being a rat?"

She tilts her head. "What's it like being something else?"

That's easy. "Like you've lost your sense of smell, and your eyes fill up with details and colors you've never imagined--you can't see ultraviolet anymore, though, so no signatures in pee--but far away things look clear, and you're very big and clumsy on your hind-paws but really, really precise with your front-paws."

She parses that for a second. I'm sure by now she's figured from the smell I share my species with the things that feed her--and sure enough, she says,

"Well, imagine that you are very small, very cunning, but ultimately weaker than nearly everything else around you. Even when you're completely safe from predators, you know in your bones that the safety won't last. You have to be ready to run at any minute. You have to stick with the others. You have to keep your eyes and ears and whiskers looking for danger at every second, because you could be food for something else at any moment.  You know this, and you've always known this, but you can't let it consume you. It's just a part of who you are. That's what being a rat means."

My turn to pause. "You know, maybe that ever-present danger is what being alive means. Maybe huma--uh, my species--just tries to spend a lifetime forgetting it."

She begins to answer--

A scream from another rat in the cage! It's Nezumi, the prophetic mother rat--she tears at the glass, hurls her sickly form at it--"Get out, get out!" she cries. "Before it comes!"

Every hair on my body stands on end like a soldier snapping to attention. Her wild eyes--

Whatever my philosophy on human mortality, the fact remains--a rat can die in a rainstorm, a rat will die in this rainstorm, and I need out. Now.

I always hate this part.

I gaze past White One over the cage. All her friends, such unique and strange and beautiful creatures--to think that within a week they'll--and I can't do anything--

Sometimes I hate my job.
But rats don't cry. I touch my nose to the side of the cage; White One salutes me back, her round liquid ruby eyes brimming with questions. I give her one last nod--"You can do this"--and I'm gone.

You can buy the book White One's from, and find out what the big scary happening is, at these places!
Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B00EWTMONG
B&N: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/nezumis-children-tl-bodine/1116813472
Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/350275

And of course, if you want to learn more about White One's author: http://tlbodine.blogspot.com

Check out this Character Interview! With Necronite Jesse Sullivan, from Dying for a Living (Not a zombie!)

Add to your Goodreads

The interdimensional travel leaves me queasier this time--my head's throbbing, and I'm clutching a nearby trashcan to stand. Or vomit.

Yup.

Either way, I'm thrilled. In my experience, the worse the pre-hangover, the wilder the character I'm about to meet--and after last time's heart-wrenching frustration, I'm ready for some kick-ass and snark.

But I didn't expect to find pigeons pecking the pavement in front of hip downtown shops; dirty automobiles edge around each other under shadows etched against a clear blue sky. "Nashville, Tennessee. Huh." I was expecting a cemetery or something.

It's not hard to find the unobtrusive little office on Broadway, a sign directing me away from the comic bookstore in front to a back entrance with Jesse Sullivan, Death Replacement Agent written above the door.

I knock, stifling my queasy stomach; as the door opens a shiver runs down my spine. I've found her.

Jesse's wearing dark jeans, a black zip-up hoodie, and mismatched shoes--one red Nike and one black and red Adidas. She raises an eyebrow.

"Hi, uh," I pause. "I made an appointment? For an interview?"

She opens her mouth to respond, when a familiar growl rumbles behind me.

Jesse's eyes shoot wide open like searchlights.

"Oh crap," I mutter.

I whirl; the bundle of scales and heat slams into me and my back pounds the carpet with a muffled thud. Claws wrap around my throat--I'm trying to jam my pen into its jugular--

A hiss! All the lightbulbs blow; the grip on my throat loosens as a pulse blasts out from Jesse's body. She's cursing and apologizing as glass from the ceiling-light shatters around the beast. It shrieks in panic, fades into the air, and disappears, leaving me with a panting, shouting, freaked out, and apparently-super-powered protagonist.

Crap!

“Shit,” she says and throws her arms up. “I just replaced that computer, man.”

 
I scramble to my feet stammering: "Uh, sorry, that's a Dragon Spawn--sometimes they follow me through dimensions, they're--uh--mostly harmless to anyone who's not me--" I'm still stumbling. More praise, more praise! "Hey, uh, thank-you!" I say. "You were great! Really cool. It's very dead, very gone, thanks to your rave show there..."

I'm still talking as she flops into her desk chair to inspect the damage.

I rub my forehead. "Wow, so uh—interview.”


“You wanted to know what I do for a living,” she offers. She writes something on a notepad before taping it to the still smoking computer monitor.



“Yeah,” I say and take out my notepad and pen. "That."

"I’m a death-replacement agent for FBRD--Federal Bureau of Regenerative Deaths." She jingles the dog-tags around her neck. "Basically, if someone is about to die, they can hire me to make sure that doesn’t happen. Except, of course, this means I have to die instead." She rolls her eyes up and sticks out her tongue in a cartoonish parody of death.


I'm not supposed to giggle, but I do. "Ahem--hm, well uh--how does that work?"

"You should attend one of Dr. York’s sensitivity seminars over at the hospital," she says. She replaces the light bulb on her desk lamp, supplementing the afternoon glow. "He explains all this in detail. But long story short, I have this neurological disorder—NRD—that doesn’t let me die. Assuming my brains don’t get damaged. If my brain stops working then I’m just dead—like dead, dead. So I kind of have to be careful in the jobs I take. Not that being careful is really part of the job description. I’m always sore and bloody and I’ve got all these scars." She lifts one foot, looking at her un-paired Adidas. "And shoes! I can’t keep a pair of shoes to save my freaking life."

"That sounds--rough. Why do you do it?"

She shakes the busted bulb before tossing it. "You can blame that on Brinkley, my handler. He got me into the mess. I suppose I should be grateful. I’m paid really well for a high-school drop out. Even if the hours do suck. And I can’t get health insurance. To. Save. My. Life." She grins. It's a bad joke, but I'm grinning too now--Guess I've thrown professional sensitivity right out the window…

"Ha. What's the worst job you've taken so far?"

"Eve Hildebrand, hands down. Not only because she’s a prostitute—sorry, sex worker—and I had to see her—never mind, what I saw wasn’t even the worse part. The worst part was after—all that--" she makes a suggestive gesture with her hand--"She tried to kill me! I was hired to keep her alive and then she tries to decapitate me." Her index finger slices across her throat with flair. "Can you believe that shit?"

I shake my head. "I feel like incidents like that would really get in the way of--uh--family life and stuff. If you don't mind my asking--who's closest to you in your life right now?"

"Ally. She’s my best friend, and well, my personal assistant too. But I’d die for that girl. Again." No joke--a shimmering sadness overtakes her eyes.

"I know, that's really personal, I'm sorry," I say. "Hey, where is she right now? Day off?”

“She's meeting with Kirk, the mortician, about an upcoming replacement.” Jesse grimaces, looking at the computer again. “She’ll never shut up about this.”

“Ah. Uh, I'm sorry, here's something more fun: What's the most important sound in the world to you?"

She arches an eyebrow, then shrugs. "Probably my heartbeat I guess. It’s usually the first thing I notice when I wake up after a replacement, and it means I didn’t really bite it—like for real."

Okay, we're not getting any more light-hearted, so might as well rip the bandaid right off. "What's your biggest fear?"

She snorts. "I can't die. What do I have to be afraid of?"

But she looks uncomfortable. As an interviewer, I'd pursue that question further if I knew her better--but I don't want to press it. I want to find the ray of joy in her life, and watch it glimmer. So: "What's your dearest dream?"

She shrugs again. "It used to be to get the hell out of death-replacing. I hated the people and I hated the job." Her tone softens. "But after Eve and everything else, I know that’s not even an option. So I guess I don’t have a new dream yet. Unless—well, I hope that the people I love survive this. Things are just going to get worse for me from here on out, you know?—So I guess my greatest wish is that I can keep them alive."

"I hope you gain your dream, Jesse," I whisper under my breath, leaning back in my seat. But I can feel the somber air stifling her spunk, so aloud I say, "Okay, no more questions. You wanna go for Krispy Kreme?”

"That was a question," she smirks. “And I’m not sure I want to hang out with someone who gets attacked by dragons. I can’t die today. I go on the clock at midnight, and you’re a bit of a hazard to be around.”

“You’re one to talk,” I say.

She grins. “Touche.”

"So? Donuts?"

"Are you real?" she arches a suspicious brow. “Sometimes I—you know—death can be hard on the brain.” She taps her temple.

“Eh, I'm as real as you are. Maybe a little more real, or a little less, depending on where you go. Don't worry, no one will think you're crazy talking to me. Now, people will think you're crazy if you don't take me up on these donuts.”

“No more questions?”

"No more questions." I rise, flipping my braids over my shoulder. “Coming?”

“Ok,” she grins. Grabbing the keys, she locks up behind us. “I know just the place.”

I'll be keeping an eye out for this protagonist. If you're similarly intrigued by Jesse and her job, you can check out Dying for a Living when it comes out March 4! In the meantime, follow Jesse's author Kory M. Shrum on twitter, and on her blog, for news on the upcoming release!

Donuts!

Interview with Neas, part II

Last week, I was interviewing a dirty tunic-clad hero in the Ilium underground, when he suddenly pushed me!

 “Goose-it! Get behind that column, pronto!”

I jump! I just catch the buzz—like bees, wind, and my computer fan mixed together—before lights with riders roar by my hiding spot. Neas has disappeared in the fog.

He’s back before I can see where he hid. “Yikes,” he says. “You still itchin’? Perfect. See those two bogeys? The ones whizzin’ down the road? Those markin’s mean they work for that gooser I was tellin’ you ‘bout earlier. Gore. Yeah. And you hear that whizzin’ when they flew by? Soundin’ kinda like Vergil?”

“Like me, Sir?”

“Yeah… that’s my favorite sound. The whizzin’ a hoverboard makes when it boosts across the road. Always wanted to try ridin’ one… yet another thing Mentor won’t let me try. But they’re hard as heck to find, you know? And bikes ain’t the same, no matter what Acamas says. I can see it now… wind blowin’ through my hair, boosters flyin’ me higher and higher, then… BAM! All of Ilium right in front of me. The stars and the spires and everythin’ in-between. Yeah…”

“That sounds pretty cool,” I smile. I can see it—shoot, I have seen it. But I won’t spoil the surprise for him. Aeneas, Ilium's future unwilling savior, doesn’t need pro-tips from a—uh—‘porter’ like me.

 But if I'd given him a pro-tip or two, I might have saved him a lot of heartache. Keep reading here to find out how I got stuck between a love for a new friend and the rules that hold our universes together--and if you'd like me to interview YOUR character, e-mail me at petrepan at gmail dot com.

Totally Pigeon Interview with Lost Boy, street urchin, and unwilling sci-fi hero Aeneas, Part 1

Travel with me to the land of Ilium, a creation of author John Krissilas, and meet unwilling teen sci fi hero Aeneas as I conduct an intergalactic, cross-dimensional interview! Follow John on twitter @JohnKrissilas and check out his blog at JohnKrissilas.com. Drop him an encouraging line if you like what you see here, and if you want me to interview YOUR MC, let me know! For the fully illustrated version of this interview with John's notes, head here.

 I think I'm on time; at any rate, I think it's illegal for me to be late. Laws of fiction, space, and time, and all that. Not that law matters much where I am now. The Underground of Ilium, full of scaled gangsters, lost urchins, and flat, corrupt policemen--it's where rejects from the Colonies live.

I'm here for one reject in particular, and I find him leaning against a column by the side of the littered, winding street. He sees me and dashes behind the column; I smile a bit and wait, shivering in the dark, rancid mist. Ships whir overhead, but I pretend not to notice them--probably couldn't see them anyway in this smog if I tried. I'd no idea it'd be this bad.

My host peeks out at me with steel-grey eyes. Clumps of dust pepper his curls, and I can just see the edge of a blue tunic that looks like it's seen better days.

A centipede scuttles out of a crack by my foot. I step away--the kid snickers. At last he inches out from behind the column, cracks a smile, and strolls over to me.

"Hey! You, um… you the... porter?" he says. "Like… from outside of Ilium or somethin'? That your deal? Hmm. Never seen no one dressed like that before. Guess you're legit. Name's Neas. Neas of the Lost Boys. Nice to… you know… meet ya."

I nod, and he invites me to sit next to him on the curb. Awkward silence falls, and it's entirely my fault--but it's hard to prepare for a cross-dimensional interview. He prods a bundle of wires with his boot. He seems antsy, nervous, even, and I want to say something, but I'm suddenly wondering if I'll sound funny to him. Porter? I--well, I--

A little light in the background saves me from saying something stupid. A compact cylinder rises from behind some unrecognizable junk and flicks a spotlight at Aeneas. "Sir…" it says.

"Cool it, Vergil! I told you to stay hidden, buddy!"

"My apologies, Sir, but…"

"Don't scare me like that. What's so itchin'?"

"I believe she has a question for you, Sir," Vergil says. Thank-you, well-informed Ilium drone, I'm thinking. I need myself one of these: it remembered the questions I sent ahead of time.

"Hmm?" Neas asks.

"About your preferred form of… sustenance, Sir."

"Sustance? What're you goin' on 'bout? Oh… you mean food!"

"Indeed, Sir."

"Hmm. Hey porter. You, um… don't know much 'bout the Underground, do you? We ain't got much 'food' down here… 'least not the kind you'd be used to, you get me? You're lookin' like you'd be better off in a Colony. Yep. Hear they got big farms… with every kinda food you can imagine! Even got these bogeys called cooks… all they do is make food! Um… not that I give a goose or anythin'…"

Which of course, makes me think maybe he does 'give a goose,' at least enough to feel jealous of the Colonists, but Vergil interrupts him again. "Sir..."

"Vergil…"

"Her question, Sir."

"Oh yeah. Well, down here, there ain't exactly table service. Me and the Lost Boys — you heard of us, right? Right?"

"Of course." I have. It's a bit tragic, but I don't tell him that.

"Well, we usually end up choosin' between the green thing, the rotten thing, or the thing that's kinda… still alive, you get me? Can't say I've gotten the hang of it myself. Say… you wanna try some?"

"Sir… I do not believe that is an optimal decision."

"Goose-it, Vergil! Hold your beef! Where was I?"

Vergil's got me cracking up inside. I'm not gonna argue with him--that's not professional--but I gotta admit Neas has me gastronomically curious. Green thing?

But Neas comes up with something else. "Oh yeah…Speakin' of beef, it's not all bad down here, you know," he says. "There're some places… kinda like clubs… deep in the Underground, where they got the good stuff. Steak… taters… even beer! Um, not that I've ever tried it, of course. You can even watch the goosers on stage while you're at it. Called performers or somethin'. My favorite's the sword swallower! Guy's got…"

"Sir, it seems you have forgotten about…"

"Oh yeah. Well, they ain't exactly welcomin' places, you get me? They're run by mobsters, you know. This one bogey… think his name's Gore or somethin'… he's a real piece of work. Got a head like a melon, eyes like grapes, and the nastiest scar this side of the Wall. Bogey'll never catch me, though. I'm kinda like a… a thief, you know? Anyways, you can actually find the best stuff on the surface… above the club. In the dumpsters, you get me? Hey… hey Vergil?"

"How may I be of service?"

"Remind me to stop by Gore's on the way home, yeah?" A little alarm rings in my head; I silence it.

"It would be my pleasure, Sir."

"Yeah, so... How long's this innerview gonna take? I'm hungry!"

"Eh, half an hour, an hour, however short you want," I shrug. I love Neas's attitude, and I'm tickled he's this willing to talk to a stranger like me--with all his chatter already, I almost wonder if he isn't a bit lonely. I continue, "But I don't like interviewing on an empty stomach--so I'll follow you to the dumpster, if you don't mind, and we can talk and eat. Is that--doable?" 

"Hmm… you sure 'bout that, porter?" He smirks. I pause. Suddenly I doubt we'll be in a position to chat while stealing out of the dumpster. 

"You know," I say. "We could just talk on the way, do the dumpster thing, and then talk after if we get a chance. I got a few questions--just while we walk or however we're getting there."



He shrugs. "Um, yeah. Guess we can walk…" He stands, and I follow him, brushing some kind of gunk off my khakis.

"Just be ready to bolt," he says. "Jukes own this road, you know. The last thing you want is to get caught by those bogeys, you get me? Hear they got a taste for porters..."

"Sir, I do not believe it is appropriate for you to--"

"Cool it, Vergil! I'm innerviewin'!"

"Indeed, Sir."

"Okay, okay. I'm ready."

Right, interview. I smile, and start off easy. "'Kay. First, tell me how old you are."

"Hmm… gettin' kinda personal, ain't you, porter?"

Shoot. I don't think so, although--I hope I didn't break any of this world's social taboos by asking age. But he continues.

"Okay, well… I kinda just turned seventeen. Not too long ago, you know."

"Just yesterday, Sir."

"Um, yeah. What Vergil said. Mentor tells me it's supposed to be a special day or somethin'… you know, turnin' seventeen. Don't know what that old goose's goin' on 'bout, but he and the other Lost Boys're plannin' somethin'. Told me to goose-it for a few days while they do their preparin'. Get some fresh air, you get me? So yeah. Don't know what they're plannin'… or why things're any different now. Hey, um… you ain't gonna tell anyone 'bout this innerview, are ya? They'll kill me if they found out I was talkin' to you…"

"I believe she is planning to publish it, Sir."

"Dang it. It never ends…"

Kill him? Hold up! I hope he means that figuratively, but in Ilium you never know--I throw up my hands to interrupt. "Whoa, whoa, back up, no one in Ilium can see this thing. I'm publishing it so far away you'd never read it even if you travelled for a thousand years."

Neas raises an eyebrow, but he doesn't protest, so I go on: "Next question--what's the funnest thing that's ever happened to you? Or you can tell me the worst, instead, if you like."

"Funnest? Hmm. Okay… once, Acamas took me to a slider match. You got slider where you come from, porter? Well, it's the most pigeon you'll ever have in one place, you get me? Got this fireball that bolts 'round an oval like nothin' else. And one gooser on each side, tryin' to, you know, juice it. So everyone's screamin' and Acamas is yellin' at the bookie, tryin' to place his bet, when the slider smokes through the wall and juices some gooser in the front row. And I'm like: 'Woah!' Then we hear sirens, which means the spooks're 'bout to come flyin' in to bust everyone, and so Acamas and me get the heck outta there!"



"You have never told me about this story, Sir."

"Um… yeah. Keep this between us, okay buddy? So anyways, Acamas stops me just before we head home, and tells me to tell Mentor that we were tradin' or somethin'. The old man doesn't want me near slider, you get me? But one day, I'm gonna play. Just me, the slider, and all those bogeys cheerin' for me…"

"I do not like the sound of this, Sir."

"Whatever, Vergil…"

They stop talking as he kicks a rock in his path. I jump in: "Then I'd like to know your favorite sound."

  But Neas shoves me and jumps to the side. "Goose-it! Get behind that column, pronto!"

Next installment next week! Find out whether or not I get killed by Ilium police. = P Follow John on twitter @JohnKrissilas and check out his blog at JohnKrissilas.com. Drop him an encouraging line if you like what you see here, and if you want me to interview YOUR MC, let me know!

The Protagonist Cafe--Share Your Protag With Me! Blogfest

You have an awesome protag. You love to share him, or her, with the world.

Share your protag with me!

I'm an interdimensional reporter. I like to ask questions, and I like to analyze. Even in our world, I've made part of my living asking interesting questions of interesting people and things. I'd like to step out of our world, into the worlds you've created, hang out in an imaginary eatery of your choice, and ask your protag/evil guy/random minor character some questions.

Why? First, it gets you a tiny bit more publicity--a tiny bit more hype about that gorgeous WIP. But secondly and more importantly, it can strengthen character development, and it's fun. Do not underestimate the power of fun to jump-start your writing. I interviewed a space-ninja here and my writing and his character development became better for it. When your MC is forced to answer questions you didn't think of--shoved into situations that didn't come from the tidy place in your head he belongs--well, good things happen. Mostly fun things, IMHO. Isn't fun part of the reason we all began writing in the first place?

How does this work? Leave a comment below explaining how you prefer to be contacted. I will contact you with questions for your character, you'll give us the setting, and we'll 'chat' back and forth for about 250-400 words.

THIS could be fun, people. Have some fun with me?

Pitch Live! Issue 339

Title: Issue 339
Genre: YA 
Word count: 75,000

A popular comic book character lands a bullet in his author's chest.

The comic book industry drags teen superhero Skye through every plot twist imaginable. Skye's taken on alien invasions, his true love died as a zombie-plant-monster, and a crime ring princess can't decide whether to kiss or kill him. Every time tragedy strikes, Skye claws past the rubble, drags himself to his feet, and faces the next day with hope and courage.

Then the author writes Issue #339. Skye's best friend kills his parents--and then kills Skye. Through some ridiculous inter-dimensional physics, the weapon meant to disintegrate Skye lands him in his author's universe, where a kindly inner-city cop takes him in. Skye becomes best friends with the cop's son Jace, a quiet comic book aficionado, but Jace struggles against Skye's nightmares, mood swings, and extreme reactions to comics--it's rough trying to help a roommate with Post-Traumatic Stress Syndrome. Skye breaks. He can't handle watching his friends suffer anymore. He shoots his author.

While the cop investigates the author's mysterious murder, Jace must uncover his familiar-looking houseguest's real identity, and when the publishing company hires a new writer, Skye must decide whether one more murder will save his world, or damn his soul.

Character Interviews: Jei Bereens

So I sit down to have lunch with one of my characters. You know, to get to know him better. I would never take him to coffee, but I bet he'd love sushi.

"I'm really glad you could make it," I say.

"Yeah, I..." He looks around the room. His hand has never gone far from his neodynium mace. "I'm still a little confused about being here, actually."

"Don't worry about it. Is it alright if I ask you questions while you eat?"

"Sure."

"What's your favorite thing on my plate?"

"On your plate?" he raises an eyebrow. I notice that he doesn't smirk, like Caleb would. He's controlled. "Hmm, I don't like mushrooms. I guess I say the sushi."

"You're a carnivore," I laugh. "Why no mushrooms? A bad experience?"

"No--Lem fed me some once when we got stranded somewhere on Luna, so I know I can eat them. I just don't like the taste."

I don't ask another question for a few minutes. I'm watching how he eats with one hand, and keeps the other by his mace. He doesn't seem stressed or nervous. His shoulders slump, relaxed, and his face is unlined. It looks like he just always eats with his hand on his weapon.

"What's the worst thing that ever happened to you?"

He lays down the fork and leans back, eyes glazing a bit, overwhelmed as he stares just over my head. I expected that question to throw him back like that. "Oh man, that's hard."

I wait. His eyes play over the people mulling through the buffet lines. Of course I brought him to the Teppanyaki. It's the best restaurant in my world.

"Hey, what's the best restaurant in your world?" I ask suddenly.

He laughs a little and rubs his hands across his forehead. "Yeah--I like that question better than the other one."

"You still have to answer the other one."

"Okay." He hasn't stiffened at all, but I could almost imagine him sweating a little. He rubs his hand on the back of his neck and lets a little laugh escape again. "Well, once Lem and I had to pretend to--"

"Quick interruption--would Lem have said 'Jei and I' or 'Jei and me' if she were telling this story?"

"She'd say 'Jei and me.'"

I note it down in my little green book. He's wrong, actually--when I interview her, she says 'Jei and I.' She only uses non-formal grammar when she's with him because she feels tougher and more equal that way. But his impression of her speech says a lot. For one, it says he thinks she's more different from himself than she really is. A little more childish.

"You done yet?" He raises that eyebrow. He doesn't tease with a grinning flair the way Caleb would. He's more subtle. But he's laughing at me inside, all the same.

"Yes. Go ahead."

"Lem and I attended a dinner for this wealthy civillian Growen sympathizer--we were on recon, of course--and bloodseas, that restaurant--stars, it was great." He shakes his head. "It floats over Guetala, and takes diners over Biouk lands and forests, and ends back up in space. Lem kept talking--saying how the rich snobs didn't know anything about Biouks, or something like that--but we had a great time anyway. She got someone to tailor her mom's red gown, and I wore this silvery thing."

"I wouldn't expect you to notice clothes," I smirk, tilting my head.

"It was the first time we'd ever dressed up. It felt cool to ask for whatever we wanted, and play along."

"Was she pretty?"

He shrugs. "I didn't ask. We were on a mission."

"And the food?"

"I actually don't remember it. Lem could tell you all about it, though."

I nod and laugh. Yes, I know she could--every detail and every taste.

"So, last question, Jei."

"Oh, the worst thing one. Yeah."

I suddenly realize that his answer depends on me. On where I've called him from--what time, which part of Jei's development. I also realize that to make him talk about any of it makes me a jerk. Because, you know, I created it. Before Bioumatta, he'd choose that childhood imprisonment. After Bioumatta, he'd choose the stay in Diebol's re-education center. After Neodymium, he'd choose losing that kiss.

"It's all for a reason, you know," I say suddenly, before he can give me an answer. "But I'm not gonna be a jerk and make you talk about it."

"Uh--it's okay, I--"

"No, it really isn't. It's fine."

He's not a hugger, but I get up, walk around the table, and hug him from the side. "It was good talking to you," I say. "See ya round."