Author: <span>Patrick Cumby</span>
Patrick Cumby is a science fiction writer who also blogs about exploring the real world. He's sharing his thoughts at PatrickCumby.com.
The boy eyes the window in the old brick tower, sees a glint of wholeness amidst surrounding shards. He has no knowledge of physics or geology or religion, but he knows the wonder of the day, the sunshine and the cool air pouring through the pines. The wonder of the perfectly sized rock in the ditch. The wonder of the last unbroken pane, all the way at the top.
The rock has realness, both smooth and jagged in his palm. It exists. It is quite obvious to the boy that every single instant of time stretching back to the moment of Creation has culminated in this rock. The tools of God—quantum forces, gravity, geologic processes spanning the ages—have conspired to create its perfect form, and place it here in the gravel road behind the cotton mill. All of history has occurred so that this rock might meet the last unbroken window and achieve its destiny.
Attending a writer’s conference is a wonderful way to connect with agents and editors, but pitching a novel in person can be a nerve-wracking experience. I recently attended two of the…
“I’m sorry sir, but there is a problem with your room and we will have to move you to another room,” says the heavily-accented voice on the phone. I look around the room. We’ve just arrived, and I can see no problems. Everything looks fine to me.
“What’s the problem?” I ask.
The man replies in a serious tone, “There will be a voice in your room.”
I can’t see the scene behind the overturned tuk-tuk, but I
can see the reaction of the people who are rushing out of the storefronts. At
first they hurry toward the accident, but when its scope is revealed, they stop
in their tracks. It’s as if there is an impenetrable force-field of horror
radiating from something on the pavement. Nobody can approach closer than about
fifteen feet, and soon there is a perfect geometric circle of onlookers. Many
turn away. A few drop to their knees. A woman screams. The young men are
ashen-faced and dumbstruck, fingers knit, hands clutching the backs of their
heads in the universal gesture of helpless despair.
We can’t experience the true nature of rural/farm life in Ethiopia because we are such obvious anachronisms that the village locals change their behavior when we are around. Most people…
Unbeknownst to us, it turns out that very few Westerners come to Africa without booking through a tour company. Because Jeanne and I are arranging our own travel, nobody in…
Three things I’ve learned about Ethiopian coffee in my first day in-country: 1. Ethiopia is the home of coffee, and they take it seriously. The coffee beans are roasted over…
“Why would I ever go back to the UK?” one expat tells me as
we sit on the front porch of her farmhouse and sip local tea. “After living here,
it would be so boring.” Looking across the vast green landscape toward
the bulk of Mt. Kenya rising into the clouds, I can see her point. After all,
there are lions and elephants out there in the bush! The unexpected is the
normal as the country serves up an array of opportunities and disappointments that
only the chaos of a developing nation can offer.
Mombasa. What a great name. Mombasa, Mombasa. I like saying it out loud. It conjures up exotic mental images of African sheiks and sultans, of clove tea and British sailing ships. We are packed into a matatu, one of the ubiquitous and careening minivans that the Kenyans use for public transportation. There are comfortable seats for nine people. This morning, we have twelve passengers. My Kenyan friends tell me that oftentimes the matatus hold as many as thirty. I try to imagine thirty sweating people crammed into this Nissan minivan.
So there’s this beastie called a blue centipede that’s about seven inches long and is probably the most horrifying creature I’ve ever seen and it just crawled under the rug…
