Local boys self-publish science fiction adventure

As published in The Erin Advocate

When I was 12, I thought that I could write a novel. I’ve now been procrastinating for 47 years. Despite earning a degree in English literature and writing thousands of newspaper articles, there is still no novel in sight.

So I was a bit envious when I met Henri Clark from Hillsburgh, who just went ahead and did it. His 13th birthday party was also a book launching.

The Adventures of Zeppron features a hero in another universe whose space ship is shot down, far from his home planet. He makes alliances with mysterious characters and does high-tech battle with an even more mysterious enemy. 

Author Henri Clark and Illustrator George Wilson

“Zeppron is young and small, but with the knowledge of an adult,” said Henri. “He uses technology to his advantage, like MacGyver.” Angus MacGyver was a TV secret agent (1985-1992) known for solving complex problems by making devices out of ordinary objects.

Science fiction is a good way for a novelist to start out, since there is plenty of inspiration in popular movies and TV shows, and it permits a wide range of possibilities.

“I can invent technology for whatever I need,” said Henri, who wrote the book in about 4 months. It started out as a short story, but with so many ideas floating around, it expanding to a 169-page novel, and a plan to write five more as a series.

Adventures include the use of a glowing golden device called the Staff of Zepronas that can restore things that have been damaged. Then there is the amazing suit that enables Zeppron to fly and control weapon systems.

The story focuses on the friendship among the good guys, with many narrow escapes as they try to stop the evil Blackhat from succeeding.

“It’s not supposed to be happy or sad – it is a series of cliffhangers, getting the reader to the next section,” said Henri.

His partner in the publishing project is his friend George Wilson, who created the illustrations that appear on the title pages for each part. He is also working on promotion.

They have their own business card and postcard to advertise the book, and they’ve been interviewed by a columnist from Metroland Media.

The book looks cool with its glossy cover, and though it was done for fun, they are selling it for $9.59 US ($13+ CAN) on Amazon.com. Just Google the words Zeppron and Clark and you’ll find a number of websites from different countries selling the book.

It was done through the website blurb.com, which for a very low cost enabled them to set the book up, get a small number of copies and make it available to the public.

With the “print-on-demand” system, customers get the book in just a few days, and there is no need for an expensive inventory.

The two-furrow riding plow

The Advocate's Devil – Historical Flash Fiction

“MONEY TO LOAN: – I have any amount of money at a low rate on first mortgage. W. HULL”

It was just the sort of filler that Wellington Hull loved to drop into the pages of his newspaper. Like most businessmen, he wore several hats.

Case in point, the advertisement on page one of today's Erin Advocate (Wednesday, March 30, 1910) from J.W. Turner, the Hillsburgh funeral director: “Our wallpaper has been tried and found guilty and condemned to be hung. Call early and get the bargains before they are all hung. Four cents and upwards per single roll.” Hillsburgh humour at its finest.

Here in Erin village, Mr. Hull was in the business of knowing everyone else's business. People who didn't qualify for a loan at the Union Bank could simply go upstairs to the newspaper office and make a deal with Hull. He was constantly auctioning farms and machinery, offering eight months of credit on sums over $10.

Hull was also the Erin “Correspondent” for the Standard Mercantile Agency of Toronto. That meant he was not only a debt collector for far-away wholesalers, but was empowered to rate the credit-worthiness of any Erin businessman. Information was the key to his success, which is why I was in his office. A printer's devil always gets the dirty jobs.

“Robert Campbell wants to borrow money from me, but he's new in town, so no one knows much about him. Last fall he showed me a brand new horse-drawn gang plow. Two-furrow. Seat for the driver and big wheels. International Harvester. Wants to put it up as collateral, but I don't think it he owns it. Suspect he borrowed it from his brother in Rockside, just for show.

“Now I have it on good authority that he and his family are going by stage coach to Fergus today to visit his uncle, who has taken ill. Take this letter to Campbell's farm, and when you find no one home, take a look in his barn. I need to know what implements he has there now.”

I took my 25 cent bonus and smiled about the things Hull didn't know, like the fact that I knew the combination to his office safe. And the distinct possibility that Campbell's 17-year-old daughter Edna would be home, alone. I packed a flask of Erin's finest and set off.

Caught a ride with a buggy headed for Alton and got off at the Tenth Line. As I neared the farm on foot, I saw a man on horseback riding down the lane from the house. I ducked into the swampy bush beside the road, and when he turned and rode by I saw it was George McCutcheon, a slimy sort who hung about the hotels and loaned money at usurious rates.

My friend at the post office said McCutcheon had received a mail order package of Phosphonol, advertised as an “Electric Restorer for Men” that would return every nerve in the body to its proper tension. “Premature decay and all sexual weakness averted at once.” Just $3 a box – almost half a week's wages.

Running up the lane, I found no one at the house. I stepped into the barn and heard a curse from the horse stalls. Edna stepped out, covered in straw, fastening the buttons of her blouse.

“Ethan! So nice to see you. Come here. Let's have a li'll dance.” Her words were slurred as she stumbled and grabbed my shoulders. I remembered last year's Fall Fair, when we had danced, then snuck off into the woods near the river. “What's the matter, you don't wanna dance?”

“Did he force you?”

“Ha!” She started laughing, caught herself, then put on her serious face. “No.”

“Why was he here?”

“I invited him. He was here last week, arguing with papa. We owe him 5 dollars. Or should I say, we used to owe him.”

“You shouldn't have.”

“Don't worry. I didn't.” She started to giggle. “Georgie Porgie wasn't up to the task.” She laughed, coughed, gagged, and soon the whiskey she had consumed was on the barn floor.

As she composed herself, I looked around. There was a small harrow, a rusty mower, a big wagon and an old-fashioned one-furrow walking plow.

I took Edna to her bedroom and laid her down on the bed. I covered her up, placed a kiss on her temple, breathed in the soft scent of her hair, and left.

“Yes, sir. I had a good look around Campbell's barn. There was a small harrow, a rusty mower, a big wagon and a brand new two-furrow riding plow.”

“Did anyone see you?”

“Not a soul.”

Someone would have to pay dearly

The Advocate's Devil – Historical Flash Fiction

As published in The Erin Advocate

"This newspaper has to hit the street first thing Wednesday morning," said Wellington Hull. "Nobody goes home until it's done." The publisher of The Erin Advocate was a big fish in a very small pond, and tolerated no lollygagging.

"How long 'til we put this one to bed?" he said to Robert, the weasel who runs our new Linotype machine. To look at McNair, you'd wonder if he could even read, but he makes that machine fly, laying down six lines o' type per minute.

"Two hours, Mr. Hull, sooner if Ethan gets off his arse and fetches more type."

"Let the boy be. I'm going out. Auction's at one. Now get to work."

Hull bought the newspaper 16 years ago, two years after I was born. Here at the Advocate office above the Union Bank, at 128 Main, he also issues marriage licenses, runs his farm machinery auction business and takes pleasure in the influence he wields.

My name is Ethan Callaghan, born in County Cork but shipped to Erin; a papist in a village named for Ireland, but run by Protestants, mainly Scotsmen. A Roman Catholic church will never be built here in my lifetime. Not that I care. The meek take comfort in sermons and incense; I prefer mine straight from the bottle.

I'm what they call a devil – a printer's devil. A lowly apprentice. Hands blackened from mixing tubs of ink. Emptier of the Hell Box, filled with broken lead type for the furnace. Whipping boy if ads appear upside down. Mark Twain was a printer's devil, and I'm going to be a writer too, if I can escape this godforsaken place. Until then I'm just the Advocate's devil, trying to stay warm and well-fed.

Finally, Wednesday, Feb. 23, 1910 has been set, proofed and locked down for printing. Nothing too exciting. An obituary for old man Sutton, 89, a loyal Methodist. Township council met at the Grand Central Hotel in Hillsburgh and paid its bills, including $7.84 for gravel from Robert W. Tarswell, the sawmill operator and Mormon preacher from Cedar Valley. The cost of living is up. Elephants have run amuck in San Francisco. Egyptian premier Boutros Ghali was shot by a nationalist student.

On Page 2, another dreary chapter of "Maude De Vere; or, the New Mistress at Laurel Hill". Fiction has no place in a modern newspaper. Almost as offensive as our weekly bible lesson.

Back on schedule, McNair and the crew have slipped across the street for "lunch" at the Globe Hotel before starting the press run, leaving me alone to tend the shop. Ben Mundell walked in. "Yes, Mr. Mundell. No sir. Yes sir, I will tell him." Like Hull, he had the swagger of a wheeler-dealer. I thought of the mansion he had built for Dr. Gear.

My older brother Connor works among the flapping drive belts and whirling blades at Mundell's planing factory, down where the Credit turns. Maybe we could both get work swinging a hammer this summer. With so many fires, there was always building to be done.

Hull's daughter Ella came by with her friend Edna Campbell. Both were 16, and unable to finish a sentence without breaking into fits of giggling. Ella had a mischievous glint, but kept herself prim. Edna had a wild streak that was barely concealed. Like me, she was of a lower class – but unlike me, she was content with it.

I went down to the press, all set up with a sheet of paper up on the platen. I rolled some ink over the raised type on the flatbed. I wasn't supposed to touch it on my own, but I had seen the pressmen work it hundreds of times, and helped with preparation and cleanup. Just a few copies. Just a little fun on a boring day.

I turned the drive wheel and the paper flew down, was pressed against the type and whipped up again. One poor copy. A few more, as I fed paper and the rollers automatically laid fresh ink. Clackity-clack. Clackity-clack. Then a clunk and a low grinding.

The press was jammed, and the crew would be back soon. I tried to reverse it, to no avail. I put a crowbar to the gears, and they moved a bit. I reached with my right hand to lift the platen, while pressing the crowbar with the left, and suddenly the mechanism came free. Off balance, I stumbled towards the gears as the press finished its cycle. A lightning bolt of pain shot up my left arm.

Lying on the grimy floor, I saw my hand had turned from black to red. I was lucky. Only the baby finger was missing. Slipping into shock, I wasn't thinking about how reckless I had been. I felt only a rage against this place and the people who put me here. I comforted myself with a vow that someone would have to pay dearly for this. Then I slept.

* * *

Meanwhile, back in 2010...this has been an experiment in flash fiction, also known as the short, short story. It is a mix of real people like Hull, a real newspaper from exactly 100 years ago, imagined characters like Callaghan and events that might have been.