it’s amazing to say that in 2019, there are still questions to be asked about the Loch Ness Monster
But there are.
Scientists are still seeking to uncover exactly what gave rise to the story, what was and is being sighted from the shore and from boats out on that lake that made people report a large animal – be it a reptile, mammal or fish?
Now it seems that they have discovered evidence to support at least one of the hypotheses of what exactly this phenomenon is – using DNA samples, to see what kind of species might be swimming around, shedding skin cells or scales into the water which might float around and be picked up by their collectors.
My guess, is that they’ll keep the news back for a long time.
If they do produce one, my guess is that it will be a sturgeon, or a small group of sturgeons, that have swum up from Moray Firth at Inverness. Though the lake has few nutrients with which to sustain a large population, it might keep one or two alive for a few years.
What’s your guess?
Could there be a large creature hiding out all these centuries, only to be betrayed by its own DNA trail?
Can scientists really hope to catch a few skin cells in all that expanse of water?
On another two sites today.
One has an interesting review – is The Ecology of Lonesomeness a romance novel with science or a science novel with romance?
In my own opinion, it’s hard to put this novel in a category that lets the reader know what they’re in for. I’d like to call it Science Fiction, or Biological or Ecological Fiction, so that people don’t expect space ships, but those categories aren’t really used…
I’m also on this site with a charming review from an Italian reader, http://libriamicimiei.blogspot.com.es/2015/11/review-giveaway-ecology-of-lonesomeness.html?showComment=1448381038100#c8177540790025763305
Don’t forget you can enter a draw for a gift voucher as well as a free copy of the book. The more sites you click on the greater your chances!
Today is that day when Back to the Future II would have supposedly taken place and everyone’s talking about what things it predicted actually came true.
Apart from the fact that I’m sure nobody really expected hoverboards to be around (and I don’t consider what has been tested so far to be anything like the images in the movie) I know nobody really believed anyone would dress up like Griff and his buddies.
In fact, I suggest that science fiction writers stop wasting brain power on inventing new clothes. We’ll be strangled by shirts and ties for another century I’m sure.
I hate suits and ties – anyone who knows you can testify – and would love us all to wear the gear they have on Star Trek. But there doesn’t seem to be any getting away from them – even I have had to don a suit for work, just to “look good.” And I can’t see us getting away from it any time soon.
While many things are different now from the past, our clothes are remarkably similar.
When horses were used instead of tanks, never mind drones, the folks telling us we are at war are wearing the same suits.
When Alexander Graham Bell (that’s him in the photo) sat down to make the first telephone call, he was wearing a shirt and tie pretty much the same as that worn today by the dude on his smart phone,selling your pension fund to make himself another million.
The wright brothers, apart from the caps, are wearing the same shit as the Apollo 11 crew.
And they’re still wearing that getup.
So while we might one day have hoverboards, or actually fly to mars and set up house there, you can bet your ass the martian pilots will have packed a shirt and tie.
I’m delighted to have with me today author Tegon Maus, author of science fiction novels The Eve Project Series and Bob, his latest release. He’s on a blog tour until the 5th of December, talking about Bob, and there’s a great giveaway which you can enter with this link:
Take it away, Tegon…
Genetics… who knew ??
My father was born and raised in Hawaii, coming state side at the tender age of 19. Now, you would think that with a DNA pedigree like that I would be a bronze God of phenomenal stature, square shouldered, long wavy hair, rippling with muscle, endowed with the natural ability to swim like a dolphin… unfortunately as it turns out, my mother was born and raised in Oklahoma. So as you might well imagine, I was in the wrong line the day they handed out the bronze God genes.
Growing up, because I had a good many Polynesian relatives that where always at my parents house, I was exposed to a very large variety of exotic foods. Seaweed, urchins, squid, abalone and all manner of shelled and swimming creatures made their way to our table to float in a myriad of delectable sauces.
That said I am clearly a meat and potato kind of a guy… I blame my mother.
As fate would have it my wife, Dearheart, was also born in Oklahoma and brought here to Southern California, just as I was, at a very young age. Logic would suggest that two people brought up within a few miles of one another would have many of the same taste were food was concerned… I was in the wrong line on that day as well.
My wife and I have been together for 45 years. What I didn’t know then was a young bride’s ability in the kitchen is strongly linked with her relationship to her mother. In the house my wife grew up in she and her siblings knew dinner was almost ready when her mother asked, at the top of her lungs… “Where’s my car keys?”
In the beginning, we ate a lot of cinnamon toast in bed, watched tv and ordered pizza; life was loose, free, and clothing was always optional. Once we discovered we were pregnant everything changed; cinnamon toast became a thing of the past. We were determined to be good people.
In an effort to be a good mother, not to mention to gain higher favor with mine, Dearheart spent the next three years trying to recreate my culinary past. To that end, she gave us food poisoning several times and set fire to the stove… twice and suddenly pizza with cinnamon toast wasn’t so bad after all.
Like I said… I’m a meat and potato kind of guy… I blame my mother.
Excerpt #3 **********************
“Bob?” I began, pointing toward the dark, stooped figure of Fred threading his way through the underbrush.
“Is Fred’s way… live to close too nuclear plant. What Bob going to do?” he said, holding up both hands in defeat.
I had no idea what to say to that.
Bob, following Fred’s lead, pulled a black ski mask over his face, before handing me a baseball cap.
“What’s this?” I asked totally expecting a ski mask, turning the cap over in my hands.
“Beginner’s hat. Maybe, next time, for you,” he smirked.
I’d been ribbed before, and I can take it almost as good as I can give it but this… from Bob? Damn aggravating.
I tripped along in the dark, getting my feet tangled on every stick, every root, every obstacle that stuck up out of the ground as I trailed behind him.
He, unlike Fred, seemed to be more than comfortable in the woods as well as the dark. Fred walked slightly ahead, darting from tree to tree as if hiding himself from some unseen observer.
Bob and I simply stood in place, waiting for him to wave us on as he dashed to the next tree or rock outcropping.
After what seemed like forever and more scratches and bruises than I had acquired in a lifetime, we found the house.
Fred, his back pressed against a sizable rock as if he were keeping it in place, held his position a dozen yards ahead of us. He waved frantically, signaling for us to get down and we obeyed.
A moment later headlights swept over where we had stood. The sound of tires grinding through the dirt filled the air.
“Shit,” I breathed to myself. I hadn’t expected this to be easy. It never had been in the past, but with Bob and Fred leading the way, we were screwed.
Fred scampered to his next position, waving us on to the rock he had just left behind when he felt the coast was clear.
It took us another fifteen minutes to cross the distance from where we first saw the house to physically touching the building.
I had to admit, my heart pounded hard in my chest, certain we were about to be caught as Fred pulled himself up to peer into a window.
“Clear,” Fred whispered and we crept around the corner.
There were no cars, no trucks, no men with guns to be seen anywhere. Fred had hit it on the mark. For all outward appearances no one was home.
We continued to follow Fred as he made his way to a back door. Slowly, silently, he eased himself onto the porch kneeling before the door, slipping a hand into his shirt pocket.
Removing two small, shiny tools from its folds, he went to work on the knob.
Faster than I could say “is belt” Fred worked the lock, turning the knob. The door opened slightly.
We held a collective breath, waiting for the sound of an alarm.
“Clear,” Fred whispered softly as he allowed the door to open fully. Crouched, almost on all fours, he scooted inside, closing the door behind him.
Unfathomable amounts of time seemed to slip by with each heartbeat as Bob and I stood outside in the dark and waited.
My anxiety, a mere seed in the pit of my stomach, had begun to run away with me. My palms grew sweaty.
“Is nice,” Bob offered, leaning against the building, pushing both hands into his pockets.
“What?” I asked with disbelief.
“Is nice. Bob always busy… go here, go there. Wife always – when take wife to dinner? When go to opera? When take wife to see sister? When have time for wife? When Bob take out trash?”
“We just broke and entered. We can go to jail for this.”
“Is nice, out with friends. That’s all Bob say.”
Before I could formulate an answer the door eased opened again.
“We’re alone,” Fred said.
Bob and I slipped in, closing the door behind us. We now stood in the mud room off the kitchen.
No more than six by five it held a built-in bench on one of the paneled walls, with a coat rack filling the opposite. The oversized tile floor continued throughout the kitchen as well.
The dim glow of a night light traced the edges of the granite topped cabinets and dining table. On the opposite side of the room was an opening to the hallway.
My attention was drawn by the sound of someone going through one of the cabinets.
“Fred,” I whispered hoarsely, looking about the room for him.
“Da,” he responded, popping up from under one of the cabinets, a large frying pan and matching lid in his hands.
“What the hell are you doing?” I asked angrily.
He began to speak in Russian as Bob patted him down, removing a stainless steel sauce pan from under his shirt.
Bob said nothing beyond a couple of quick snaps of his fingers before pointing to me.
Fred’s arms went limp again as his hands went to his pocket, retrieving a fifty, handing it reluctantly to me.
“You should be ashamed,” I admonished, happily snapping the money right out of his hand.
We moved through the kitchen to the hall and to the door that someone had used to spy on us.
At that moment, the sound of a toilet flushing reached us from somewhere upstairs.
Like little kids, all three of us dove for the door, rushing inside. On the other side the floor vanished, becoming little more than a small landing with stairs trailing into the darkness.
The first time I heard it, I thought nothing of it at all… nothing. I’ve been in the newspaper game for more than twenty-seven years and that kind of experience gave a guy an edge but even that didn’t prepare me.
I’d been beaten, shot at, even stabbed a couple of times over the years but I always got the story… always. But this one… this one was big… too big perhaps… Maybe we were ready, maybe not. Either way, it wasn’t my call.
None of which filled me with the fear, the trepidation… the anguish of five little words that still haunted me today…
“Is okay. I have cousin.”
I was raised pretty much the same as everyone else… devoted mother, strict father and all the imaginary friends I could conjure. Not that I wasn’t friendly, I just wasn’t “people orientated”. Maybe I lived in my head way more than I should have, maybe not. I liked machines more than people, at least I did until I met my wife.
The first thing I can remember writing was for her. For the life of me I can’t remember what it was about… something about dust bunnies under the bed and monsters in my closet. It must have been pretty good because she married me shortly after that. I spent a good number of years after inventing games and prototypes for a variety of ideas before I got back to writing.
It wasn’t a deliberate conscious thought, it was more of a stepping stone. My wife and I had joined a dream interpret group and we were encouraged to write down our dreams as they occurred. “Be as detailed as you can,” we were told.
I was thrilled. If there is one thing I enjoy it’s making people believe me and I like to exaggerate. Not a big exaggeration or an outright lie mine you, just a little step out of sync, just enough so you couldn’t be sure if it were true or not. When I write, I always write with the effort of “it could happen” very much in mind and nothing, I guarantee you, nothing, makes me happier.