Tag: book launch

A New Book, and This Time, It’s Personal (Essays)

Greetings reader,

I’m happy to report that Mild Buffoonery is available right now in ebook, paperback, and hardcover. There’s no film adaptation, but we’re working on the script.

I’m pleased to report that early readers have commended its “good humor,” “fun and lighthearted writing style,” and its “essential contributions to humankind rivaled only by the wheel.” (That last one was completely fabricated.) It even peaked at number 25 on Amazon’s Rural Life Humor category, which I consider a major victory.

In no particular order, here are some of my personal favorite excerpts from the book:



You get the idea. You can purchase your digital copy right on my website, paperback at Amazon, or hardcover at Barnes & Noble. (Note: The B&N link is active as I write this, but I think they’re still building it. Might want to check back an a bit if it’s not active.)

Whatever you choose, thank you for reading. I hope you enjoy it!

Best,

Kyle

P.S. I’ll be reading some essays from the book live this Sunday, September 17, at 10am EST. Hope to see you there!


Kyle A. Massa is a comic fantasy author living somewhere in upstate New York with his wife, their daughter, and three wild animals. His published works include five books and several short stories. When he’s not writing, he enjoys reading, running, and drinking coffee.

This Mother’s Day, Meet the Moms of “Eggs for the Ageless”

Hey reader, Happy Mother’s Day!

Today, I’d like to introduce you to the moms from my upcoming book, Eggs for the Ageless. They may not have Mother’s Day where they’re from, but we’ll celebrate nonetheless. Here we go!

Sarene, Traveling Holy Devoted

Sarene is our main character Egg’s mother. She’s a Holy Devoted of the Ageless, which is similar to a nun. She’s super into it.

In fact, Sarene’s zeal for religion drives a wedge between herself and her daughter. Their conflict mirrors the overarching conflict in the novel itself.

What does Sarene look like? Let’s take it from the text:

She was stern and severe with a heron’s build and differently colored eyes: one brown, one blue. Her head was shaven, revealing a smooth scalp with a halo of runic tattoos—12 of them, each representing one of the Dozen Gods and Goddesses.

And here are a few random quotes from Sarene that should give you a sense of her personality:

“Live your life as long as it lasts, Zeggara,” said her mother, passing the manuscript across the desk. She patted her daughter’s hand. “And do some good with the life you’re given.”

“Do you believe [your father is] truly gone, Zeggara?” [Sarene] seemed genuinely curious. “When a person dies, do you believe all that comes after is…nothingness?”

“I…I don’t know.” Egg wished she had a better answer.

“I don’t believe it. I refuse to believe it. So I chose to believe in the Ageless instead. I believe in another life, a happier one. I believe I’ll hug your father again. You will, too, after your Devotion.”

Sarene is one of the most dynamic characters in the novel, and therefore one of the most challenging to write. No spoilers, but she plays an antagonistic role in the first act, appears rarely in the second, then takes a leading role in the third. In basketball terms, she’s got a variable usage rate.

Fun fact: Sarene was absent from this story’s first draft. Only when I rewrote it two years ago did I create her, and I’m glad I did. She serves an essential role of generating religious tension for our main character.

Sturnella, Sadly Deceased

Sturnella is wife to Rulf (vicious tyrant) and mother to Rulf Junior (not-at-all-vicious heir to the empire). She’s already died when our story begins but, spoiler alert, she makes a brief cameo. Perhaps in a flashback, perhaps in a dream, or perhaps some other way. Hmm…

Anyhoo, enough cryptic clues. Here’s what Sturnella looks like:

[Sturnella] appeared to be about Egg’s mother’s age, though she had far more hair: Long auburn locks knotted into patterns a weaver might envy. Her dress was equally impressive, purple cloth and golden lace, with a fringe of hanging gems that chimed when she moved.

I won’t give away any more Sturnella quotes, lest I ruin the surprise. Here’s what I will say: Her name comes from a genus of “North American grassland birds called meadowlarks.” I found that on Wikipedia, so it must be true.

Giving Sturnella the proper presence was challenging. As mentioned, she only gets one scene, so I needed to make that scene memorable. Not sure I achieved that, so you’ll have to let me know.

Lira, Goddess of Order

If Lira was played by an actress, it would be Judi Dench. In other words, she’s a hardass. For example, here’s an exchange between her son, Rismo, and her son’s buddy, Trast:

“On a scale from one to 10,” Rismo asked aloud, “how mad is she going to be?”

“Knowing your mother,” Trast answered, “I think that scale’s too small.”

As you can see, Lira is not the most forgiving mom. Nor is she especially nurturing, understanding, or reassuring. However, she is efficient and meticulous, and she knows how to run a world. Just take this mini monologue:

“This is not the first world my soon-to-be-former husband and I founded. There was another, less successful world. One without rules and repercussions.”

“But Mother,” said Rismo. “You love rules and repercussions.”

“There’s a reason for that. This prototype world was your father’s idea. He wanted a land of boundless creation, a place where imagination and reality were one. All he wanted to do was create. ‘Let the chef cook’—I believe that’s the expression he used.

“But this world of Flor’s didn’t function. Without gravity to tether its people, they came unstuck from the ground and floated off into nowhere. Without time to mark their days, lives passed in the span of a sentence—or never ended. Without death, people suffered hunger and thirst and crippling old age, yet never found relief or rest. The prototype failed. Do you understand why?”

“Because Flor should’ve written from an outline?” Trast tried.

“Because creation needs order. Because every action causes a reaction. Because laws must be made and upheld.”

Well, at least now you can see why she’s such a stickler for the rules.

So there you have it. You’ve met the moms of Eggs for the Ageless. If you’d like to read more about them, feel free to buy the book, which releases eight days from today on May 16.

Finally, I’d like to wish a happy Mother’s Day to my mom, stepmom, mother-in-law, aunts, sister-in-law, cousins, and friends. And a special Mother’s Day wish goes to my wife, because this is her very first Mother’s Day as a mom. Enjoy your day, Sara!


Kyle A. Massa is a comic fantasy author living somewhere in upstate New York with his wife, their daughter, and three wild animals. His published works include two books and several short stories. When he’s not writing, he enjoys reading, running, and drinking coffee.

Another Sneak Peek at “Eggs for the Ageless”

Eggs for the Ageless

Eggs and deserts might be a strange match—except in the world of Eggs for the Ageless.

This all-new comic fantasy novel arrives May 16, 2022. In the meantime, I’ve got to blog about something. So, I’d love to share a chapter of the book with you.

A live version of this excerpt is available here. However, if you’d rather not hear me repeat the word “umm” several times, you’ll prefer the written version below. Anyhoo, without further ado, here’s Chapter Two of Eggs for the Ageless, entitled “A Meeting of (Most of) the Dozen.” Hope you enjoy it!


Lira, Goddess of Order, cleared her throat. “Your father and I have an announcement to make.”

“An important announcement,” her husband clarified.

Lira shot him a venomous look. She wore her long hair tied neatly into a spiraling braid which hung over one shoulder. Her forehead contained a vein that had been throbbing for several thousand years or so, and never more vigorously than during family meetings. Like this one.

She noticed her husband’s throne was not quite aligned with hers; a hair of a degree off, by her estimation (which was of course perfectly accurate). So Lira snapped her fingers. Her husband’s throne jerked into place.

Her husband’s name was Florinioniorius. He was a plump god adorned in a robe of starlight and boots of midnight. A beret spun from strands of dream was stuffed over his curly mop of dark hair. He was called God of Life, Creator of Creation, Author of It All, and many other bombastic self-appointed titles nobody used but him. Most just called him God of Creation.

Florinioniorius’s eyes changed color depending on his mood. As they narrowed on his wife, they turned red. But when his gaze swept over their children standing before them, his eyes turned a vibrant orange. He scooted his throne back where it had been, then stroked the silver quill tucked behind his ear. It was the quill he’d used to create everything.

Lira and Florinioniorius (we’ll call him “Flor” from now on, to save paper) had hundreds of children, all of them Ageless. Among those hundreds, the first 10 were known as the Dozen (with Lira and Flor making 12). And of those 10, eight were in attendance. Those eight children presently stood in a half-arc around their parents. Above them hung the crystalline dome of the Council Chambers, and above that a dome of purple clouds that kept out the oppressive sun. Far below awaited the realm of the mortals (where Egg and her mother lived). The Ageless called it “Downstairs.”

Lira and Flor were human-shaped. Among their eight attending children, some were and some weren’t. One, for example, had a cluster of eyeballs in place of a head. Another sported three pairs of feathery wings and was now combing them with a brush. Another had a tiny, cone-shaped head atop a hulking, angular body. The most humanoid among the children was a curvy woman with red hair, red robes, and red ruby rings, one of which she twisted around her finger. Her name was Laléna, and she was Goddess of Love.

“Mother?” Laléna asked. “Father? Is everything alright? What sort of announcement is this?”

“Let me guess,” said a god whose bod was composed of swords, spears, daggers, and all manner of pointy objects. “There’s a fight brewing. Am I right? Sweet, I knew it. I’ll gather a host and meet you Downstairs.”

“No, War,” Lira answered. “No fighting.”

The God of War, who’d given himself the imaginative name “War,” peered down sullenly at his shoes. They were made of razor blades.

A Goddess with hair composed of kelp and tanned skin verging on orange spoke next. “I’ve got a guess. We’re installing a new beach down there, aren’t we?”

“Good guess, Idos,” said Flor, winking one orange eye. “But no new beaches needed. Maybe another time, m’dear.”

Idos, Goddess of the Sea, peered down sullenly at her shoes. They were flip-flops.

“Is this a recognition banquet in my honor?” asked a goddess with green skin of a bark-like texture, along with several toadstools sprouting from her cheek. Two crows sat on her shoulders, and a monkey sat on her head. “Or a good-natured roast? Perhaps a surprise party?”

“No, Grimgrumble,” Lira sighed. “It isn’t even your birthday.”

Grimgrumble, Goddess of the Wilds, peered down sullenly at her shoes—or would have, if she ever wore any.

“We have summoned you all here today,” Lira practically shouted, vein pounding in her forehead, “because your father and I have an announcement to make. We need to tell you that—”

“Ahem,” said Flor.

Lira glared at him. “What?”

“Nothing. It’s just…who’s telling them? Me or you?”

“I was about to. Then you interrupted me.”

“That wasn’t interrupting, that was me clearing my throat.”

“My ass. I know what it was, it was—”

“Mother,” Laléna interjected. “Father. We just want to know why you summoned us here. From either of you.”

The world’s original power couple glowered at each other for what seemed like eons. Finally, Flor waved a hand in concession. Lira nodded.

“Your father and I,” she boomed, “are getting a divorce.”

Silence. That’s what came next. Complete, awed, disbelieving silence. Ten whole seconds of it, during which existence itself seemed to hold its breath. (Who knows? Maybe it did.)

One god finally broke that silence: The one with three sets of feathery wings. Windbag was his name, and he was God of Air. He raised his wings along with his hand.

“Divorce?” he asked. “What does that word mean again?”

Mountain, God of Earth, who had the cone-shaped head and the angular body, whispered the correct answer. He had to whisper, otherwise he’d cause an earthquake. Unfortunately, he whispered so quietly that no one heard him.

So War, God of War, ventured a guess instead. “Divorce is a breed of dog, Windbag, you dummy. Mom and Dad are getting us a puppy.”

“Nope,” said a goddess who had hitherto been silent. She wore muddy boots and a big hat with a tall yellow feather in it. Faraway was her name, and she was Goddess of Travels. “Not a dog. Divorce is a term coined by the mortals. Means Mother and Father are splitting up.”

“That’s correct, m’dear,” Flor confirmed. “Your mother and I are parting. We’ve had enough of each other. And frankly, enough of this world. I created it, yes, but I yearn for a new project.” He patted the silver quill tucked behind his ear. “I’d hate to be remembered as an author with only one book.”

“You created this world,” Lira snorted. “But I kept it going. The whole damn time.”

Flor’s eyes turned red again, though he managed to unstick them from his wife (soon to be ex). He smiled at his children. “We’re leaving two essential posts empty: Mine, as God of Creation, and your mother’s, as Goddess of Order. Therefore, we’re conducting tryouts for our replacements.”

Lira glared at her husband (soon to be ex, also). “We agreed to call them interviews. Not tryouts.”

“‘Interview’ sounds so stodgy. Tryouts are fun! Besides, why do you care so much?”

“Father,” interjected Laléna, ever the voice of reason. “Mother. Let’s back up a moment. Is divorce really the answer? Can’t love find a way?”

“No!” snapped Lira and Flor simultaneously. It was perhaps the first time they’d agreed on anything in several millennia.

The god with the head made of eyeballs spoke next—or would have, had all those eyeballs left any room for a mouth. Instead, he wrote a message on a scrap of parchment, then passed it to Laléna, who read it aloud. She said: “Infinity wants to know when the interviews are being held.” (Infinity, by the way, was the God of Knowledge.)

“Soon,” answered Flor, at the same time Lira said, “Immediately.” They exchanged several dirty looks, then Lira continued.

“We shall consider all of you gathered here today, as well as your sister Coda, who’s working right now and couldn’t attend. We would’ve considered your brother Hylus, too, but…” She trailed off, cleared her throat, took a moment to gather herself. “Any other questions?”

Several divine hands shot up. Lira massaged the vein in her forehead. “We’ll make appointments with each of you individually.”

“Thanks for coming, m’dears and m’boys,” said Flor. “Good luck at your tryouts!”

That was their cue to leave. And so, they did. Another happy reunion for the world’s original dysfunctional family.


Kyle A. Massa is a comic fantasy author living somewhere in upstate New York with his wife, their daughter, and three wild animals. His published works include two books and several short stories. When he’s not writing, he enjoys reading, running, and drinking coffee.

© Kyle A. Massa, 2022. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be duplicated or distributed in any form or by any means without expressed written consent from the author.

How to Take Forever to Write a Book

Writing Tips

My new novel, Eggs for the Ageless, finally arrives on May 16, 2022. I say “finally” because it’s taken eight years to write. For context, here are some differences between then and now:

  • No one had yet heard of the phrase “social distancing.”
  • Tom Brady only had three Super Bowl titles.
  • “TiK ToK” was a song by Ke$ha, not a social media platform.

So, in the spirit of the classic writing advice article, here are some tips on taking forever to write your book. Take it from someone who knows.

Tip 1: Play Video Games

I recommend Pokémon or Magic: The Gathering. The latter is technically a card game, but when you play primarily on your phone or laptop, it might as well be a video game. You’ll write far less, but you’ll be rich in digital currency.

Of course, it could be worse. In high school, for example, I’d stay up until three in the morning playing Rock Band 2. I went multiplatinum and was inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, yes. But I really should’ve been writing.

Tip 2: Have a Baby

Babies are an excellent way to delay books. I mean, they’re adorable, lovable, and infinitely amazing—but they take a lot of work. Enough so that while you’re raising your child, other people are writing books about how you should be raising your child.

FYI, my daughter Sasha was born last fall, so that’s how I know this. So if you’re thinking of taking forever to write your book, try having a baby. You’ll have less writing time, but you’ll have something much better.

Tip 3: Rewrite Your Book Several Times

If you’re dissatisfied with your book, rewrite it. If you still don’t like it, rewrite it again. If you still don’t dig it, keep rewriting it until you’re happy with it. When will that be? Hah. Good question.

I did one big rewrite of Eggs for the Ageless. Though that might not sound horrible, it meant scrapping 300 typed pages for 500 typed pages, without a single sentence in common between the two. Time consuming? Yes. But it was also essential. This was the first manuscript I’d ever completed, so I had no idea what I was doing.

First off, my protagonist was a complete schlub. His name was Bart and, like my current protagonist, Egg, he wrote a book that accidentally became a religion. Problem was, Bart was whiney, aimless, and ultimately uninteresting. During the story’s climax, for example, he cracked some mediocre jokes and did little else. Furthermore, Bart’s desires were never clear. I gave him a half-assed romance plot, but it never connected to the central conflict. So, when I rewrote the book, I knew I needed a better protagonist.

I’m thrilled to say I found that protagonist in Egg. Her main goal is reconciliation with her hyper-religious mother, which symbolizes the novel’s greater conflict. It all works far better, thanks to Egg. (RIP Bart.)

So, if you’re finishing your book too fast, consider rewriting it oodles of times.

Tip 4: Work on Other Books

I was excellent at this one. After completing the first draft of Eggs for the Ageless in the summer of 2014 (at that time I called it The Gods or Dear Gods…Why Aren’t You Listening?), I embarked on other writing journeys. A brief list:

  • Who the Hell is Julian Strange?, which would later become my first novel, Gerald Barkley Rocks
  • A book with five characters in three parts, with each part set a decade apart, which will actually be releasing next year
  • Monsters of Dusk, a short fiction collection that was recently named a finalist for The Wishing Shelf Awards
  • A National Novel Writing Month project called Upstate and a While Back
  • An unfinished manuscript about a futuristic haunted house in which a monster runs loose

Now that’s a lot of distractions. I mean, I’m glad I wrote them (aside from the haunted house one), but they did delay the release of this work.

Tip 5: Procrastinate

This is a tried and true classic method—just ask any writer. Whether it’s Tweeting, playing with the dog, or diving down a Wikipedia rabbit hole, there’s no better way to take eight years to finished a book. Take it from someone who knows.

But no matter how long it took to write Eggs for the Ageless, it’s finally arriving on May 16, 2022. You can buy it directly from this website, or anywhere else books are sold. Hope you enjoy it!


Kyle A. Massa is a comic fantasy author living somewhere in upstate New York with his wife, their daughter, and three wild animals. His published works include two books and several short stories. When he’s not writing, he enjoys reading, running, and drinking coffee.

A Sneak Peek at “Eggs for the Ageless”

Egg wrote.

Or rather, she scribbled words on papyrus, frowned, then crossed them out.

The Almighty Penguin waddled into the distance, Egg scribbled, nearly tearing the page with the ink-wet tip of her quill. And like a pastry at dessert, it vanished gradually, until it was finally gone.

She eased back, swept her bushy black hair from her eyes, admired the words for a moment, then shook her head and slashed them.

Like a pastry at dessert? That was a weird simile. Maybe she was just hungry. And waddling off into the sunset? Too cliche. (Not so much the waddling part, but still.) This was the summation of a year’s work, the final line of her first book. It needed to be memorable, moving, and above all, not crappy. So Egg tried a new closing line instead.

“We’ll meet again, child,” said the Almighty Penguin. “Someday soon.”

No. No no no. She slashed that, too. Made it seem like she was setting up a sequel, and she hated when authors did that. So presumptuous. At least let readers ask for another before you go forcing it on them.

“Subtle,” she whispered to the parchment. “We need to be more subtle. And maybe even a little profound, if we can swing it.”

“Excuse me?” someone asked.

Egg bolted upright and threw on her most genial smile. The someone who’d spoken was a man seated in the sand beside her, a round and jowly type who smelled slightly of ale. They’d met a few hours prior, but Egg had already forgotten his name. Boffer, maybe. Or Boofer?

“Who are you talking to, girl?” the man asked.

“Well, Mr., um…Boogler…” Egg began, then thought better of answering truthfully and finished with, “…I was just warming up my voice. For the call-and-answer bit.”

“It’s Bowler,” the man snapped. “Mayor Bowler. And what are you writing about, anyway?”

You’re awfully nosy, Mayor Bowler, Egg thought, though she didn’t say it. Instead, she tried her smile again. “Just, umm, taking notes.” She waved toward the makeshift dais before them, where the Holy Devoted was busy reading some story of self-righteous dopes from a chunky book called The Everything. It was the only book Egg could ever remember disliking.

Bowler glowered at the stack of papyrus mounted atop Egg’s lap. “That’s a lot of notes.”

It’s been a long service, she thought. Two hours, according to a nearby hourglass, and the Holy Devoted had only just gotten to the introduction of the Ageless bit. Bowler gave her a parting snort before returning his attention to the oration.

Around them dozed a lazy little town, just a pleasant smattering of sun-baked houses. It took Egg a moment to recall the name of said town, but a glance to the west reminded her.

Plainwall. So named, presumably, because of the looming western wall that provided shade from the omnipresent (I’m being literal here) sun. Not the most creative name for a town, but it was just down the road from a city called Buystuff, so what could you expect?

On the dais before them (actually a creaky wooden box, but “dais” sounded fancier), Holy Devoted Sarene graced the boiling morning air with her voice, enunciating every syllable with precision and clarity. Her reading was flawless as ever. If only her material was less boring.

“And so Lira, Goddess of Order, and Florinioniorius, God of Creation, had 10 children,” Sarene intoned. “And those 10 children, along with their mother and father, would be the foremost of the Ageless, the Greater Gods and Goddesses. They would be the Dozen.”

“The Dozen,” the gathering repeated.

“And many more Ageless would be born of Lira and Florinioniorius, and though they would be divine as well, they would be known as the Lesser Gods and Goddesses.”

“The Lesser,” the gathering repeated.

“And so all the Ageless, both the Dozen and the Lesser, do guide the lives of mortals. They do make our world whole.”

“They make our world whole,” the gathering repeated.

“With the exception of Hylus, God of the Sun,” Sarene clarified, “who hasn’t allowed our holy sun to set in decades, and shall not allow it until we humans prove our worth.”

“Until we prove our worth,” the gathering repeated.

Egg, by the way, wasn’t listening to any of this. It was too nice a day. The sun was fat and bloated as ever, but it was hidden for now, and a handful of puffy white clouds floated above. The sand beneath her bottom was blistering, as usual, but at least she had a blanket to sit on. And a songbird had appeared, settling on the eave of a nearby house. It trilled, then departed. Egg tried and failed to suppress her jealousy.

Anyway, back to writing. She started by twirling her quill around and around, like a real, honest-to-goodness writer must do. Unfortunately, when she looked down, she realized she’d splattered ink across the topmost page.

Oh dear, she thought.

She fumbled the quill and dropped it, which stained the papyrus further, plus got ink on her robes.

Oh shit, she thought.

She scooted to retrieve the quill, which displaced the stack of parchment upon her lap. It slipped off and scattered everywhere, fluttering away like so many leaves, and in her haste to catch them, she kicked the ink pot seated beside her. It tumbled across the sand, leaving a black smear in its wake. Droplets of ink spattered everyone seated too close—including Bowler. The town’s Mayor.

“Oh fuck.”

She thought she’d thought that. But when she felt eyes on her—several dozen pairs of them—she realized she hadn’t. Those words had slipped out.

The entire village of Plainwall, all here for the oration. All staring at her.

She rose. She tried summoning her genial smile but managed only a guilty grimace. The stares had turned to glares, from Mr. Bowler and the other ink-stained townsfolk, the clean ones too, and…

Egg gulped. And Holy Devoted Sarene.

There was no Goddess of Disapproval, but if there was, she probably would’ve taken the form of the Holy Devoted. Sarene was stern and severe with a heron’s build and differently colored eyes: one brown, one blue. Her scalp was completely shaven, revealing a smooth head with a halo of runic tattoos—12 of them, each representing one of the Dozen Gods and Goddesses.

“Child,” Sarene said. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Egg tried to speak, but the sound came out a sputter.

“She’s taking notes,” Mayor Bowler offered. “Allegedly.”

The Devoted did not react. She didn’t even blink. “You’ve made an unholy mess, Zeggara. Have you anything to say for yourself?”

“Yes. I have something to say for myself. I say I’d rather be writing than sitting here, because writing makes me happier than sitting around every week for hours on end, listening to stories I don’t believe in and participating in rituals I don’t care for. I say that maybe I believe in something else, or would at least like the opportunity to do so. Also, I say you’re overstating the state of this mess—I’ve done worse. That’s what I say.”

…Well, that’s what Egg would’ve said, if she’d had the courage. But she didn’t. Instead, she squeaked three words:

“I don’t know.”

Holy Devoted Sarene was intimidating enough. It didn’t help that she also happened to be Egg’s mother.

#

By the time the gathering dispersed, morning had turned to afternoon (not that you’d know it by looking at the sun; it hadn’t moved an inch, nor would it).

Nonetheless, the people of Plainwall returned to their houses, and Egg and her mother retired to their current home: Plainwall’s inn.

Up in their room, Sarene seated herself behind a desk. Egg sat across from her, beside a breezeless window. The ink-stained manuscript laid between them.

“So.” Egg’s mother flipped through the pages, examining them like scraps of food on the verge of spoiling. “Explain this.”

“It’s a book,” said Egg. Her eyes flicked to the candle flame dancing beside her manuscript. (Candles—and flames in general—became obsolete once the sun stopped setting, but you could still find them if you tried.)

“I see that. What sort of book?”

A good one, Egg thought. But she said, “I don’t know.”

Her mother pursed her lips and ran a finger along Egg’s tangled handwriting. “What would your father think of this?”

He’d love it. He’d at least give it a chance. “I…I don’t know.”

“Please stop telling me what you don’t know, Zeggara.” She fixed her differently colored eyes upon her daughter. “An anthropomorphic penguin?”

“It’s fiction,” Egg blurted. “Meant to provoke thought and reflection. You don’t have to take it literally.”

“Then explain it to me.”

Egg looked away. “You won’t like it.”

The edge of the Holy Devoted’s lip ticked up ruefully. “I don’t expect to.”

“It’s a story about a penguin who arrives in a town and teaches people how to be more penguin-like. They toboggan, feast on fish, and swim together in rafts. Did you know a pack of swimming penguins was called a ‘raft,’ mother?”

“I did not.”

“Well, it was. The point I’m trying to make is…” People have the right to live their lives however they want to. And maybe a penguin is just as good a deity as your Ageless. But Egg swallowed and instead finished, “I like penguins.”

“I can see that.” Her mother flipped to the front page and read, “Grand Teachings of the Almighty Penguin. Is that what I’m supposed to call this?”

“It’s a working title.”

Her mother sighed. “How long have you been writing it?”

“A year.”

The Holy Devoted shook her bald head. “And all that time you could’ve been reading your Everything. You could’ve been studying for your Devotion.”

The Everything was the holy book of the Ageless, and the Devotion was a ritual in which mortals pledged their lives to said Ageless to become (you guessed it) Holy Devoted. Devotion involved getting tattoos representing the Dozen, plus some sort of quiz and a public declaration. Truth be told, Egg was fuzzy on the details.

But Devotion wasn’t Egg’s passion in life. Writing was. It was the one skill she considered herself halfway decent at (aside from her abilities to forget names and spill things). She’d been writing constantly, ever since she was young. Granted, Grand Teachings of the Almighty Penguin was the first story she’d ever even come close to finishing, and some of her previous projects had been unimpressive at best. But she had written them. And writing remained her passion, despite her mother’s tireless attempts to replace it with religion.

“I just want to write, mother.”

Sarene offered no answer. Instead, she gathered the papers, flipped through them with her thumb. She sighed heavily. “There is only one book you should be studying, Zeggara. You know what I must do with this one.” Her gaze slid to the candle flame.

“Please.” Egg didn’t want to cry in front of her mother, but she feared she might, if it came to this. “You can’t.”

“I must. There is no Goddess of Penguins, Zeggara. We’ve traveled to this town to bring the teachings of the Ageless to its people. Not some fanciful tale of flying creatures.”

“Swimming.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Penguins didn’t fly—they swam. They were aquatic flightless birds.”

Egg’s mother rubbed at the tattoos on her bare scalp. “As you say, child. I know little of extinct species.”

“And it’s satire,” Egg added, her sudden courage taking her by surprise. “The point isn’t to present an alternative religion. It’s to poke fun at religion itself.”

Her mother’s mismatched eyes suddenly looked pained. “That cannot be, my daughter. Our faith is everything to us. It should be everything to you. Why do you think the sun never sets, hmm? Why do you think it dries our grounds and burns our backs? It’s because we aren’t devoted enough. We don’t believe enough. So if you truly want to become a Devoted, Zeggara, you must set aside this writing and focus on what truly matters.”

That’s what you want, mother, Egg thought. Not what I want.

It was unsurprising, anyway. Ever since she’d given herself to the Ageless, Egg’s mother had warned all about what wasn’t allowed. Egg wasn’t even sure she could have dessert without permission from the Ageless—not that it ever stopped her.

“Mother…” You’re missing the point. You’re preventing people from thinking for themselves. What if my book gave them a new perspective on their belief? What if it made them laugh, instead of feeling guilty or fearful?

She wanted to say that to her mother, and more. But she couldn’t. “Please. It’s just a book.”

“Books have power. This book you’ve written, Zeggara. It’s blasphemous.”

“Have you even read it?”

“I’ve read enough. For your sake, I must do this.” Her mother leaned toward the candle.

“Wait!” Egg cried. She wasn’t exactly sure what they were waiting for, but the answer came to her suddenly. “Let me do it, mother. I…I’ll do it.”

Sarene hesitated, holding the pages mere inches above the flickering candle. “You shall?”

“I must. It needs to be destroyed, burned, obliterated, all that. Just what blasphemy deserves, am I right?” She forced a chuckle, wishing she was better at lying. “I’m the one who created it. I should be the one to destroy it.”

The Holy Devoted gave her daughter a wary look. “If you say you’ll do this, you must not balk. I’m trusting you, child.”

Egg offered her most trustworthy smile. “You can count on me, mother. I just need a day to say goodbye. After that, I’ll destroy it. I swear it by…by the Ageless themselves.”

It hurt to make a promise she wasn’t sure she could keep. But her mother’s sudden smile hurt worse. It was one of the few times Egg could ever remember her mother looking proud of her.

“Believe in something, Zeggara. It will save you, in this life and the next.” She passed the manuscript across the desk, then patted her daughter on the hand. “You’re doing the right thing.”

Egg hugged her manuscript. “Thank you,” she said. But what she really meant was, Thank you for helping me finish my book.

#

Sunlight found her on the creaking front steps of the inn. The village was quiet, the stagnant air still, and Egg’s left hand itched to write. She drew her quill from her pocket, wetted it, then flipped to the back of her book and scribbled one final, fading line. It went like this:

“Believe in something,” said the Almighty Penguin, “so long as it makes you happy.”

“You’re finally finished,” Egg whispered to her book, planting a wet kiss upon the page. Her lips were probably black now, but whatever. “And now…I have to kill you.”

She’d promised it, sworn it, vowed it, both to the Ageless and her mother. Could she really break that promise?

Her eyes drifted to the horizon, to the gleaming spires in the distance. There loomed the city of Buystuff, the villagers had said. They called it the commerce capital of the world, the place where one could find any people or products there were to find. Hunters and diggers, jewelers and smiths, wanderers and soldiers, monarchs and peasants, writers and…

…And publishers…

“What do I do now?” Egg asked her manuscript. But she already knew the answer.


Kyle A. Massa is a speculative fiction author living somewhere in upstate New York with his wife, their cats, and their dog. He has written two books and numerous short stories, both published and yet-to-be published. He enjoys unusual narrative structures, multiple POVs, and stories that make readers laugh. For a free sample of Kyle’s work, subscribe to his newsletter.

© Kyle A. Massa, 2020. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be duplicated or distributed in any form or by any means without expressed written consent from the author.

“Monsters at Dusk” Arrives This Friday

Cover designed by Nathan Rumsey

Well, it’s finally here.

Monsters at Duskthe short story collection I’ve been working on for the past nine months, is finally releasing this Friday, September 6th.

I don’t know about you, but I don’t like waiting. Therefore, I’ve set up a preorder for the book. It’s available today.

To preorder your copy, simply click this link. Enter your purchase information, then Amazon will send a Kindle ebook copy of Monsters at Dusk straight to you as soon as it’s ready.

Friday’s main release will include versions from Barnes & Noble and Smashwords, plus a paperback edition from Amazon. If you’d prefer one of those, please wait to purchase until Friday.

Next week, I’ll delve deeper into the stories behind the stories of Monsters at Dusk. Until then, hope you enjoy it!


Kyle A. Massa is the author of the novel Gerald Barkley Rocks and the forthcoming short story collection Monsters at Dusk. His stories have appeared in numerous online magazines, including Allegory, Chantwood, and Dark Fire Fiction. He lives somewhere in upstate New York with his wife and their two cats.

Announcing Wee Stories: 1,001 One-Word Tales

You know that second between chewing a Cheez-It and swallowing it? Or the moment it takes to flush a toilet? What about those 10 idle seconds spent waiting for the light to turn green?

For the voracious reader, these moments are opportunities. All you need is a story of the proper length.

With that thought in mind, I’d like to introduce you to my latest book. It’s called Wee Stories: 1,001 One-Word Tales.

Wee Stories Cover

If you maximize your screen by about 200 percent, you might be able to read the text on this cover. This is an intentional artistic decision, one that reflects the minuscule size of the stories within. At one word each, they’re the shortest short stories you’ll ever read. They’re so short, in fact, that I call them microstories.

Novels take months to read. Short stories take hours. Even flash fiction stories take a few minutes. But microstories? They take mere seconds.

Consider this one. I call it Crossing at Dawn. Here it is, in its entirety.

Turtles.

It took me six months to write that piece. I tried to imagine what animal would be most likely to cross a road at dawn. A squirrel felt unremarkable, a chicken too cliche. Finally I settled upon the present form. I’m thrilled with the results.

There are 1,000 more microstories in the book but I’d rather not spoil them for you. Instead, I ask you to purchase Wee Stories when it goes on sale in June.

Until then, I encourage you to think about how many microstories you could’ve read in the time it took to read the blog post. By my count, it should be about 200 or so. Now that’s efficiency!


Kyle A. Massa is a speculative fiction author living somewhere in upstate New York with his wife and their two cats. His stories have appeared in numerous online magazines, including Allegory, Chantwood, and Dark Fire Fiction. His debut novel, Gerald Barkley Rocks, is available now.

© 2024 Kyle A. Massa

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