Altimexis

Saturday, October 9, 2032 - Eleven Years before the Assassination I’d already been up for more than an hour when I heard the slap of the morning newspaper as it arrived at the door of our downtown loft apartment. Campaigning for mayor while continuing to run the city schools had taken its toll and the endless weeks of sleeping less than four hours a night had left me feeling like I was in a perpetual fog. Six AM and I was already on my second cup of coffee - not that the caffeine helped much any

I was having a fitful night’s sleep as I kept drifting in and out of consciousness. Something just wasn’t right and, whatever it was, it was keeping me from getting a good night’s sleep. I’d had an enjoyable evening with friends, even if it had meant spending much of it in the kitchen preparing and serving the meal. I loved to cook and nothing gave me more pleasure than the appreciation my guests had for my gourmet skills. In frustration, I flipped the covers away and sat up in bed, swinging my

“Sammy, you’ve really outdone yourself,” Jeremy Kimball exclaimed as he leaned back in his chair and groaned. “Yeah, dinner was really awesome,” his son, Josh, agreed. “I hope you managed to save some room for dessert,” Sammy replied, eliciting groans from all of us around the table. “I take it that’s a ‘no’?” Sammy went on and we all smiled and politely shook our heads. “That’s too bad,” Sammy added. “My butter rum mousse has won numerous awards.” “Maybe I could find room for a tiny bit of

When I left the airport, I grabbed a cab to take me to the hotel. Once I checked in, I was back on the street, first to get a quick bite to eat and then to start my search. Right after I left the cafe, I opened my cell phone to call a friend of a friend whom I thought might know the whereabouts of the man I was looking for. I thought locating him would be easy - that my biggest problem would be gaining access to him - but my contact told me no one had seen or heard from him since before Solomon’

Thursday, October 28, 2032 - Eleven Years before the Assassination “Jesus, it’s cold,” I exclaimed as we exited the terminal at Rochester International Airport. Cathy and I were here to meet with city and regional leaders as part of our takeover of the once mighty corporate giants of photography and photo-reproduction, Kodak and Xerox. Back home it was the peak of fall color. Here in Upstate New York, most of the leaves were already off the trees. It felt like it couldn’t be more than thirty deg

“Interesting developments . . . huh?” Joel McAllister, my friend from National Public Media and himself the proud father of a gay teenage son, asked me as the President’s press conference came to a close. We’d been watching Jeremy Kimball take the oath of office and had been as stunned as anyone when Trevor Austin announced the apprehension of a terrorist suspect complicit in the death of President Reynolds. I would have loved to have been involved in the press conference myself but my place was

“It’s all wrong!” Altaf nearly shouted in a whisper as he pleaded his case. “Everything’s changed. We’re off track and I fear the world’s in grave peril.” We were at the swearing-in ceremony for Jeremy Kimball as the new Vice-President and, hence, we were limited in what we could say. There were numerous officials and reporters within earshot and, in this town, it only took the merest hint of something out of the ordinary to touch off a media firestorm. That was the last thing we needed right n

Wednesday, March 25, 2043 - Five Days after the Assassination I woke up to the most wonderful sensation. An incredible, sensual warmth enveloped me, sending waves of pleasure throughout my body. I smiled as I recognized the feel of my husband’s tongue swirling around my head and teasing my slit as his skillful hands cupped my balls and rubbed my nipples. I felt the bed shift slightly and a familiar, musky scent filled my nostrils as I felt a hard member poke me in the nose. I didn’t need to open

“I still think it’s a mistake,” Linda said as I hung up the phone. “I know you’re worried, honey, but I really don’t have a choice,” I explained yet again to my wife of nearly thirty years. “You could have told Jeremy what you know,” she countered. “Maybe he could have worked with the CIA or Mossad, or both.” “I have no doubt that Jer would have taken me seriously but how would he be able to explain it to anyone else? Who would have taken him seriously? He couldn’t exactly explain the real re

“This is amazing, Sammy,” Dad said with his mouth full, “I’ve never tasted anything like it.” Uncle Sammy had prepared a gourmet vegetarian feast for us in celebration of the conclusion of Dad’s first day of testimony before the Joint House and Senate Judiciary Committee. Dad had another day of testimony ahead of him before the Committee and prolly before the full House and Senate. “I can’t believe there’s no meat in this,” Alan chimed in. “I never knew vegetables could taste like this.”

Tuesday, March 24, 2043 - Four Days after the Assassination It was a bright sunny spring day and the sun shone on my face. I was standing at David’s graveside, looking out on a vast sea of people as far as the eye could see. My friends and my children were seated nearby. The holovision cameras captured these moments in time for all eternity. I tried to begin my eulogy to David but, as I opened my mouth to speak, a soft, banging sound intruded into my consciousness becoming louder and louder. Gr

I was as much in the dark as anyone. The President had kept the purpose of his news conference close to his chest. He’d held a news conference just yesterday evening at which he announced a shakeup in his cabinet to fill the vacancy left by the assassination of Karen Richards. Altaf El Tahari was the new Secretary of State, his husband, Randy Bernstein, was the new Secretary of Health and Kevin Williams was the new Surgeon General. There were rumors that tonight’s news conference was to announc

“Thanks so much for helping us out on such short notice,” the young white woman said as she stood in the doorway with a young African American boy. He looked like he couldn’t be more than thirteen or fourteen years old if that, poor fellow. “Why don’t you come on in?” I said as I opened the door wider, encouraging the young woman and the boy to enter. Inside were thirteen other African American youths, ranging in age from twelve to twenty-one, all engaged in a variety of activities. They were s

There isn't much I can add that hasn't already been said. No doubt that Circumnavigation is a gripping tale, albeit a bit long. It appears that when finished, it will be over a million words in length. My Naptown Tales series, which consisted of 25 interrelated short stories, a novella and two full-length novels, ran about half that overall, with another 250k being added in the sequel, Legacy (hey, I'm allowed to post a plug for my own writing). For comparison, a quick search reveals that War and Peace is close to 600k in length. Yes, Cricumnavigation is longer than War and Peace. It's only natural that, posted over a period of about three years now, comments for Circumnavigation will fall off over time. I seriously doubt, however, that readership is diminished greatly - such is the power of the story. C.J. and I have very different writing styles and techniques. I would like to think I'm equally thorough when it comes to my background research, although my readers certainly point out when I make an error. The primary difference is that I will not start posting a novel until I have at minimum finished the first draft. It's not that I go back and make a lot of changes - I just want to be sure that I won't let my readers down by walking away from an unfinished story the way so many authors do. Not being under the constant pressure of posting, however, I think creates a different writing environment. Frankly, I'm amazed that C.J. is able to maintain such incredibly high quality with a write-as-you-go approach. Some of the greatest authors wrote for serial publications, however, so I certainly cannot fault the approach. Another way we differ I think is in our need for feedback. Yes, I love to hear from my readers, but I write primarily for my own enjoyment and am far too used to the lack of feedback. I think my writing, particularly my more recent writing, is quite good for the most part, but it's obviously not the sort of thing most of the G.A. readership is looking for. I have no problem with that, and I really appreciate constructive comments, even when extremely negative. My only gripe is when a reader leaves feedback that is factually ungrounded and then never responds to my response. I think we all face that now and then. I think C.J. has written an incredible story that will stand the test of time. I think it might have been better if it had been a bit shorter, but that's my personal opinion. It's not that a certain level of detail is needed to describe The Rip, for example, but there are entire sections and subplots that add little to the story. Not that I would expect any story to maintain the level of intensity of the pirate attack, but some of the slower parts of the book might have been abridged or left out entirely. One doesn't need to account for every day, nor should one try. This is an extremely minor complaint. I've thoroughly enjoyed reading Cicumnavigation and look forward to reading the final chapters, hopefully without any hiatus.

“Dad?” I said aloud as my father strode up to the pulpit, where I stood. My knees were shaking and I felt like I was about to lose it. I hadn’t noticed him seated among the congregation and it was a complete shock when he shouted out to stop all the negative words that were being flung my way. “Let me handle this, son,” Dad said, “and then we’ll talk after the service.” Speaking into the microphone, Dad began, There was actually some laughter from that. As Dad stepped away from the podiu

“Oh, come in Dr. DeWitt!” the President boomed as his secretary ushered me into his underground office. “Please sir, call me Kurt,” I invited him. “Everyone else does.” “For one thing, I’m not everyone else,” he countered, “and for another, you earned your doctorate, even if some of us questioned the appropriateness of awarding a doctorate in Divinity to a gay man.” “Mr. President, your opinions on homosexuality are well known but I’ll grant you that, except for a few lapses in the previous f

“I know you wish you could be here,” Sam said as we talked on the telephone. “I’d love to have you here, believe me - you’re my best friend, and you were one of David’s best friends too. You’re like a brother to the both of us. Under ordinary circumstances I have little doubt that the captain would give you the time off, but this is a time of national crisis and you’re needed right where you are. You’re the chief of Baltimore Homicide, for cripes sake!” “Yeah, like I’m going to make a fucking d

Monday, March 23, 2043 - Three Days after the Assassination “Goddamn it!” I exclaimed as I wiped the sleep from my eyes, and then uncharacteristically added, “It’s fuckin’ early!” As I heard chuckling and Simon came into focus, I blushed furiously from having been caught using an expletive - not that I hadn’t before, particularly when we were in our teens and twenties. “Sorry to disturb you, Governor, but breakfast’s in a half-hour, and then we’ll be leaving right after that,” said Simon. “Wh

It felt really weird walking around in a pair of Speedos but, laundry-wise, I really was down to them and nothing else. I’d sure be glad when I got some more of my clothes from the White House residence up above. As Dad suggested, Sis and I were both gonna go for a swim - I was already dressed for the part, after all - but when we got back to our residential quarters in the underground White House, Sis realized she didn’t have any swimwear at all. Whereas I might be able to get by wearing a pair

The last few days had been some of the worst of my life, which was saying a lot. I grew up the son of a crack-addicted prostitute and spent most of my youth in and out of group homes and foster care. When I was twelve, I got a lucky break and was sent to a church-run camp for disadvantaged youth, but then I was placed in a cabin with a pedophile for a counselor. Over the next few weeks, ‘Gary’ as we all called him, systematically molested and raped me, and then he made me engage in sex with the

Time stopped when I realized my husband had been seriously wounded. His shirt was soaked with blood, which meant he’d probably lost a lot more than what was visible. “Why didn’t you tell me you’re injured?” I admonished my husband. “It doesn’t really hurt all that much,” he answered. “Not really, anyway, and besides, I didn’t want to worry you.” “Honey, it’s my job to worry,” I replied, and then added, “Let’s get you to the nurse and see how bad it is.” Moments later, David was sitting on a

I kept seeing it - the rocket. This time I was in the limo with David when the rocket hit. Flames were everywhere and there was no escape. Then came the visions of when we were back in Guatemala and taking heavy fire. David’s breathing was becoming more and more labored and I knew he’d die if he didn’t get medical attention soon. I’d always thought we’d have more time together. Always more time . . . “Dad,” the sweet, angelic voice of my son rang out, seeming to pull me back from certain doom.

Sunday, March 22, 2043 - 2 Days after the Assassination The mood in the car was somber as we drove back from St. Louis. It wasn’t often that, as a senior editor for The Star, I got a chance to cover my own stories anymore, let alone travel out of the area to do so, but it wasn’t often that David Reynolds, our city’s favorite son, would be visiting so close to home. Taking advantage of the opportunity, we arranged for our kids, Harry and Jenny, to be excused from school so they could witness a bi

“Dr. McLaughlin?” my secretary buzzed me on the intercom. “Yes Howie,” I answered. “Mr. Walton is here to see you,” he informed me. Sighing, I replied, “Send him in.” Rising to my feet, I greeted the FBI Director warmly, “Ian, it's so good of you to meet me here.” Chuckling, he said, “Not that I have a choice in the matter. At least they’re not making me relocate here,” he added. “Truthfully, I should probably be with my staff at Justice, but I have to admit, the President needs his cabine

“Hey honey, I think you’d better see this,” my husband Brian said as he entered our bedroom and picked up the remote control off the nightstand. A press of the button and the holovision came to life, projecting an image over the dresser. I sat bolt upright in bed when I saw the headline at the top of the image, ‘Solomon and Richards Assassinated’. “SHIT!” I practically shouted, trying to listen to what the news anchor was saying. It quickly became evident that she was already well into the stor