Anne Rice's Old Curiosity Shop

Come ye, all you desirous bibliophiles. Pass through the threshold of Anne Rice's Old Curiosity Shop where for the next week or so, there will be an unending reign of festivities in this temporary home. Yes, temporarily, Anne Rice's Old Curiosity Shop will be opening its doors on "A Bibliophile's Reverie." And till the end of November when "Of Love and Evil," finally releases, there will be a uninterrupted conversation about all things related to Anne Rice's opulent, richly Gothic world. 

Seriously, enter intrepid readers! Smell the scent of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies. The unseen cloud of cookie scent is wafting throughout the small kitchen, located near the front door of the shop. This small, cozy kitchen resides to the left of the shop's sitting room where a fire is bursting with warming, inviting flames. Around the marble fireplace, there sits three brown leather chairs restively sitting and waiting for someone to sit down upon them.

Neither Lestat nor the other band of vampires could make it for this meeting. So, instead I'll be the master of this party and every day I'll be initiating conversation about all things related to Anne Rice's vast,literary universe. Anne Rice may pay an unpredicted visit to our lively meetings. But she's busy exploring the ruins of Atlantis at the moment or paying visit to Lestat who has not written anything new for ages. Oh well, Toby (from Angel Time) has been more than happy to enliven Anne Rice's Old Curiosity Shop for the time being.

Hopefully, his new journal entry about his angelic visitations will more than suffice till Anne Rice invites some  more venerable immortals to the party.

To those who have never visited Anne Rice's Facebook page, please feel free to explore the intellectual jungles of her page. At nearly every intersection in the winding pathways of her Facebook page, there is stimulating conversation occurring about a range of topics including politics, literature, movies, current events or other pressing issues in the world. While you're there, invite some stragglers there to join this temporary meeting of literary addicts. Though the page is darkly colored and still rather lonely, more people occupying this space with their presence and ideas should keep this place alive. 

Beginning today in this undisturbed space, the topic will center around ideas for topics till the eve of November 30th. I hope to have more than myself entertaining the few people merely browsing the shop. I'll need many people to fill this space and generate some idea behind restoring this shop. Right now, there are cobwebs littering the dark corners of the living room because there are no ideas being created. Therefore, I implore everyone who happens upon this page to leave a comment here about your ideas for keeping "Anne Rice's Old Curiosity Shop," alive for the next week.  Till then, let the discussion begin!!

Death's Demise

                Death overlooked the idyllic wasteland below the banister of his dwellings. Flowers were in bloom, and the scene was unpleasant due to its extreme optimism.  Even the trees were arched straight and were filled with sheets of healthy green leaves. Nothing could be more abhorrent than to see such bliss. Even the denizens of this perversion were whistling merrily while shuffling off to their gratifying jobs. No disconcerting screams of pain could be heard in this land.

The whole scene below him appeared incomplete without Death. It needed that small ounce of misery in order to make the scene complete. Some tree needed to become unwieldy with burden. The petals of the flowers needed to be properly scorched till the color disappeared. And those merry bumpkins, who littered the prairie space with their sinful happiness, needed to be removed from the scene. Death had to make its presence known.

So death stealthily moved about the glorified prairie and quietly stepped upon the cobblestone pathway. The pathway cracked with the impact of Death’s daring steps; while the blanket of grass, bordering the path, turned yellow with Death’s quiet sneers.

As death pranced happily about the cobblestone path, trees collapsed and the mirthful citizens gasped. Without forewarning, the prairie’s citizens became inanimate. Their former life of purpose and meaning was meddled with. Children and adults alike cried endlessly over the meaningless carcasses of their loved ones. The only remaining lives were the happy memories held in the fogged minds of those fearing Death.  

Death cackled while more people befell their deaths. Piteous screams erupted from the people. Death thought they were pathetic to offer prayers to some ruler of an afterlife. This was their final termination. Once they died, the illusion of life would be abolished.

One boy still walked through the wreckage of the death surrounding him. He walked upright with confidence. The locks of his dark blonde hair shimmered in the obscene darkness of the world. His blue eyes discerned the dark, searching for one last piece of happiness.

Death laughed then sniveled. He laughed hard enough to cry at the ridiculousness of this boy’s steady hope. What could this boy potentially find?

Suddenly the boy pointed confidently to Death’s blackened form. “Please I implore you Death, Kill me. I’m much too happy.” The boy announced his plans with a surprising amount of determination.

Death was daunted by this boy’s willingness to die. No life force has ever asked for death.

                “Fine, I shall do as you command. You’re the last form of life in this miserable place.” The boy suddenly became dominated by a feeling of strangulation. He breathed one slow breath and then exhaled his last. Finally, the boy crumpled to the ground. He was dead.

                Death laughed aloud at his success. Then the gathered memories of those he killed became unrepressed. Death died with the unwillingness to accept their worth.

                Life awakened soon and reverted to its former glory. In this remade world, life was the master.

A Poetic Responce to Kamelot's "Poetry for the Poisoned."

Complete Chaos

The Great Pandemonium

A clangorous noise

Echoes through the caverns

Of a depraved mind and

Shakes the foundations

In support of the temple of sanity

Clutching the frame of my skull

Grasping for nonexistent equilibrium

Thinking

If tomorrow came

Would it reestablish peace?

In my tumultuous thread of thoughts

Consulting the zodiac,

I only reconfirm the ever present darkness

That leaks through the dank nerve passages

In an inconsolable mind

Suddenly a panorama of stars brightened

Through the canvass of abysmal darkness

Preserving the coldness in my mind

The Hunter appears, resplendent

Reaffirming the solitude on the outside

So, I plunge deeper into my mind

Escaping the material

And think once more

On the House on the Hill

An illusion that offers false security

While the chaos around me endures

From outside that house, I stand atop

The Morbid Necropolis

Surrounded with fragile glass flowers

Beneath me, infernal forces

Blaze through the city’s structures

Shredding the humanity from the

City’s cultured corpse

Within me, my train of thoughts

Chug effortlessly towards

My small sanctuary of serenity

Then, it Derails and produces

Toxic cynicism

A Seal of Woven Years,

My amassed memories of beauty

Futilely Consoles my smoldering corpse

That still lights with malevolent flames

Sometimes, the beauty begins to disintegrate

Though it works tirelessly to remain intact

An image of my deceased loved one

Recites evocative prose

To my poisoned mind

Afterwords, the desiccated body of my lover

Becomes more pronounced as

They Outreach their bloodied hands

To my blackened hands

And offer me an opportunity to be immortal

“Once upon a time”

I whisper detachedly

Reminding the devilish demon

Of my lover’s true state

Spontaneously, the figure blackens

Along with my own horizon of blackness

With this, I will regain light soon enough

Only until the turbulent storm returns once more

Angelic Crucifixion

The mournful church bells weep

Then slowly the wail ceases

Along with the broken gasps

Of the Fallen boy

Laying against the inanimate body

That belonged to the boy’s lover

The figure’s former smile

Now has vanished with the amorous energy

That once possessed the empty vessel

If the abandoned boy still listened closely,

He could hear his lover’s lyrical voice

Stringing together some semblance of hope

Suddenly the church bells awakened

From their restive place

And pierced the air with irrational alarm

Along with it, the gutturals of impassioned villagers

Echoed the feelings voiced by the bells

The villagers still needed to crucify one more

To preserve the illusion

The demeaned boy felt a soaring fear

Rise over his morose thoughts

He became awash with more fright

For the riled masses

Assembled Below the hilltop

Where he still grieved for his

Lover’s demise

They soon congregated along the hill’s bottom

Their faces were alike,

Cast in a malevolent light

From the fire of their torches

Altogether, the flames

Swung madly atop the torches and were

About to extinguish

Because the crowd had forgotten

The advantages of a candle flame

Preserved with love and care

A preacher roused the crowd’s anger

By feeding their primal energy

With abominable depictions of the gravest sinner,

The preacher spoke detachedly about the emasculated boy’s sadness

While, he bellowed triumphantly for the lover’s murder

In front of him, the blazes of the torches

Seemed to grow in height

Behind the opaque blanket of fire,

The faces of the villagers were brightened

At the prospect of rightfully killing

The sinful fiend,

Crying dispassionately for his incubus’s departure

Alarmed, the boy mewled

Chastening himself for the legions of death

Bursting with flames below

Seizing his lover’s bloodied form

He held the fractured form aloft

Then locked his lips

On the lifeless lips of the corpse

Predictably, the crowd applauded his actions

With projectile torches

Sharply colliding with the boy

Knocking him and the lover

Upon each other while the flames

Passionately entwined them and licked them

During which, the boy screamed painfully

As the flames finally shredded their skins

Finally, the crowd clapped, enthralled

With the spectacle of the torched twosome

Some of them gave a silent prayer of Thanksgiving

For the deaths of two unholy aberrations

While, the preacher himself, discomforted

Averted his sanctified eyes

Though he still gave one feigned cheer

Of joyfulness over this successful witch burning

Several people still hear the revelry  

Sounding from this long forgotten tragedy

Unnumbered among the mess of unrecognized sins

Amidst it, some sensitive ears

Still hear the lover’s hopeful lament,

The lovers’ exultant shouts

Then their distraught cries

And finally, their last, relieved breaths

Signaling their final release

A Sincere, Forlorn Response to Roy Khan's Absence from the Upcoming USA tour.

 

Dear Kamelot/Kamelot management

First of all, before I segue into the critical side of this email. I wanted to offer my condolences to Roy Khan who recently was diagnosed with a serious illness. There's no method of foretelling this event. The illness itself was beyond the realm of his control. Therefore, I completely understand that he is physically unable to perform due to these debilitating conditions. Therefore, the below criticisms are not a result of insensitivity.

Anyways, I happen to be an ardent fan of Kamelot who has been waiting for a Philadelphia concert for a long span of time. Every year, I have patiently waited for announcements of this type to surface. Upon hearing the band's music, I have been enraptured by the rich instrumentals and Roy Khan's deft, emotive voice. For me, Roy Khan's voice is inseparable from the music. His voice bolsters the emotions of the music and allows the listener to completely been entrapped in the  music's ethereal atmosphere. Hardly any other metal band of this kind has maintained this ineffable sound that has always kept my interest without fail.

I've been greatly anticipating the band's September 14th Philadelphia concert for the opportunity to hear this music performed live. I wanted the chance to have feel that same energy produced by the albums in a venue with good acoustics. With superb bands like Kamelot, the ambience of a live performance is unmatched especially when the singer himself always adds more layers to that first layer of complex musicality.

When news of Roy Khan's illness was announced, I felt greatly despaired and naturally betrayed. Though this occurrence was beyond any individual's control. With my fervor for this band, I could have formed this letter into a belligerent note that is filled with obscenities. Knowing the band's difficult situation where large sums of finances were involved, I cannot fault the band with their decision.

Yet, I still feel greatly disappointed by this news. Kamelot has been an integral part of my life when it comes to finding a daily cathartic release. The band's music has been a fundamental element in the development of my current novel "Death Seer." The same thing cannot be applied to other band's because Kamelot happens to be one of my favorite. Hardly any band's themes resonate with me to the same degree that this band's music. Roy Khan's voice has strangely become the voice of one of the story's characters or the expression of my own personal emotions that I could not properly express. His voice soars and pierces the soul.

Formerly, I was thinking of writing this letter to demand the band to postpone the concert or at least offer the opportunity of a refund. Rationality surmounted those earlier feelings and allowed me to attempt to understand the band's decision. Even then, I still will feel a void September 14th because of Roy Khan's absence. I will try to accept the new singer's interpretation of these masterful songs. Though, I will still find these feelings to be uncontrollable because the core of Kamelot's sound has always been Roy Khan's voice. Even with the skillful instrumentals of the band, there will still be this gaping hole in my heart because Roy Khan's absence will permit the music to have a missing element. On that night, I will be unable to not allow myself to feel despaired by this absence. For most dedicated USA Kamelot fans, it will surely feel like an unnatural concert even with the vocalist's best efforts.  Sadly, it's nearly impossible for any vocalist to equal the main vocalist of the band. This happens inevitably because the sound of the music works in tandem with the singer.

With that, I implore the band to consider touring in the USA sometime next year to allow Philadelphia to assuage our feelings of disappointment. As a committed Kamelot fan, I want to have the opportunity to hear Roy Khan's voice reverberate beautifully through the streets of Philadelphia. If this happens to be the only concert in Philly, the city of brotherly love will never be graced with this talent.

Again, I will attend the concert because of my understanding of the circumstances. And I hope for Roy Khan's quick recovery from this illness.

Thanks,
From a Philadelphia Kamelot Zealot,
Justin B.

In our world of sensory overload, finding quietude can be an impossible task. Religious discussions can be a difficult task due to the reality of this fabricated world. Temporarily, it coaxes us and dangerously distracts us from our intimate connection to the unknown qualities of the metaphysical. When refaced with these unanswerable questions once again, we grudgingly accept them to filter through our heads for a few minutes. As the delirium overtakes from the confusion these questions create. We divert ourselves once again into the passive, ignorant world whose spectacles lightly remind us again of these troubling questions.

I bask in this unfamiliar realm of incessant questions. For me, this world inspires me to write when the other world only deters me effectively. In this insular world filled with unverified notions, I can craft some narrative that seeks to offer a viable explanation for the mysterious forces that pervade this separate, uninhabited dimension.  Even when these stories require me to stall the constant stream of anxiety within my body. This constant stream of anxiety, this miasma of hypothetical thoughts, allows me to breathe in this world.

What do I speak of when referring to this world? I am speaking about the imagination, the muse, the world crafted by our pensive selves.  The Greeks beheld this world because sometimes it was the only safe realm to inhabit. They resided in it and allowed the thread of questions to draw lines between the innumerable stars that stretch themselves across the sky. With their imaginations, they could conceive ideas of love that are largely restricted in their material world.

Now in our material world, we're neglecting this internal world of ours. We fear that this beautiful sanctuary of ours is not permissible in a pragmatist's world. Instead, we must attempt to eradicate or repress any inclination to once again visit this world. Futilely, we must do the unthinkable and suppress our  one connection to the metaphysical. Instead, we must make the metaphysical practical and easily explained.

With institutionalized religion, we simply codify religious information. There will never be one more moment of thinking of a God that's free of boundaries or prejudices. Soon enough, we ascribe to the belief in the institutionalized God. This God is devoid of mystery, wonder,love, forgiveness, and prudence. Instead this God is corporeal, limited, petty, and vindictive. We allow him to exist through our fear of defying the greater human power. They've indicated to us that this God provides the only pathway to heaven. Any type of extrapolation about an alternative would lead oneself down to hell.

With this, we neglect our spiritual bodies or our only pathway to the enigmatic metaphysical realm. Our minds become inundated with  facts remembered by rote memorization. A large percentage of our brains becomes unused and forgotten. Only the paltry 20 or 30% becomes utilized and these only work as memory cells that retain the religious information. Anxiety and depression threaten to surmount our minds through the determination of our spiritual selves. Yet we prescribe these things with trite prayers and uninspired mantras. God only becomes our Lexapro that's  taken to suffuse us with a pretense of meaning to the world.

Through God's eyes, we've always been dead. We're thoughtless, ignorant, and belligerent robots. Our souls have been seeking that connection through ourselves by wanting us to become catatonic. Because, only through that would a few humans see the wonders of our souls and possibly find our true destinies. People will barrage us with judgments because they only understand the dark world without mirth. But, we do not need to sustain ourselves through feigned happiness or acceptance. According to our souls, we are meant for something far greater than the imposed sense of ourselves.

We are the ones who are spirited in our protests against all forms of injustice. Through our ensouled selves, we sight the troubles of the world. Empathy becomes our means of synthesizing the many types of information or knowledge in the world. Because we see with empathetic eyes or discerning ones, the world abhors us. All types of archaic classifications are destroyed in our minds. We know these sorts of classifications were designed to preserve the superficial world that sees without empathy. These classifications are a means of controlling every single individual. We're the ones who can see past the falsity of the "matrix" world. Our souls have allowed us to do that. The fabricated hierarchy has been used to disguise the true evil for far too long. The inquisitive know that the gay population, the feminists, the artists, and the liberals are not the antagonists.

We've abandoned the indoctrinated information that we digested with our soulless selves. For a time, we saw the world that was void of artistry. Our only aesthetics were  the artificiality of your beliefs, the lack of love that you seem to exude. Reading books, appreciating art, and listening to music has rendered that world of yours an illusion. In ourselves, we hunger love, substance, and authenticity. With the short allotted time to exist, we are no longer abiding by your laws of a empty world.

Like the Greeks before us, we will stare at the myriad of stars  that are resplendent in the sky. This panorama gives justice to the mystery and the glory of this universe and the incorporeal universe. Internally, we believe in the cause that wrought this effect, God. But the God we sight cannot be manipulated or modified. Our lives themselves become manifested by the attempts we make to understand the inexplicable. We'll live our short lives with love and autonomy. Moreover, we want our spiritual journeys to be authentic rather than created by some human force.

THE WITCHING HOUR REVIEW

Anne Rice has reentered the minds of many with her recent statement about her need to leave the church of her childhood. Without too much focus being put upon this statement, I'll simply say that I greatly admire her for the honesty and authenticity involved with this statement. Many prolific authors are greatly inhibited by the reality of their fame. They cower from the reality that any comment made by them  about religious views will be divisive. As result, their book sales could be negatively impacted by their statement. In Anne Rice's case, I note that the honesty associated with her causes her to be a greatly admired individual. Therefore, I firmly believer her book sales will be positively affected due to her close adherence to her true feelings about certain issues. 

Now her book, "The Witching Hour," predated her 1998 conversion and was written during her famed atheist years. The book itself contains about 1,000 pages, making this one a prodigious novel of hers. Glancing at it, anyone can see that the book's size was inspired by her reverence for Charles Dickens works.  With opulent environments, eccentric personages, and rich prose, her books certainly are respectful of the unappreciated 19th century form of writing. Nearly every sentence of this novel proves that Anne Rice continues to be a rare talent who has been unfairly scoffed at. Like Charles Dickens or even Thomas Hardy, she's an unsullied writer who abides by her rules of writing rather than another individual's restrictions. For these reasons, her novels are purely her product rather than a novel whose various elements were compromised in efforts to please a certain critic.

Throughout reading this novel, the experience itself reflected one of appraising artwork. From the beginning, we are thrust into the enigmatic world of the Mayfair Witches. The omnipresent dark tones of the novel obscure the various pieces of the witch's history. Similar to Thornfield  manor in Jane Eyre, we form the picture of the melancholic mansion in our heads. We initially question the veiled elements of this family's history or the back story of certain residents of this mansion. Anne Rice tactfully hides these characters and slowly pulls the descriptive curtains of the story away. Slowly, various elements of the story are cast in the light of knowledge. In nearly every gothic novel, the darkness is dimly presented so we are able to explore the unexplored regions of the world. Normally, in reality, we are restricted from these dark regions due to the widely accepted belief that they may taint our spirits. Good Gothic novels, like "The Witching Hour," allow us to safely explore these elements and begin to see potential paths of redemption for many of these misunderstood characters.

Anne Rice's infamous flowery prose attests to her appreciation of nineteenth century literature. Her sentences, out of context, are a work of art to behold and attempt to replicate. There's been instances where I have purposelessly slowed the pace of my reading to admire the beauty of her sentences. One of her greatest skills lies with her ability to instantaneously transport the reader  to the world of her narrative. The world itself is beatific and full of richly detailed objects. Sometimes, I desperately want to remain camped in one of her environments without proceeding to the story's narrative because they're so intoxicating.

Thematically, the story truly reveals the author's ever-present faith in God or the fervent need to understand God. Nearly all her characters reflect those individuals who live in a realm separated from God. While they do practice their family's Catholic faith, many of the individuals are mentally apathetic to God. They haven't had any real experience with something metaphysical that would prove God's existent. Therefore, they have remained in their insular world of riches and have made the progression of their family's line their top priority. Their dynasty in some sense has been shaped into their replacement religion. While the Catholic religion they allege to follow acts as a decoy that dissuades people from delving into their true history. 

Anne Rice unknowingly has perfectly fabricated a earthbound hell dimension. The Mayfair witch manor works as an inescapable purgatory that worships self progression over the selfless discovery towards God. Michael Curry penetrates this world and encourages the uninvolved Rowan to participate with him. Some unknowable force actually thrusts Michael into this entire conflict. God never represents himself in this novel but he works inexplicably in the hearts of Michael and Rowan. He aids them in a treacherous battle against an maleficent spirit and the godless world of the Mayfair's.   In the remainder, one can only deduce that this battle will begin to manifest while the story develops the many supporting details that enrich the experience.

In  conclusion, I'll admit that I greatly misunderstand the belief that Anne Rice happens to be a heretical writer. How could I defend that erroneous statement when nearly every novel read by her has revealed the opposite? Anne Rice has always unconsciously written spiritual novels that reveal the inherent need for substantial meaning in our lives. Without that persistent belief in something that supersedes us and can ultimately fulfill us, we become disconsolate much like the Mayfair Witches. Furthermore, we begin seeking out other means to satiate that void. In this book, the witches depend upon shaping a cult and the vampires do so by living immortally by the aid of drinking blood.  Both series are integral pieces to fully understanding the complicated nature of Anne Rice's beliefs. 

INTERVIEW WITH JON SPRUNK (AUTHOR OF SHADOW'S SON)

 

1.Instead of asking the generalized question of "When did you know you wanted to be writer?" I wanted to ask if you vividly or vaguely recall any early story ideas during your childhood? If so, what one story idea did you have?

1. It seems like I was always making up stories for my own enjoyment. The earliest memory I have of that involved a writing assignment in third grade. We were supposed to write a book report, but instead my submission was a complete rewrite of the book?s ending. Sadly, the teacher made me do the assignment over.

2. What particular writers consciously or unconsciously inspired aspects of your story?

2. I think I was most inspired by the S&S writers I enjoyed as a young adult (Howard, Leiber, Moorcock). I'm not sure how much of that bleeds through into my own writing, but mentally that?s where my stories begin.

3. After reading through your story, were you able to note any unintended themes which unknowingly crept their way into the story?

3. Sure. The first draft of any story is a mishmash of ideas. It's not until I go back and comb through it that I can identify anything resembling a theme. One theme that I did not intend, but it crept into the book anyway, was the idea of redemption. I really didn't know Caim (the main character) had such depth until I saw for myself the lengths he was willing to go to redeem himself

4.Was the impetus of your story a dream or a hypothetical situation? If not any of these, could you describe the beginning stages of the story?

4. It began with the situation: an unsuspecting person caught up in a political/quasi-religious drama. The idea that the main character would have the ability to manipulate shadows also came very early. But I didn't know he would be an assassin. That came later when I borrowed some aspects of a novella I'd written some years before.

5. Do you utilize music as a means for story inspiration? Meaning, do you play certain songs, while writing, in an attempt to enhance a certain emotion or bolster the effect of a specific scene?     

5. I do listen to a lot of heavy metal while I'm writing. Perhaps that had something to do with the energy of the fight scenes.

6. About assassins, what type of research was involved in helping to form the story? 

6. Did I actually kill a few people to see how it felt? No, believe it or not, hit-man jobs are hard to come by. Maybe it's the economy. As far as research, I rely mainly on my imagination. I mean, I've been studying martial arts since I was a child, but beyond giving me some perspective on what it is like to be in a fight they don?t really lend much to the equation.

7. Did any of your research involve the psychology of a murderer or murder in general? (From my experience, I know that I have been meticulously researching the psychology of murderers to enable me the skills to make a murderer's malicious choices believable. Then again, my story's mainly a psychological story that involves a boy with innate ability to foretell the deaths of people with who he mistakenly looks in their eyes.)

7.I've been working in juvenile corrections for fourteen years, so I have a sliver of insight into the criminal mindset. And I stole some gum from a store when I was nine years old. Besides that, no. Interviewing real-life murderers doesn't appeal to me. I don?t think they deserve that much attention.

8. Here's a lighter question that does involved too much depth; What's your favorite movie overall?

8.I'm a big fan of movies, so I'm not sure I could choose just one. Does the original Star Wars count as a single movie in three parts?

9. What's your favorite book overall? (You are allowed to list more than one; since I happen to have a myriad of favorite books. It's a number that's so vast that I cannot even recall the exacts any more.)

9.My favorite books are: Anna Karenina, Lord of the Rings, Stranger in a Strange Land, and The Black Company. I could talk all day about any of them.

10.The Conventional question that involves being the Yoda of Aspiring writers: What tips would you offer any aspiring writers?

10. Be fearless. Read everything you can get your hands on (especially in your chosen genre, but outside it as well). Write everyday.

11. Can you offer us the basic premise of the upcoming sequel to "Shadow's Son?" Will it involve a greater number of assassins? More specifically, will there be more intriguing explorations into Caim's psyche?

11. The sequel, Shadow's Lure, will take Caim back to his homeland in the north, where he'll learn how far the Shadow's reach extends.

12. For the final question, this will be the product of my unconventional way of thinking. Could you describe to us concisely how a Valek (from Maria V. Snyder's Study series) and Caim would play out?

12. Hmmm. Well, Caim obviously has the edge in a straight-up duel (*ducks pen hurled by Maria*), but I wouldn?t put it past Valek to slip something into my boy?s drink before the fight. But Kit might warn Caim before he drank it, so he would switch cups with Valek. Ah, but is Valek immune to his own poison? (Never go against a Sicilian when death is on the line!) Oh, well, the world may never know...