One of my favorite parts of any workday is my lunch time. It’s not the food, it’s a solid block of time I can count on for one my favorite past times. Reading. This past week lunch has been really pleasurable as I devoured the most recent offering from Ellie Raine, Nightingale.
I had the pleasure of meeting Ellie Raine at Memphis Comic and Fantasy Convention in November 2017. Her energy and smile were infectious. I picked up her first book, Willow of Ashes, and I immediately became an Ellie Raine fan.
Ellie Raine is a very talented author, bringing a distinct vision and fresh voice to her stories. I am glad to have an autographed copy of her first book. I will be getting her autograph for this one as well. She is an author in whom I believe will be a constant delight as she matures in her art.
When the chance came up to read and review Ellie Raine’s current offering from Pro Se Productions – Nightingale, I leaped at the chance. All I knew about it was from the promo tease, “A New Take on the Private Eye tale…and Death as well.” I already knew Ellie has a talent for writing fantasy that absorbs you into the story. Could she do it with a Detective Story?
Ellie’s main character Alastor Deus, P.I. seems to be the archetype of a man seeking vengeance for the murder of his father. Nightingale properly opens straight into the action. While “discussing” a lead to his father’s murderer, the interrogation is rudely interrupted by the murder of the informant. This is the last “normal” scene. From here on out, we are on the rollercoaster with Alastor as he finds his true family…even meeting Death. Just when you think you have a handle on the plot twists, Ellie finds a monkey wrench. But she doesn’t hit you over the head with it. Most of the plot twists came with a subtle lagniappe, a little extra. As a veteran reader of detective stories, it was quite refreshing. Imagine, reading a story that is almost predictable, but not completely.
The world of Nightingale is a very different, yet familiar reflection of our own. The twists in mythologies are highly creative and well imagined. The marriage of Private Eye story and the mythologies invoked is just shy of brilliant. Her prose is clever and evocative in the best tradition of Pulp detectives. The characters begin a little flat but each page reveals more of their past, adding shades of depth and grey motivations. There is not quite enough growth for them to become fully 3D but enough I wanted to see more of them. What else is waiting to be told? Between the pace of the story with new questions and revelations constantly expanding the backgrounds of the characters, Nightingale was very difficult to put it down.
As a pulp story, this tale really sings.
Thank you for reading,
DISCLAIMER: I received a copy of this book for free in exchange for writing a review. I was not obligated to give a positive review, and all thoughts are my own.
Can you see me?
Mutated through aeons,
Survive into modern era.
Feeding its thirst and slaking its hunger
A gelatinous amoeba,
Formless and shapeless,
Absorbing your fluids.
Can you hear me?
Deep Ones and Mi-Go grant
Mind grafts and madness.
Mind trapped in a cage,
Overloading with thoughts
Dark and deep.
Do you dream?
Of Underwater cities, Antarctic homes
Slaves to suggestion; Servant and tools,
Rolling on pseudopods and eyes,
Shaping organs and appendages
Ready to kill again –
If can you see me.
Thanks for reading,
This blackest dawn, brightest night.
Creep toward the shadows
Shadows are tranquil.
Grey skies shield the light from
Filled with whispers and lures
The voices are loud.
Hands over my ears eyes closed.
Blindly stumble onward
To avoid drowning in the mire.
Tread in place trying to hold on the abyss.
It is covered by thin ice
If fall, it could crack I could freeze.
Be numb to the pain.
If only someone else understood.
Thank you for reading,
Sharing an excerpt from one of the stores from an anthology I am writing. This is raw draft, no edits yet, hoping it polishes up well.
“My family and I arrived on the shores of Draisia in the dead of night. Life seemed simple to me then, life through the eyes of a child always does. Complexity is for the adults who knew this was a calm before the storm. The eerie darkness of the night we landed will never escape my memory. The milky speckles twirled and danced along the river in various patterns, tugging at the corners of my lips in a way that almost made me smile.
The Canso was a veteran of the brine. The old planks retained the fetid odor of fish, though leaky had been seaworthy enough. Her nets had been removed to allow every inch of room and we filled it, many sitting with knees tucked to their chests. When her hull crunched into the mud of the river’s edge, one leg of our trek was complete.
Everyone awake. Everyone asleep. Many eyes were bleary, reactions slow, tiredness running in their veins just the same as their blood. Everyone who survived the crossing climbed up the grassy embankment in a mix of emotions. For some relief, some fear, some grieving for the place they left. Ahead is unknown, all we can do is pray for things to be better where they are heading for they cannot know what awaits them.
At the top of the embankment we all huddled into the shed. This is where we had been told to wait. On the floor near the front wall sits a woman and child, the kid relaxed into her arms so fully it was like they were one organism, melted together. He has a look of contentment on his face. Now that her son is drifting into sleep her face becomes grave. Without his timid gaze she has no reason to feign a confidence she may not have felt.
The tiny window in the shed has its view obscured behind swirls of dried mud. The dawn came with a musical silence. The soul hearing a melody ears could not. A new day had come, new possibilities, a fresh page yet to be written.
With it a funny feeling comes, not excitement, though at first it appears that way. Some cry, some look grim, and the children are held close and loved with all the strength they have left in their bodies. My parents gathered myself along with all my brothers and sisters into a circle, hugging us as the first rose tinted rays of dawn glowed through the dried mud of the window.
Soon, the sound of a coughing diesel engine came from beyond the levee. A pair of the braver ones peered out. Excitedly they tell the rest of us the bus is coming. We all pour out of the shed, waiting as the old bus trundles up the road, its grumbling old engine spitting smoke like a trail of breadcrumbs.
It rumbles to a stop just above us, on top of the levee. An older alligator in a vest and a beret wearing weasel climbed out and motions to us to board.
“C’mon, we ain’t got all day.” The weasel called as he pulled the ladder down to throw cargo on top of the bus.
“Youse three, help people load their gear. You climb up and move things forward, you get to the top of the ladder and hand stuff ovah, while you, my you are a tall one, hand things to the guy on ladder. You heard Cavan, now get a move on.” The alligator hissed at an Orangutan, a Mountain Goat and a black bear, who took the positions indicated. So we loaded the few belongings while the old diesel pinged and creaked as it cooled. The process did not take long. There were not many belongings among those who made the journey.
Soon, we were all aboard the old bus. Rusted and dirty it was but to our eyes, it was a chariot to our hopes and dreams for a better life. The seats were full and those of us who were too big to sit in the laps of others lined up along the floor. After a couple of sputtering failed attempts the old engine roared into life with a mighty belch of exhaust. The decrepit bus lurched forward along the levee road pitted and bumpy with rocks soon to kiss the smooth asphalt to their destination.
From my vantage point on the floor I began to see the roofs of houses. Vaughan drove while Cavan stood on a rail at the front. Sometimes staring back at us, sometimes punching the alligator pointing directions. Then other taller buildings appeared as we passed through a city. The buildings gave way to houses and as two hours passed the houses gave way to barren road.
The squeal of brakes signaled our journeys end. In front of us a building stood with a curved roof and corrugated metal walls. There were other similar buildings in the area but the road we had traveled was littered with old machinery covered in dirt and long since scavenged into skeletons of whatever they once were, indicated this place was long abandoned.
Cavan had run to the top of the bus while were taking in our surroundings. He began throwing our belongings down.
“This is where we part company. Your future lies in there.”
As soon as the bus top was emptied Cavan swung inside where Vaughan had kept the temperamental engine idling. We picked up our belongings and shuffled into the structure.”
Thank you for reading,
Already it is making a difference. It has slowed me down just a little but will be a boon in the long run. The work sheets and the information I entered as part of the exercises is already helping me catch continuity among the stories in the anthology I am writing.
The slowdown is I am catching continuity problems here and there. Having those sheets handy is making it easier though. As I come across something I need to decide upon or fix they are a great place to organize the world structure.
The work sheets are cool, but the other part that sank in was the discussion among the participants. Being able to discuss the points made in lecture among a great group of authors really drove home some ways of thinking differently about how I was handling some of the points in my current project.
Writing several short stories set in the same universe, being able creating and having this resource is great. It’s definitely having an impact on the Fairy Tale Noir Anthology and will carry into projects.
If I walked away with anything it is there has to be a story regardless of the world setting, but the better I know my world, the richer and fuller it becomes for my readers.
Thank you for reading,
Your body of work is varied. You’ve done a little bit of everything. Do you have a regimented way of working or a dedicated practice for how you arrange your time?
Annoyingly, no. I do not write everyday. I’m actually super lackadaisical in terms of my work practice. I get the most work done when I go to residencies, when I basically have tons of unstructured time ahead of me. In my daily life, I’m teaching and I’ve got errands to run and I’m really bad at writing. I’m good at coming up with ideas, though. I’ll keep a lot of notes and I’m always thinking about things. Generally speaking, the majority of my work happens in these short, concentrated bursts and that’s usually happening when I’m not teaching. My wife is a writer and she writes almost every day. She gets up early and does it. It’s very disciplined. I am not disciplined even slightly, but I admire people who are.
How does teaching affect your work, other than monopolizing your time?
Intellectually, it’s very fruitful because I’m talking about craft and genre and we’re having these really good conversations. The students are asking me good questions. I’m also rereading the work that I’m assigning them, so I’m getting these fresh bursts of stories. In that way, it’s fruitful. On a strictly energy level, the place where I write comes from the same place as my teaching energy. As a result, when I am done teaching my brain feels super run out. I can’t do anything creative. It’s really hard to do creative work while I’m teaching, even in the same semester. The middle ground is that I’m just taking notes for my own work during the semester. Once it becomes summer, or over Christmas break, then I can actually try and tackle whatever I’m thinking about working on.
For a lot of creative people there is that guilt that comes with ignoring your creative work because of your day job commitments, or vice versa. At a certain point, maybe you just have to give yourself license to be like, “When the semester is going on, I’m not going to feel bad about not being creative.”
Totally! I don’t really feel guilt because I do love teaching. It’s how I support myself. It’s where I get my health insurance from. I love my students. I find teaching very rewarding. Even when it’s frustrating, it’s rewarding. At some point I was like, “You know what, this is my career. I would probably teach even if I didn’t need to.” I just kind of let myself be and let myself teach, be 100% present for teaching when I’m teaching, and then 100% present for my creative work when I’m not teaching.
Your work gets talked about in the context of horror and science fiction. Those are such culturally maligned genres in some ways. They aren’t always considered “literary” in the same way that other fiction is.
I feel like horror is having an interesting moment right now. In some ways, horror can be so regressive, but it can also be very subversive. Films like Get Out, for example, or It Follows, things made by people who are interested in approaching these texts with subversion in mind or with the tropes of the genre in mind, turning them over and examining them in different ways and using them to do other work.
The horror genre appeals to me because it freaks me out. I feel like a lot of my life has been about intentionally approaching the things that freak me out. I’m easily freaked out. I’m super anxious. I’ve always been that way. I’m a very fearful and anxiety-ridden person. I feel like part of my life project has been walking up to things that freak me the fuck out and just doing them because otherwise I’d be mad at myself. That’s really important to me. I feel like that’s why I’m drawn to horror.
As a kid, I read it. It scared me so bad that my mom banned R.L. Stine books in our household because I had read Night of the Living Dummy and I didn’t sleep for nights and nights and nights. She was like, “This is ridiculous. You cannot be reading these books. They’re too scary. No.” I continued to just read them secretly. I would also go to the library and get Christopher Pike books. I was really, really drawn to horror and thrillers and sci-fi. I loved series. I read all those Sweet Valley High, Baby-Sitter’s Club, Nancy Drew, Nancy Drew/Hardy Boys crossovers. I devoured all those books also. I was a pretty indiscriminate reader, actually, when I was a kid. I absorbed it all, but I was really drawn to things that were scary.
I was describing this to somebody recently who was asking me why I liked horror. I told him it made me feel something, almost as if it changed my temperature. I don’t know if you—or anyone—did this as a kid, but did you ever get mosquito bites and then you would lean your leg against the hot bumper of a car in the summer? It would make the itch stop. I feel like it’s like that. The itching is the anxiety, and you’re like, “I’m going to sear the shit out of this fear until it doesn’t feel itchy or anymore or the itching stops for a second.” I sort of feel like it’s like that. To be honest, I didn’t identify as a writer of horror until maybe four years ago. Then all the sudden, I started to realize I was drawn to it creatively. I realized I was writing it in my own way. It affirmed for me that you should always write about whatever you want. Write where your interests take you, don’t think about the other stuff.
Your forthcoming book is described as an “experimental memoir.” What does that mean?
I’ve been trying to write about domestic abuse in same sex relationships and I’ve been trying to write it for long time. It was a struggle. I would write something, and it would be really terrible. In fiction, it worked. I have a couple of short stories that are really me going at that kind of material, but it was difficult to try and do it as non-fiction. I kept trying to write essays, and they all seemed really boring and bad.
Then I had this idea of approaching the project in a more fragmented way that used different genre tropes as lenses through which to view various aspects of this scenario. Basically throughout the book, each short little chapter is using a genre trope to examine an aspect of the complication of domestic violence in same sex relationships. There are sections that are allegorical, there are sections that adopt these very science-fiction tropes. I needed to approach it all these different ways and have all of these failed experiments in order to get to the place where I could feel like, “Oh, this is actually the way I want to be doing this.” Sometimes it takes a while to get there.
There are successful visual artists who have told me that art school was valuable mostly in the sense that it helped them gain professional access to the art world. I wonder if the same argument might be made for MFA programs for writing.
I went to the writing program at Iowa. If I were to say one thing that I wish I had more of at Iowa, it would have actually been a little bit of professional development. I feel like a lot of the stuff that I learned in that capacity was very informal or optional. For example, I really wish there was a money manager for writers. Or a class that said, “Here’s how you pitch to magazines.” I wish there was a little more of that. I think the reason there isn’t, and sort of the philosophy of Iowa in particular, is because they’re like, “This is funded time for you to write, so you shouldn’t necessarily be focusing on the market,” which I totally understand. That actually makes 100% sense to me. They definitely have a very specific reason for wanting to do it that way.
For me, the value of my MFA was I had two fully-funded years of writing. I didn’t do anything else. I had time. I could go to the gym. I could go to free therapy because I had health insurance and get my mental health under control. I could live my life, be healthy, write, not feel pressure to do a lot of stuff, and not have to. I certainly wasn’t rich, but I was fine. Iowa is in a very small college town. It was just great having the exposure and access to other writers and really brilliant teachers. Just having this space to experiment and be and get to know people and get to read a lot was, for me, the most valuable part of the MFA.
Obviously, every program is not like that. I think there’s a really interesting discussion that hopefully will happen at some point about funded MFAs and not funded ones. I do feel like the value, there’s a lot of value to the MFA program, but one of the values is that it’s a funded program. If you’re able to uproot your life—which obviously everybody is not able to do—but if you are, you can just go somewhere and write. Before I got into Iowa I was working a horrible job in California. I was miserable. I wanted to move away. I couldn’t afford it. I couldn’t find another job. I was really struggling. The only way I actually managed to get out was go to Iowa. I was like, “Yeah, sure. I’ll go anywhere. I don’t want to be here anymore.” It actually worked out really beautifully for me.
There’s something about that pure space that I really respect, where you’re learning how to make art and take time for yourself. Someone described it as something like finding writers who are on their way and giving them chicken soup, just giving them stuff to make them better.
When you finished your MFA was it a shock to the system to be out in the real world?
Yeah, I moved to Philly with my wife. Back then she was my girlfriend. She was in Boston. I was in Iowa. We moved to Philly in order to move in together. She got a job, but I couldn’t find a job for awhile. I applied for a job at Starbucks and was rejected because I didn’t have enough “coffee making experience.” To this day I’m traumatized by that entire process. It was horrible. I eventually got a retail job at the King of Prussia Mall. I was also editing for very, very little money. I was broke as hell and really struggling. I kept feeling like I missed school, but what I really missed was being able to write. I had to learn how to be an artist in the world. When you’re at a program like Iowa or any kind of funded MFA program, you’re in this little bubble where you’re just kind of getting to dance around and be your artistic self. All of the sudden, you’re like, “Oh my God! I’ve got bills to pay. I need health insurance. I need whatever.”
So it was definitely a shock to the system. It really helped that my wife was so amazing and supportive and understanding. I think if I had been by myself or been with a different kind of person, it would be have been actually much harder. I’m not sure what would have happened.
Do students ask you for advice about things like, “Where do I send my stories to? How do I get an agent? What do I do?”
Some of them do. At the end of the semester, on the last day of class, I usually have a little Q&A where people can ask me whatever. I’ll tell them about things like dealing with agents, but also I try to tell them, “You need to focus on writing the best book or the best story that you can write right now.” The professional development is important, but it will follow. You can’t jump the gun and be like, “I need to figure out how to get an agent!” if you haven’t finished a book yet, or finished a good story.
I tell them that I was the same way when I was in their position. I was very anxious about all this weird agent stuff, and I did not need to be. I was jumping the gun a little bit, too, which is fine. I try to tell them the realities. There’s a lot of misinformation about writing out there in the world. People have weird ideas about writing and being a writer. I feel like I just have to do my part to explain why maybe that those things aren’t all correct.
I know you have this book forthcoming, but are you working on other projects, too? Are you someone who can work on multiple things at the same time?
I have an essay collection I’ve started, but that’s taking forever. I have several novels. I have a young adult novel I’m kind of playing with. I’m always working on five things at once, or more. It’s just more a question of what I will actually finish next.
If you have multiple things sort of percolating, is that so you can go to wherever the energy is? Like, I’m going to work on this now instead of this?
Exactly. That’s the thing. If I get bored, I can just be like, “I’m going to work on that other thing now because I don’t feel like working on this anymore.” I basically wrote my memoir while I was editing my story collection. In between edits on the collection I had all this downtime. I was doing a writing residency at Yaddo. I was like, “Oh, I should just work on this other thing.” It was amazing. I was there during the election, so it was an entire residency of artists having a collective mental breakdown all at once, which was very stressful. But besides that, it was great. I wrote a lot.
Carmen Maria Machado recommends:
Carmen Maria Machado on the books that shaped her childhood and her writing
I read a lot of Ray Bradbury as a kid and Louis Sachar. He did Holes and The Wayside School books. I loved Lois Duncan, she wrote thrillers for young people. The Series of Unfortunate Events books were really formative for me, these very Gothic children’s books.
I’m not sure if I’d call this a recommendation exactly, but I also read V.C. Andrews a lot. My mom, who was not exactly a huge reader, had a couple of those on her shelf. I remember that I was like, “What are these about?” and she said, “I don’t know. I remember them being very scary.” So of course I thought, “Oh, perfect! I love scary things. Then I started reading them and was like, “Um, what is happening?” I was eleven, which was a fucking insanely inappropriate age to read those books. I loved them for their covers. There would be some sort of window or cut out on the front and you could see through to the next page, which would be some kind of dramatic portrait. It’s still my dream that one day I can have that kind of cover for something I write.
Anyway, those books were also super sexual. There was one in particular with the most insane plot. I think it’s called Heaven. There are some kids who, after their mother dies, are basically sold by their father—somewhere in Appalachia?—because he is an alcoholic and wants the money to drink. So the children are sold/adopted by a woman and her husband. It’s all so insane and weirdly offensive. The girl, who’s a teenager, falls in love with the husband and they begin an affair. Then the wife gets really jealous and as punishment she disembowels the family hamster in a bathtub. I was like, “What?!” The culmination of that whole subplot is that the wife has breasts that are so large that she gets breast cancer and she doesn’t know until she’s basically dead. Because her boobs are so big. As a large breasted child, I was like, “Can that happen?” It was insane.
I loved those books. I devoured them. Luckily my mom (or maybe not luckily) did not stop me. I don’t think she realized how bizarre they were. She would have stopped me if she realized what was actually in them. I was really into those books and I think it shaped a certain Gothic sensibility in me. Of course, I don’t think I understood a lot of it—or the what the Gothic literary tradition was, obviously—but it was a kind of weird education. I got that all the incest stuff in her books was weird, but there were other things that were just like weird sex writing that I couldn’t totally fathom, like references to someone’s “manhood” or whatever. I was just like, “Okay, got it. It’s like his penis. Okay, okay. Hmm.” I was very thoughtful about it.
I was a very precocious reader. Around the fourth grade, I really started reading really, really complicated or above my age range books. I have this clear memory of being in fourth grade and reading A Little Princess by Frances Hodgson Burnett. There were a lot of words that I had to look up. I would go up to my teacher and be like, “What does this word mean?” He’d say to me, “You know there’s a dictionary. You can look up words in the dictionary.” I was like, “Okay, cool.” I’d be reading during reading time and then I’d go to the dictionary and look up a word, and then come back. At some point, I recognized that I was reading books where I should not be asking adults what things meant. I just sort of understood that it was not a good idea. I was no longer reading sweet children’s literature from 100 years ago. Now it’s weird sex books that I can’t stop reading for some reason.
This is a rough opening for a work in progress. A short story set in the world of The Three Billy Goats Gruff for an anthology. I think it’s off to a good start. Perspective needs to shift slightly but a good start.
Don’t expect to find dignity in an old bar. Not here. Not at “The Sleeping Hare.”
The sallow light of street-lamps trickled into the darkened room through diamonds of lead panes. The smoke twisted in an artistic way, forming curls in the gloom, illuminated only by the age-speckled bar lights.
The smell has changed over the years. Once it was of cigarette smoke only, the bouquet clung to clothing, skin and furniture alike. Now it is joined by the miasma of stale beer, cheap hooch, body odor and cheaper perfume from the quiff trying to make a buck.
“The Sleeping Hare” was always a den of debauchery, alcoholism and the great unwashed of the town. It still is. No-one comes here with anything wholesome in mind. Probably why the small mountain of a goat sat on the stool by the door. Black, with tufts of grey in his beard, a tight T-shirt highlighted bulging muscles. If he did not look menacing enough, flexing those muscles was often deterrent enough for the occasional trouble maker.
Once upon a time, the place might have had a classy, old world feel. Now nicotine-stained walls, which might have been white, the darkened wood and stained reddish carpet only hinted at what might have been. There are establishments that are more like restaurants now – all clean with waiting staff. Not at “The Sleeping Hare.” Here, you still bellied up to the bar, where along the wall was every hue of amber liquid in their inverted bottles, and caught the barkeeps eye to place your order. Bring your patience though, tortoises are not known for their speed and Tabor is not as fast as he used to be, but he will take care of you.
The thunk of darts and clack of pool balls came from the back of the joint. An addition to the old building the plaster and wood gave way to cinder block walls painted black. Four red felt pool tables commanded the center of the room. They and the dart board lanes in the back of the room brought in almost as the cheap hooch Tabor stocked.
Only one table was in use tonight, a young brown goat crisp white shirt with sleeve holders, thin black tie tossed over his shoulder as he lined up a shot while nearby a ferret in a beret watched, anxiously hoping for a scratch.
Thank you for reading,
So? You want to visit Ourangdun!
Nothing says adventure quite like our Ourangdun. The open spaces which seem to stretch on forever tell the story of exploration and development. Our wide brown lands reflect Ourangdun’s pioneering spirit and unique identity. You can find a little bit of adventure in every part of Ourangdun, and while many regions are remote, they are patrolled and perfectly safe from outlaws.
So instead of worrying about an ambush, you can be enthralled by the rugged gorges, epic waterways and incandescent ocean of Ourangdun. Enjoy a triple-sunset chobo ride in Bwunda, then aquacar along the Poqntin River to the Jomilur Valley, home to the Oodic Cluster and near the beehive-striped Bingle Bangles of the Oyebykyky Butte. Bwunda is also the gateway to the remote, beautiful Spnouwe Peninsula.
Do I need a visa to enter Ourangdun?
Unless you are citizens of the planets Pyarpkupb or Neolwpkpbs, you will need a valid Ourangdun visa to land on the planet. Intrasolar visitors can apply for a visa upon arrival planetside. There is a slight quarantine period while awaiting approval. All other Intergalactic visitors must apply for a visa before leaving your homeworld. You can apply for a range of visas, including tourist visas and working holiday visas, at your nearest Ourangdun Oligarch Corporate Mining Conglomerate.
Which part of Ourangdun should I visit?
That depends on what you want to do!
• Want to go bounty hunting? Then try the northwestern hemisphere of the planet. The lucky traveler still occasionally stumbles over a nest of outlaws. You will be provided an introduction to bounty hunting and assigned to one our Corporate Raiders as interim Bounty Hunter. Would you like to know more? Please see our full list of visas, available at any Ourangdun Oligarch Corporate Mining Conglomerate.
• If you like to build sandcastles, then explore the Eastern hemisphere. Near Oyebykyky Buttes you will find a stand over a hundred meters tall and hundreds of kilometers long. This is a protected area. Would you like to know more? Please see our full list of visas, available at any Ourangdun Oligarch Corporate Mining Conglomerate.
• If you have an interest in wildlife, you should visit the Southern Hemisphere Nature Reserve. Here you can find a host of indigenous Ourangdun animals: the rare Przwenlsli, the world’s last wild dragon; the Bombus bear; the golden Vombatus; bactrachian two-humped Rhincodon. Even sabre-toothed Tragelodontus venture from their mountaintop homes in winter. Hunting is allowed by special visa during peak populations. Would you like to know more? Please see our full list of visas, available at any Ourangdun Oligarch Corporate Mining Conglomerate.
Before you go . . .
• Indigenous natives are nomadic. Every nomad family you meet will offer to serve you with a salty tea. Fermented milk from the domestic Rhincodon and, if you’re lucky, Rhincodon intestines! There is no vegetarian fare as even the vegetables contain meat. They call it “vegetable” because the plants are green.
• Just in case you can’t stomach the local fare, I recommend taking . . .
• Emergency rations from your ship.
• And anything else you can’t live without!
• And unless you fancy dealing with explosive diarrhea in the middle of a Ourangdun sandstorm—bring some antidiarrheals meant for your physiology! (You wouldn’t like the local concoction.)
• Other standard items to take include sunglasses, sun cream (we recommend SPF 300 because of the three suns), and small gifts for the nomads you meet on your travels (so they do not serve you with the above-mentioned a salty tea).
• Oh yes, one more thing … avoid the Orellian Death Worm at all costs!
Good luck and Happy Trails!
Remember the Number One Rule:
Thank you for reading,