Can you tell us a little bit about your latest book? When did it come out? Where can we get it?
Um…Inception (Neuralian
Chronicles: The Siede) is actually the beginning to a series that I’ve been
dreaming up since my high school years. Obviously
I’d moved away from it for a while only to come back to it. It begins with the character Anthony Mieko
Griggs—a sort of hapless dreamer who’s looking for a deeper purpose to his life
aside from his dreams. He has survived
an abusive childhood and found a balance through his fiancée, Audrey. She’s truly his tether to reality. For him it all starts with a dream. He finds himself face to face with a stranger
he’d never seen before and ultimately saves him before waking. It was with that dream that a new world, the
veil to reality (if you will), opens up and becomes clearer to him. Anthony learns that this stranger was
actually a coma patient and the key to his truest identity. His blood is bound to the family of the
stranger and soon he is visiting nightly the mind of an unborn child. The child, as it turns out is the new vessel
for the entity, Hope—the one true intangible lost to tainting of mankind. There are forces that would stop at almost
nothing to ensure that this child isn’t born.
There are others that eagerly await the birth of this child to use him
as a weapon against humanity. Anthony is
faced with a choice, the birth of this child or his life with his fiancée
Audrey. Which will he choose? (laughs)
Indeed…
Inception (Neuralian Chronicles: The
Siede) is available now in paperback or Kindle Edition on amazon.com and my
website.http://www.amazon.com/Inception-Neuralian-Chronices-Siede-Volume/dp/1625260741/ref=tmm_pap_title_0
http://nodnarbllah.wix.com/neuralian-chronicles
Is there anything that prompted your latest book? Something that inspired you?
That’s a good question.
When I was a child, no more than 8 years old, my sister opened up my
world when she first gave me the book, The Hobbit by J.R.R. Tolkien. She’d read to me and then eventually passed
the book along to me. She read stuff
like Homer and Shakespeare. It was
really with The Iliad and Lord of the Rings that drove me to want to create my
own worlds…build my own mythologies. I
was doing some research into cultural mythologies and every religion you could
think of and something clicked. I was
drawn back to the story I had created back in high school. I took it as my opportunity to begin fleshing
out my own mythology and superimpose it onto the world, as we know it. I was always fascinated with the idea that
there is something greater going on behind the scenes of this world that a
great majority of us are completely unaware of.
I’d have to say that my ideas about this world and how there is
so much we don’t understand…so many mysteries we’ve yet to uncover…there’s that
idea that there is so much happening right in front of us that our eyes just
can’t see—that’s my inspiration that builds the foundation of this series I’ve
created. Secondly, I’d have to say my
daughter shares a great deal of responsibility for that as well. She’s so far beyond her years but just to
watch her play and see the things a child’s imagination can just conceive out
of air, I had to draw from her youthful insight.
When did you know you wanted to write? Or has it always been a pastime of yours?
I’d always known I wanted to write. I knew there was nothing else for me. I love the process of creativity and knowing
that there is a world that you can invite others into that is of your own
conception. I always knew that I’d do something
concerning art. Writing has always been
the passion though.
Do you have any favorite authors?
At the top of my list right now is George R.R. Martin. I’ve always loved the works of Stephen King,
James Patterson and Neil Gaiman. But to
touch the literary art that has so captivated my heart only two names come to
mind, Tolkien and Homer.
Do you write in a specific place? Time of day?
I can write almost anywhere.
My laptop or tablet is always with me.
The magic mostly happens in my basement; I call it "The Den". I surround myself
with books full of my research and sort it all out in my mind. The thing about me is when I write, I write
out of order. I go back and piece the
parts together almost like a movie is cut.
I write whenever I can get the
time. More often than not that time
tends to be after my daughter goes to bed. (Laughs.) She’s usually all over me but she’s coming to
understand the value of space.
Great! She sounds like a treasure.
I also know what you mean by writing out of order. I do that a lot, just however the ideas come to me.
Are there any words you'd like to impart to fellow writers? Any advice?
I always say that
no matter who you are, there is a voice inside of you. It’s all a matter of finding that voice that
is unique to you. I get frustrated with
literature lately when I read something and it sounds like the author is
emulating the work of another. I call
them “copyists”. I see more and more of
them today because like many readers are drawn to familiarity, it almost seems
there is a fear that something unique could be rejected. I just say—be unafraid to push your
vision. Find inspiration in others but
don’t attempt to be them. Strive to be
as original as your mind will allow.
There’s no such thing as a bad idea, just poor execution.
Such valuable advice, Brandon!
Readers, here is the blurb for Inception.
In the beginning all men were
gods, Neuralytes…naturally enlightened beings.
That was until Pandora gave birth to humanity and the one entity all
have looked to in their bleakest hours, Hope.
For centuries Hope served as a beacon through its chosen vessels to keep
the balance. Now there is a new vessel
and the Jinn—dark counterparts of the Neuralytes—have plans for it. Yet other forces would keep him from ever
drawing his first breath.
Anthony Griggs, a hapless
dreamer, finds himself bound to the unborn child. Through the abyss of dreams, they are
connected. Every time Anthony closes his
eyes worlds collide merging closer into his reality. Through his blood he is charged with the
protection of the child from any invasive threats. But his sacrifice could bear a great cost. Can Anthony come to grips with his destiny to
see Hope thrive? Or will it be undone by
the void of darkness to leave mankind in a wake of chaos?
Here is an excerpt:
There
he sat on his boat. Waves rippled
beneath nudging it constantly. His lure
bobbed up and down against the glassy surface of the lake. Fish rarely bit for Anthony on Lake Superior,
or maybe they just decided not to come out during his presence. He thought somehow the schools banded
together and held a grudge against him.
A constant joke he held with himself.
It didn’t matter. The serenity he
felt when he was out on the water was all he needed. It allowed his mind to wander. It allowed him to drift into the deepest
realms of his artistic imagination. He
imagined the water as an endless canvas and the sky as the heavens painting a
portrait along its surface. His drawing
pad was never too far from him. He
rested the fishing rod along the right side of the boat. It was one of those small wooden boats, kind
of weathered, tattered from time. It had
definitely seen its best days. It often
put Anthony in the mind of a Mark Twain
novel when Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn cast off on their
adventures. That’s what these moments
were to him, an endless adventure into the world he created around him.
Anthony
reached into his leather bag and pulled out his sketch book. He began to etch the brush on the shore onto
a fresh white sheet of paper. He grazed
his pencil lightly against the paper.
Each stroke created a scene.
Things he’d seen before in dreams and mixtures of the reality around
him. He bit the back of his number 2 HB
pencil and grinned to himself. It was a
mixture of things really. The recollections
of dreams and the constant criticisms he’d become accustomed to by others
telling him he’s nothing but a dreamer.
Anthony daydreamed a lot. He was
always lost in the fictional greats tales of fantasy and adventure, mystery and
intrigue. Greats like C.S. Lewis, J.R.R. Tolkien, Stephen King,
J.D. Salinger, and even Dean Koontz; writers that drew him in
and allowed him to find his inner talents.
He was also quite fond of comic books.
He even sketched his own in between portraits of vast landscapes or what
he considered beautiful people.
As
a child, Anthony always felt the need for an escape. An escape anywhere as long as it wasn’t in
the presence of his drunken mother or abusive father. At first it was the tale of The Catcher in the Rye around the time
he was eleven. That book gave the world
levels of depth and meaning to him. Then
The Hobbit took him to a world that
time had forgotten. The books kept him
company at night under the covers with a pocket flash light. He read them over and over again to drown out
the sounds of his parents arguing. When
they finally divorced it was right after he’d turned twelve. He had a choice to make, a mother so lost
down the bottom of a bottle she had no concept of the life passing her by
outside of it. Or a father that was
twice his size and weight that would much rather use him as a live target
rather than venting his frustrations on a punching bag or doing bench
presses. Anthony didn’t favor the sting
of closed fists sending vibrations through his frail body, so he chose the
drunkard. When he thought of it, his
parents weren’t anything to him; at least he was a dreamer. It was his imagination that kept him sane. It was his own characters that had become his
closest friends.
He
was drawn from his trance when he noticed the skies darkening above him. The absence of rolling thunder didn’t make it
seem angry, but still, there could be some light showers. Anthony tucked his pad into his case and
pulled the line in from the water. He
thought of how he would be teased by Audrey for going out on the water and
still managing not to bring back so much as a tire or an old boot. The lure resisted his pull and for once he
thought he’d got something. He figured
it was a good batch of worms because this resistance was strong, something
large and hungry. He laughed aloud and
sat back trying to shift his leverage on the rod.
“Audrey
won’t believe this!” he thought to himself.
It seemed for a time, she was the
only person that understood him. They
met in art school their freshman year and had an instant connection. She wasn’t put off by his horrible childhood
that eventually led to his early escape toward “freedom”. She didn’t look at him with judgmental eyes
for his laid back demeanor. Most people
just thought of him as lazy, but for some reason Audrey got it. She knew there was something more to him,
especially his resilience to withstand his troubles and still turn out half way
decent.
Anthony
leaned toward the edge of his boat to tried to get a look at what was trying to
steal his bait. He couldn’t see anything
at first. Just the ripples on the top of
the water that the lure created as it motioned up and down. He looked closer into the darkness that
encircled the boat beneath. The dark
void below reminded him of a scene right out of Moby Dick. A scene where the
whale attacked from the bottom with its mouth wide open, it was funny that
would cross his mind. That would be
impossible here for a killer sperm whale to attack. Then a bright light consumed it. It was pure but not blinding. It was fantastic to him actually. He’d just drawn a scene like this days ago. The boat rocked as if hands lifted from
beneath it and began pushing from side to side.
It threw him off balance. Water
splashed onto the deck slapping the calf of his goulashes. He slipped back into his seat banging his
arm. The line to his rod flew out of the
water and swung wildly into the boat.
Anthony watched it as it landed.
The bait was there still intact.
Instantly he sat up and grabbed the oars trying to row away from the
current that was trying to hold him captive.
The further out he got the light had spread beneath him. He stopped when he heard the calls. Someone was pleading for mercy not to be drug
under by the pull of the lake. He could
hear water splashing wildly. There were
sounds of gurgling and then he saw it.
An elderly man in a hospital gown was drowning. It was like instinct took over. Anthony instantly rowed out to save him. The boat wouldn’t row against the
current. It was being drawn back in the
opposite direction. Anthony never
considered himself to be a hero by a long shot.
In his dreams he may become whatever warrior the setting suggests. In his dreams he embodied his comic book
characters. He wished he had the
strength to be one of them now. But he
wasn’t going to let this helpless man suffer any longer. Anthony snatched his coat off and tossed it
behind him in the boat. His heart was
racing but it didn’t stop him from spearheading into the cold watery surface
under the boat. He shivered as he sprang
up gasping for air. He checked to the
left and right of him to see if the old man was still within his reach. He put his legs together and lifted his arms
above his head to dive. As his body
attempted to pierce the surface again he found himself sliding toward the edge
of a cliff. The red dirt like clay
suggested the Grand Canyon. That wasn’t
possible. He looked around. The climate had changed. The heat was smoldering. Cactus patches trailed throughout what looked
to be the dried lands of a desert.
Anthony
was on his knees surveying himself. His
hands were scuffed from the collision with this hardened surface. Yet he still had his goulashes on and his
water pants. His thermal shirt was
stained by the red dirt. Behind him, his
boat was buried nose first into the dirt.
The ores were scattered along the sides of it. His leather case was propped up on the hill
of dirt where the nose of the boat was penetrating. Ahead of him was the edge of the cliff where
he heard screams of terror. Dust kicked
up into his eyes and then he saw a bronze toned hand clinging to the side of it
gradually sliding losing grip.
“HOLD ON!!!” Anthony yelled
out. “JUST HOLD ON!! DON’T YOU FALL!” he gasped climbing to his
feet. “I’m comin’…” he called out
reassuringly, but finding it hard to get a decent stride going whilst wearing
his heavy boots.
Anthony struggled, wondering if he
should shake those cumbersome boots from his feet, but considering the urgency
of the situation and caution prevailing, did not commit to that notion. Reflexively, he stretched forward sliding to
the edge to grab his hand.
“Hold on, I’ve got you.” His mind
was reeling with this encounter. It was
so surreal, one minute he’s on the water of Lake Superior, the next he’s
hanging over the Grand Canyon.
He finally looked down at the
man. The man’s eyes looked very
weary. His face was weathered by the
harshness of time. His skin was soft though,
not fragile, but soft. He was well
groomed, well taken care of. It was
clear he was a fighter. He was not ready
to give up on life just yet.
“I hate to ask this at such a
delicate moment but, do you have any idea how we got here?” He was grunting
from exertion whilst trying to hold up the man’s weight and keep from sliding
off the cliff himself.
The old man laughed as if he were no
longer in immediate danger. He laughed
as if it were the funniest thing he’d heard in a long time. “Thank you…” he mustered between laughs. “Thank you for breaking my fall.” Tears
filled his eyes. Anthony didn’t
understand the joke nor was he aware that he’d told one. “Now let go.
I’ll be fine now.”
“No…” Anthony resisted.
The man shook his head, “I’ve been
here for what seemed like an eternity.”
“You were just in the water outside
my boat. I don’t know how we got
here! Now come on, I can’t let you fall,
I couldn’t live with myself.” Anthony pleaded
“You have to let go… If you fall trying to pull me up, you won’t
awaken if you hit the bottom.”
Anthony’s neck jerked back, “What?”
The man laughed and forced his hand
free. Anthony was flung upward by his
own resistance trying to pull him to safety.
He didn’t see anything. He
couldn’t hear the sounds of screams as the man fell. The atmosphere began to spin around his head
making him dizzy.
“NO!!!” He shouted leaning forward
to see if the man had fallen. He was
unaware of how much room he had between the cliff and the wide open space. He slipped over the edge in a freefall. The wind suctioned his face drawing his skin
back in the fall. His heart fluttered in
panic. As he turned his arm swung out
and connected with something. It was
something soft.
Anthony’s
fist relaxed and flattened into a palm on the surface of his mattress, he
rubbed it feeling the fabric of the fitted sheet. He jumped when he felt Audrey’s hand touch
his chest.
“You’re soaked…” she said in a light
groggy voice.
Anthony sat forward with his tee
shirt clinging to his body. He had
perspired heavily. He was still trying
to convince himself he was only dreaming.
Only, it didn’t feel like any dream he’d ever had. He was usually aware of when he was in a
dreaming state. But not this time, “Bad
dream… Uh, I guess…”
“You guess?” Audrey sat up alongside
Anthony.
“It’s nothing…” He cupped her hand
between his palms. “Just go back to
sleep. I’m going to get some
water.” Anthony spread the comforter back
and eased out of the bed. “I may do some
edits to my comics. And besides, I’d
better go back to my designs, make sure they’re just right. I have a lot riding on my grade in class.”
“Okay…” Audrey laid back on her
pillow. “And change that shirt, you’re
drenched.”
Anthony waved her off and headed
down to the kitchen. He was doing well
with his freelance art work outside of school.
He’d gotten a couple of businesses to buy into his work. He had a deal he was pursuing with a rising
comic book company as well. He was doing
well enough to afford a two story apartment.
Not bad for a lazy dreamer. It
was just this dream that had him rattled.
His thoughts were clear as if he were actually sitting on the lake
fishing. He could really feel the weight
of that old man. His hands were
scratched when he looked down at them.
That was equally as strange in his mind.
They throbbed. The mind is a
powerful thing as he’d often been told throughout the years. Was the dream that intense? Anthony reached into the cupboard to grab a glass. He turned on the faucet and let the water run
until it was cold. The remote control to
the television was on the counter. He
grabbed it as his glass filled with water.
“Okay, what’s on television at 1:30
in the morning?” He often spoke to himself.
He figured as long as he didn’t answer his own questions he wasn’t
crazy. To answer would entail a
conversation.
He turned the monitor on and let the
water flow down his throat. He could
feel it course through his body replenishing him. There was breaking news of a miracle, an
awakening of sorts. A man that had been
hospitalized for several years in a coma thought not to ever wake up had done
just that. Anthony looked closer and
dropped his glass. His mouth hung
agape. It was the man in his dream. It was reported that his vitals were stable
and he was well enough to speak. He was
fully aware of his surroundings and becoming reacquainted with his family. When asked how it felt to recover his
response was,
“The… There are re…
Real angels out there…” A tear rolled down his cheek. “I was
in darkness for a long time. I was
barely hanging on, I felt myself slipping.
And my angel reached out and pulled me in.” Who looked to be his wife wiped the tear from
his eye and kissed him. He inched his head
around and Anthony could almost feel they were making direct eye contact. “I want
to thank you… Thank you for allowing me
to see my grandchildren. They’ve grown
so much and I can’t recognize them. But
at least I will have a few more years.”
Then he lipped something into the
camera, it looked like he was saying Anthony’s name. Anthony’s knees were weak. He backed up and leaned against the counter
top. He’d just seen this man in his
dream. Was he really an angel in
someone’s dream? This was too much,
quite possibly a coincidence but there was no way he could convince himself of
that. Besides, Anthony didn’t believe in
coincidence.
Anthony
regained his balance and stepped forward right down into a shard of glass where
his cup had shattered on the floor. He
yelped in pain at the sensation of the sharp glass piercing the bottom of his
foot. He lifted his leg and slipped back
on the river like puddle of water now beneath his feet. Anthony could have blamed it on the water but
he never was much for balance, not physically anyway. There was a time he’d tried martial arts
classes, but the movements in the system were too technical for him. He was more of an observer. Anthony liked to watch physical sports but
that was the extent of it, he never wanted to participate. Usually when a person suffers abuse at a
young age they grow violent, they become attracted to danger and physical
activity, not Anthony he was the opposite.
His comic books were fantasies tied heavily into mythology. They were full of the great warriors and
heroes he wished to be. But his nature
wouldn’t allow it. His only sense of
adventure was taking long drives and camping in the wilderness to observe
nature. That’s what inspired him aside
from his library of fiction novels. He
especially liked his long trips to Lake Superior to fish. There, in his mind, anything could happen as
far as imagination could carry on. Would
he actually let an innocent person drown?
Most likely he wouldn’t. But it
sure as hell wouldn’t have been as extravagant as his dream made it seem. He probably would have panicked when he first
hit the water. His mind was in a zone as
he tried to pull that glass from his foot.
It was the idea of pain that was worse than the actual feeling
itself. He imagined blood squirting
everywhere once he’d have gotten it out like a gory horror movie; especially
given the fact that the glass was deeply embedded in the sole of his foot.
He
finally gathered the courage to pull it out and hobbled to the bathroom to clean
up the wound. He chuckled to
himself. There was no blood spray. It only hurt after he’d taken it out anyway. The pain was sharp, but it didn’t feel like
death. Now imagine if he was stabbed or
even nicked in a mugging, his reaction would be the real scene. Every time his father would hit him and his
little body would stumble all over the place his father would tell him,
“Stop acting, you little faggot! I hardly even hit you… Always the actor…” he’d laugh contemplating
on whether or not he was going to strike again.
He usually didn’t if Anthony put on a good enough show for him. “The way you drain our pockets, we should
make money off you!” That was usually said followed by a very loud thud after
he slammed the door.
Anthony reached into the cabinet for
the ointment and band aids. He thought
of his father just then. He’d picked up
a habit or two since his divorce from his mother. It was the combination of heavier smoking
with some drinking. Now he’s got
cancer. Anthony M. Griggs Sr. He hated being a junior. Especially with the idea of who his father was. He thought it was rather ironic that
his father couldn’t handle his mothers’ drinking, but turned into an alcoholic
himself. Maybe it was karma. Now when he sensed the end was near, he wanted
to have a relationship with Anthony.
He’s known to have a big heart, a forgiving heart, but not toward his
father. But that’s a common tale amongst
men. He wondered as he applied the
ointment if he’d even miss his father once he passed. Or would he go to the hospital as he reached
the final stages of his transition and ask him,“Who’s
the faggot now?”
He had a lot of gripes against the
man. But he’s doing well enough not
to let it rule his life.
Anthony
stood from the edge of the tub and began to place everything back into the
cabinet. He turned the sink on to wash
his hands but found himself staring at the parts he hated most about
himself. He looked into his deep brown
eyes. How they were just like his
father's. His eyes always spoke out to him as if they were searching for a
purpose in his life. He looked at the
coarse wooly hair atop his head and mildly thick eyebrows just below the scar
over his left eye. That was one of the
last wounds he got from his father. A
vicious right hand sent him head first into the frame of the bedroom door. His lips were evenly thick. He rubbed the stubble of his forever five o’
clock shadow. It was like looking at his
face to tell time, no matter how he shaved it was always five o’ clock. His ears even had a slight point to them like
his father. He was a spitting image
except for the weight difference. But
there was a time his father had a nice build.
Anthony not being athletic or into fitness at all just had a natural
physique. He did a push up or two just
to get his mind to jog looking for the next idea. He thought to himself, even if his father
passed in his sleep tonight, he’d never be rid of him. His father’s face always reminded him of his
nothingness. He also thought that maybe
if his father died, his face would take on an identity of its own. He ran his hands under the water
simultaneously lathering them with soap.
He bent down and splashed water into his face and rose up to look at
himself. In the mirror Anthony saw the
old man in his dream. Or was it his
dream? The man said he was in darkness
for a long time until his angel reached down to pull him up.
“So that means I was in there, in
his mind.” Anthony said to himself. “It
was real.”
He hobbled out of the bathroom in a
rush to get back to the television but a late night dating game was on. He’d missed the old man. He flipped through stations trying to find
anyone else covering the breaking news but the fascination was over for now.
“I have to wait until the afternoon
sometime after class to try to catch the news.
Damn it!” he thought out loud.
-Just who are you, old man?
You definitely hooked me! Thanks for visiting us today, Brandon!
Brandon J. Hall currently lives
in Detroit, MI. With his first novel, Reflections—The Chronicles of a Man Scorned, behind him he is set to move
forward in a new genre. This will mark
his first outing in the realm of fantasy with Neuralian Chronicles—The
Siede. His passion has always been for
the genre from his early childhood when he was given a copy of Homer’s The Iliad from his sister. From then he’d always looked ahead to
creating his own mythology that stood as unique as the likes of Tolkien, George
R. R. Martin, Neil Gaiman and Stephen King.
Very early in his life he’d
developed a fondness for literature.
He’s always aspired to share his voice, his vision, through the craft
he’d so embraced. Having his art
showcased during his elementary years at the Detroit Institute of Arts and
praised throughout middle school he knew that his path was defined for
him. After several publications in the
magazine, Afterthoughts, throughout high school for his poetry and art he knew
his passion was clear. After years of
exploration and self-discovery he finally published his first novel in the year
2007, Reflections—The Chronicles of a Man Scorned. Brandon now strives to place his name among
those who have made him love the genre of fantasy by bringing his own unique
quality to it. His series, Neuralian
Chronicles—The Siede aims to do just that.
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