The new Jack Mack science fiction novella, MISSION DELAYED, written as Oliver Davis Pike, has its official release today. Here's where to purchase a print copy:
https://www.lulu.com/shop/oliver-davis-pike/mission-delayed/paperback/product-nvrr49v.html
Or go to arachispress.com for both print and free ebooks.
I like to use a monospaced font for my early drafts (as well as for writing poetry and songs). I find it more suited to spotting mistakes. The main criteria is that it simply looks good. Well spaced, punctuation large and easy to differentiate, and a look more similar to book text (with serifs, of course). Italic and bold versions are nice but not essential — the ones generated by the computer are good enough for drafting. These are the ones I’ve used and generally liked:
Linux Libertine Mono is the most book-like of my monospaced fonts. No bolds nor italics. Spacing is good and punctuation shows up well enough (though not as obviously as with some other fonts). Pretty much my main choice at this time.
BitStream’s Prestige BT has italics and bolds. Somewhat book-like, though it is more a typewriter font. Everything shows up well.
Century Schoolbook Mono is more book-like than most. No bolds nor italics. I used this a lot at one point. Incidentally, when I don’t draft with a monospaced typeface, Century Schoolbook is my usual choice.
These two I don’t like quite as well but could do an adequate job:
Go Mono has italics and bolds. Reasonably book-like slab serif but feels a little too bunched up.
Courier Prime has italics and bolds. A much better and meatier Courier than what comes with most computers, but still has the typewriter look — not much like book text.
I’ve found one fault or another with everything else I’ve tested. That doesn’t mean I won’t keep my eyes open for something new.
Raft
A raft of words remains, the wreckage
of our voyage, bearing me
across unknown horizons, empty
seas that yearn to grasp the stars.
Shall I, too, yearn? I, too, have depths
untouched by light. What swims those depths?
What cold and patient monsters hunger,
silent and insatiable?
They lurk as motionless as I,
anticipating nothing more
than that the errant currents bring.
They bring the unnamed stars I swallow.
Those can never fill me now.
For you I gathered handfuls once;
their light is lost. They have no substance,
float away, drift as do I.
The corners of the sky grow silent;
across expanses of forgotten
song and sea, night scatters dream,
to echo, echo, and to fade.
Stephen Brooke ©2026
Infinity
Give me half of infinity;
you can take the rest.
We’ll compare the two and see
which one has the best.
Mine’s a really big amount,
big enough, at least,
that when I began to count
the counting never ceased.
Half’s enough for anyone,
everyone assures,
but I hope when all is done,
mine is bigger than yours.
Stephen Brooke ©2026
Though I do not say outright that the protagonist of my Cully Beach novels, Ted ‘Shaper’ Carrol, has aphantasia, I do hint at it. When called upon to describe a suspect he saw, he needs to recall the face in words he memorized at the time, rather than actually visualizing the man’s appearance. That, he can not accurately do.
But, if he describes the man to himself when he sees him, that can also be accurate (and may even help bring up some visual memories later). Ted is basically making a sketch from words when he remembers someone. An actual artistic sketch would work as well, should one have the time for it.
Aphantasia, of course, is not an either/or thing; people can and do have it to varying degrees. I’m not at all good at visualizing myself (which is surprisingly common among artists — they see what is before them rather than some previous mental construct). That can probably be seen in the relatively sparse descriptive language in my fiction. And I do tend to skim over over writers’ descriptions, as I don’t really visualize much from their words.
And I do not describe a ‘movie in my head,’ as some writers (quite a few actually) say. I’ve never seen a movie in my head. More like vague sketches. Words come first for me; I build my descriptions or scenes from them. Which is also the way to write poetry (or songs), at least for me. The words lead me along until I discover what they are about.
A collection of pictures I found here and there online of the place in the Hocking Hills of Ohio we named the Hill Farm when I was a kid (and visited and sometime lived there). Although Fry Farm in my novel ‘These Remembered Hills’ is not exactly the Hill Farm, it is based fairly closely on it. And the ‘Seven Caves’ are pretty similar to (but, again not exactly the same) the Saltpetre Caves there. The novel, of course, is available from Arachis Press (arachispress.com) in print or as free ebooks.
Big Pine Creek flowed through the property. At Fry Farm we have Hemlock Creek. The picture here could be anywhere on the creek’s flow; it is definitely not the swimming hole in the novel but the low cliffs and the gravel spits are similar features.
Cliffs of that sort are everywhere. The ones here are on the way up to the caves. Easy enough to go over if one isn’t careful — at least I feared they were as a kid!
I remember squeezing through here on the way to the first cave. And, of course, had to include that in the story.
This big open rock shelter cave is very much like the spot where Jim’s sister was pushed to her death — and where he fought for his own life later on.
Here's the lyric to a song I wrote forty (yes, forty) years ago, and came on in my files. Sort of overly poetic folk-punk stuff, I guess, but I would be willing to perform (or record) it still.
CONDEMNED MEN
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,
Live as you can, die as you must.
Men grow old, steel becomes rust,
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
Never sing another man's song
Nor follow him in right or wrong.
The struggles all go to the strong,
Never sing another man's song.
We are all condemned men,
Doomed to lose, doomed to win.
Some do good, some will sin,
We are all condemned men.
We are afloat upon strange tides,
Over dark seas our vessel rides.
Who can find the need to take sides?
We are afloat upon strange tides.
Life must ever pass away,
It matters not that we may pray.
None will count how much we pay,
Life must ever pass away.
Stephen Brooke ©1986
