A Supervolcano On The Verge

Writers are excited when some stuff in the fiction they write comes true and alive. Let’s hope this one doesn’t; because the beast that would rear its deadly head here is Yellowstone, the Supervolcano.

In After the Cataclysm, my fictional protagonists struggle to survive a decimated North American continent after the vast cauldron of Yellowstone has blown its top. Makes for an exciting story.

Long foretold, the threat, alas, is all too real in our time. Just as with the threat from outer space, scientists, however, are working hard on how to save us from extinction; which is funny (well, not really at all) because on the other hand, the minds of little people plot annihilation.

I just came across this article in Mach/Environment:

Scientists Hatch Bold Plan to save Planet from Supervolcano,
by Kate Baggaley.

bold-plan-to-save-planet

 

 
Aerial view, Grand Prismatic Spring, Midway Geyser Basin, Yellowstone National Park, Wyoming. Peter Adams / 

Getty Images

Not to scare you, but it’s worth reading.
Worth reading–for entertainment value and to remind ourselves that “it could happen.”-  

After the Cataclysm- so far - is pure fiction. Please, check it out on Amazon.

 http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00IT70KCE

Fact in Fiction - Part 3 of 5

The fiction here is that the Yellowstone Supervolcano caldera finally blows its top, devastating the North American continent. (Now, that bit I really, really hope will remain fiction - at least for another millennia, though the warnings from scientists are real).


All of a sudden—long foretold by scientists but unheeded by politicians—the earth goes mad. With a roar felt around the globe, the North American Yellowstone Supervolcano explodes.  ...   

As to the Facts: The Lyubov Orlova is a very real ghost ship [this link is still good - more on links below]. 
I am giving the old wreck a new life in

After the Cataclysm, Book 3 

of the Legends of the Winged Scarab series.

   

Everyone thinks the Russian derelict has slipped beneath the waves of the Atlantic - thus, I was free to do with her as I pleased. I even included the cannibal rats she supposedly still harbors while she's adrift in the North Atlantic Gyre. 

(The new owner's cook does wonders with his stews for the crew!)

My Bostonian scientists have barricaded themselves in Jonathan’s home in Marble Head. 

 

 [I was always fascinated just peeking through the wrought-iron fence who lived there in such splendor.]

Soon, their only hope to escape the hungry, murderous rabble pushing east is via sailboat (remember from Book 2, Jonathan is an avid sailor). The vessel here is a sturdy 34-foot Fisher Ketch.

 [I've always liked the looks of the sturdy little double-ender.]

  

Having pushed through the ash sludge in the harbor, they get a message from the former Cairo Museum director (through ham radio operators, the only link to the outside world left) that Jabari el-Masri is on a Venezuelan island; and he has the ancient Golden Tablets. They should come and work on the translation left unfinished before. 

During their perilous journey, looming above them out of the dark is an unidentified ship. It almost runs them down. On the way, they make a grateful stop at Necker Island in the Caribbean. (The real owner of this Island is none other than Sir Richard Branson – who is not in residence nor is he mentioned in the book as the owner).

Isla Margarita, a real Venezuelan prison colony. It becomes the luxurious lair of one of my "bad" guys; as well as a refuge (aka forced confinement) for my protagonists.

And they say the writing of a novelist is all make-belief.

Now, a warning to myself and other authors: 

We sometimes include links to websites of particular interest to attest to our research. In my Foreword, I had (and I say, had) included a site to the missing Russian ghost ship, the Lyubov Orlova. A friend of mine was re-reading her Kindle edition. “You may not want this link in here,” she messaged me. I pompously let her know that I did this, because blah, blah, blah... Curious, though, I pulled up the book’s Look Inside and clicked on this link.

To my shock, up came several suggested sex sites. Holy Cow! Apparently, the group had given up on their domain, and it was now available for “others.”

If you bought Book 3 and come across this link, I do apologize. As I have said in Part 1, “check and double-check.” I quickly heeded my own advice, re-uploaded the book sans this link, and also checked any other links that might have run amok with the passing of time.

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Excerpt:  

“Jonathan?”
“Hm?” He was not ready to abandon the sweet drowsiness, feeling satiated, and in love with this exquisite woman next to him. His wife. His Nefertiti. The last thing on his mind was being drawn into any conversation. But he could feel it. It was coming.
“What really happened with Edward that day?” Naunet felt him tense in her embrace.
He did not have to ask ‘what day,’ and he took his time before he answered, “I met up with him on the cliff, just before I found you.” He paused.
She waited before prompting him, “And?”

“We fought. As we struggled against the wind and with each other, we lost our footing and crashed into the shrubbery growing out over the cliff. I managed to hang on to an exposed root.”
Naunet waited some more before she whispered, “And Edward?”
“He missed.”
“And then?”
“Sweetheart, all this was a couple of years ago. What makes you bring him up now?”
“I need to know.”
Jonathan sighed. He had always known the day would come when he would have to tell her. Why today? Why now? Had his making love to her triggered some sordid comparison? Damn the blasted man. Would they ever be free of his ghost? ...

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(Read more on the Excerpts Page on this Blog)

Write What You Know

     If they mean, what you have experienced personally - Yes, and No.
     Just think how poor literature would be without the boundless imagination of writers. I have always been fascinated and grateful to be able to escape to exotic places with larger-than-life characters. So what if I have to look up words and places? It’s a wonderful way to learn and grow, as I have with the great writers.

     On the other hand, personal experiences inevitably do slip into our own writing. You can’t help it, no matter how brilliant your research or how faraway a setting is. People we know, love–or don’t love quite so much–find their way into our characters, changing to our whim like chameleons.

     After I published KHAMSIN, The Devil Wind of The Nile, a novel about Ancient Egypt, some people did ask me if I had been “there.” In 3080 BC, nobody’s been there. Everything else can be gleaned from pouring over the many great archaeological outpourings. In weaving it all together, of course, we are on your own.

     Then came SIROCCO, Storm over Land and Sea. Now, here I did draw on my own sailing/cruising experience and the intimate knowledge of life on a sailboat. I also vividly remember the not-so-pleasant times when our metal mast was the only thing sticking up—in a lightning storm. Suddenly, a dark shadow looms high above you riding on the crest of a monster wave—all you want to do then is to run home to mother!

     When I wrote After the Cataclysm, I imagined a huge steel monster almost running the little Esperanza down and I remembers how my skipper loved to blast Wagner’s powerful music of The Flying Dutchman over the outside speakers when things got rough.

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Excerpt from After the Cataclysm -Part III, Chapter 8

 © Inge H. Borg

“Shiiiiiit!”

     The panic-stricken shout from inside the wheelhouse was followed by the cough of the ignition being turned over time and again. The starter didn’t catch. The wheelhouse door was ripped open. “The bastard’s going to run us down,” Sam cried into the dark cockpit.

     Jonathan pushed Naunet away and jumped up, almost crumpling into the well. His left leg had fallen asleep as he had held Naunet, comforting her, assuring her that everything would turn out all right. “Get on the horn!”

     Sam had already flipped the switch of the shortwave. He grasped the mike and pressed the ‘transmit’ button so hard he was afraid he would embed it into the surrounding plastic.

     “Sécurité, sécurité, sécurité,” the youth cried into the mike as if the higher volume of his voice would make a difference. “This is the sailing vessel Esperanza.” He shakily gave their coordinates and heading. “Large ship bearing down on us, please alter course to west-northwest. We are unable to move out of your way.” He depressed the button. Jonathan and he held their breath for an answer hoping the other guy on watch wasn’t dozing.

     Panic transmits itself quickly throughout the confines of a small boat. By now everyone crowded into the wheelhouse. They did not dare to say anything as they waited for a reply to Sam’s urgent transmission, imagining what would happen if it did not come. Too many large ships never knew they had run down a sailboat. Not until, by daylight or in the next port, they found tattered rigging dangling from one of their bow anchors. In his mind, Jonathan ticked off the steps required to release their lifeboat canister strapped down on deck in front of the main mast. Oh God, he prayed, let the damn thing cross in front of us just this one time.

     “Sailing vessel Esperanza,” a pleasant, nonchalantly professional voice boomed back at them. “We have you on radar. Passing to your starboard now.”

Suddenly, the slapping of their luffing mainsail, deprived of its breeze, was eclipsed by an overwhelming rhythmic pulsing. Jonathan engaged the autopilot. It would hold the Esperanza steadier than any human could; especially since her humans did not feel steady at all. Despite the terror in their hearts, they rushed outside.

     “Shiiiiiit!” Sam hollered again as he gawked up at a wall of steel towering above them, obliterating the moon. Its passage seemed to last forever. There was only the faintest of light coming from the high bridge.

     Jonathan suddenly remembered that the ship had not identified herself during her last transmission. On top of it, not running any navigation lights at night was a definite no-no in any sailor’s book. “Bastard,” he breathed, and then remembered they themselves were running dark. As the moon re-emerged, he knew they would now be bounced around from the propeller wash.

     “Hold on!” he shouted.

     The radio in the wheelhouse crackled to life again. “God speed, sailors,” the voice said and then added, “Sorry about the wake.”

     “Bastard,” Bill echoed Jonathan’s sentiment.

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