ADAM IMMORTAL is my 10th novel; my first science-fiction undertaking.
Here’s a recent review you may enjoy:
It is rare today to find a novel that lays out its tale in such efficient, succinct and uncluttered language. Offering a wide cast of engaging characters–several of them humanoid robots–Adam Immortal generates a narrative that clips along with unflagging pace and vigor as it imagines an entirely believable future world set in a 2056 mid-American hospital. At the outset the novel seems to be the story of Adam, an astoundingly adept robotic heart surgeon the hospital administration has purchased to control the spiraling costs of its advanced medical procedures. However, as event piles upon event, Mark, the human surgeon, colleague to Adam and narrator of the yarn moves ever more inevitably to the center as he wrestles with the ethical question: Have robots an inalienable right to develop and engage with the emotions felt by their human co-workers? Empathically engaged with Millie, his family’s robotic cook, housekeeper and child minder at one pole and Adam at the other, Mark seeks a viable answer to questions so daunting that they may not be answered short of a ruling by the Supreme Court. Author Carley Evans makes it abundantly clear that advances in robotic technology, which may free us from onerous tasks, also will impact what it means to be human. The conflict is skillfully laid out against the framework of her scientifically accurate and medically authentic description of a “brave new world.”
Published my latest novel this week. I AM SOFIE is my first historical novel, based on the diaries and letters of Hans and Sofie Scholl, two young people who stood against Hitler. These Munich University students along with their circle of friends and their professors formed the Weiss Rose — the White Rose — movement. Together they wrote six leaflets which they distributed across Germany and parts of Europe, calling upon ordinary Germans to rid themselves of their stupor and complacency and resist the Nazi Party and put an end to the atrocities.
I usually don’t publish on Kindle, but this volume is available as an e-Book as well as a trade paperback.
Additionally I am publishing a “special edition” which will contain color maps in an appendix.
By J. Bickley on March 21, 2015
What I like about As From A Talented Animal is the ambiguity of the “killer.” The book is presented from the perspective of three different people, the journalist Max Peterson, the alleged killer Richard Mock/David Stone, and the prison guard Felix.
As Max interviews and learns more about Mock/Stone, the tale gets more chilling. For one thing, there is much question about whether Stone even committed the crimes. You see, he has confessed to 30 killings over a number of years. He has been convicted of eight of them, and is serving a sentence in a mental institution. The reason he was only convicted of eight of the murders is that his confession didn’t match up well enough with the other 22.
The problem is that he sporadically announces that he never killed anyone. But who is claiming that? Stone or Mock? He claims (along with the psychologist), that Stone is just a pseudonym, made up by Mock. But Max Person swears that he can tell which one he is talking to by “something in the eyes.” At one point, Max is pretty well convinced that Stone is telling the truth when he says that he never killed anyone. As the reader, I’m never quite sure.
The book is a gripping journey through the mind of a madman. Did he kill or not? You’ll have to decide for yourself.
Another reader of mine told me on Friday that she’d gotten through the first chapter of AS FROM A TALENTED ANIMAL and was intrigued by it. She said, “Your novels keep getting better and better.”
“Oh,” I said, “you’re liking this one –.”
“Yes,” she said, “I’m liking it a lot.”
My friend who purchased GANI & SEAN last Saturday morning told me at breakfast this morning — one week later — that “Yes, I liked GANI & SEAN.” Then she smiled and said, “You surprised me there at the end.”
“Oh,” I said, “you didn’t see that coming?”
“No,” she replied. “No, no; I didn’t.” And she grinned.
“Oh, that’s great,” I said. I added, “I think you’ll like the sequel even more.”
And we went back to our coffee.
Five of my more favorite words strung together are: “I need something to read” but six of my most favorite words strung together — that follow closely after the first five words — are: “I want to read your book.”
These two phrases — uh, sentences — were “heard” by me via text yesterday, and this morning my friend — one of my readers — bought my novel GANI & SEAN.
I signed it to her, “You know I love you.”
AS FROM A TALENTED ANIMAL
Carley Eason Evans
All Rights Reserved
4 – My Twin
(David’s Journal Entry)
My twin brother, Michael and I used to dig holes in our parents’ back yard and bury our toy soldiers and plastic dinosaurs. We never talked about why we were doing this, but when we went back some years later to try to find our treasures, we couldn’t locate the little graves. Our soldiers and dinosaurs were gone — poof! Maybe that’s why I never buried my victims. Maybe I figured they’d disappear — poof! — just like my toys. Yet, I didn’t keep tokens. I didn’t take clothing or jewelry or pieces of hair or anything from anyone I killed. I didn’t want anything. That’s true — I didn’t need anything anyone of them might have had to give. I wasn’t interested in things. I’m still not. I did brand my victims, however. You know who is interested in things? Michael. Michael is interested in things — in treasures. I guess that’s why he’s a certified public accountant. He likes to take things into account. Somewhat surprising to me that he’s not the serial killer. But my twin doesn’t have the heart of a killer.
I recall a teenager I killed. You should know I didn’t rape him any more than I raped the little girl or any of my other victims, for that matter. Rather, I cut the teen from sternum to pubic bone and took everything out. Then I stitched him back up with fishing line and put him in the back of an abandoned car in a junk yard. I sat him up, leaning his head against the rolled-up back window on the passenger side of the big car. From a distance, it looked as if he was waiting for a girlfriend or a drug dealer. I remember I chuckled. But I didn’t take anything from him. I left all his guts — his internal organs and stuff — in the backseat of the car. I took nothing with me. I just walked away with only his blood on my hands and clothes. I want you to realize I shudder now to think of that young man sitting — dead — in that junk yard. I shudder. But when I killed him, I smiled. I was especially proud of my sewing, having never learned to sew. I know — what sort of a guy learns to sew?
My twin Michael didn’t learn to sew either. He went to a good community college and “made something of himself”, according to our father. Our father threw this in my face repeatedly. “While your brother is studying, what are you planning to do, Richard? I wish to fuck you’d tell me what you are going to do with your sorry life.” My life would have been a “sorry one” from the beginning if my father had had anything to say about it. And, of course, he did have much to say about my “sorry life.” Yes, that’s another joke — perhaps too lame for you. Little did my father know that I would graduate from college with honors.
At any rate, the hospital grounds are huge — the place is like a college campus but the asylum is just this — an asylum for the criminally insane. Michael visits me which is rather odd given our early relationship. We get along now. He seems to understand why I went one way while he managed to go another — a “better way” he says. He outright denies that our parents were abusive to me. The other day, he claimed our mother “loved us equally, Rich.” Then Michael smiled, corrected himself, “I mean, she loved us the same, David.”
I disagreed, shook my head. “No, Michael — she didn’t.”
He used to debate this adamantly but the other day he just teared up a little. I saw the glistening along the edges of his eyes and he sniffled slightly. He said, “I don’t know why you believe that of her. She was so kind to you.”
“No, she wasn’t.”
Michael looked through the bars at the large window of the visitor room, likely at the huge oaks lining the entranceway to the “campus”. He smiled, said, “Let’s change the subject.”
“Sure,” I said. But I had nothing to talk about so I waited. An awkward silence hung there between us. I looked at Michael as he stared out at the world. I waited. He looked back at me, smiled sheepishly — it seemed sheep-like to me — and asked if I’ve read any good books lately. “No,” I said. He waited for me to ask him if he’d read any good books lately but I didn’t oblige. I just stared at my identical twin.
Michael pushed his chair back and stood up. He paced over to the window, actually leaned his forehead against the bars. I imagined getting up, walking up behind him, pushing a knife between his shoulder blades. But — of course — I had no knife and even if I had I wouldn’t kill my only brother. I decided to be generous. “The superintendent showed a pretty good movie last weekend.”
Michael turned from the window, an outline of the iron bar across his face. “Oh,” he said, “What movie was that?”
“Silence of the Lambs,” I said.
Michael groaned, knew I was lying.
So often, looking at Michael is like looking at a mirror image of myself except something different is there — in his eyes particularly. Although they are as blue as mine, the reflections they produce are softer than the ones I see in mine — in a real mirror, that is. Michael doesn’t have that killer look, I suppose.
Dr. Smack met with my twin for several hours early in my stay — in my incarceration. I don’t know all they talked about but Michael did tell me that some of the discussion focused on our similarities — the most obvious one being the exact duplication of our physical traits. Why that mattered to Dr. Smack I’ve no idea. He’s an odd cookie. Michael also said this focus on our identicalness made him uncomfortable. “I wanted to run out of his office,” he admitted to me.
“He gave you the willies, hey?”
I remember we laughed and then Michael cried because his brother — me — was a convicted serial killer.
Michael has never asked me why I did it — he’s never asked why I killed little boys and girls, teenagers, middle-agers, elderly sots. He’s not asked me how I tricked my victims or why I chose those particular persons.
“So, did you enjoy Silence of the Lambs?” he asked after he groaned to let me know that he knew I was lying to him.
“Sure,” I said.
“You admired Hannibal Lector?”
“Oh sure,” I said.
“I liked Agent Starling,” said Michael.
“Of course,” I said. “You would, wouldn’t you?”
My twin smiled at me, sat back at the table. At the door to the small room was an armed guard. He was a substitute for my usual guards — Felix and Tom. I looked at the man. He was perhaps forty-seven, weighed maybe two hundred and sixty-five pounds, was around five foot-ten inches in his stocking feet. His hair was thinning and already fully grey. He pretended to ignore our conversation but he was listening. I wondered what he thinks of me — of Michael. If Michael and I were dressed in the same prison uniform (the superintendent denies that we inmates are garbed in prison uniforms but we are) I wondered if the guard would be able to tell us apart. I bet he’d confuse me for Michael and Michael for me. I bet. Then perhaps I might walk out of here, into the world again and find another victim. I know Felix is afraid that very thing might happen one day.
But, it’s not true that I would find another victim if I escaped. I wouldn’t kill again. I am almost one hundred percent certain I’m no longer obliged to take lives. Taking a life used to be — dare I say it? — fun. Fun? Exciting? Yes, exciting is a more accurate description of how I felt taking someone’s only life. Well up to a point, then it became a bore — only a means to an end. But this brings up a favorite truism of mine — there’s only this life, you know. There’s no afterlife. There’s no hell waiting for the bad people, and no heaven waiting for the good people. People are people. Life is life. Death is death. And death is just the end of living. Along that line of thinking, I want to add that perhaps life is just the absence of dying. Now there’s some circular reasoning, if ever there was such a thing.
So, Michael’s visit came to an end and he left me here in the mental hospital. I can’t switch places with him because of the prison uniform. He would never be willing to take my place for a day or two so I could get out among other people — normal people. Michael wouldn’t last one day — much less two — in here.
This morning when I woke up, I decided the time had come to set the record straight. I was tired of the lie and knew it was time for some truth.
D.S. October 9 and 10, 2008