New Books for Under the Tree

 

It's ninety degrees in October, so why not start thinking about shopping for the winter holidays?  Makes as much sense as anything else these days.  Here are a few suggested titles (unique and offbeat) for stuffing stockings, available in December, just in time for you know what.

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Alter Ego
Alex Segura
Flatiron Books - Dec. 3

[from the publisher]
Alex Segura, award–winning author of Secret Identity, returns with a clever and escapist standalone sequel set in the world of comic books. In the present day, a comics legend is given the chance to revive a beloved but forgotten character. But at what price?

Annie Bustamante is a cultural force like none other: an acclaimed filmmaker, an author, a comic book artist known for one of the all time best superhero comics in recent memory. But she’s never been able to tackle her longtime favorite superhero, the Lethal Lynx. Only known to the most die-hard comics fans and long out of print, the rights were never available—until now.

But Annie is skeptical of who is making the offer: Bert Carlyle's father started Triumph Comics, and has long claimed ownership of the Lynx. When she starts getting anonymous messages urging her not to trust anyone, Annie’s inner alarms go off. Even worse? Carlyle wants to pair her with a disgraced filmmaker for a desperate media play.

Annie, who has been called a genius, a sell-out, a visionary, a hack, and everything else under the sun, is sick of the money grab. For the first time since she started reading a tattered copy of The Legendary Lynx #1 as a kid, she feels a pure, creative spark. The chance to tell a story her way. She's not about to let that go. Even if it means uncovering the dark truth about the character she loves.

Sharply written, deftly plotted, and with a palpable affection for all kinds of storytelling, Alter Ego is a one-of-a-kind reading experience.

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I Might Be In Trouble

Daniel Aleman

Grand Central Publishing - Dec. 3

[from the publisher]
A suspenseful dark comedy about a struggling writer who wakes up to find his date from the night before dead—and must then decide how far he’s willing to go to spin the misadventure into his next big book.

A few years ago, David Alvarez had it all: a six-figure book deal, a loving boyfriend, and an exciting writing career. His debut novel was a resounding success, which made the publication of his second book—a total flop—all the more devastating. Now, David is single, lonely, and desperately trying to come up with the next great idea for his third manuscript, one that will redeem him in the eyes of readers, reviewers, the entire publishing world…and maybe even his ex-boyfriend.

But good ideas are hard to come by, and the mounting pressure of a near-empty bank account isn’t helping. When David connects with a sexy stranger on a dating app, he figures a wild night out in New York City may be just what he needs to find inspiration. Lucky for him, his date turns out to be handsome, confident, and wealthy, not to mention the perfect distraction from yet another evening staring at a blank screen.

After one of the best nights of his life, David wakes up hungover but giddy—only to find prince charming dead next to him in bed. Horrified, completely confused, and suddenly faced with the implausible-but-somehow-plausible idea that he may have actually killed his date, David calls the only person he can trust in a moment of crisis: his literary agent, Stacey.

Together, David and Stacey must untangle the events of the previous night, cover their tracks, and spin the entire misadventure into David’s career-defining novel—if only they can figure out what to do with the body first.

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No Place to Bury the Dead
Karina Sainz Borgo, Translated by Elizabeth Bryer
HarperVia - Dec. 10

[from the publisher]
In an unnamed Latin American country, a mysterious plague quickly spreads, erasing the memory of anyone infected. Angustias Romero flees with her family, but their flight is tragically cut short when she loses both her children. Consumed by grief, she finds herself within the hallucinatory expanse of Mezquite––a town corrupted by greed and populated by storytellers, refugees, and violent, predatory gangs.

Here, Angustias is finally able to lay her children to rest at the Third Country, a cemetery run by the larger-than-life Visitación Salazar and a refuge beyond suffering and fear. While Visitación remains defiant in her mission to care for the dead, the cemetery she oversees is the focal point of a bitter land dispute with Alcides Abundio, the most feared landowner of the border. Caught in this power struggle, Angustias and Visitación–friends and sometimes rivals– stand their ground on a frontier where the law is dictated by violence; a surreal territory whose very nature blurs the boundaries between life and death.

Exploring what we are capable of and how far we will go when we have nothing to lose, No Place to Bury the Dead confirms Karina Sainz Borgo’s importance amongst the voices of modern Latin American literature, merging thriller, western, and classic tragedy in an unforgettable and urgent novel that won the 2023 Jan Michalski Prize.

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After the Ocean

Lauren E. Rico

Kensington - Dec. 24

[from the publisher]
Thirty years ago, musicians Emilia Oliveras and Paul Winstead were married in Puerto Rico. Forty-eight hours later, Paul vanished from their honeymoon cruise, leaving Emilia devastated—and the prime suspect in his disappearance. So, she ran for her life, leaving behind her love, her dreams, and her identity.

Today “Emily Oliver” is a divorced music teacher and mother of two daughters who know nothing about her past: Gracie, a talented attorney who excels in the courtroom but grapples with personal relationships, and Meg, a gifted concert pianist who wrestles with her ambition and purpose.

When a cryptic caller claims the unthinkable—that Paul is alive, Emily returns to Puerto Rico in search of the truth. What she doesn’t know is that her daughters aren’t far behind. Shocked to find their mother isn’t the woman they thought she was, Gracie and Meg wonder how much of their lives have been a lie.

As the paths of the three women intertwine, they are compelled to confront their pasts, reevaluate their relationships, and seek forgiveness. Together they embark on a quest to unravel the mystery of Paul’s disappearance and redefine their futures on their own terms, navigating a maze of family ties, secrets, and redemption.

Later.

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Manuel Ramos writes crime fiction. Read his latest story, Northside Nocturne, in the award-winning anthology Denver Noir, edited by Cynthia Swanson, published by Akashic Books.

Chicanonautica: Foreshadowing a Re-Entry

by Ernest Hogan

I just returned from another road trip.

Like a re-entry into the Earth’s atmosphere–if you’ll pardon the flashback to my Space Age childhood–coming back home can be stressful.

No danger of burning up like a meteor, but after being in different environments, home and the old routine seem different.

It’s like one of those science fiction stories where an astronaut returns from a long mission and finds that life on Earth is no longer what they thought it was.

 

Hmm . . . I should probably offer that as a prompt for the class I’ll be . . . teaching . . . in a couple of days! No, wait a minute --that won't be happening due to circumstances beyond my control . . .

Argh!

It’s always future–or some other kind of–shock.

Shock you can get high on.

 

The photos used here are from the trip, presented in reverse-chronological order.

Ernest Hogan, the Father of Chicano Science Fiction, is readapting to his altered environment.

How to Eat a Mango- Cómo se come un mango

Written by Paola Santos

Illustrated by Juliana Perdomo

 

Publisher: ‎Neal Porter Books 

Hardcover: ‎40 pages

ISBN-10: ‎082345388X

ISBN-13: ‎978-0823453887

Reading age: ‎4 - 8 years

Grade level: Preschool – 3

 

 

Abuelita teaches Carmencita that you can’t rush mango-eating: it takes five steps to appreciate the gift and feel the love.

 

Carmencita doesn’t want to help Abuelita pick mangoes; she doesn’t even like them! They’re messy, they get stuck in her teeth, and it’s a chore to throw out the rotten ones.

 

But Abuelita adores mangoes, and patiently, she teaches Carmencita the right way to eat them. Together, they listen to the tree’s leaves, feel its branches and roots above and below, and smell and feel the sweet, smooth fruits. Each step is a meditation on everything Mamá Earth has given, and in the Earth’s love, Carmencita feels the love of her Mami, her Papi, her little brother Carlitos, and of course, Abuelita.

 

When they finally bite in, the juice running down their arms, Carmencita understands. The mangoes are more than just mangoes… and she’s ready for another!

 

Inspired by her own childhood in Venezuela, Paola Santos’s mango-sweet story is a grounding, life-affirming take on gratitude for nature’s gifts and connection with family and culture. Juliana Perdomo’s cheery artwork brings Carmencita, Abuelita, and their mango tree to life with all the warmth of golden fruit under the sun.

 

 

Abuelita le enseña a Carmencita que comer un mango no puede precipitarse: se necesitan cinco pasos para apreciar el regalo y sentir el amor.

 

Carmencita no quiere ayudar a Abuelita a recoger mangos.  ¡Ni siquiera le gustan! Ensucian, se atoran entre sus dientes y es una lata limpiar los podridos.

 

Pero Abuelita adora los mangos y, con paciencia, le enseña a Carmencita la forma correcta de comerlos. Juntas, escuchan susurrar a las hojas del árbol, sienten sus ramas y raíces arriba y abajo, y huelen y sienten los dulces y suaves frutos. Cada paso es una meditación sobre todo lo que Mamá Tierra ha dado, y en el amor de la Tierra, Carmencita siente el amor de su Mami, su Papi, su hermanito Carlitos y por supuesto, Abuelita.

 

Cuando al fin prueban una mordida, los jugos escurriendo por sus brazos, Carmencita lo comprende. Los mangos son más que una fruta... ¡y ya está lista para otro!

 

Inspirado en la infancia de la autora Paola Santos en Venezuela, esta historia, tan dulce como un mango, fomenta la gratitud por los regalos de la naturaleza y la conexión con la familia y la cultura. Las alegres ilustraciones de Juliana Perdomo dan vida a Carmencita, Abuelita y su árbol de mango con toda la calidez de los frutos dorados bajo el sol.

 

 

Review

 

"Sunny, shape-based digital images by Perdomo radiate joyous warmth and nurturing."—Publishers Weekly, Starred Review

 

"A heartwarming—and delectable—narrative that readers will treasure."—Kirkus Reviews, Starred Review

 

"A vibrant picture book that sets up a wonderful way for individual readers or an entire classroom to reflect on the natural wonders all around them."—School Library Journal, Starred Review

"Sensory experiences explode on each page."—BookPage, Starred Review

 

"Bright and full of musicality and movement."—The Horn Book

 

 

Paola Santos was born and raised in Venezuela, and holds a master’s degree in Children’s Literature and Reading Promotion from the Castilla-La Mancha University in Spain. She is a member of SCBWI and a graduate of the Children’s Book Academy. She was awarded the Las Musas-Hermanas Mentorship with author Alexandra Alessandri and the We Need Diverse Books Picture Book Mentorship with author Meg Medina. How to Eat a Mango is her debut book.

 

Juliana Perdomo was born in Bogotá, Colombia, surrounded by a huge loving family, friends, bright colors, music, weird fruits, sunshine, lots of rain, but also rainbows. With a background in psychology and art therapy, she is the illustrator of many books for children, and the author and illustrator of the picture book Sometimes All I Need is Me. She lives in Colombia with her partner, son, and dogs.

Colder Than A...G.I. Should Be. Punto.

How Cold Was It?

Michael Sedano

A Fall heat wave sweeps into Southern California. When that happens, an old man's fancy turns to thoughts of when he felt more cold than anyone deserves to feel. In 1969, the US Army stationed me at Bravo Battery, seventh of the fifth air defense artillery, B 7/5, where I lived a summer and a winter rotating between a comfortable base camp called the Admin Area, and the tac site atop mighty Mae Bong.  

Fire Control Operator and Wayne Concha behind the Commo hootch

Winter, 1969. 

Outside temperature readings on the digital display go black like the weather doesn’t want us to know. On the roof of our Quonset hut, the anemometer either has frozen and stuck, or it met its match in the elements. 25 knots, the device last reported. 

 

High above Korea on mighty mile-high Mae Bong, Site 7/5, we soldiers feel the thermometer dropping all day, we don’t need technology to spell it out. 

 

It is cold. Colder than inside the freezer at DeYoung’s poultry in warm Redlands, Califas, where gramma works. Too cold to be funny, witches and well-diggers go to hell.

 

-12º, the digital display’s last words. The Lieutenant works some math aloud, reporting to no one in particular a wind chill factor equivalent to some outrageous below zero temperature if you were outside in that storm. Only the commo guys go out into the storm. I work commo.

 

Inside the command hootch the sound of storm slamming against steel sides of the structure reminds us how lucky we are to be inside the hootch. A diesel-burning space heater glows without warming, the cold air sucks the hot right out of the heat. We wear our cold-weather gear inside and talk in gasps of perpetual shivering.

 

There’s a sign down in the Admin Area base camp bragging how this is the world’s highest, ruggedest, toughest missile site, admonishing our blithe spirits to be Proud to be here. Up here, on top, where it’s cold, those words would fall out of my mouth, shatter on the cement pad, leaving Red White and Blue puddles.

 

Normally, we’re on the mountain three days and two nights, but this latest storm has kept us five days already. Maybe tomorrow a deuce and a half will make it to the top bringing a ride down to hot chow, hot showers, a warm bunk, and restful sleep.

 

Snow plasters against the windward side of the whip antenna mounted to the roof above my radio. Each hourly commo check reads fainter and fainter. “How do you hear me? Over.” “I read you five by five.” “I read you four by three.” “I read you two by two.” Faint, scratchy, and weak, 2x2. It’s time to climb onto the roof sheltering the Quonset hut to de-ice the whip antenna.

Top of Mae Bong Commo Hootch Weather and Radio Equipment

It's one small leap for a soldier, one giant leap into the face of the storm when I jump onto the shed. I balance along the roofbeam buffeted by adrenalin-raising random gusts. I keep my feet under me and in a few moments I’ve attained the far end of the hootch, directly above my duty station. The antenna wears a hoary beard that’s crept around to envelop the entire rod.

 

I’ve brought the de-icing instrument—a length of wooden broom handle. Like a magician I straighten my left arm and the broom handle slides into my grasp. With practiced ease, I straddle some cables, set my boots on the eaves, and lift both arms with the broom stick tilted over my head in readiness to strike a mighty blow. We do this with ugly regularity. In this storm, I'm hoping for a few hours to pass before I have to do this again. 

 

The wind reaches a momentary peak, an enormous gust grabs my parka fills my frame like a sail. The storm lifts me off the roof of the commo hootch and I fly above the ground, the shattered boulders, the concertina wire, the precipice.

 

I am flying! In momentary exultation I look into the whiteness of the blowing storm imagining the view from up here. Down there, Chuncheon and Camp Page lie in the crook of the curving river. Lights will twinkle and pa’lla far away pa’lla the shining ribbon of river winds its way South to Seoul. I am Mary Poppins floating above the city. I am feathered-Icarus dressed in Army green, headed for a fall.

 

When I revive I’m relieved to be tangled in barbed wire, holding my broomstick. Blood has oozed through my long underwear and wool OG trousers making a reddish icicle. Nothing hurts despite I’m bent over backwards on a shattered boulder. I extricate from the concertina spiral, roll onto my feet, slap snow off my parka. Back to the jumping-off spot, leap onto the command hootch, negotiate my way to above my duty station. Ever-so-carefully, both arms lift the broomstick into the air and mission accomplished.

 

“How do you hear me? Over.” 

“I hear you five by five. Over.” 

“Roger. Out.”

 

The storm abates to a weak sleet and constant Siberian gusts of punishing wind. The Llieutenant comes into the commo room with bad news. His phone line to Maintenance is out. Fire control and commo section sit at the highest level of the hill. Below us, the LT keeps a chow hall and maintenance hootch in constant communication by a telephone line laid along the edge of the mountain.

Launchers at the ready, B 7/5. North Korea pa'lla 15 miles away.

We advise the Admin Area switchboard we’ll be out of commo for a while so they don't freak out not hearing from us on schedule. The cold and wind have snapped the line somewhere out there. Outside. Where it's pitch black night. Where it's windy and penetratingly freezing.

 

Finding and fixing a snapped twisted pair copper wire happens regularly. It’s no challenge when it's daylight and nice weather, even when we have no field wireman tools. We have X-acto knives from a hobby kit. We’d need a third hand to manipulate a flashlight so we go gently into the night working by feel.

 

The phone line runs strung through eyelet bolts hammered into the rock every twenty feet or so, as terrain allows on the edge of the cliff. It’s cautious going, toes feeling for rocks and craters, keeping the phone line in gloved hands. The wind plays havoc with gait and balance. Wind accelerates as it whips up cliffs before cutting over the edge like an air knife. 

 

We lean hard into invisible forces that make us wobble from whirling gusts. We've bent the soft zinc wire sewn into our fur-lined hoods so just our noses protrude into the air. Moisture freezes nostril hairs into hypodermic needles that make breathing a painful hazard when you reflexively wrinkle your nose against the cold and recoil from sleet, grit, and needlelike nose hairs.

 

Only the blowing animal hair of the fur-lined hood protects my glasses from the stinging flint bits the wind slams into exposed skin. My lenses clack with each impact and my cheeks recoil at each pinpoint of pain as grit infiltrates past the fur hood. I tell myself not to wrinkle my nose but I can't resist the urge to feel that unique kind of pain. 

 

We wear Army-green knee-length nylon hooded overcoats. A heavy quilted liner buttoned into the coat manages to fight off the worst of the cold and wind. We walk arms out like cartoon caricatures. Green wool glove liners inside supple leather gloves keep our fingers nimble enough that the snapping wire signals its location through our palms several feet from the whipping slack wire.

Dawn from atop Mighty Mae Bong

We back into the wind feeling ten to fifteen feet of whipping wire strapping against our shoulders and legs. Wrapping itself around the knees puts the thing in our grasp and the job ahead is simple. We pin down the free-flying telephone line, lodging the wires under rocks.

The line snapped just behind the Maintenance hootch. There's dim light from around the front of the Quonset hut. Here is good fortune.

 

I pull off my gloves to grip the free end of wire to strip off insulation exposing a couple inches of copper. I feel sensation leak out of my hands. Now my fingers can’t feel a thing. I observe my hand clasp around the loose wire. I witness the blade draw along the first of the paired wire. I give up making sense of this. I put on the gloves and run back to the hootch and the light. Concha, my homeboy this turn on the mountain, has mirrored my actions. In the lee of the Maintenance hootch we don't have to shout to make ourselves heard.

 

When I can flex hands again, a breath into the gloves returns sensation to my grasp. Concha and I run back to the splice. As before, we pull off the gloves and instant numbness. I strip the second wire, pull on the glove and run back trembling and shaking, to the light.

 

Four wires stripped, the task remains to twist the broken ends together, wrap the joint in rubber tape, go inside and test the line. "Are you ready?" Concha and I shout in agreement. 

We make a break for the break where there's just enough light to match the two stripped wires to each other, twist once, twice, three times. Not enough but Concha can’t work beyond. I take the line and twist once, twist twice, and I assume twist a third time before I have to get those gloves back on my frozen hands. We don’t use the tape. The ten-minute repair takes a miserable hour out of our lives.

 

The maintenance hootch offers cozy respite. With twenty bodies and three space heaters to warm two grateful commo guys, we're still too cold to relax. But we feel warmth and gratitude. Here, in the light, we get a look at our defrosting fingers.  The copper wire ripped into the flesh of our insensate frozen fingers leaving ragged gouges filled with frozen blood. Our blood icicles begin melting, covering the fingers with slushy blood that drips onto our knees. We laugh as pain wells up from our ragged torn flesh.

 

I crank the field telephone and the Lieutenant hears me Lima Charlie. Loud and Clear, five by five.

Specialist 4 Michael Sedano on tac site duty