Imagine a world where plastic surgery uses the science of beauty to make everything about your body into what science says is the “ideal.” Would you be perfect? The governments in Scott Westerfeild’s Uglies think so. 

Uglies is a clean dystopian novel about the allure of beauty and what it means to be true to yourself. The book questions both the need to stay the same when technology could make you better and expecting blind conformity.​

I don’t think there has been a book that surprised me more with its hidden depth than Scott Westerfeild’s Uglies did. On the surface, it is about a girl, Tally, who just wants to undergo the surgery to become a “pretty,” but can’t until she helps the city leaders find her runaway friend, Shay. One could read this and find it shallow and vain, but there is so much more to it than that. 

Yes, Tally does what the city leaders ask her to do, even though it will hurt her friend, because they won’t let her become pretty. She leaves the city and follows Shay’s clues, even at the risk of her life, for the chance to become a pretty. Even when she finds Shay and makes friends in a group of runaways, she still wants to become pretty; that fact never changes.

Does that make Tally shallow? I don’t think so. It is not wrong to want to change yourself to be closer to your own ideal. Many of us want to be stronger, thinner, more outgoing, or even less bald (totally not me). We all make choices that lead us towards these goals. That does not make us shallow. The entire human experience is about change, growth, and achieving our own unique goals.

​Although Uglies does have some romance, it is light hearted and does not get beyond a kiss.

So, even in that aspect, readers of all sensibilities shouldn’t have many qualms about this series. Speaking of the series, there are three books in the main series: Uglies, Pretties, and Specials. There is also an extra fourth book about different characters, Extras, but some of the main characters from the original cast play pivotal roles later on. ​

Thanks for reading!

Zach Larson
Author at Living Words Press

Have a question you want to ask? Leave a comment below or email me at Zach@livingwordspress.com. I want to know what type of post you would like to see from me next.

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​

Have you ever wished the world had superheroes? Yeah, me too. A world where people can fly and help the downtrodden sounds great. But what if the world did suddenly have people with superpowers, but all of those people lost their empathy and cared only for themselves? This is the world of the Reckoners series. 

Steelheart is a dystopian fantasy about a world with super-tyrants instead of heroes. The book is a clean read, besides a bit of violence and death. There is even a romantic subplot that persists throughout the entire Reckoners series. ​

Yes, the group in the story, called The Reckoners, take on super-tyrants that they call epics. The group’s entire purpose is to find the epic’s weakness, which negates their powers, and kill them. Multiple epics are killed “on screen” throughout the book. There is a lot of blood and danger, but nothing gets gorey. There isn’t even any true swearing, since this version of the world has evolved new cuss words. 

There is a scene where a character needs emergency surgery and their clothes are removed, but the narrator character treats the situation with the gravity it deserves. The storyline stays well above board for a story about evil superheroes. 

I regularly recommend this series to my high school students and basically anyone who likes a good fantasy or superhero story. 

Though Steelheart is a clean read, in my opinion, it is meant for people ages 13 and above. The themes of death and violence are probably too much for most younger readers. ​

The main character is in his late teens, as is his love interest, but that shouldn’t deter adult readers. Most of the other characters in the series are much older with quirks and wisdom that will keep fans of any age engrossed in the story. 

As a high school English teacher, I especially appreciate the groups leader, Prof. He is determined, smart, and scrappy. The entire team respects Prof to no end and does whatever he says. Later in the story, it is revealed that Prof was a simple middle school science teacher before the epics changed the world. I love having a teacher portrayed as smart and capable because a lot of the time we are seen as being less capable because we chose to teach.

One of my favorite aspects of Steelheart is that it is a dystopian fantasy about superheroes that turn into tyrants. Most of these super powered people aren’t really even evil, just lacking empathy and very selfish.

Dystopian novels usually focus on corrupt governments and usually sit in the sci-fi realm, but reading a fantasy dystopia about epics that displaced the governments of the world is refreshing and unexpected. At least, when I first read the series, I had never heard of other books or even TV shows with a similar premise. Now we have seen the rise of series on many of the streaming services that put corrupt superheroes at the forefront (I am thinking of Invincible and The Boys).

Brandon Sanderson takes his forte in hard magic systems and creates an alternate world of superpowers that fulfills both our imaginations and our fears. The Reckoners series is a must read for any fantasy or superhero fan. I will leave descriptions of each of the books below for you.

​

Ten years ago, Calamity came. It was a burst in the sky that gave ordinary people extraordinary powers. The awed public started calling them Epics.
   Epics are no friends of man. With incredible gifts came the desire to rule. And to rule man, you must crush his will.
   Now, in what was once Chicago, an astonishingly powerful Epic named Steelheart has installed himself as emperor. Steelheart possesses the strength of ten men and can control the elements. It is said that no bullet can harm him, no sword can split his skin, and no fire can burn him. He is invincible. Nobody fights back . . . nobody but the Reckoners.
   A shadowy group of ordinary humans, the Reckoners spend their lives studying Epics, finding their weaknesses, and then assassinating them. And David wants in.
   When Steelheart came to Chicago, he killed David’s father. For years, like the Reckoners, David has been studying, and planning, and he has something they need. Not an object, but an experience.
   He has seen Steelheart bleed.
   And he wants revenge.

​

Newcago is free.
   They told David it was impossible, that even the Reckoners had never killed a High Epic. Yet Steelheart--invincible, immortal, unconquerable--is dead. And he died by David's hand.
   Eliminating Steelheart was supposed to make life simpler. Instead, it only made David realize he has questions. Big ones. And no one in Newcago can give him answers.
   Babylon Restored, the city formerly known as the borough of Manhattan, has possibilities, though. Ruled by the mysterious High Epic Regalia, Babylon Restored is flooded and miserable, but David is sure it's the path that will lead him to what he needs to find. Entering a city oppressed by a High Epic despot is risky, but David's willing to take the gamble. Because killing Steelheart left a hole in David's heart. A hole where his thirst for vengeance once lived. Somehow, he filled that hole with another Epic--Firefight. And now he will go on a quest darker and even more dangerous than the fight against Steelheart to find her, and to get his answers.

​

When Calamity lit up the sky, the Epics were born. David’s fate has been tied to their villainy ever since that historic night. Steelheart killed his father. Firefight stole his heart. And now Regalia has turned Prof, his closest ally, into a dangerous enemy.
    David knew Prof’s secret, and kept it even when Prof struggled to control the effects of his Epic powers. But facing Obliteration in Babilar was too much. Once the Reckoners’ leader, Prof has now embraced his Epic destiny. He’s disappeared into those murky shadows of menace Epics are infamous for the world over, and everyone knows there’s no turning back. . . .
   But everyone is wrong. Redemption is possible for Epics—Megan proved it. They’re not lost. Not completely. And David is just about crazy enough to face down the most powerful High Epic of all to get his friend back. Or die trying.

​

Thanks for reading!

Zach Larson
Author at Living Words Press

Have a question you want to ask? Leave a comment below or email me at Zach@livingwordspress.com. I want to know what type of post you would like to see from me next.

P.S. Want more content right now? Sign up for my newsletter to receive bonus material, reviews and recommendations, pre-release goodies, and free stuff. Sign up now on the home page: Livingwordspress.com. Just click the button under the title. You don't have to purchase anything to sign up for the newsletter. Most of the content included in the newsletter is exclusive to subscribers, so don't miss out!


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@livingwordsp
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​

Thanks for reading!

Zach Larson
Author at Living Words Press

Have a question you want to ask? Leave a comment below or email me at Zach@livingwordspress.com. I want to know what type of post you would like to see from me next.

P.S. Want more content right now? Sign up for my newsletter to receive bonus material, reviews and recommendations, pre-release goodies, and free stuff. Sign up now on the home page: Livingwordspress.com. Just click the button under the title. You don't have to purchase anything to sign up for the newsletter. Most of the content included in the newsletter is exclusive to subscribers, so don't miss out!


Follow me at:
@livingwordsp
www.facebook.com/livingwordspress

​

The other day while suffering through adds on Hulu, I caught a statement that struck me to the heart. It was "one day you will put your child down for the last time and not even know it." 
Just thinking about that made my heart ache, so I poured my pain into the following poem, made up of haikus:

Grown

Up into my arms,
Your weight settled, face alight,
Eyes dancing with fireflies.

I kissed your forehead
And held you tight to my chest
Like part of myself.

You fought me, laughing,
As if you truly wanted 
Me to let you go.

You looked up at me
And placed your hand on my cheek;
I let my guard down. 

My grip on you slipped,
Grinning like a small devil,
You sought your freedom.

When did you grow up,
Learn everything that I know,
And all that I don’t?

You leaped from my arms,
I didn’t know this was the last time
​I would hold my child.

Mist curled around Thomas Bond's grime spattered boots, but it shied away from his hands, smeared with sticky red as they were. The London vapors also avoided the two misshapen piles on the street in front of him. It was like the restless souls of the city had coalesced in the air to watch and rebuke him. He would call it an ill omen, but those thoughts were reserved for folk who still cared, who still saw the gap between sin and salvation. Thomas couldn’t see that gap… not anymore. His hands trembled as he watched the blood drip from the tips of his fingers.

    … will find my observations, concerning the connections between the three cases you assigned me, on the other papers contained herein. All three of the victims in question sustained eerily similar mutilations. My conclusions are disturbing at best. I do not wish to imagine the agony these women undoubtedly suffered as they expired. The parallels to the other two cases I brought to your attention earlier are more tenuous. Although I see alarming correlations, I cannot give a definitive answer at this time. I give further explanation in my reports.

Thomas paused in his letter to the inspector. How much more information could he give without becoming too involved? He wanted his name left out of this, at least for now. He glanced over his notes and observations once more and nodded in satisfaction. After scribbling an injunction for the inspector to keep him in the loop, he signed the letter and rolled it together with the reports. He stood, grabbed his coat and bag, and checked his pocket watch. The ticking hands read 8:15; time was running short. With hurried strides, he left his office for the front desk.

Once in the atrium, he left his papers on the desk with a note for the clerk to have a runner dispatched with the papers in the morning. He exited the building quickly then and hailed a passing cab as it trundled along the cobbles outside. The carriage slowed to a stop nearby as the driver tightened the reins and set the brake.

“I’m almost off me shift. Ho’ far ya going?” the coachman asked angrily.

“Miller’s Court, off Dorset street.”

The coachman spit onto the street and gave Thomas an open glare. “I can’t take ya tha’ far. Tha’s all the way over by Whitechapel, tha’ is. Me shift is nearly done. ‘Sides, nothing goods been happenin’ over there of late. Some say there’s a Ripper taken ‘em righ’ off the street.”

Thomas ignored the warning. “I would compensate you for your troubles.” He produced a wad of rolled bills and held it up.

The man’s eyes widened ever so slightly at the money. He glanced around then snatched the payment and shoved it deep into his coat pocket. “All righ’ then, in ya go.”

He climbed into the coach, which leapt immediately into motion as the door shut. Thomas watched the gas lamps flicker in the growing mist as the coach swayed and bounced along the uneven London streets. Midnight. He must be in position before midnight, or the entire day would be wasted.

The coach stopped in the middle of Dorset street long enough for Thomas to clamber out and shut the door behind him. The coachman tipped his hat and snapped the reins to get the horses moving again. They clopped loudly down the street as Thomas began walking into Whitechapel. He checked his watch again: 10:15. Good. He had time to disappear.

Whitechapel lay in a grim twilight. The flickering light from the gas lamps barely managed to cut through the thick smog. On other streets, more important streets, arc lights seemed to all but ignore the vapor as their industrial bulbs nearly burned the mist out of the air. But Jack the Ripper did not hunt near the arc lights, and Jack was why Thomas was in Whitechapel.

Near the center of the district, he spotted an alley between two tall buildings. It was long and dark. Perfect. He glanced around, and, spotting no curious eyes, he merged into the dank darkness, moving quietly. Just inside the mouth of the alley, but far enough to be out of reach of the weak light from the gas lamps, Thomas found a deep recess in the architecture of one of the buildings. He ducked into it and leaned back out to check his view of the rest of the alley. Satisfied, he settled in for a long wait in the dark.

As the cold finally numbed Thomas’s toes and threatened to begin eating through his coat, a muffled giggle echoed off the smooth walls. He started and moved to watch the opening to the street. Indistinct voices reached his ears through the darkness. His heart pulsed in his neck as he waited, muscles tense. Three brutal murders in Whitechapel, five if you listened to the papers, over the last three months. But that didn’t stop the east enders from walking the streets at night. It probably should.

Two figures, arm in arm, passed the mouth of the alley. Thomas reached for the knife in his bag, but the figures did not turn into the darkness of the unlit side passage. He relaxed and leaned back against the wall, calming his heart with slow steady breaths. The air around him felt charged with energy. Something was going to change tonight; he could feel it.

A shadow passed silently by him in the alley. He nearly yelled out but caught himself. Soft footfalls and the swish of loose cloth came to him now. He smelled a strawberry perfume mingling with the musty smell of mold and mildew from the alley. She was still too close, so he waited for her to move farther into the darkness. More footfalls, heavier this time, warned him of another approaching body. He willed the night to enclose him, not that it listened, as the newcomer slunk past. Thomas saw the man’s broad shoulders and Top Hat even in the gloom. The stranger held a long, slim object in front of him.
​
Thomas slipped his hand into his bag and gripped the knife as he waited for the two figures to move just far enough into the alley. He wondered idly how much blood the alleys of London had seen through the ages. Probably more than enough; how much more would it take before the city broke? The alley refused to answer his thoughts, so he held the knife tightly in his hand and crept out to follow a fresh trail.

Too late. Thomas lowered his quaking hands and looked at the bodies. He was a surgeon, this shouldn’t bother him. But it did. He had tried to prevent this. Hadn’t he? Tried to fix Whitechapel. In the end, his efforts didn’t matter. He was too late. Too late for the girl with the strawberry perfume, too late for the man in the Top Hat, and too late to help Thomas Bonds. He turned away from the bodies and quickly vanished in the mists as he hurried home. He realized now that it had always been too late to help anyone.



Thoughts: This short story was born out of necessity. I was participating in a teacher training, putting together an intensive unit for my eleventh grade English classes. I wanted my students to experience the wonder of creative writing while completing an assignment they had never even come close to before; hence came the historical fiction unit. The only problem was that I couldn't find any free and appropriate historical fiction shorts stories to show my students as the core text. 

It wasn't long before I simply decided to write my own exemplar text. We read "A Whitechapel Night" early on in the unit, and I have students research all the details to see how much I actually altered the story. They always find some interesting tidbits related to my story that I didn't know before, like Thomas Bond's mental issues and suicide later in life. My favorite moment of the reading is when they are discussing whether Thomas is meant to be Jack the Ripper or not, and I promise to tell them the answer the next day after they do a bit of research on their own. Someone always asks me how I know the answer. 

"Well, I wrote it," I say.

After a moment of silence, their eyes go wide and their mouths drop. Even though I have some of my published books sitting at the front of the class, they still can't believe their teacher wrote this story. I am still not sure if that is flattering or insulting.

So, do you want to know what I intended for Thomas in the story?

As I tell my students, I don't know. I wanted to leave the mystery of the story ambiguous, even for myself. The plot comes close to showing that Thomas could be Jack the Ripper, but it is never explicit and other options exist. Thomas could just as easily be a vigilante, since in real life he was a proponent of behavioral science and investigation. So, when I wrote it, I forced myself not to decide. I know, the students hate that answer, too.

I still enjoy reading this story. I hope you did as well. 

Thanks for reading!
Zach Larson
Author at Living Words Press

Have a question you want to ask? Leave a comment below or email me at Zach@livingwordspress.com. I want to know what type of post you would like to see from me next.

P.S. Want more content right now? Sign up for my newsletter to receive bonus material, reviews and recommendations, pre-release goodies, and free stuff. Sign up now on the home page: Livingwordspress.com. Just click the button under the title. You don't have to purchase anything to sign up for the newsletter. Most of the content included in the newsletter is exclusive to subscribers, so don't miss out!

Follow me at:
@livingwordsp
www.facebook.com/livingwordspress



  

Flavius dies, tossing handfuls of shredded paper across the stage like blood spewing from a severed artery. The shards scatter slowly in the silence.

Brutus and his fellows conspire to kill Caesar, their friend and leader. As they discuss their bloody deed, they each grab a section of the script itself and twist it in their hands; each crumpled piece molding itself into a personalized blade, the pen and the sword together as one.

The conspirators surround the great Caesar, paper daggers held behind their backs. Quick as snakes, they stab him, rending his body literally with his own words. 

That was it, watching an adaptation of Julius Caesar, the moment I knew what my next book had to be about, the power of life directly correlated to story, to words on the page. I spent the rest of the day running the scenarios in my head until a new plot solidified and began playing itself out every time I closed my eyes. Just like my tagline states, words have power, they grow and change; they are living. But how important is story, anyway? Do words hold any tangible power over us, or are they only as influential as the latest hashtag?

When I was very young, I slept in bed beside my great grandma Ruby. She was already gravely old then, with wispy white hair and shriveled legs that could barely hold up her frail body. I remember vaguely the oxygen tube always draped over her ears and that she loved a bowl of bread and milk (which I have tried and cannot recommend). My fonder memories are of her stories. I asked, nearly every night, for a new story as we lay in bed. Grandma Ruby would think for a while as I attempted to wait patiently. Finally, she would breathe deeply and begin:

Jonny and Jimmy were tired of playing inside all day, so they begged their mother to let them go play outside by the pond. 
“Yes,” she said, “but be careful.” 
“We will,” and off they would trot, with old tom cat following closely behind them... 

Jonny and Jimmy played out a new scenario almost every night. I can’t even remember ever hearing the same story more than once, but I loved hearing them no matter how long I had to wait. Those nights of childhood fancy cemented in my heart a love for story that has only strengthened with the years.

Oral traditions predate any extensive writing by millennia. Any major events or learning in ancient history had to be passed down verbally between the generations. Modern language experts have studied societies with oral traditions extensively to understand just how such long form memorization can take place accurately. What they found were repetitive mnemonic devices and typical scenes that could be played out over and over again with the recorded information. Basically, they realized what ancient people already knew, our brains are hard-wired to remember specific story structures, so repeating those structures in formulaic ways allowed for long form memorization. Think epics like the Iliad and the Odyssey which were each hundreds of lines in length but were passed down to impart history, folklore, and tradition. Even the Bible has oral tradition attached to it with some scholars attributing a musical rhythm to dots on the original Hebrew versions of the text. Even Jesus taught in parables because we seem to remember stories over almost anything else. 

Fast forward to today and consider for a moment the practical applications of words. We sign contracts and consider them binding by law because the right words have been used; in fact, for much of history a handshake was the binding seal over oral contracts between two parties. Two words obligate you in marriage; your signature proclaims your approval; prayers reach through space to connect you directly with God; words make or break friendships faster than I can sniff out a pizza coming through the door; a buzz from your phone lets you know there are words to experience and you must do so right now; and one slip up on your fast food order gets you the small instead of the much needed large. It's all a word-spiracy, man! 

In his TED talk, “Why a good book is a secret door,” Mac Barnett discusses the power of a story to break the divider between fiction and reality. He wants a book to be a secret door that opens and allows the fiction to populate the real world, and, in a way, it often does. Harry Potter fans can visit Universal studios and buy wands and robes in Harry Potter world. That same fan can then go online and find out what Hogwarts house they are in, what their Patronus would be, and even what wand they would have. The story of Harry Potter has affected us so deeply that we long to experience the magical world in J.K. Rowling's books. When we connect with a story, we imbue parts of it into our self until we are making costumes for just a moment of true connection with the story we loved.  

From birth, we hear what others are saying, repeatedly, until we begin to understand those noises ourselves. As we develop, our rational thought is literally made up of the language we are hearing around us. Think about that. Your thoughts are literally the symbols of your native language. Words are your thoughts; they are everything with which you identify as a rational thinking, being. More words mean more thoughts, fewer words… well, you get the idea.

Let’s end at the beginning. When teaching Shakespeare, I know that my students will understand the play so much easier if we watch it being performed instead of just reading the static written words. An actor’s inflection and movements add volumes of meaning to what is being said, just as the author intended. Layer on top of that the fact that Shakespeare introduced more than 1,700 new words and phrases to the English language that are still in use over 400 years later, and you will see the staying power of a good story. 

So, do words really have any power? You tell me.

Thanks for reading!

How have you experienced the power of story? Leave a comment and let me know.
​
Zach Larson
Author at Living Words Press

Have a question you want to ask? Leave a comment below or email me at Zach@livingwordspress.com. I want to know what type of post you would like to see from me next.

P.S. Want more content right now? Sign up for my newsletter to receive bonus material, reviews and recommendations, pre-release goodies, and free stuff. Sign up now on the home page: Livingwordspress.com. Just click the button under the title. You don't have to purchase anything to sign up for the newsletter. Most of the content included in the newsletter is exclusive to subscribers, so don't miss out!


Follow me at:
@livingwordsp
www.facebook.com/livingwordspress



Sources:
https://www.britannica.com/topic/oral-tradition
https://www.ted.com/talks/mac_barnett_why_a_good_book_is_a_secret_door
Extra Source: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=muuWRKYi09s