First look at The Anarchists!

Thanks for your support of my work! Below is the ARC version of the Prologue and first chapter of The Anarchists. NOTE: If you have not read The Lost Testament (and intend to at some point), you might not want to read this. Enjoy!


Bound at the feet and hands, Noor straightened his posture. A crooked smile crept across his mouth as his eyes met those of his judge’s     heir. “I dared to overthrow your righteous kingdom and take his place,” he spat with contempt. “There, I admit it. End this joke of a trial and suffer me to die.”

EL’s voice filled the chamber. “So be it.”

Noor flinched, as blue winds whipped about his body. The floor vanished into darkness. He looked away, bracing himself for the worst. Swept into the air, he dropped . . . down – faster and farther than any flight he had ever known. As he plummeted, those who supported the coup joined him – nearly half of EL’s finest. To his surprise, the number included his five, most trusted lieutenants and secret co-conspirators.

Together, they rebelled against the command to serve. And together, they would perish for it.

The convicted crossed realms. From their origin in the third, to the second among the heavenly bodies, and into the last – that of the mortals. The skies cracked with thunder and lightning. Stars tethered themselves to each of the beings, giving the brilliant appearance of a billion falling flames, and the pungency of brimstone filled the air. The collisions flattened the mountains, raising valleys into new, higher precipices. Geysers of hot water spurted up through the fissures in the ground and formed boiling pools around the incinerated plant life.

Noor rolled over to his knees. Indeed, his essence had changed into that of a mortal female, of about twenty years old. He was alone, and retained several of his unnatural abilities.

But this body’s sensations startled him. Small bumps appeared on its skin, but the flickering yellow bursts nearby abated them. He approached one of them until the fire overwhelmed him and he jumped backwards onto a jagged stone.

He winced, for the rock pierced the heel of his right foot and drew blood. Marvel and fascination over the pain excited him. EL forbade His servants to see blood, for it represented suffering to the mortals. It also possessed an ancient secret that only humans could choose to understand. Pursuit of that mystery for himself led to his capture and subsequent dismissal.

Why had EL exiled him and change his gender? What purpose did that serve?

After the fire dissipated, a pile of neatly-folded clothes appeared in its place. Scorning the mercy, he dressed anyway. A few attempts passed before he appropriately wore them. Surveying the area, Noor recognized the city on the horizon – he had visited this particular peninsula several times before – and admired it for its lack of social restriction. Thus, he’d adopt its moniker as his forename and keep Noor as a surname.

In the remote distance, the smoldering horizon beckoned to be explored. Noor remembered the divine decrees, which indicated the lifespan a mortal would not exceed one 120 years. He could not locate his trusted soldiers in that time, not if EL had changed their appearance, as He had to Noor. No, he must recruit five humans and find them in a century’s time.

“If I cannot rule in EL’s realm” he resolved, “then I will conquer this one.”



 New Year’s Eve morning, 2049

Prior to committing what some considered murder, Micah Darrion James held a high resolution photo of his family. Meanwhile, Harper Lowe, his always punctual girlfriend, changed from a fire engine red, v-neck sweater shirt and grey dress slacks to a knitted apricot shirt and blue jeans.

Harper was a slender and leggy Caucasian, with shoulder-length blonde hair she ponytailed and obsessively dyed black to mask the premature gray. For the picture, she let it down at Micah’s urging. Christian, then six months old, had been propped up between his father’s thick legs, a smile squeezing from his fat cheeks. Two-year-old Gabrielle, his ebony-skinned daughter from a previous relationship, held a plush toy. Still tanned from the vacation, Micah laughed. His natural curls were cut low. It was his 38th birthday, about a year-and-a-half ago.

Last night, he happened to coerce his mother into entertaining her grandchildren for a few hours on New Year’s Eve morning. He and Harper needed “couple time.” Otherwise, the former scientist would question her son into the ground about their doings, asking “where are you going?” and “why can’t the family go with you?” A two-time divorcée, Laverne James heavily scrutinized the relationships of both her sons – especially this interracial one. She informed him that Harper’s enlarged B-cups signaled pregnancy. He explained it as the effects of a push-up bra and hoped she left it at that.

Micah and Harper did not speak en route to the facility. It was their least expensive option, shoddy in more than a few ways, and situated in a dangerous location. Words had been previously exchanged on the subject, but nothing constructive. Harper was “irresponsible” and “forgetful.” Micah, who had gotten downsized months ago, was “jobless” to his face and “basically worthless” behind his back. Because of their collective gross inadequacies, they agreed to end it. A third-party’s involvement meant neither had to dirty their hands in the deed. The decision itself would remain a joint one.

Their transport rattled, halting at a traffic intersection where it moved no more. Micah cursed and authorized the ignition again, but the engine failed. Jupiter, an American auto giant, specialized in practical vehicles, but this one passed its prime 50,000 miles ago.

Harper started the vehicle’s warning lights and expectantly looked at her boyfriend of three years. We should have traded it in years ago, like I told him we should do.

“I’ve got it.” He cursed again before entering the pouring rain without Harper’s umbrella, protected by his stained, black leather coat. Beneath the hood, his patchwork had not held: a critical hose hissed steam from a tiny split. Wrapping the crack to the best of his ability, he reconnected the hose. This time, the hydroelectric engine sparked alive.

“Piece of junk,” she snarked. “We’re going to be so late.”

Completely drenched, Micah cranked the heat to high and cut his eyes at her. “At least we own it. We’ll get there in time.”

“These people don’t wait. It’s not a drive-through window, Micah. You can’t just get there when you get there and expect a DNC like a Happy Meal.”

I’m not the one who changed outfits. “It’s New Year’s Eve. We’ll be waiting anyway.”

Micah tuned the satellite radio to something he could listen to and drown her out. When the station played a classical song he liked, Harper shut it off.

“Do you have to be like that, Harp?”

She crossed her arms. “I love the sound of falling rain, and I can’t hear it over that.”

He knew that but did not care. Silence forced him to dwell on his lingering drowsiness. Micah lit a cigarette and took a long drag.

“Really?” Harper shook her tousled hair, which showed hints of gray and blonde at the roots. “Of all the things you can think of to do. . .”

Micah exhaled smoke. “You shut off the satellite, I’m soaked, and you want to piss and moan about a cigarette? Listen to your rain and leave me alone.”

Harper’s hands cupped the bottom of her growing belly. Micah noticed it. “It’s not a ‘him’ or a ‘her’ yet,” he said, his voice trailing off. “It doesn’t matter. . .not now.”

“It’s a boy,” she ventured. “I know it, and it matters to me. You would too if. . .”


She turned in her seat. “Your great great-grandfather. . .”

“It didn’t happen. And you can’t have faith just because someone in your family did. That’s part of why church is so fake now. . .”

Here we go. “There were articles, pictures, eyewitnesses. . . what about all the people he healed?”

“. . .and you’ve got people pretending to love God, or even know him, or her, or it. People get leadership roles because they know how to work crowds. They put together shows with God slapped on them somewhere. I don’t understand how you can believe in that. It’s a con. I won’t even get into the money thing.”

“My faith lets me sleep at night,” she shot back, “and I know that even after we do what we’re about to do, God will still love us. Faith isn’t a scientific thing, Mike.”

The allusion to his insomnia irritated him. “God will forgive you, if you know it’s wrong and you do it anyway? That’s weak.”

“That’s love and mercy.”

They said no more on the subject until Micah stopped at the clinic. Despite the rain, a line of silent but hostile-looking protesters blocked the entrance. A pang of fear hit his stomach. “These wackos make me nervous. Wait for me at the curb. I’ll walk you in.”

“Why, so we can be even later?” Harper opened the door, umbrella in hand. “Just park. I don’t care where those people post up our pictures. We had a nine o’ clock and it’s eleven after. After twenty minutes, they cancel you, and I’m not going into the New Year without ending this.”

“Ending what exactly. . .us, or the pregnancy?” He suspected the answer. “Just wait.”

She departed without responding. Micah watched the canary yellow oval approach the gathering dressed in all black. If he abandoned the Jupiter in the unloading area and it got towed, that would be another financial burden. And then they would not have a way home.


Harper tried to circle the line, but a gaunt woman with a face painted like a skull directly jumped into her path. “Consider your options carefully,” she warned.

The irony of options humored Harper. “Snap a picture and get out of my way.”

“Give it up for adoption. Let a relative raise her. Take responsibility and raise her yourself. This isn’t just about you and how you live your life.”

Harper cursed Skull Face. “Then, who’s it about: my unemployed boyfriend? The bills we can’t pay? What do you even know about anything?”

“I know women like you use abortion like an eraser. Murder’s a sin!”

“Do you have children? Have you even had sex before?”

The brazen woman’s lip quivered a bit.

“Do you adopt? Take in foster kids? Show me one scripture that says ‘tell someone what to do, but don’t help them.’ That’s a sin. Tell me! We’ll turn around and go figure this thing out.”

“You could have prevented it.” Skull Face reloaded on rhetoric. “Contraceptives work almost all of the time unless you don’t know what you’re doing.”

Harper raised her fist to strike but a clinician kept her from doing so by restraining the expectant mother’s wrist.

“That’s enough.” The woman had forced her way through the crowd. “The ban goes into effect tomorrow. Give this young lady the opportunity to exercise her right to choose today.”

“Choosing death is not God’s will!” said Skull Face.

“Maybe not,” said the clinician. “But what about free will?”

At that, the doors shut behind them at 9:19.


Inside the whitewashed and sterile waiting room, Micah imagined the programmers responsible for the trippy music had been lobotomized. Four magazines later, the power cell of his holographic phone, or “holophone,” had reduced to emergency levels, severely limited his entertainment options. The spectacled nurse looked wroth and unwilling to change the HTV channel from the forum talk show airing. This type of holographic programming irked him even more than the judgmental assembly outside. He pushed his way through the ranks like a linebacker.

Irritated, Micah redirected his attention to the show, which, at a low volume, sounded like fighting turkeys. It featured five women of different walks of life analyzing and debating issues. Far stage right, a conservative pundit on the panel had a fashion sense as buttoned-up as her viewpoints. Next to her sat a wisecracking, middle-aged businesswoman. At center, Kareza Noor, a beautiful, middle-aged local executive, acted as guest moderator. To her left, a popular liberal provoked arguments to rankle the right-winger. Last on the panel, an Asian woman folded her hands and rarely spoke her mind.

The topic swung to changes in abortion legislation. The front desk attendant turned up the volume. Micah leaned forward and cocked his head. Though the James/Lowe family’s finances were in disarray, this one thing went their way. The law would not go into effect until midnight tomorrow. Had Harper’s boss Jackie not advanced them the monetary units, they would have had this child. Thinking about the diapers, formula, and healthcare expenses alone made his nights restless.

“Some of these peaceful demonstrations have turned violent, especially in Florida, and New York City – which has the highest number of legally-induced abortions. It’s not about ‘put-my-picture-on-a-website-so-everyone-knows-my-shame’ anymore. People are getting killed.”

“Well, abortion – it’s murder. Period. Point-blank.” The conservative crossed her arms. “The legislation squares with existing laws. Kill a pregnant woman? You’re charged with double murder.” She flipped her hand. “Can’t call it alive when on one hand, and deny it’s alive on the other!”

“Murder is illegal,” said the finger-pointing liberal. “But abortion shouldn’t be. I’ll put it out there. I own an Ordnance.”

The funny one ducked, drawing nervous laughs from the live audience. “You brought it here, on the set? Take her purse! Pat her down or something.”

“That’s my Second Amendment right. How I use it is my choice. This new law takes freedom of choice away and enforces a system of beliefs on all women. That’s unconstitutional. That’s the decision handed down eighty years ago, Roe. Vs. Wade, and it should stand.”

“So, let me get this straight: citizens should have the choice to shoot someone or kill babies?” the conservative barked. “Why even open your mouth and say something so stupid?”

“Stupid? Free will is stupid? What do you do about the poor and impoverished without access to free contraception and educational services because our conservative president cut funding to it? Tell them not to have sex? We were all teenagers once. Trust me: ‘just don’t do it’ doesn’t work.”

Micah found interest in the topic, though his views were simple. They couldn’t afford it. Laverne couldn’t stand to help, and her affluent mother wouldn’t. A couple thousand monetary units now were better than the millions they may spend in the years to come. Their answer was simple, even now, as he imagined his son or daughter being destroyed. My son. He wanted another boy, but not now. Not like this.

Kareza crossed her shapely legs. “So, playing devil’s advocate, should abortion be legal in ‘certain situations’ – like rape, incest, molestation, and the like?”

The funny one laughed. “Guest moderator for one day and you’re trying to start a fight?”

“We’re trying to get to pick at the heart of the issue,” Kareza replied.

The Asian woman perked up. “The Center for Disease Control reports that pregnancies from rape, incest and molestation make up a small fraction of the three million abortions performed last year – less than one percent. Almost 80 percent say they aborted because of finances, unplanned pregnancy, or inconvenience.”

“It’s a sad state of humanity when bringing a life into the world becomes ‘inconvenient’,” said the conservative, drawing a small pocket of applause.

“Let me point out,” said the liberal, “those numbers are documented cases of incest, rape, and molestations. It happens off the record all the time. How does a 12-year-old girl report that her stepfather or mother’s boyfriend impregnated her and get someone to believe her story? This law forces her to keep a daily reminder of a sick act or seek a dangerous and illegal alternative.”

Micah became so engrossed in the conversation that he failed to notice his name being called. A different nurse muted the HTV.

“Mister James, by now your wife should be in recovery.”

“That was quick.” Micah rose and quietly approached her. “We’re not married.”

The woman treated the correction with disgust. “She will need you to fill a prescription.”

“Any idea of how much this’ll cost?”

“Not sure. I can’t access that information at this time. Probably 300 units or so.”

Micah’s eyes bulged. “Generic?”

“That’s the generic version.”

He would have to pay a fraction of the utilities again and pray that they did not get cut off until Harper’s next paycheck. Thankfully, her position as a psychiatrist paid reasonably well.

“Here,” she said, handing him a thumb segment-sized, blood red disk. “I know Kareza Noor, the woman on the HTV. She’ll be able to help you with whatever you need. Come back at a quarter ‘til one to pick up your. . .girlfriend.”

Hands in pockets, Micah started the half-mile trek back to the free parking lot. More than halfway there, he checked the time. Ten minutes past noon. He stopped inside a busy Dunkin’ Donuts on the next corner. Harper had not eaten breakfast, so a bran muffin and a shot of hazelnut-flavored caffeine might do her some good.

Fifteen minutes later, he ordered and paid, hustling the rest of the way. With all green lights, he’d still be on time – barely.

He docked his phone to charge it, placed the coffee in the cup holder, the muffin on the passenger seat, and started the Jupiter’s engine, which turned over without reservation.

The sun broke through the clouds and shined on him. Thinking it a sign of good things to come, he turned on the radio. One of his favorite classical pieces, “Mars,” played. He smiled, backed out of his space, and turned onto the street. When Harper got in, he would turn it off, and they would peaceably talk.

Since his layoff from the structural design firm, they had been under financial pressure. Harper’s pay didn’t cover the bills, so budgeting became a complicated balancing act. Unexpected expenses meant begging or borrowing to make it work. Micah’s job search had been so unsuccessful that he even applied for menial jobs that preferred humans over droids. “Too educated” for those, and “not educated enough” for high-level mathematics positions, he was stuck. But, with this pregnancy out of the way, he felt better about their future.

Micah braked at the light a block away from the clinic. The song continued to build and he pretended to conduct the strings. Up the street, the protesters had vacated the property. Almost half of the tune had played before Micah realized the light still had not changed. His holophone lit up and projected an image of Harper in front of him. “Mike, where are you?”

“I know you’ve been waiting. I’m sorry. I’m stuck at the light out front. Be there as soon as it changes. And I have a little surprise for you.”

Harper spotted the Jupiter from a café across the street. “Can you see me?” She waved behind the front window. “Baby, I didn’t. . .”

“Plus,” he interrupted, “I think I’ve got a lead on something good!” The signal turned green. Micah accelerated and pulled over thirty feet from the entrance. We can finally afford to talk marriage! he thought “Tell them to wheel you out. I’m on time for once. And, we need to talk about. . .”

“Mike, listen, I’m across the street. I told them to stop. . .”

Suddenly, a raucous explosion blasted through the clinic, turning the Jupiter over and upside down. The suicide doors swung open, but the vehicle’s collapsed dashboard pinned Micah into his seat. Shards of window glass jutted out from his face. He struggled to breathe.

“Harp. . .” Micah could not finish her name without coughing out the blood pooling in his mouth. He hoped someone heard his pleas.


Let love in or shut it out? You decide.

How do you move beyond the pain to start a fresh relationship?

I’m knee-deep in Isoke: a character I’ve known for about a year. Isoke’s background is littered with issues. Her mother, Hawa, left the family to pursue a calling greater than the responsibility of a family. When Hawa was present, she berated Isoke, who had an incurable blood disease. Constant sickness isolated her from everyone, including her husband and adopted children.

Through a miracle, Isoke conceives a son, whom she has to give up to destiny. Alone once more, she combats feelings of resentment and the urge to strike out. Now, the opportunity for love arises, and she has no idea how to accept it or whether or not she should even try.

What do you think she should do?

Brian Thompson’s passion is motivating and encouraging others to write and to pursue Do-It-Yourself publishing. He is also the author of acclaimed Christian fiction thrillers The Lost TestamentThe Revelation Gate and the upcoming 2012 release, The Anarchists. 

Compelling characters create connections

Every author wants characters you, the reader, believe in, root for, love, or hate.

You want your reader to care about your characters, no matter how prolific or damaged they are, and you do that by establishing a connection between character and reader.

I’m willing to bet that most people who drive by a terrible accident are either irritated from the delay in traffic, or curious as to the extent of the carnage. Few feel more than that towards those involved because of a lack of connection with them

How do you build that emotional bridge? Here are two ways I found to be effective:

  1. Use a character profile. The one I use is LONG (about 250 questions), but the thought it provokes adds layers to your characters. For a copy of the one I use, e-mail me (brian[at]authorbrianthompson[dot]com) and I’ll send it to you. Add these details in sparingly, not all at once in an information dump, and it adds flavor to your cast.
  2. When creating your character, ask yourself “who cares?” Authors tend to think readers should care about our characters because we say so. Compelling characters create connections. Complicate his/her life en route to his destination.

Darrion James is the protagonist of my first novel, The Lost Testament. He’s divorced, financially ruined, outed as a mulatto passing for white, and is scheduled to be evicted in less than 24 hours. He boards a train and is robbed of his meager possessions. A mysterious passenger shows him The Lost Testament and she’s killed shortly thereafter. Now, suspecting he’s a fugitive, he is stranded in the segregated town of his youth. The only person he knows is his mother, whom he has not seen in over twenty years.

You still may not care about Darrion, but aren’t you interested to see what happens to him?

Give it a shot and let me know how it works out 🙂

Brian Thompson’s passion is motivating and encouraging others to write and to pursue Do-It-Yourself publishing. He is also author of the Christian fiction thrillers The Lost Testament, and The Revelation Gate. You can read more about Brian by visiting his author site.

Save time & money: Why you need a publishing mentor

I call myself a “publishing mentor,” and not because I like cutesy titles (I actually HATE them).

Authors interested in indie publishing (ESPECIALLY self-publishing) need information to successfully navigate the publishing process. You could use someone on your team who’s not trying to hawk their wares instead of offering you another, efficient, time-saving way, couldn’t you?

That kind of info costs time and/or money: spend money on the books and take time to learn it, or spend money to hire someone who knows their craft to teach you. There’s no way around both of those factors.

Third option? Spend WAY too much money because you don’t know what you’re doing. Many authors fall into this category.

Take my friend “Matt.” Matt self-published his book with a well-advertised press, who offered him $500 off on a $3,000 publishing package that, broken down to its base parts, should have cost him no more than $1,500. His book retails for $13.95, a price he cannot adjust.

He wanted to start with a 100 copy printing. The company extends him a 45% discount for author-ordered books; that’s 45% of $13.95 ($7.67) though it only costs $3.36 to print. For each book he buys and then sells, he makes a $6.28 profit (45%) while the company makes $4.31 (31%). Why is the company taking a 31% cut?

That’s how many self-publishing companies make their money. Trade paperback books cost .015 per page and .90 cents per cover to print (prices vary with different paper and hardback covers). That’s it. If someone is going to take 31% of your potential income, shouldn’t they have a good reason?

Matt didn’t know that. Depending on how many he orders, he’s taking anywhere from a  16% to 46% loss every time he buys a book and sells it. He knows better now.

After all that, you may choose to self-publish anyway to avoid the hassle of subcontracting work with different people. Indie publishing isn’t THE way to publish, it’s A way.

Let me show you the benefit of either. For a FREE 15-minute consultation about how to maximize your publishing dollars, e-mail me at

Brian Thompson’s passion is motivating and encouraging others to write and to pursue Do-It-Yourself publishing. He is also author of the Christian fiction thrillers The Lost Testament, andThe Revelation Gate. You can read more about Brian by visiting his author site.

Start a publishing biz for cheap!

Yesterday, I had the opportunity to speak at a book fair. Self-published authors and an indie author were in attendance, and most appeared less than receptive to what I was saying.

Building your own publishing business is A way to get yourself published, not necessarily THE way or YOUR way. That said, there are some very general, sweeping principles you can add to what your doing to better position yourself for success.

Successful businesses are built on solid foundations. Solidly establish yourself with a brand name that accurately conveys what your brand is supposed to represent. My company is Great Nation Publishing. We do not bake cakes or event plan; we publish. Our logo has a Biblical scripture at the center (Gen. 12:1-2), so you can expect that my next title will not be erotica.

Be specific with your name and logo, and make sure they not resemble or conflict with an already-established brand.

From there, use what I call the “Magic Johnson Rule.” Johnson is a successful businessman who espouses the belief that you should have an exit strategy for your business before you start it. Pair that with a business and marketing plan: without it, you will be driving a car without a steering wheel.

Lastly, keep it legal. If your trade sees any kind of moderate success, you get notable press, or your local government starts randomly poking around, you could get heavy fines and, in extreme circumstances, sued.

Avoid this by filing your trade name/business name (“Doing Business As” =$0), getting a business bank account (deposits vary), registering to pay sales tax ($0) and a business license (prices vary), and adding in a suite post office box, unless you can use your home address. Post Office boxes for businesses look sketchy to the consumer. It really doesn’t add cost to do business legally, and at tax time, you can take deductions for some of your expenses.

Brian Thompson’s passion is motivating and encouraging others to write and to pursue Do-It-Yourself publishing. He is also author of the Christian fiction thrillers The Lost Testament, andThe Revelation Gate. You can read more about Brian by visiting his author site.

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