On the militaristic Homestead, Velcro lines the bottom of objects and the soles of shoes to hold things down. The ten-thousand-manned space ship has meandered on the far reaches of the empty universe for thirty-five years. Nonetheless, the ship’s shops, schools and services attempts to recapture the amenities of suburban life in the now long-gone earth.
A psychiatrist suddenly has a revolution on his hands. Entire demographics of men, women and children are acting out in a sexual compulsive manner. People are flocking to the space ship’s boiler rooms where they shed their clothes, float, and fluck anonymously. This spins the shrink into a quandary, he tries to rein in his client’s impulses but he too is swept up in the ship’s zeitgeist.
The narrative is told through the psychiatrist's point of view-he is scholarly observer who is an avid historian as he juxtaposes the earth's past on his space ship's present. There is a sexual revolution taking place on his watch and he is putting it in perspective of the 1960's hippie movement as he himself gets caught up in the turmoil.
The book is available at www.clublighthousepublishing.com as well as on Kindle. Like my other books it may end up being an app. for an iPhone, iPod and iPad.
Excerpt
I remember gravity.
Any crewmember over the age of thirty-five remembers the omnipresent pull of gravity as well.
It’s the kids that don’t. How could they? All they know is the confines of this massive spacecraft, which travels the black and ever-expanding universe.
In space people don’t fall down as the gravity-bound do. The silly science fiction myth of the anti-gravity machine is simply that. No such contraption ever existed and if it did, no doubt, it wouldn’t work. Here on the Homestead when we lose our balance, we bump up into freestanding structures such as walls or strapped-down tables and chairs.
The progeny of this colossal craft have only known a sealed environment. They have never been “outside” as we who remember earth knew it. They have never oriented themselves to a horizon line. Instead today’s generation compass themselves to the monitored perimeters of the SS Homestead which varies from walls, rooms, door ways, stairs, elevators, corridors, and a three tiered atrium of shops.
The SS Homestead is a white gargantuan labyrinth housing ten thousand inhabitants. We are roving community complete with magistrates, apartments, offices, schools, multiplexes, infirmaries and extensive green houses. Except for the restaurants, private homes and professional offices, most municipal environments were originally coated with jolly pre-school colors. If I were allowed to rename the SS Homestead, I would call it the SS Suburbia on the good days. Otherwise I would name it the SS Sulk on normal days.
I name it that because I am one of the ship’s psychotherapists. I practice a splattering of Freud, Frankel, Sheedy and Jung combined with a healthy dose of behaviorism and common sense. In essence I am nothing more than a perceptive and consoling Band-Aid. I cannot cure but I can guide.
There are three psychotherapists on board: two women (who corral most of the unhappy female demographic) and me.
Before it became a crater, I studied, graduated and practiced in Chicago.
At the start of the last big war, I was drafted into the Air Force and then transferred to the Space Force in which I served as a therapist. When the war began, I was assigned to this cushy white aluminum cloud roaming somewhere in the dark vacuous universe. That was thirty-five years ago.
Our only earthly broadcast originates from Singapore the planet’s last functioning settlement
I read history to understand. To understand what is not readily understood. Luckily the world’s history was recorded on disc. The original brittle documents that systematized the workings of government did not survive the last apocalypse. However you can piece history together by cross-referencing those hoary papers via my personal and extensive library of discs. To see things for what they are, you have to see things for what they were which means you have to do research. Nowadays, nobody does that.
Except me.
Evil Seed: Mother Earth vs. the Human Race; Who Will Survive?
Launched onto a surreal odyssey by a desperate call for help, a heroine reluctant to save her own unworthy species, coupled with her closest friends and a band of otherworldly allies,
