Title: "The Savior Machine: A Brief Collection of Weird Fiction"

Author: Daniel La Ponsie

Genre: Science Fiction / Fantasy

Author's connection to Southwest Michigan: Daniel La Ponsie was born in Grand Rapids, and spent much of his childhood in Marne. Daniel continues to call West Michigan his home, and inspiration. He currently lives in Grand Rapids with his wife and children.

All the short stories in this collection take place in a re-imagined, and twisted Southwest Michigan.

Details

Cover price is $6.95.

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Further information about the 'The Savior Machine,' free ebook copies, and more, are available at the author's website:

How to purchase the book:

The book is available through all online retailers, including Barnes and Noble, and Amazon. Additionally, it can be ordered by any walk-in bookstore, should it not be on the shelf.

Full ebook copies are available for free downloads through the author's website, for those interested. (Formats are pdf, html, and text.)

Why readers might find the book interesting: In the title story you will be introduced to a priest employed by the Vatican Intelligence Agency, a man named Father Scott Sideways. He is on the trail of a mad-man with a machine that can make the blind see, the lame walk, and the dead live again.

Other stories include:

Heart-shaped Box:

Mount Mercy:

The Human Body:

What others are saying about the book:

"A grand throwback to the glory days of pulp adventure and horror!"

- Jason Roth; filmmaker, Ta-Ta's Last Stand (2010), Too Dead to Die (2007).

"What do you get when you combine whores, robots and dogmen? One helluvastory."

-Terry Lancaster; librarian, Grand Rapids Public Library.

Excerpt from book:

From the short story "The Human Body," available in the collection 'The Savior Machine: A Brief Collection ...'

THE HUMAN BODY is undoubtedly the greatest work of art in the entire universe. This is Stanly's sincere conviction as he silently springs and hops and even moonwalks.

Swirling with grace, Stanly is placing the human form on nude display while keeping his mind expertly focused, eyes calm and expressionless.

The audience is all gasps and murmurs. Clearly they are shocked by the majesty, awestricken by the beauty.

Stanly continues to dance in the moonlight on the city street corner, harvesting the sounds of an audience that is at once captivated, and shocked.

There is a crowd gathering. Pictures are being taken. People are talking into cell phones. Suddenly it is as if people are here, not by mere chance, but to see Stanly. And here he is, ladies and gentlemen! In all his naked glory.

The cold air and loss of blood are doing strange and wonderful things to the loose-fitting, 90-year-old body. But it matters not. There are undoubtedly laws against this sort of thing, but it matters not! People are gawking and gaping at Stanly ... and calling for help. But. It. Matters. Not.

Stanly does a twirl, and strikes a pose with a flourish. He is an entertainer, and a dancer. He is Sammy Davis Jr., Fred Astaire, John Travolta.

One hand on his hip, another hand hanging limp-wristed over his head. He winks. He places a finger on his nose and laughs.

He sits on the pavement, places one leg behind his head, and sings the national anthem. This man can do it all!

Gut and chest and butt are rumpled and sagging, but oh the human body is glorious. Nay, the most glorious thing in all of creation. Nay again! The most glorious thing in the entire universe. Paintings and sculptures may duplicate — but nothing can ever replace the real, natural thing.

And here come the sirens. How predictable. Let them wail.

The arms are hanging loosely, flapping in the wind as Stanly springs back into motion. He does his best ballet-style hop, and does it again. He adjusts the rump, for it slid slightly to one side. And he snugs up the arms, like one might do with a jacket that had slipped out of place slightly.

And then the show continues with a spin and a kick, a thrust of the hip, and a knowing nod to the speechless ladies.

The spinning, strutting, sauntering Stanly makes his way into the very center of the intersection. Rotating red and white lights and wailing sirens approach. Cars marked "Homeland Security" and others simply marked "police" pull up, forming a tight circle around him.

Stanly straightens the fat, balding head and the large gut. Everything keeps sliding out of place. He always preferred them to be "fairly roomy."

The looser fit is more comfortable for him, as he recently explained to the fat elderly man before procuring the skin. That was about 10 minutes, and 3 city blocks ago.

Now the dance appears to be at an end.

One final act! He struts his stuff. Wags his butt. Shimmies and kicks. He is on Broadway! He is Lord of the Dance. He's Michael Jackson, James Brown. Hell, he's even Vanilla-freaking-Ice.

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