Shane Wilson

Shane plays guitar and writes songs with his twoman-band, Sequoia Rising. He writes songs as he writes stories--with an emphasis on the magic of human experience. He tends to chase the day with a whiskey (Wild Turkey 101) and a re-run of The Office.

Shane’s novels are A Year Since the Rain (Snow Leopard Publishing, 2016) and The Smoke in His Eyes (GenZ Publishing, 2018). Shane’s short story, “The Boy Who Kissed the Rain” was the 2017 Rilla Askew Short Fiction Prize winner and was nominated for a 2018 Pushcart Prize.

Shane is currently at work on a new novel.

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Uncaged welcomes Shane Wilson

Welcome to Uncaged! Your latest book came out in January, The Boy Who Kissed the Rain. Can you tell us more about this book and can you explain why it’s a Stage Play?

Thanks for having me! The Boy Who Kissed the Rain is the story of Lance, a young man who lives at the edge of a colonial settlement. The members of this colony have struck a deal with the magical creatures of the forest, called Little Thunders, who bring the rain. This deal is basically over the boundaries of the settlement and the land that the Little Thunders are allowed to occupy without human interference. Lance considers these stories to be a farce, and he encroaches on the border between the two groups. This is where he meets Luna, a Little Thunder. The two fall in love and attempt a romantic relationship all the while knowing that their love is doomed from the start. The Boy Who Kissed the Rain was actually a short story before it was ever a stage play. I wrote this story a number of years ago, and I initially struggled to find a home for it. The story was a little saccharine and sentimental compared to what I normally write—it’s really borderline romance. Regardless, I continued to submit the story because I believed in it, and it eventually found a home in Conclave: A Journal of Character where it won the Rilla Askew Short Fiction Prize. I was thrilled.

Now, its journey to the stage is a bit more involved. I was a theater kid growing up. I was a theater major for a while in college. I love live performance and I think live theater is a magical experience. I decided on a whim that I wanted to try my hand at writing as stage play, and I settled on adapting this short story for the stage because I think there are compelling characters and opportunities for interesting visuals. So, I wrote the adaptation, turning this short story into a full two act stage play, and the rest, I suppose, is history.

You also are a musician and have intertwined storytelling and music. Can you tell us more about this creative melting of mediums that you do?

This “creative melting” (a term I like, by the way) really started with my second novel, The Smoke in His Eyes. I was interested in exploring the creative impulse and the myriad of reasons why artists pursue their art. I decided this could be explored in interesting ways through musicians, but I didn’t play an instrument. I also didn’t want to write about musicians making music without some foundational understanding of what that would be like. So, I bought a cheap guitar and taught myself to play. When I first strung together a handful of chords and played a song that I had listened to a million times, it was like unlocking a magic trick. I’ve always had a passion for music, and finding the ability to play it myself was the only nudge I needed to move forward with that.

The first song I ever wrote was a song mentioned in that novel, which I think is a cool way of giving that

I have missed playing live music and discussing my books at readings and conventions. I can’t wait to get back to that stuff.

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story even more texture. That song, called “Before We Fade Away” is featured on my band’s new album, Of All the Things I’ve Ever Said, I Mean This the Most.

Where do you find your inspiration for the next novel?

Oh man—what a great question. I wish I knew, honestly. I guess some real-life event has triggered all of the stories I’ve written so far, but the way they come out on the page never really mirrors the real story in a literal way. The stories all become allegories of a sort—extended metaphors that speak to the original inspiration without ever really touching it. I’m not sure if that makes sense, but there it is.

What do you have coming up next that you can tell us about?

I would be remiss if I didn’t mention my band, Sequoia Rising, and our new album once again. You can stream that anywhere you stream music. It’s singer-songwritery/ acoustic goodness that is perfect for crawling into your feelings on a rainy day.

Otherwise, I am getting ready to send my third novel off to the publisher so we can start prepping for a release sometime next year.

What are you looking forward to doing when the pandemic is over that you haven’t been able to do?

On a professional creative level—live events! I have missed playing live music and discussing my books at readings and conventions. I can’t wait to get back to that stuff.

On a personal level—concerts! I miss going to see shows. I have tickets for a show that was supposed to be last April, and I think I might finally get to go to the re-re-rescheduled date in October.

What was the first book that made you laugh and/ or cry? What are some things you like to do to relax when you aren’t writing or working?

You mentioned the pandemic a couple of questions back, and I’ll tell you that when the shutdown first started last year, I was faced with a lot of time in the apartment. I was teaching online, and I was abiding by the stay-at-home orders. We couldn’t have friends over. We all remember what it was like. It’s still happening.

So, anyway, in the early days of the pandemic, I downloaded the videogame, Fortnite just to give it a go, and I became immediately enthralled with it. It probably seems silly, and I always thought it was just a kid’s game. But I have so much fun, and there is something immediately relaxing about the game. I don’t know, but I play a little Fortnite just about every day. Add in a glass of whiskey and finish it off with a re-run

How many hours a day do you write? On average, how long does it take to write a full novel?

I might catch some flak for this, but I do not write every day. I teach college English, and I have somewhere north of 100 students every semester. I am constantly reading and grading those essays during the school year, and that is mentally taxing. If I work on my own writing during the schoolyear, I’m editing because my brain is already tuned in to edit mode.

I do most of my writing over the summer break, and during the summer, I treat writing like my job. There are days that I’ll write for 6-8 hours. I’m putting down 3,000-6,000 words a day over the summer. I can get a first draft done in 2-3 months at that pace.

Do you prefer ebooks, audiobooks or physical books?

I prefer physical books. I think my relationship with the story feels deeper if I’m holding the pages. I don’t know that I understand it on a psychological level. I’ve read books on ereaders, but I just don’t have a connection with the Kindle like I do a physical copy.

Audiobooks have never been my thing. I’m glad they exist for people who enjoy consuming stories that way, but it’s not for me.

What would you like to say to fans, and where can they follow you?

I’m always a little weirded out by the word “fans.” We’re all friends here. If you’re reading or listening and you’re able to find something you enjoy, I appreciate that.

Enjoy an excerpt from The Boy Who Kissed the Rain

The Boy Who Kissed the Rain Shane Wilson Magic Realism

The forest outside of Wasser is filled with magic. When the rains fall over the land, it is because of the dances of mystical beings called Little Thunders. Long ago, the people of Wasser agreed not to explore the wilderness beyond the river. That land belonged to the Thunders. In exchange, the Thunders would continue to bring rain to Wasser if the people there respected the boundaries and rules.

| FEATURE AUTHOR |

boundaries and met Luna, a Little Thunder. From

Shane Wilson and his World of Muses, “The

Boy Who Kissed the Rain” is a story of forbidden desire, impossible choices, and parents’ love for their children. Read the original, 2017 Rilla

Askew Short Fiction Prize-winning story and the stage adaptation here, collected for the first time in a single volume.

Excerpt

His mother’s memories of those early years were of a crooked and hurting back, blistered fingers, and the sound of little feet on hardwood and young laughter echoing down empty halls. They were memories of trying her best to keep Lance out of the rain. “We don’t go outside when it rains,” she would say. “There is something different about the rain here. Something we don’t understand.”

Soon those memories would pass from her into the child, and as Lance ran over hills and through pastures with the other children of Wasser, he became a teenager—all arms and legs and dark hair. He grew up running through the wilderness, exploring the depths of the forests around Wasser. And every day for him in that place was the same until it wasn’t.

As he aged, he pushed further into the wilderness until the day he found where the forest met the river. He had never trusted the older people in town when they told him that Wasser was surrounded on three sides by water. The town’s center was near the waterfront facing west, but he had never seen the river to the east, and he was the type to not believe in something unless he could prove it empirically.

He stood on the bank, mesmerized by the movement of the water. The rapids here were much more violent than in town, and as children are typically unaware of the general vulnerability of the human body, it was the first time he felt mortal. Lance sat on the grass near the beast where he could feel the spray of the water on the skin of his face. Enraptured by the river, he sat by its side for many hours failing to take notice of the dark clouds gathering above him. Soon, the rains came and the water was falling hard. The rains came often in those days, so he was used to rain-dampened skin and drops of water catching on the sprigs of hair that fell over his forehead.

He loved the rain. He thought back to those days as a child when he would watch the sky through his window. When he heard drops on the roof of the house, he always made a dash for the door—little clumsy feet made deliberate by a finite goal. As a child he couldn’t explain it, but there was something about feeling the water on his skin that connected him to nature—made him feel like he finally belonged where he lived. Even when he was a little older and learned the art of sneaking, he more often than not failed to sneak past his mother’s watchful eye and into the falling water. “How many times do I have to tell you?” she would ask. “We don’t go outside when it rains.”

So on that day as a very young adult, when the rain began to fall, he did not scramble to stand up and run back to town. Instead he sat, his arms wrapped around his knees. He watched the river and felt the rain puddle and run on his skin—small tributaries on an earth of flesh. He was finally out of the house when the rains came. His mother could not scoop him up and warn him of the mysteries of the rain.

Even when night fell, he couldn’t leave the river’s edge. Lance was soaked, and even if he couldn’t see it for the clouds, he knew the sun had set. The rain had continued to fall well into the night’s darkness, but the river’s spell still held on to him. He ran his hand over his face—a mere formality at that point. Running a wet hand over wet skin would only redistribute the moisture, especially in still-falling rain.

He stood—clothes soaked—and turned to make his way back home when something that seemed out of place caught his eye. In the darkness of the night and cloud-cover, he could see a soft light in the trees

across the rapids from where he stood—on the other side of the river. He continued to stand as if frozen in place. At first, it was a soft glow, barely noticeable even by night. But as he watched, the light from the trees across the rushing water began to intensify, as if its source was moving toward him.

His vision was blurred by the falling rain—the occasional drop of which would land near enough his eye to splash in and make him blink. He held a hand up over his eyes to try to keep the water out, but as the light grew brighter, the rain fell harder. In his chest, he felt the pounding of his heart grow harder and faster, like it wanted to break out. Even though he was afraid, he would tell himself he was anxious, but he couldn’t turn away. Through the thick trees, he saw a more distinctive shape—something that looked like a person cloaked in glow of lightening. His gazed was unblinking—his fear of seeing equal only to his fear of looking away.

And then, there she was—a woman wearing light. It couldn’t have been that she was glowing herself. That wouldn’t have made even as much sense as the alternative which was that she had discovered in the forest some way to manufacture fabric made, not of the source of light, but of the intangible light itself. He wanted to see, but he didn’t want to see. He wanted to believe what he saw, but he wasn’t sure he could. Without realizing it, he had moved to crouch behind a tree. On any other day of his life, he would have been so brave. His childhood had been spent volunteering to be the seeker—never wanting to be the hider.

The powers of Lance’s mind were being challenged. He couldn’t seem to navigate the information that his eyes were delivering his mind. This challenge to his mind only grew when he saw that this woman— this being—was floating just above the ground. The parts of her body that he could see through the light, her legs and arms and face, were bare, and the trees’ branches seemed to part for her as she moved—like her body was made of wind. She was surrounded by the blue light, and she moved to the edge of the river where she did not stop. She moved across the rushing water, floating just above its violent surface. She came closer and closer to him, bringing a wind that blew the rain sideways. As her body cleared the river, her feet touched softly down upon the grass only a few feet away from him. The wind stopped blowing. She raised her arms slightly, palms down, and the rain calmed to a drizzle.

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shortstory Pt. 2

| SHORT STORy |

This story will continue in consecutive months. Ignition Point

by Jami Gray

Keeping the car between us and whatever was happening on the other side, I pulled the boy along as I made an awkward dash across an empty parking lot toward the buildings squatting alongside the road. The sounds of fighting chased us, along with the nose-curling sharp scent of ozone, a sign that lethal amounts of magic were being flung around. Since I didn’t want to get caught by whoever was generating that kind of power, I intended to put as much distance between us as possible.

When the boy stumbled, I wrapped my arm around his waist. Together, we managed a stumbling lope as we headed to the questionable protection of the nearby buildings. Everything was dark and closed up tight, so there was little chance of finding shelter inside, but maybe we could hide in the maze of narrow walkways in between. It wasn’t much, but I just needed a few minutes to figure out how to get us out of this.

Behind me, the night lit up again with an unnatural glow. A pained screech ripped through the air, and the light flickered out, darkness taking control again.

Heh, guess I wasn’t the only one not having a good night. Anxiety gave my thoughts a borderline hysterical edge. I spotted a narrow opening between the buildings and darted toward it, dragging the boy along. For shits and giggles, I tried the doors as we passed. Locked, locked, locked. I finally gave up and took random turns until we were deep inside the maze of walkways where the darkness draped everything in thick shadows. I slowed, skirting the occasional pool of illumination cast by the security lights. Another left dropped us into a neatly contained courtyard where two metal benches faced off. I tugged the boy over to one of the benches. “Sit for a second and catch your breath.”

Fortunately, he didn’t argue but dropped onto the bench. I stood in front of him, surveying the small green space as I tried to slow my racing pulse. Shuttered offices lined three of the four edges like a U, each protected by overhead lights. One more building shared by two offices sat in the middle of the only two entry points.

We were as protected as we could get.

I kept an eye on the two shadowed walkways as I crouched in front of the boy. There was just enough light to make out his pale face and wide eyes. The poor kid was freaked, and I couldn’t blame him. I put my hands on his knees and he stiffened but I could feel the tremors coursing through him. I let go and pulled my hands back, trying not to make things worse. “It’ll be okay.” I wasn’t sure which of us I was trying to reassure at this point, but since I was the adult, I figured it was best to fake it until we made it out of there. “What’s your name?”

His lips worked, trying to form a name, but all that came out was an unintelligible grunt. I didn’t need the color that washed under his skin or his fierce frown as he grabbed his throat to put two and two together. A dark thought struck me, joining the circling suspicions that formed while we made our retreat from the wreck. “Muting spell?”

He gave a sharp nod.

Anger burned through my anxiety as my suspicions morphed into uncomfortable certainty, leaving my vow of professional neutrality in ashes. “Mr. Jones?”

Another nod.

Mr. Jones was an utter bastard. I kept my opinion silent. “Right. Okay, since he’s dead…” I ignored the kid’s jerk and wide eyes and kept going. “The spell should fade on its own, which means we’ll have to make do. That work for you?” I waited for his agreement before continuing. “Let’s start with your name and see how well I can read lips. Ever play charades?”

His wariness held fast, but he eventually gave me a nod.

“Good. So first, how many syllables?”

He held up three shaky fingers.