Pandora 2013: Hullabaloo

The former Crescent Beach Mall of South Carolina is a magical epicenter known as Pandora’s Box. Visitors catch glimpses into their fantasy world, but often not as expected, for their own moral compasses and guarded secrets dictate the terms of their encounters.Sebastian, Larry and Dina are veteran tour guides who understand the Box offers a falsely romantic recipe for disaster. The trio push themselves through their work, keeping their heads down and trying not to ask too many questions. 2013 turns out to be the year of crazy. The illusion of Pandora is exposed as an endless loop of maniacal persecution. As tourists yowl in terror, the guides snap, fearing they are unequal to the task of managing the growing mayhem.

About the Author

Growing up in New York, I learned storytelling from my father. I was a shy child, marvelling at dad's willingness to regale individuals and even groups with tall tales. When asked a five-cent question, he usually provided a five-dollar answer. I soaked up his gestures and intonations, marking them down in my thoughts with permanent ink. As quiet as I appeared, I have my father's blood. There was no way out of my fate. Becoming a storyteller was going to happen to me. My quest for inspiration sent me in search of a compelling topic. I had the grandiose dream of a book series, but needed a stroke of good luck. It had to be something that couldn't be colored with a single crayon. Say what you will about the South, but no one ever moved North to retire. My parents settled into a new home in Little River, South Carolina. During a prolonged stay, I went to sleep considering what I've always thought about the area. God must really have a crush on the Carolinas, decorating it with snowy egrets and gardens of live oaks. Yet the antebellum South has a legacy of human bondage. I've never felt safe wandering around after hours, fearing the ghosts of retribution would grow from shadows of Spanish moss. When I wrote the first chapters of Pandora, I began to understand the Box as a place to acknowledge the truth of a person, good or bad, and to let the core of the character find its own reward-or tomb. I bit the cuticles off my right hand as I read those nascent scribbling to my father. I fueled up my courage, and was relieved when he nodded in approval. I like to think he was taken with the writing, but it was more likely the sense of justice the stories tried to reflect, the moral sensibility that mirrored the material I heard my dad communicate during my childhood.

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