Alternative Futures Publishing, 2015
Garrick Fenstad is a man born at precisely the right time and place. Here and now, still only in the third decade of the twenty-first century, America needs a man like Garrick. He is a man with a voice — made great by his inborn talent as a writer — who can speak above the teeming throng of an ever-darkening America to reach the ears of dispossessed whites. It’s a voice he seeks to amplify through one of the West’s greatest contributions: the novel.
Garrick Fenstad’s novel This Shining Glory has come at exactly the right moment, when America is facing demographic replacement at the hands of swarming Untermenschen with not a shred of empathy for those they intend on replacing. He’s a family man. Though he pays the bills with his job as a forklift operator, through his novel he will accomplish his dreams of wealth and fame. More than that, with it he will reach out to his people like Prometheus, gifting them a flame from that well of fire in the sky by which they shall make themselves great.
But none of that matters, because Garrick Fenstad, devoted husband and father of two, as well as aspiring literati, met his fate on an overcrowded Texas highway when he flipped his Silverado and skidded across the lanes toward a concrete abutment as the overturned vehicle scraped his exposed body against the asphalt like a hefty chunk of Romano over a cheese grater, ending in a spectacular fireball that turned everyone’s rush-hour commute home into a dramatically longer one once the authorities arrive to catalog and sweep up was left of him. Such is the consequence of being goaded into a road-rage inspired bout of bumper cars with five piles of gold-toothed, tatted-up Mexcrement in a beat-up Chevy Impala.
Play Mad Max games? Win Mad Max prizes.
So begins Ward Kendall’s Eternity Beach. Kendall is now the author of four White Nationalist science fiction novels and one political manifesto. Not only that, he holds the special distinction of being what I imagine will be the last White Nationalist author to receive a favorable review in The New York Times.
Garrick is one of the most relatable protagonists I’ve ever come across in racialist fiction and is the best Kendall has crafted to date. Through this character, we are confronted with all the angst and anxiety of the modern thirtysomething who finds himself part of an ever-less prominent and ever-more disenfranchised and dwindling white American population. We experience not only the racial strife that plagues our people, but our unrealized dreams as well.
Garrick Fenstad is a man who almost made it. He had a blue-collar job and an unaccomplished goal that would have given him the living standard and dignity that he — that many of us — long for. Garrick Fenstad could be me. He could be you.
Instead, he’s freeway fricassee — or so his kith and kin have come to believe. Yes, the collection of particles that was once Garrick Fenstad has been reduced to charred giblets that will drastically reduce the labor hours of the mortician is tasked with preparing his remains for a closed-casket funeral. This is why he’s amazed when he regains consciousness on a hospital bed in what he’s told by the attending physician is their “Institute for Advanced Reconstructive Surgery.”
He’s curious, of course, and full of questions. Writers always are. But he is told that most of his queries and concerns will be handled at the Institute’s orientation. Rising to attention, he finds himself completely healed; not even a scar! It’s so strange to him that he chooses to skip orientation altogether and learn about this so-called Institute on his own terms. The man has a novelist’s mind for conspiracy. In short snippets of conversation with the first few folks he speaks with, he comes to understand that the Institute is more like a colony of some kind, filled with trauma victims.
All too soon and in an ill-advised (i.e., non-medicated) state, he learns the truth. He in fact is dead. They are all dead, as far as anyone who ever knew them or even cared to know their names is concerned. Each and every member of this multi-tiered, technologically hyper-advanced — and seemingly endless — colony has expired from the earthly plane of mere mortals as the result of an abrupt and violent death. The colony they now inhabit is 14 light-years away from Earth on a planet known to its inhabitants as 61 Cygni.
The thousand some-odd floors under each of the colony’s bio-domes were built by some long-lost alien race known as the Vryllq. Much of their technology has broken down with age. That which still does work is barely comprehensible to some of the most brilliant minds that Earth has lost and that 61 Cygni has gained, but from what they’ve come to understand, every colonist has been the victim of a violent end which in turn produced some sort of psychic scream emitted by their mind, or soul, or . . . well, the book just calls it the “life force.” Vryllq technology includes a receiver of some sort that catches this terrified and screaming life force, storing it in a chamber from which some of them may be reconstituted corporeally — provided that they are sane enough.
Some — religious types, mostly — lose their minds upon reawakening when they find neither Pearly Gates nor a Lake of Fire waiting for them. Others can never be brought back, because their deaths were brought about so sadistically that psychological recovery is simply impossible.
Not all of the victims remain catatonic, however. Some may arrive damaged, but through group counseling and extensive one-on-one therapy, they are able to come to terms with their terrestrial deaths. Early in his exploration, Garrick eavesdrops on one such group therapy session consisting of a circle of serial killer victims overseen by . . . Ted Bundy! Derrick is naturally discussed and even expresses his desire to break the neck of the rape-hungry killer himself. But Bundy would simply be born again at the age of 35 years old — like all the colonists. If anything happens to anyone while they are in the colony, his life force simply returns to the chamber and a new body is grown for him. Those who reach their senior years on Earth are pleasantly surprised to find themselves awakening in a younger, healthier version of themselves, captured forever at the moment of physical maturity — right before that body began to break down. Those who died young will be reconstituted in the image they left behind and given a chance to grow into the man or woman they would have been.
It’s a shame that any such privilege should be afforded to someone like Bundy, of course. The colony’s unseen overseers don’t seem to factor morality into who is reborn. And why would they? The Vryllq technology is a catch-all as much as it is a cure-all, with every soul accounted for, having traveled the same path to this far-flung mole city at the edge of the stars.
Thankfully, Bundy isn’t the only celebrity to make it to 61 Cygni. All the greats are there! At least, the ones who died agonizing and untimely deaths. You can share a beer with Hemingway, if he’ll have you. Christopher Marlowe owns a bookstore. H. H. Holmes runs a very swank 1893 World’s Fair-themed hotel. Ritchie Valens and the Big Bopper? You know it! The ever-overhyped Jimi Hendrix, having peacefully choked on his own vomit, fortunately never made it to the Colony — not that Garrick would have noticed. There are no blacks where he is, nor on the floors he visits in his early travels through the Jetson’s-like existence the Vryllq have (inadvertently) provided for them. They are somewhere on the planet. Just somewhere else, is all . . .
The list of famous names extends to the formerly powerful as well, especially those whose political power or social influence made them a target. JFK, RFK . . . MLK! Abraham Lincoln and Malcolm X. The Vryllq technology has been catching the life force of violent deaths since the Elizabethan age: scientists and statesman, playwrights and playboys, the maleficent and murdered, the deceived and damned. There are also countless veterans. All have been collected in a space-age, seemingly utopian existence where one can perfect any craft or learn any language. Also, given that everyone’s memories were scanned prior to rebirth, if one of them desires the same chili dog he could only find outside the ballpark he was taken to as a child, he can may get one at any food hopper upon request.
The white man is a notoriously restless species. If our contentment were easily achieved, none of us would have ever heard of the Parthenon. But for Garrick, it’s even harder — he is an aspiring writer, and thus is unwilling to enjoy any sort of life without it having a clear, inherent meaning.
In the protagonist’s search for answers, Kendall shines in his character development and ability to weave several narratives into a rich and seamless tapestry that is very different from the works of so many other White Nationalist authors, who are content to churn out little more than racist young men’s adventure fiction. The short story arcs and mysterious omissions will lead the reader closer to learning the truth every time he picks up the book – which is important for an inch-and-a-half thick volume of over 700 pages.
After the first hundred pages I realized I’d not only gotten my money’s worth out of this book, I got a bargain. This type of literature, exciting and approachable while remaining unpretentious, is all too rare in White Nationalist circles. Kendall’s ability to write romance into his story puts him head and shoulders above the rest of the field, whose shieldmaiden/Southern belle/Eastern femme fatale fantasies often leave the reader more frustrated than satisfied. “Where are the realistic women?” I often ask myself when I read these racialist titles. Where is the real sex? Here’s a pro tip, fellows: If your love scenes can’t be read out loud without excruciating embarrassment, then you’re not good at that sort of writing and should stop. Sometimes less is more. Subtlety goes a long way when you’re trying to be sexy. Preposterous courtship sequences and overly simplistic gender relations are the bane of White Nationalist fiction. Thankfully, Ward Kendall knows what he’s doing in every aspect of this impressive story. The man doesn’t even touch on the subject of politics until well into the story. I personally rank Ward Kendall as being twice as great as the late Harold Covington — and he’s not even half as crazy.
I will mention only a few among the myriad of characters. The first is featured in the first part of the book, the others in the second. I’m omitting much so as not to spoil the story for potential readers.
Treat Mannington is a tall and handsome, self-obsessed Southern preacher whose megachurch following afforded him the luxury of owning the very aircraft he would crash and burn in, sending his life force screaming through the outer reaches of space to a new existence on Cygni 61. The lack of puffy clouds or pedantic apostles don’t slow the Reverend down at all. Resigning himself to a dark corner of the Vryllq’s colony known as The Devil’s Playground, he attempts to build a new congregation on the promise of a life everlasting after this second, seemingly endless one. His gospel falls on deaf ears — but this is where Garrick finds him.
Treat was a friend to Garrick’s father, who it is revealed passed on peacefully after succumbing to terminal cancer. He recounts tales of the younger man for Garrick that the aspiring author never knew. He was a sly adventurer, a lover, and a bit of a con man when necessity demanded it of him — but above all, a youthful dreamer. He had wanted to be an actor and ran away to Hollywood with Treat Mannington, but at some point the elder Mr. Fenstad had left his dream behind on the West Coast, trading it all in for a one-way ticket to a boring desk job as an insurance clerk. On his deathbed, with his two sons by his side, Garrick’s father finally revealed his sense of loss at what could have been had he never let go of his dreams. It is a message Garrick takes to heart.
Pastor Mannington decides to take his long-dead friend’s son under his wing and provide him with a more extensive tour of this alien-crafted underworld, playing a much-needed Virgil to Garrick’s Dante. Treat assuages many of Garrick’s preponderances. He learns where all the blacks are and who runs the planet. He also finally learns whether or not someone can go to Earth — or any other planet, for that matter — using Vryllq technology.
One can, it seems, return to Earth, though not as oneself. One’s life force will inhabit someone else’s body, destroying the host’s original mind. This gives a whole new meaning to gender fluidity for some of the crack team assembled for a return to Earth. 61 Cygni has a looming crisis which can only be averted by repairing some of the long-dormant machines on their new host planet and so they must return to their former home to retrieve some of Earth’s greatest living minds — by murdering them.
Poison won’t work, since the death has to be sudden and violent. The colonists have also learned that killing someone to bring them to 61 Cygni doesn’t work if in so doing you’ve robbed them of their family — so you’ve got to kill the wife and kids, also. At this point in the story I was a bit worried that here would begin what the late John Bowden would refer to as “the Grand Guignol”: murder theater. There is indeed carnage, but it’s simply a plot device to provoke members of the Earth-bound team to plot a different course in order to achieve their objectives.
The special team consists of a variety of personalities, mostly chosen due to some biological relationship each has to the soon-to-be dearly departed eggheads that they’re being sent to massacre. The colony’s psychologists have concluded there’s less resentment and resistance from the new arrivals when they learn they were murdered by a loving family member who had their best intentions at heart. There is Ross, a former corporate executive; Jorby, a teenage rock-and-roller; Lyle, a Vietnam vet with PTSD of questionable sanity; Mitch, an ex-cop; Kate, a former actress; and Garrick himself, the aspiring novelist who has an uncle who is an important astrophysicist. His uncle’s expertise is sorely needed 14 light-years away. Finally, there is the psychiatrist Patrice Richelieu. She’s playing everyone for fools. She’s going back for good, unbeknownst to her teammates. She doesn’t care for the colony or its leaders. Her intent is to leave and never return.
Their reintroduction to Terra Firma is rough, causing the crash of a packed church bus, which is lethal for some of the bus’ original occupants and injurious to those whose life force has newly returned. Awakening upside down with a broken arm wasn’t part of the plan. When the team gathers themselves together in their new forms, they realize that Richelieu is not with them. Regardless, they have their mission to attend to, and flee the scene to go on their cross-country killing spree.
Ward Kendall first came to my attention when Greg Johnson published a new edition of his first novel, Hold Back This Day. It was the first White Nationalist book I ordered through the mail. I’ve since read several of the author’s other books and never fail to be inspired.
Ward has lived a nomadic life for some time, not unlike some of the other great American authors he admires. He’s settled in the Southwest, where he continues to produce unique science fiction and much-needed social commentary on the state of white America. His writing career began after hearing a broadcast in 1999 about California becoming a majority Hispanic state within a few years, along with much of the Southwest. His response was Hold Back This Day. Since then he has authored five more titles, the last four of which are available through Alternate Future Publishing. Kendall is 65 now and shows no signs of slowing down, continuously churning out new stories to inspire the next generation of leaders. If you’re looking for something fresh and exciting from a homegrown and unreservedly proud white American author, then a journey to Eternity Beach is just what you need.
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