Songs For The Deaf - Book Tour

 

Speculative Fiction

 

 

Songs for the Deaf is a wonderful story with the unforgettable presence of Miles Curtin, the protagonist. Following his bombshell discovery, the tug-of-war within his soul creates the kind of depth and literary richness that is one of the hallmarks I look for in great writing. Mariel Hemingway, Oscar-nominated actress, author, and granddaughter of Ernest Hemingway

 

 

 
 Read an excerpt below...

About the Author

Ken Silver discontinued his education for two years to pursue a career in fashion design. He then worked his way through law school designing clothing for a French fashion house and was ultimately admitted to the New York Bar, but continued to work as a fashion designer, fabric designer, and colorist.

He went on to design and build a chain of clothing stores in Canada that featured his own exclusive designs. Following his return to the States, Mr. Silver spearheaded the design and concept planning as an active partner in large-scale mixed use real estate projects in and around NYC. While doing so, he exhibited his photography in venues throughout the US, including solo shows in the gallery districts of Manhattan, East Hampton, Beverly Hills, and Carmel.

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Excerpt from "Songs For The Deaf"

She sits with him while he bathes, fusses over him, towels him down, and helps him into his deluxe hotel bathrobe. It isn’t until then that she realizes what a terrible funk he is in. She inches closer until her lips are close enough to his face for her to feel the static. “Look, darling, we’re way out there on a limb together. If you can’t talk to me now, when will you be ready to talk to me?” 

“Why don’t we table it? We’ve got the rest of our lives to discuss it,” he replies.

“Was that a proposal?!” She practically jumps out of her skin. 

“I’m not really sure, but it sure as hell sounded like one. Why don’t you ask me again in the morning?”

She is still a little giddy, but to bed it is.

___

 

As Scarlett O’Hara famously said in Gone with the Wind, “Tomorrow is another day.” Only the sword cuts both ways.

He’s already spoken to her, and she’s reacted the way he expected her to. There they are in their bedroom suite, trading barbs over breakfast.

“Last night you were ready to marry me and this morning you’re ready to fire me? Which one is it?” She is having trouble keeping her voice down.

His voice, however, still sounds sleepy, but it goes a good deal deeper than that. “I’m only trying to protect you.”

“Fuck you, Sir Galahad! Don’t you think I already know that?”

“I had no right bringing you into this.” He pushes his plate aside, signaling he is ready to have it out.

“Did you think I was twiddling my thumbs during my Washington days? I was public enemy number one to a few of the worst polluters in America. They weren’t exactly playing footsie either.” 

“It’s different.” He is quick to shrug it off. “They were polluting streams for a living. Murdering people wasn’t part of their job description.”

“They sure had me fooled.” She continues to make a case for herself, but not without plenty of pushback from him.

“I wouldn’t even put them in the same ring with Titan. Different weight class altogether.”

“That’s how much you know,” she pauses. “They were right up there on the NGA list.” As they transition from a row to a squabble, they continue to sip their coffee.

“What the hell is the NGA list?”

“Nastiest Guys in America.” The hint of a smile has crept into her face.

“You’re just making it up as you go along. Are you braindead or something? You might already have a target on your back.”

“I tell you what,” she says, “how about if I become your research assistant?”

He has his fingers clasped together with both elbows on the table. “I’m waiting.”

Puppy love between adults can be a goofy but beautiful thing, even when they’re arguing, and they both begin to recognize it for what it has become.

“Well, I’m waiting,” he repeats.

“First of all, a research assistant has to know everything.”

“You never know when to let go, do you?” If there’s such a thing as a forced frown, it is staring her right in the face. “Only don’t come crying to me if our paths happen to cross in heaven.”

“No problem there. I’ll just make believe I don’t even know you.”

“I hope you know what you’ve done.” Before she has a chance to answer, he is leaning over her back with his arms wrapped around her. “You’ve actually managed to turn my mood around.” He whispers in her ear. “I just hope you know what you’re doing.” He finally releases her. “This isn’t a game, you know.”

“Of course it is. The game of life.” She manhandles him with a playful but aggressive kiss.

They go back to the bedroom and get undressed. The Library of Congress will have to wait.