Patrick Elliott's Blog, page 11
March 27, 2015
In the Beginning - The Meeting
So my goal is for the rest of the year to use the prompts to string stories together into something that might make a novel. So I might be posting two some weeks, if I can always make it match up. I'm sure some weeks will get me and some will inspire a story outside of this one. But for now, here's the start.
In the Beginning – The Meeting
She had an ass you could bounce a quarter off of.
A disembodied thought floated along the river of Chester’s mind. Why now? The only girl to inspire such thoughts was Nicole in high school. Now the hinny of some soon to be trophy wife in the grocery store was… slipping out of view. Why didn’t he have the upskirt app on a hotkey? The woman turned and…
“Nicole?”
His one word question brought a smile that could melt the sun. Often, unrequited longing and distance left feelings reality found itself unable to match. Chester’s daydreams of long lost Nicole paled in comparison to her in the flesh. Not that he had her in the flesh yet. She agreed to lunch though, so he was well on his way if he did say so himself. Nicole turned out to be one of those rare women to grow more beautiful as she approached her dreaded mid to late twenties. Score one for Chester the MILF hunter.
Despite his odious personality and reprehensible hygiene practices the ex prom queen agreed to lunch. He missed the implications of something bigger afoot that such an agreement portended. Chester lived in a delusional world where his self-proclaimed title as stud of Harlow, Minnesota remained despite time and miles.
They met at Fusion, a restaurant both obviously and pretentiously named. Nicole found herself enjoying the experience in spite of herself. Once he showered and got past the initial shock of the hottest girl in his graduating class showing up in his town, Chester was a decent enough guy. If he would stop “accidentally” touching her thighs he might pass for human.
They reminisced over a traditional Harlow lunch. Rocky Mountain oysters, fugu, and foie gras. People said many negative things about the inhabitants of the small town but they were culturally diverse and accepting. At the end of the meal they were both laughing.
Nicole hated that. Snow bound slugs crawled inside her stomach and up her back. She had to break Chester’s heart and shatter his mind. What kind of woman would that make her? She hesitated as long as she could, laughing with him. All the while she languished inside until her soul died. With that pesky thing tagged and bagged she moved on to why she agreed to the date in the first place. It was time to crush a man’s spirit.
“Chester, do you think about home very often?”
“As little as I can. I have a good life here.”
“Well, you see, it wasn’t an accident that I found you. I came looking for you.”
“Oho! You couldn’t get the stud of Harlow out of…”
“Stop. Don’t ever call yourself that again. Do you remember the prophecy?”
“That thing the fucking Baptist moro…”
“My father was the preacher.”
“…ralists were always going on about? I remember it. Why?”
“It’s us.”
“What is?”
“It is, they are us, we are them.”
“Speak English.”
“The time is here and we’re the chosen ones.”
#shortstory #novel #author #experimentation #writer
In the Beginning – The Meeting
She had an ass you could bounce a quarter off of.
A disembodied thought floated along the river of Chester’s mind. Why now? The only girl to inspire such thoughts was Nicole in high school. Now the hinny of some soon to be trophy wife in the grocery store was… slipping out of view. Why didn’t he have the upskirt app on a hotkey? The woman turned and…
“Nicole?”
His one word question brought a smile that could melt the sun. Often, unrequited longing and distance left feelings reality found itself unable to match. Chester’s daydreams of long lost Nicole paled in comparison to her in the flesh. Not that he had her in the flesh yet. She agreed to lunch though, so he was well on his way if he did say so himself. Nicole turned out to be one of those rare women to grow more beautiful as she approached her dreaded mid to late twenties. Score one for Chester the MILF hunter.
Despite his odious personality and reprehensible hygiene practices the ex prom queen agreed to lunch. He missed the implications of something bigger afoot that such an agreement portended. Chester lived in a delusional world where his self-proclaimed title as stud of Harlow, Minnesota remained despite time and miles.
They met at Fusion, a restaurant both obviously and pretentiously named. Nicole found herself enjoying the experience in spite of herself. Once he showered and got past the initial shock of the hottest girl in his graduating class showing up in his town, Chester was a decent enough guy. If he would stop “accidentally” touching her thighs he might pass for human.
They reminisced over a traditional Harlow lunch. Rocky Mountain oysters, fugu, and foie gras. People said many negative things about the inhabitants of the small town but they were culturally diverse and accepting. At the end of the meal they were both laughing.
Nicole hated that. Snow bound slugs crawled inside her stomach and up her back. She had to break Chester’s heart and shatter his mind. What kind of woman would that make her? She hesitated as long as she could, laughing with him. All the while she languished inside until her soul died. With that pesky thing tagged and bagged she moved on to why she agreed to the date in the first place. It was time to crush a man’s spirit.
“Chester, do you think about home very often?”
“As little as I can. I have a good life here.”
“Well, you see, it wasn’t an accident that I found you. I came looking for you.”
“Oho! You couldn’t get the stud of Harlow out of…”
“Stop. Don’t ever call yourself that again. Do you remember the prophecy?”
“That thing the fucking Baptist moro…”
“My father was the preacher.”
“…ralists were always going on about? I remember it. Why?”
“It’s us.”
“What is?”
“It is, they are us, we are them.”
“Speak English.”
“The time is here and we’re the chosen ones.”
#shortstory #novel #author #experimentation #writer
March 19, 2015
That Unreachable Note
So, for the prompts recently I've been trying to experiment with things. I have getting the story out in few words where I want it. Now I'm working on things like more poetic description, describing without describing, and breaking out of my comfort zone. The descriptions here and using a female main character were what I wanted to focus on.
Mist curled through the valley like plumes exhaled from a smoking giant. Cadets stared daggers across the expanse. Graduation day, history stood ready for writing and repetition. Tablets washed faces on both sides with dimmed but sickly green glows as intense faces studied the lists. The handheld delivering the list was unique in being the only uniform piece of equipment.
Team Amazon perched east of the valley. Sheathed in leather, velvet and lace to emulate the style of a British dominatrix. Yet after four years in the hellish academy the ladies stood devoid of any femininity except the external. Empty soul cavities stripped of maternal instinct now lay bloated with pride and bloodlust, courtesy of the officers. Eden stood as their seeker, the nameless sisters hers protectors and backups.
To the west Team Mars stood, rigid as black powder riflemen. Adorned like Spartans with less shame and fewer body issues. The males contained nothing to empty them of, from birth they knew only war and service. Their seeker lived a faceless, nameless existence like his protectors. Men served only two purposes, military devastation and continuing the race. Only those who survived this indoctrination could receive a name and then only at the whim of the woman whose household they served. Thus it was, and so would it continue until the XYs finally triumphed on graduation day.
Behind the Amazons the sky tinted scarlet, dawning light punctuating the chill permeating the air. A cry from the battle horn spilled forth loud enough to tear the air asunder. So it began. So it always began.
Earth churned into muddy mist, turf tore free to fly like tiny green birds. These young, after four years training together, charged the bottom of the valley akin to slightly modest Picts. Today they were enemies, there could be no mercy nor surrender. A thin red film quickly colored the sky, filling it with the scent of genealogical rust. Metal clanged against metal as the symphony of honor lost and discovered began.
Eden absorbed the sensory banquet before turning to her task. The officers compiled the list in riddle and mystery. Her mind was sharp, her arm strong, and her legs quick. She would win the day. The first items came quickly, as simple things often do.
She read Captain Tripps from the list then collected the correct mushroom. The finger of the tear shedder led her to hack a branch from the appropriate willow. Twenty items on the list, Eden collected nineteen in less than an hour. Then she spied the last. She knew where to find it but it would not be easy to obtain. Thankfully she was cunning and patient as well as strong.
Cleopatra’s sister’s prize.
Eden smiled slow and wicked. Her feet carried her to the latrine to crouch and hide beside it. Her sword drawn, she meditated on the need. Eventually the commander’s man whore would come to do his business. Then the women would win the day, yet again.
#shortstory #dark #socialcommentary #writer #author #experimentation
Mist curled through the valley like plumes exhaled from a smoking giant. Cadets stared daggers across the expanse. Graduation day, history stood ready for writing and repetition. Tablets washed faces on both sides with dimmed but sickly green glows as intense faces studied the lists. The handheld delivering the list was unique in being the only uniform piece of equipment.
Team Amazon perched east of the valley. Sheathed in leather, velvet and lace to emulate the style of a British dominatrix. Yet after four years in the hellish academy the ladies stood devoid of any femininity except the external. Empty soul cavities stripped of maternal instinct now lay bloated with pride and bloodlust, courtesy of the officers. Eden stood as their seeker, the nameless sisters hers protectors and backups.
To the west Team Mars stood, rigid as black powder riflemen. Adorned like Spartans with less shame and fewer body issues. The males contained nothing to empty them of, from birth they knew only war and service. Their seeker lived a faceless, nameless existence like his protectors. Men served only two purposes, military devastation and continuing the race. Only those who survived this indoctrination could receive a name and then only at the whim of the woman whose household they served. Thus it was, and so would it continue until the XYs finally triumphed on graduation day.
Behind the Amazons the sky tinted scarlet, dawning light punctuating the chill permeating the air. A cry from the battle horn spilled forth loud enough to tear the air asunder. So it began. So it always began.
Earth churned into muddy mist, turf tore free to fly like tiny green birds. These young, after four years training together, charged the bottom of the valley akin to slightly modest Picts. Today they were enemies, there could be no mercy nor surrender. A thin red film quickly colored the sky, filling it with the scent of genealogical rust. Metal clanged against metal as the symphony of honor lost and discovered began.
Eden absorbed the sensory banquet before turning to her task. The officers compiled the list in riddle and mystery. Her mind was sharp, her arm strong, and her legs quick. She would win the day. The first items came quickly, as simple things often do.
She read Captain Tripps from the list then collected the correct mushroom. The finger of the tear shedder led her to hack a branch from the appropriate willow. Twenty items on the list, Eden collected nineteen in less than an hour. Then she spied the last. She knew where to find it but it would not be easy to obtain. Thankfully she was cunning and patient as well as strong.
Cleopatra’s sister’s prize.
Eden smiled slow and wicked. Her feet carried her to the latrine to crouch and hide beside it. Her sword drawn, she meditated on the need. Eventually the commander’s man whore would come to do his business. Then the women would win the day, yet again.
#shortstory #dark #socialcommentary #writer #author #experimentation
March 13, 2015
Enter the Something New and Original
Pellets of hail pounded the glass like angry fists of tiny, forgotten gods. Clouds turned the night so dark it took on a smell; Old Spice, Rohypnol, and the sweat of Clive Barker’s fever dreams. The oppressive atmosphere slipped inside like an unwanted visitor into a celebrity’s home, Cleetus powered on his console.
Lightning ripped vibrant wounds in the sky. Cleetus thought of his mother admonishing him to turn off the power when storms grew electric. He almost did. Then the start screen of Wizards and Warriors brightened his home and life. He clutched the controller. Soon blood wizard would save the princess. Mom’s ghostly memory could suck it.
Cleetus pressed start. The screen faded to the dim world of Magicstan. Mother’s ghost didn’t take kindly to being ignored. At the moment of ecstasy between worlds the obnoxious woman tossed another lightning bolt from heaven (like she was there), striking the house.
Cleetus shat himself. The electricity flowing over the controller and into his hands was to blame. The sudden jolt also caused him to pass out.
Cleetus awoke in a world of lines, Disneyfied versions of powder electric blue and toxic neon green. Futuristic motorcycles zoomed past. Cleetus held some sort of light based sword. A hard-shelled backpack covered his spine. In his other hand was a note.
-Find me and I’ll send you home.
“Really?”
“What?” The air responded, in the voice of a nineteen-eighties Mac.
“This is your test?”
“Why not?”
“One, it’s weak sauce. Two, don’t you think it’s a bit derivative of Tron?”
Cleetus awoke standing in a field, a long-sword firmly gripped in one hand. A pack covered his back. In the other hand a note.
-Beat me and I’ll send you home.
“Come on! Did you play too much D&D or are you just another Game of Thrones hipster?”
Cleetus came to with a straightrazor, a Hello Kitty fanny pack, and a note he didn’t read. Flesh wounds, patent leather and spikes surrounded him.
“Because I thought of Clive Barker when I looked out my window, right?”
Cleetus sat bolt upright with a chair supporting his back. He held a Jolt Cola in one hand and nothing in the other. An ancient computer sat on the desk in front of him. Words began to type themselves, echoed by that electronic voice.
-Would you like to play a…
“Oh hell no! I thought the shit up ‘til now was derivative. This is outright plagiarism if you ask me!”
Cleetus opened his eyes on a brave new world. His sword hand stood empty. Nothing adorned his back. Looking from horizon to horizon he saw only the muted brown of cheap cardboard. He was inside his game, literally in the box. The space, while claustrophobic, seemed insurmountable. The note in his off hand was the final touch.
-I tried to be nice. Good luck getting out of this one, dick!
“Ummmm… I was just kidding?”
Cleetus stepped into the lack of response.
“Should’ve listened to mom.”
#shortstory #author #comedy #writer
Lightning ripped vibrant wounds in the sky. Cleetus thought of his mother admonishing him to turn off the power when storms grew electric. He almost did. Then the start screen of Wizards and Warriors brightened his home and life. He clutched the controller. Soon blood wizard would save the princess. Mom’s ghostly memory could suck it.
Cleetus pressed start. The screen faded to the dim world of Magicstan. Mother’s ghost didn’t take kindly to being ignored. At the moment of ecstasy between worlds the obnoxious woman tossed another lightning bolt from heaven (like she was there), striking the house.
Cleetus shat himself. The electricity flowing over the controller and into his hands was to blame. The sudden jolt also caused him to pass out.
Cleetus awoke in a world of lines, Disneyfied versions of powder electric blue and toxic neon green. Futuristic motorcycles zoomed past. Cleetus held some sort of light based sword. A hard-shelled backpack covered his spine. In his other hand was a note.
-Find me and I’ll send you home.
“Really?”
“What?” The air responded, in the voice of a nineteen-eighties Mac.
“This is your test?”
“Why not?”
“One, it’s weak sauce. Two, don’t you think it’s a bit derivative of Tron?”
Cleetus awoke standing in a field, a long-sword firmly gripped in one hand. A pack covered his back. In the other hand a note.
-Beat me and I’ll send you home.
“Come on! Did you play too much D&D or are you just another Game of Thrones hipster?”
Cleetus came to with a straightrazor, a Hello Kitty fanny pack, and a note he didn’t read. Flesh wounds, patent leather and spikes surrounded him.
“Because I thought of Clive Barker when I looked out my window, right?”
Cleetus sat bolt upright with a chair supporting his back. He held a Jolt Cola in one hand and nothing in the other. An ancient computer sat on the desk in front of him. Words began to type themselves, echoed by that electronic voice.
-Would you like to play a…
“Oh hell no! I thought the shit up ‘til now was derivative. This is outright plagiarism if you ask me!”
Cleetus opened his eyes on a brave new world. His sword hand stood empty. Nothing adorned his back. Looking from horizon to horizon he saw only the muted brown of cheap cardboard. He was inside his game, literally in the box. The space, while claustrophobic, seemed insurmountable. The note in his off hand was the final touch.
-I tried to be nice. Good luck getting out of this one, dick!
“Ummmm… I was just kidding?”
Cleetus stepped into the lack of response.
“Should’ve listened to mom.”
#shortstory #author #comedy #writer
March 9, 2015
Author Interview
So if you ever think I don't do enough about how and why I write on this blog... Well I did it on someone else's blog I guess. Go check out my author interview with the wonderful and amazing Christie Stratos. You can find it here http://www.proofpositivepro.com/autho... and if you still haven't, once you're done go buy the book.
#interview #amwriting#writers #authors #mondayblogs #bynr #books #novel #shamelessselfpromotion
#interview #amwriting#writers #authors #mondayblogs #bynr #books #novel #shamelessselfpromotion
March 5, 2015
Infernal Metamorphosing Raven
Don't ask me where this came from. I think I'm reading too much Kafka.
Toiling with form ten ninety-nine extended, due on time and un-amended. I pondered with a heart so leery, an interminable existence grown quite dreary. My head did bob, nearly napping, when suddenly there came a tapping as of someone gently rapping, rapping on my front room door. Drunkenly lurching I vehemently swore to throw it open and find my best friend Lenore. Unusual attire I inspected as some ruse may go undetected under the scandalous thing she wore. A patent leather string bikini covered in steel studs quite unseemly, only this and nothing more. To my hand she a long sword extended. “Come with me so your family life not be ended.” Mysterious and womanly was that bitch Lenore.
Extending her hand, which had offended, spoke a word and space was rended to emit a fiery infernal door. With laws of physics so transcended, to the top a sign appended by imp or succubustic whore. Words in Latin quite outdated my scholarly mind at once translated, “Fallen angel express portal, abandon hope to enter mortal.” The legend this damned egress bore. At Lenore I expressed a hunch, this vile journey would cost me lunch. Though my scorn be gently born her eyes upon me wished flesh be torn. With wit acerbic and quite quick she thus expressed I was a dick. “I owe your family a settled score. Thus you are an ass and nothing more.”
Pack animal could I be, when need arose, thus I descended with my hellish rose, into a world of enigmatic throes, watching for any sign of an exit door. Though my terror be quite extended, by the copious sweat and blood Lenore expended she walked on stoically as if all were a bore. Through nine levels she did dance, my own survival was mere chance, eventually I spared a glance and understood how little she wore. Little armor was imparted from the souls both damned and departed but instead shielded her from a hefty bill of drycleaning off, after the kill, the black and ichorous gore. For in truth her hair and skin with fluids be lathed her simple outfit was almost saved. A truth unshared by me, I witnessed with horror.
Through fields of carnage we two fleeted and it was to the devil justice was meted. In middle battle grown quite heated Lenore’s arms were soon depleted and to her I passed the sword I bore. In pitched battle I was uneducated, that simple act my guilt abated, I was simply squire and thus not sore. To this day I still wonder, why my family Satan chose to plunder, there is a whole world to be torn asunder. I must confess, my family frivolous, but as for sins… they read not even Gor! In my declining years grandchildren listen with intrepid fears to the courting tale of I and my Lenore. Were you not afraid, asked in voices staid. An avenue I will not explore, “They were my family, nothing more.”
#shortstory #surreal #tribute #author #writer
Toiling with form ten ninety-nine extended, due on time and un-amended. I pondered with a heart so leery, an interminable existence grown quite dreary. My head did bob, nearly napping, when suddenly there came a tapping as of someone gently rapping, rapping on my front room door. Drunkenly lurching I vehemently swore to throw it open and find my best friend Lenore. Unusual attire I inspected as some ruse may go undetected under the scandalous thing she wore. A patent leather string bikini covered in steel studs quite unseemly, only this and nothing more. To my hand she a long sword extended. “Come with me so your family life not be ended.” Mysterious and womanly was that bitch Lenore.
Extending her hand, which had offended, spoke a word and space was rended to emit a fiery infernal door. With laws of physics so transcended, to the top a sign appended by imp or succubustic whore. Words in Latin quite outdated my scholarly mind at once translated, “Fallen angel express portal, abandon hope to enter mortal.” The legend this damned egress bore. At Lenore I expressed a hunch, this vile journey would cost me lunch. Though my scorn be gently born her eyes upon me wished flesh be torn. With wit acerbic and quite quick she thus expressed I was a dick. “I owe your family a settled score. Thus you are an ass and nothing more.”
Pack animal could I be, when need arose, thus I descended with my hellish rose, into a world of enigmatic throes, watching for any sign of an exit door. Though my terror be quite extended, by the copious sweat and blood Lenore expended she walked on stoically as if all were a bore. Through nine levels she did dance, my own survival was mere chance, eventually I spared a glance and understood how little she wore. Little armor was imparted from the souls both damned and departed but instead shielded her from a hefty bill of drycleaning off, after the kill, the black and ichorous gore. For in truth her hair and skin with fluids be lathed her simple outfit was almost saved. A truth unshared by me, I witnessed with horror.
Through fields of carnage we two fleeted and it was to the devil justice was meted. In middle battle grown quite heated Lenore’s arms were soon depleted and to her I passed the sword I bore. In pitched battle I was uneducated, that simple act my guilt abated, I was simply squire and thus not sore. To this day I still wonder, why my family Satan chose to plunder, there is a whole world to be torn asunder. I must confess, my family frivolous, but as for sins… they read not even Gor! In my declining years grandchildren listen with intrepid fears to the courting tale of I and my Lenore. Were you not afraid, asked in voices staid. An avenue I will not explore, “They were my family, nothing more.”
#shortstory #surreal #tribute #author #writer
February 24, 2015
Moonlight Tarot – The Crone
This is actually a very rough passage from the book I will be working on once I finish my current one. The story is my oldest and very involved and actually from a series I will eventually put out. I tried to make this story self contained with hints to the larger story but it may be confusing for all of that. If so I apologize in advance but promise it will make more sense when cleaned up and part of the larger whole.
Mary was paranoid. Swift thought his mother might be suffering from early onset dementia. A woman in her forties should not have to face such a thing. Her fears had something to do with Albatross wanting to hurt her.
Albatross, the younger, had run a little mad since his father died bloody. Why would that be directed at Mary? Swift hated the man in a distant way. Albatross controlled Darkling Trail, better known as the Corp, and thus most of the world. Yet Swift did not know why the most powerful man on the planet would wish harm on his mother. The two had never met. Mary had to be insane.
So Swift thought until he entered the house that afternoon.
Mary lay on the floor in a pool of blood, clutching an outdated cell phone in her hand. One look told him she had been cut but they did not account for most of the crimson stained floor. No, the placement of the largest pools of red informed him his mother had been violated. Hot tears stung his eyes as he rushed to her. He told her to hold on. He would get her to a doctor.
“Shit on that. Get me to that chair.”
She spoke through a scream roughened throat. Her voice held a laugh despite her condition. Even in her moment of dying she would keep a brave face for her son. Swift was a good son, even if he was not the best human being. He did as he was told, but he argued.
“We need to get you to the hospital.”
“You know who controls them. Same man who sent thugs to do this. Shut up Johnathan. I have a story to tell and not much time.” Still she clung to the phone like a lifeline.
“What is it mama?”
Swift held back his tears, rage, burning lust for revenge as he watched his mother die. He saw her wrestle with everything inside, trying to come up with the words. There was so much that even thinking of it took too long. It robbed her of the ability to pass on much. When she knew she had wasted all but the last seconds she smiled at him and shook her head. Her breathing was labored, voice soft. Her arm drooped and the phone fell to the floor.
“You… don’t know half of it. Check… garage… gifts…. From him.” With that and two minutes difficult breathing she was gone.
Swift scooped up the phone once she was no more. He had never been allowed in the garage, not even after he was old enough to drive. Looking at the phone he saw she had a contact, labeled simply I.
I? Ian? Was she calling his father? The man who had abandoned them when Swift was too young to remember? Was that who these gifts were from? If so he did not want them.
Swift opened the door to the garage and met his destiny. Three things that would change his life waited. They called to his soul. Swift found he did want them. They would let him fight, let him avenge his mother. They might even give him a chance at freedom.
#shortstory #novel #writer #author #dark
Mary was paranoid. Swift thought his mother might be suffering from early onset dementia. A woman in her forties should not have to face such a thing. Her fears had something to do with Albatross wanting to hurt her.
Albatross, the younger, had run a little mad since his father died bloody. Why would that be directed at Mary? Swift hated the man in a distant way. Albatross controlled Darkling Trail, better known as the Corp, and thus most of the world. Yet Swift did not know why the most powerful man on the planet would wish harm on his mother. The two had never met. Mary had to be insane.
So Swift thought until he entered the house that afternoon.
Mary lay on the floor in a pool of blood, clutching an outdated cell phone in her hand. One look told him she had been cut but they did not account for most of the crimson stained floor. No, the placement of the largest pools of red informed him his mother had been violated. Hot tears stung his eyes as he rushed to her. He told her to hold on. He would get her to a doctor.
“Shit on that. Get me to that chair.”
She spoke through a scream roughened throat. Her voice held a laugh despite her condition. Even in her moment of dying she would keep a brave face for her son. Swift was a good son, even if he was not the best human being. He did as he was told, but he argued.
“We need to get you to the hospital.”
“You know who controls them. Same man who sent thugs to do this. Shut up Johnathan. I have a story to tell and not much time.” Still she clung to the phone like a lifeline.
“What is it mama?”
Swift held back his tears, rage, burning lust for revenge as he watched his mother die. He saw her wrestle with everything inside, trying to come up with the words. There was so much that even thinking of it took too long. It robbed her of the ability to pass on much. When she knew she had wasted all but the last seconds she smiled at him and shook her head. Her breathing was labored, voice soft. Her arm drooped and the phone fell to the floor.
“You… don’t know half of it. Check… garage… gifts…. From him.” With that and two minutes difficult breathing she was gone.
Swift scooped up the phone once she was no more. He had never been allowed in the garage, not even after he was old enough to drive. Looking at the phone he saw she had a contact, labeled simply I.
I? Ian? Was she calling his father? The man who had abandoned them when Swift was too young to remember? Was that who these gifts were from? If so he did not want them.
Swift opened the door to the garage and met his destiny. Three things that would change his life waited. They called to his soul. Swift found he did want them. They would let him fight, let him avenge his mother. They might even give him a chance at freedom.
#shortstory #novel #writer #author #dark
February 22, 2015
Nice! A New Review
I was not expecting this review to be as good as it is. So I'm dancing a bit. After you read this you should go buy the book before you're no longer a hipster with it.
Old Odd Ends will keep you on the edge of your seat until you reach the unexpected end. The story is about good vs. evil with all the ingredients that goes along with it. It is a captivating story. I enjoyed this book very much. This book was a great distraction when I needed some better to think about and enjoy * This book was given to me from the author in exchange for an honest review*
#5star #reviews #novel
February 20, 2015
How Come it's Got so Cold
Crimson drizzle stained bone white snow with a sizzle of heat only known on the coldest days. Herbert, never Herb, wondered how it had come to this. Was he so old he no longer belonged in the world or was it the thing caged inside of him since ‘Nam? Ah the impatience of youth, from the beginning.
Damn global whatever the hell, thought Herbert as he shoveled the snow in his driveway. Wasn’t it supposed to be getting towards spring? Sixty-five was too old for such tasks. As he insisted on the truth of such ponderings he looked next door and sighed. The widow Blankenship had over twenty years on him and her driveway needed attention. Clearing it out for her was the Christian thing to do.
As he dug the first shovel full out three teenagers appeared on the horizon, which with Herbert’s declining vision meant the edge of the property. Looking at them Herbert knew they were trouble. He cringed inwardly as he mourned the decline of society. Who the hell wore their pants down around the knees, especially in a foot of snow? Seeing one of the thugs motioning to him, Herbert walked to the impromptu conference.
“Pops, we have problem here. This is our territory.” The first boy, probably the leader, with the barrette, or something equally ridiculous sounding, piercing that that looked like a fishhook through his lip.
“Just being neighborly.” Herbert’s voice was proud and strong in spite of his advancing age and the apocalyptic conditions.
“Didn’t you hear? This is our turf!” Teen two, with the unsightly black, plastic saucers replacing and extending his earlobes. “That old bat pays us twenty bucks for five minutes work.”
“Did anyone ever teach you to respect your elders?”
“I’ll show you respect ya old fuck. Get on inside.” Teen three, the one with no metal but acne that would survive until his thirties on his face. “We’ll be over to shovel your house and get the money in about ten minutes.”
“Son, I would ask you to watch your language.”
“That’s it, I warned him. You heard me warn him.”
Permanent acne swung his shovel at Herbert as the other two nodded with mock sorrow. Herbert was old but these punks weren’t trained. He snatched the handle just below the blade and yanked. His leg came out and with the slipper snow the teen fell onto the wide metal of his shovel with a disturbing crunch of shattering teeth and nose.
“You boys have aggression but no training, no discipline, and no respect.”
Stop now, Herbert told himself, before this goes too far. It was too late though. The thing he had caged up since coming home was loose. Besides, saucer ears was advancing.
Herbert lifted his shovel. With a quick thrust driven by wiry muscles long unused but not forgotten the handle met the boy’s esophagus. The teen went down with a disturbing choking gag as he clutched his throat.
“We were punks in my day too but we respected age, skill, and service. Things your self-entitled generation does not learn and thus fails to honor.”
Metal mouth was turning to run but it was too late. Herbert was in another place. The boy was the enemy, Charlie, and he was escaping. Mercy belonged in Korea not Vietnam. Herbert reversed his hold and swung the blade of the shovel at the back of Charlie’s head, connecting with a satisfying thunk that dropped the youth to watery knees and spread crimson through his hair. As Herbert looked at the blood on metal the mist cleared and he returned to the now.
Crimson drizzle stained bone white snow with a sizzle of heat only known on the coldest days. Herbert wondered if this was what the world had come to. Wondered if this was what he had to become. He looked upon his fallen adversaries and felt ashamed of himself, but not as ashamed as he would if they didn’t deserve it.
“I’m sorry that had to happen boys. I’ll call an ambulance for you.”
Herbert turned to make good on the promise. His foot slipped on the unshoveled pink slush and he went down. He heard the telltale snap from his aging hip as he landed.
#shortstory #socialcommentary #author #writer
Damn global whatever the hell, thought Herbert as he shoveled the snow in his driveway. Wasn’t it supposed to be getting towards spring? Sixty-five was too old for such tasks. As he insisted on the truth of such ponderings he looked next door and sighed. The widow Blankenship had over twenty years on him and her driveway needed attention. Clearing it out for her was the Christian thing to do.
As he dug the first shovel full out three teenagers appeared on the horizon, which with Herbert’s declining vision meant the edge of the property. Looking at them Herbert knew they were trouble. He cringed inwardly as he mourned the decline of society. Who the hell wore their pants down around the knees, especially in a foot of snow? Seeing one of the thugs motioning to him, Herbert walked to the impromptu conference.
“Pops, we have problem here. This is our territory.” The first boy, probably the leader, with the barrette, or something equally ridiculous sounding, piercing that that looked like a fishhook through his lip.
“Just being neighborly.” Herbert’s voice was proud and strong in spite of his advancing age and the apocalyptic conditions.
“Didn’t you hear? This is our turf!” Teen two, with the unsightly black, plastic saucers replacing and extending his earlobes. “That old bat pays us twenty bucks for five minutes work.”
“Did anyone ever teach you to respect your elders?”
“I’ll show you respect ya old fuck. Get on inside.” Teen three, the one with no metal but acne that would survive until his thirties on his face. “We’ll be over to shovel your house and get the money in about ten minutes.”
“Son, I would ask you to watch your language.”
“That’s it, I warned him. You heard me warn him.”
Permanent acne swung his shovel at Herbert as the other two nodded with mock sorrow. Herbert was old but these punks weren’t trained. He snatched the handle just below the blade and yanked. His leg came out and with the slipper snow the teen fell onto the wide metal of his shovel with a disturbing crunch of shattering teeth and nose.
“You boys have aggression but no training, no discipline, and no respect.”
Stop now, Herbert told himself, before this goes too far. It was too late though. The thing he had caged up since coming home was loose. Besides, saucer ears was advancing.
Herbert lifted his shovel. With a quick thrust driven by wiry muscles long unused but not forgotten the handle met the boy’s esophagus. The teen went down with a disturbing choking gag as he clutched his throat.
“We were punks in my day too but we respected age, skill, and service. Things your self-entitled generation does not learn and thus fails to honor.”
Metal mouth was turning to run but it was too late. Herbert was in another place. The boy was the enemy, Charlie, and he was escaping. Mercy belonged in Korea not Vietnam. Herbert reversed his hold and swung the blade of the shovel at the back of Charlie’s head, connecting with a satisfying thunk that dropped the youth to watery knees and spread crimson through his hair. As Herbert looked at the blood on metal the mist cleared and he returned to the now.
Crimson drizzle stained bone white snow with a sizzle of heat only known on the coldest days. Herbert wondered if this was what the world had come to. Wondered if this was what he had to become. He looked upon his fallen adversaries and felt ashamed of himself, but not as ashamed as he would if they didn’t deserve it.
“I’m sorry that had to happen boys. I’ll call an ambulance for you.”
Herbert turned to make good on the promise. His foot slipped on the unshoveled pink slush and he went down. He heard the telltale snap from his aging hip as he landed.
#shortstory #socialcommentary #author #writer
February 11, 2015
Commuter Train
The dentist explained the procedure was too complex for my inferior mind to understand. It was important that it be done. Even more important it be performed Friday at noon. Most important of all, I would be under general anesthesia and feel nothing.
“Alright doctor blood and gums.”
He was not amused. Some people take themselves too seriously. Outside of spies those folks usually insist on being called doctor and hang diplomas on their walls. I tried that with my high school equivalency once. Nobody was impressed.
The dentist went on to tell me, under the influence of this drug patients were known to experience vivid dreams. I might have taken the warning more seriously had he not been trying to stare down the cleavage of nurse big tits. Seriously, she could have been a Bond girl back before they made anorexia a prerequisite. So, I was not prepared for what I fell into. There was no way he could have prepped me for it.
Especially since this was no dream.
Blinking the fog of sleep from my eyes did nothing to stop it clinging to my brain. The dentist may have been right about my mental endowment. I meant to think, but spoke aloud.
“That’s a hand cannon.”
My words were mushy. I acutely focused on the gentleman in a brown car salesman’s suit approaching me. He carried a revolver straight from the OK corral. I risked a glance around the commuter train headed upstate on the late afternoon run. My fellow passengers were few. A bum sleeping in one corner and a woman that could have been the nurse’s younger sister as far from him as possible; no help there. The gentleman in Armani could have been a spy but he was involved only with the stock section. Then there was me with a briefcase handcuffed to my wrist.
“Give me the codes, agent.” He seethed in a villainous midwestern accent.
“I’m not a spy!” My voice cracked.
“This is no time for games.”
“Seriously, dude! If I was a spy would I be here?”
“There is fallacy in your logic.”
“No, seriously. Even self respecting business men don’t train it these days.”
That caused black-suit to harumph. It also caused the (Mormon?) agent to tilt his head. The miniscule delay allowed the real secret agent on the train to act.
The car filled with thunder and a whiff of sulfur. A crimson third eye opened above the blue ones of the dangerous stranger. He fell forward with a, comical if I had not been covered in brains, look of shock on his face.
I sat stunned as the bum re-hid his gun. He retrieved his case. He smiled and spoke in an English accent.
“Thanks partner.”
He slipped off at the next stop, leaving me to look around. The woman was watching me with warm eyes. I presume it was because of the partner. The man in the suit had soiled himself. It was a good day.
#shortstory #writer #author #spy
“Alright doctor blood and gums.”
He was not amused. Some people take themselves too seriously. Outside of spies those folks usually insist on being called doctor and hang diplomas on their walls. I tried that with my high school equivalency once. Nobody was impressed.
The dentist went on to tell me, under the influence of this drug patients were known to experience vivid dreams. I might have taken the warning more seriously had he not been trying to stare down the cleavage of nurse big tits. Seriously, she could have been a Bond girl back before they made anorexia a prerequisite. So, I was not prepared for what I fell into. There was no way he could have prepped me for it.
Especially since this was no dream.
Blinking the fog of sleep from my eyes did nothing to stop it clinging to my brain. The dentist may have been right about my mental endowment. I meant to think, but spoke aloud.
“That’s a hand cannon.”
My words were mushy. I acutely focused on the gentleman in a brown car salesman’s suit approaching me. He carried a revolver straight from the OK corral. I risked a glance around the commuter train headed upstate on the late afternoon run. My fellow passengers were few. A bum sleeping in one corner and a woman that could have been the nurse’s younger sister as far from him as possible; no help there. The gentleman in Armani could have been a spy but he was involved only with the stock section. Then there was me with a briefcase handcuffed to my wrist.
“Give me the codes, agent.” He seethed in a villainous midwestern accent.
“I’m not a spy!” My voice cracked.
“This is no time for games.”
“Seriously, dude! If I was a spy would I be here?”
“There is fallacy in your logic.”
“No, seriously. Even self respecting business men don’t train it these days.”
That caused black-suit to harumph. It also caused the (Mormon?) agent to tilt his head. The miniscule delay allowed the real secret agent on the train to act.
The car filled with thunder and a whiff of sulfur. A crimson third eye opened above the blue ones of the dangerous stranger. He fell forward with a, comical if I had not been covered in brains, look of shock on his face.
I sat stunned as the bum re-hid his gun. He retrieved his case. He smiled and spoke in an English accent.
“Thanks partner.”
He slipped off at the next stop, leaving me to look around. The woman was watching me with warm eyes. I presume it was because of the partner. The man in the suit had soiled himself. It was a good day.
#shortstory #writer #author #spy
February 4, 2015
Mixed Signals
Stanley is a little bit psychic.Most of the time that’s annoying. On rare occasions I wish it was full on. Once in a while it comes in handy. Like when he sets you up on a blind date. But you can’t count on it.“Dude! You’ve been down in the dumps since that last ho-bag dumped you.”“Stan, first, we dated for months so a little respect. Second, it’s not very nice to say things like that about your sister.”“She broke your heart and my mom’s not around… bitch. Point is I’ve got a winner for you on Valentines.”“I admit you’ve had some wins but my worst dates have been your idea too.”“Like?”“Lisa…”“Dude! What was wrong with her?”“She was a werewolf, you set us up on the full moon.”“Granted…” Stan doesn’t normally look sheepish. “This one though.”I made him run down her traits for me, and translated along.Well rounded – FatNice personality – Butter-facePassionate – PsychoComfortable with herself – Twenty catsGreat cook – Really fatDemure – Religious whack jobLoves her family – Daddy issuesHe sweetened the pot, he thought she was a hero. Capes and tights? No, classic Greco-Roman hero. I agreed, reluctantly.Stan was to call me at nine thirty, if all was well I would give him the code phrase. If not I would claim an emergency. You can imagine how surprised I was when I showed up and the girl was gorgeous. I mean like Bridgette Bardot had lesbian sex with your favorite questionable actress and somehow had a baby who was voiced by Mae West beautiful. She smelled like roses, not like the crappy floral perfume your grandma wore too much of but like she rolled in petals until they bruised then came to meet me. Best of all? We hit it off instantly.I almost didn’t answer the call when it came. Then, I picked it up and gave the code phrase, that’s taken care of. Stan’s response child me to the bone.“No, dude, there’s a real emergency. She’s about to go crazy bitch on you. I don’t know what’s going to set her off, but you’re in danger.”I looked at this lovely flower just in time to see her pulling a bow from her purse. She knocked a heart tipped arrows and I knew who’s daughter she was. Just a moment before she had been laughing and pleasant, now she glared at me with the wrath of… well… a god. Her voice was locked in a glacier.“Let me guess, you have to go? I really liked you too. Why do men have to have the escape route and not just say, ‘this isn’t working’?”“No…”Too late. She launched the love arrow at me. My last free thought was more terrifying than it should have been. I wondered what that arrow would do to someone already in love with the woman he was looking at.
Then all I had was hers.
#shortstory #love #magic #mythology #author #writer
Then all I had was hers.
#shortstory #love #magic #mythology #author #writer
