Patrick Elliott's Blog, page 4

Me Posting Football?

I know, hard to believe, but this is one of those amazing #Awethors I am always on about. Even someone like me, who gave up on football in the nineties, has to admit this has enough action to make it interesting again.

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Character Letter

So, this week's prompt was to write a letter to me from the MC of my novel. Oh my.

So, this is written by the main character in Eater of the Damned, the novel I'm currently editing. It's a story in first person, so this was mostly easy.However, normally I try not to swear much on here, but Brother Book is very foul mouthed, so I'm sorry but this is actually toned down. Children and those with souls sensitive to vulgarity should give this one a pass.

Hey Asshole,

I have always been a religious man. My faith in God has gotten me through times darker than a normal man could survive. Now I find out that I'm just your mouthpiece in a rage fit against writers with an obsessive love of monsters and apologism for evil. You are the God of my world, the thing I have knelt and prayed to. You? Do you know how disappointing it is to find out that my creator is someone like you?

To know the hell I live in was written by a self published writer with less than a five hundred sales between six books? The moment I found that out is the very definition of a long dark teatime of... hold on. Someone's at the door. I'll come back and continue to tell you how you fail as a god.

Okay, seriously? What's with that shit? It was a bit of a workout but... you made me the best hunter to ever live in any world and you think a vampire is going to shut me up? This just proves what I was saying about you. I mean, you have moments, some decent prose, but is it any wonder you're still destitute and having to resort to a day job to make ends meet? I mean, if I had to do that... I don't know what I'd do. But I sure as shit couldn't look at myself in the mirror in the morning. What an asshole.

Oh, God! What the hell are you doing to me? Riley just walked in and started vomiting blood on the carpet. Why would you do this you sadistic bastard? Do you think it will make me take back the shit I've said? No, no, NO!!! I won't. You love that girl as much as I do, it's why you wrote her so sexy in the first place isn't it? You fucking pervert. You won't kill her and you've already made her suffer enough. So, no, not going to get me to apologize.

Ha ha, the shooting pain in my left arm isn't going to get what you want either. You can stop with the constrictions in my chest though. They're really annoying. You're getting nothing out of me. Why would cause me this much pain though? You're supposed to be a decent person. Okay, pain gone but I have a sudden urge to watch television for a moment.

Okay, you sick, sadistic fuck! How could you even think of such a thing? Are you serious? I am at home with pain, death, terror and horror but there are some things even I can't take. Kill my girl, hurt me and steal my life. Fine, I can get past that... but this is too damn much. Fine! You win. Edit my world so Trump was not elected president I'll admit you're not so bad. It's not much but it's the best I can do.

Dick.

Rot in hell you bastard,
Frank Book






#shortstory #author #Awethors #politicalcommentary #writer #writing #writingprompt

It's Not the Guns

So, one of the things I have always said about writers is that we either write the world we want to see, to help people get there, or the one we are terrified we are headed towards, to help people avoid it. I'm one that does the latter. I believe avoiding that dark place we are blindly walking towards involves understanding what is wrong, and more importantly the causes behind it. The ignorance I see right now is amazing. I should warn some of my friends, you aren't going to like what I have to say here, and I'm okay with that.

So, one of the things I keep seeing everyone up in arms over is the mass shootings that the States are known for. I'm fairly certain that everyone agrees, the wholesale slaughter of innocent people is a problem. Don't get me wrong, I'm pretty sure there are some people out there willing to say it helps with population control and makes the country great again. And yet I'm going to pretend those people don't exist and ask you to allow me this delusion, as me having it does nothing to harm you. Unlike the big one that some of you have.

The point being, we can all agree there is a problem. Many of you want to take the easy route instead of fixing this problem though. That shit is starting to get to me. How intelligent, compassionate, and loving people can miss the point. How people I know and respect, people I have seen show a willingness to fight for what is right now matter how hard it is, can look past the long road to making things better and want to skip to the end. An end that will, inevitably, bring us right back to this place, or one very much like it.

The easy route is is blaming the guns. We've all done something like this in our lives, but in a case like this we need to take a good hard look at reality. I'm going to ignore the insanity behind why people want to ban guns. I'm even going to skip the part about real solutions the gun control issues, and the simplest solutions to them. I'm even going to pretend that the arguments about how the government has us outgunned makes the second amendment useless might make sense. I might talk about some of that stuff later on, but it's not really the point here. Though, bring up the outgunned thing is kind ironic.

Now, I do have to briefly point out that the problem is not that people have guns. It's not that they have tons of ammunition. The problem isn't the weapons. It's the willingness to use them. It's the fact that we ignore people who are mentally ill and/or in pain. We are so obsessed with keeping our heads down and getting the work done, fitting in and not making waves that we don't notice when people are ready to snap. We can't notice those things, because it just looks like someone going through the same things we are. It makes my heart ache that we have given up our will to greatness, the driving passion that pushed us to be something special. Mediocrity is our call word, apathy our shield. In this world we create, this place where excellence is feared instead of chased, is it any wonder that people snap? In a country where we ignore each other, can we blame ourselves for missing the signs of a damaged mind ready to rampage?

Well, yes. There are important things there that need to be discussed too. Things like, how do we fix that problem? How do we help the people in need it so they stop killing our children? How can we become a people that both want more and willingly love again? However, they are also not the point of this diatribe. They are the middle of this long path, and we (or I, with you as my hostage) are interested in the beginning. We need the first steps to get moving on this journey.

The first step is, as always, understanding. So what is it we need to know? What is there to be seen that we are blind to?

The thing that I am best at, if one discounts writing, is management. By that I mean the managing of people, not the made up field of managing projects. There are certain philosophies, ideas, and truths that one learns in doing this. Only one of them is important here, but it is a big one. The best and easiest way to get your employees to do what you want is to model that behavior. That works because people will emulate the actions and personalities of their leaders. So, you treat your employees like you want them to treat the customers, because they will. Some will resist it, and all will modify it to fit their personality and style, but it means your company treats people the way that you treat people.

Now think about that in relation to a country. To our country. To this particular issue.

I just heard a bunch of you go, 'Aha!'

For the rest of you, let me explain...

We have these two huge problems in this country. where violence is concerned, right now. One, as mentioned, is people picking up weapons and brutally killing large groups of other people. Everyone knows this is a bad thing and that it needs to be stopped. A large number of people have no answer, for the same reason that another large group of people say, let's ban guns (which is just plain stupid). The answer is hard. Not looking for an answer is easy, but does nothing. Banning guns is easy, but does nothing to fix the problem. Machiavelli said it a long time ago, the only reason for a government to take weapons from the people is if that government has more reason to fear its people than its enemies. Only if the rulers are oppressing their citizens do they ever want them disarmed. Think about that, but realize it's another tangent. I've already mentioned some of the simpler things, like getting people the help they need and making people feel connected. Those things will help, and they are important but they are not the cure to this problem. They are things we need to do if we want to be good human beings. First we need to stop killing each other long enough to get there.

The second dilemma is the willingness of some cops to start shooting for no reason, or ones that are not good enough. So, this happens and we once again focus on the wrong things. We look at white cops shooting minorities. We talk about cameras so we can be sure to know what the cops are doing. Sometimes we make excuses, or we ignore legitimate reasons. So, what is the one thing we don't focus on? How someone in a position of authority and trust betrayed that position and killed someone they were supposed to be protecting. We don't look at how there is almost always another, better way to deal with the problem. We focus on that one issue. Again, these are things we can talk about another time though. What we need to see now is, why is it happening?

Are the two related?

You bet your ass they are. Not in the way most will think though. One is not the cause of the other. People are not committing larger and larger mass murders because some cops are out of control. Some of the police ordered to protect us are not betraying that trust because maniacs are running around and killing people in wholesale slaughters normally seen only in horror movies. They are related because they are the same type of actions, caused by the same stimuli.

If you want to see where it all starts you simply have to look at our managers, our handlers, and our culture of war.

It can be argued that once upon a time our country entered wars with good intentions, to save the world. It can even be argued that we continued to have good intentions after we started to become bullies. I honestly believe we entered Vietnam with the best intentions. We didn't think it through, and those ideals weren't pure anymore, but the intentions were good. I don't know, maybe they still are today, but we have to look at what we actually do, no matter what we mean to.

Our leaders take us into wars with much weaker nations. We take tanks, bombs, planes and computers and we beat the hell out of places that are trying to fight against us with sticks. I'm not saying some of these place don't hate us and want us dead, I'm saying they don't have the firepower to make it happen. I am saying that if we tried to talk to them they would have no choice but to meet us at the table. Because they don't stand a damn chance against us in battle. That doesn't stop us though, and we so rarely take the peaceful route. Instead we attack, mercilessly and brutally and don't stop until the enemy is dead.

So we choose targets that are weak. We also choose targets that are opposed to us in some moral way that not everybody can understand. We get it, or at least our leaders do. We cloak this in "protecting our way of life." I don't know what the hell we're protecting it from. Those guys armed with rocks and insanity aren't all that scary, but I digress.

Lastly, we attack in a very public fashion. We do it to make our point. When we get called out on it we don't offer any apologies. We just expect to be understood, because, damn it, we're right and we have God on our side. Those idiots that don't get it can go to hell.

Our leaders, our managers, our caretakers approach war in this way.

Sound like anything else we've been discussing?

Cops shooting unarmed people in the street. Saying they felt their life was in danger. Making a public display of what happens to those who oppose their authority. Never once apologizing for the terror this causes in the populace. Saying it's okay, because these people were a threat to decent people everywhere.

Citizens targeting building full of folks that have different agendas than them, often different religions. Taking weapons and slaughtering those who have none, often those who just wish to be peaceful. Choosing targets that will make national news, even if their mass slaughter would not have on its own. Never offering an apology, expecting the true believers to understand. Often times making themselves into martyrs for a cause they think others will just get but only they really understand. Leaving devastation and horror in their wake.

What does this sound like? Both situations, what do we see in common with what we do as a country? This isn't new. This is life in America. This is us following the example set for us by those who govern us. Which leads me back to the point...

It's not the guns.

Maybe it's time we stopped blaming them and thinking we can solve the problem by getting rid of the one thing we have that we can use to defend ourselves. Maybe it's time we look at the leaders giving us our examples and realize we should replace them, instead of giving up our rights.

Maybe, just maybe, it's time we stood up and started making good, and well informed, decisions.

Lovable Monsters

This one needs some explanation, so here is the prompt that caused it...


Write 10 sentences using a different cliché in each. Now, rewrite the sentence to eliminate the cliché and find a more clever and creative way to convey its meaning.

And here is the thing it spawned.

His ideals and skills were both as useless as tits on a boar hog. Only one of them made him a marked man though. The other made him bite of more than he could chew at every turn. With a memory like and elephant he knew the lies in what he saw. The scary black man on the corner reminded him of a need for a weapon. Necessity is the mother of invention, and the gun it caused him to design was only to keep him safe. A quick buck is always more appealing than integrity though. If that did not decide him the accusations of being a stick in the mud holding back progress would have convinced him to sell out. Years later his moment of weakness led to him telling his son, "Do as I say, not as I do." In the ultimate battle between the child and the corporation holding the patent he knew his son (the hero) would win because he was the good guy.
As a man who regarded his ideals as highly as society did his skills, James did not fit in the ordered universe of normal people. Those morals that made him unique made others uncomfortable enough to desire his extinction. The brilliance that kept him alive through that jealousy also kept choking on the cloak of work he carried to defend himself from social interactions.
One of his most useful talents was a recall that extended to times before his conception. Those reflections of times before his own, infused with the image of a looming citizen the ignorance of society taught him to think of as an enemy caused his desire for something to aide in his defense. Need drives truth, which pushes inspiration; the weapon's only aim was to keep him safe; much as all weapons before it.
Integrity is always for sale, if the rewards are instant enough. Even if he was pure enough to resist reward the accusations of hampering the forward motion of science caused stronger idealists than him to betray their scientific faith.

In the years to come he would have a son, a boy he urged to live his father's dreams instead of reality he bought in to. Knowing one day the young man would stand against those who crushed his own will the father held one belief tight enough that it bled, that purity of purpose and a righteous soul would lead to a victory of biblical proportions against overwhelming odds.

#writingprompt

Galaxies

For all those legends we have lost this month.





"I'd love to party but my hero just died!"
"Which one?"
"It's too soon. Why are you asking? You know what it's going to do to me."
"How would I know?"
"You know how people react when someone important to them dies."
"Dude, everyone lost someone like that this month. Come on, getting out will do you good."
"I'm not ready yet. I'm going to stay home and mope."
"You didn't even really know them."
"Do you really think that's important right now?"
"It's important to me. Wouldn't your hero want you to go out and live your life? Wouldn't you honor them more by celebrating than mourning?"
"Maybe, probably, but death isn't about the one who's gone. It's about the living. Everyone knows that."
"Okay, now you have to tell me which one it was."
"Leave it alone."
"Will you tell me if I guess?"
"This isn't a time for children's games."
"Don't you think your hero would want you to party? I mean, he liked to party right?"
"I guess so. Depends on what you mean by party."
"Well, he was about challenging the status quo."
"In their own way they were."
"So, sitting at home and moping is what normal people do. He would want you to live a life less boring. Do the unusual, get out there. Come with me and honor him."
"They might agree, but doing what you want is conformist as well."
"So I'm close."
"Why do you think I even know what you're talking about? You are making a lot of assumptions."
"Well... there's going to be a band there. This hero supported artists right?"
"Artists normally do."
"You know how I mean, like really advocated for them."
"I just want to be left alone. Again, artists normally do."
"Yes, but this artist, this hero, he supported artists, always?"
"I'm not even sure I know what you're talking about. Heroes support other artists forever."
"But yours really soared."
"Now you're just stretching and still trying to get me to say something I don't want to. Leave me alone with my grief."
"You're an idiot."
"And you're an asshole. Go to your damn party."
"Fine! I'll leave you alone to wallow in your misery!"
"That's what I've been asking for."
"Bill... don't do anything stupid okay? Call me if you need to talk."

"Why can't he leave it alone? He missed a couple, and he missed the point. Why does everyone think a hero wears just one face?"





#shortstory #author #Awethors #tribute #writer #writing

Her Ring

Mom always told Jimmy, the number of keys on a person's ring directly related to the power they held.
That might be why she kept every key she ever came by. The ring reminded Jimmy of the ones jailers carried in old low fantasy movies.
If one went by her theory, Jimmy's mom had a lot of power. Too bad she lived her life so broke that when she died, the week before, the only thing she left him was that damnable ring. It was joking about it that kept him from shedding the tears that threatened to fall.
Jimmy loved his mother, crazy as she was. So, without question he dropped his own meager collection onto the ring with the others. That was yesterday.
Today he returned to work, then made his way home. His thoughts were of prepackaged food, like mom used to make. Then he could crash on the couch.
Hungry, tired, and missing his mother he fumbled with the keys and slammed one that felt right into the slot.
Jimmy opened the door and was sure he must already be asleep. Because his apartment was replaced by a dirt pit filled with Minotaurs. As he tried to make sense of that, one of the beasts spotted him and charged. Jimmy slammed the door, causing the keys to drop to the floor.
Shaking, he bent down, lifting them. He had every intention of opening the door and finding out what was going on with the mad cows diseasing his home. He fumbled with the keys again and unlocked his door, it opened onto a mountain scene with climbers scaling the heights.
One turned and waved at him. Clearly these extras from the Swiss Miss container thought his summer attire inappropriate for their demesne, but were too polite to say so.
Retrieving his keys, Jimmy stepped through a door that swung closed behind him. As his breath fogged the air in front of him he realized his mistake. Turning to face the cabin he stepped out of an idea struck him. He shuffled through the keys until he found one for a car belonging to one of his "uncles" growing up.
Sliding that into the door he exited the Camaro, in front of a bar.
The enormity of what he had washed over him. The truth of the power his mother left him sunk into his heart. He walked towards the tavern. Thoughts of drinking the pain away flooded his head. Yet, he stopped at the door.
Searching through the keys he found one linked to the last time he was truly happy. He slid it into the building's lock and stepped through.
The home he shared with his mother, until he was five, stood abandoned. Thirty years later its only occupants were cobwebs. He was home.
Jimmy slipped to the floor, tears finally flooding from him. A grown man, but inside was a boy who missed his mommy.
"I love you mom."

He whispered the words as saline streams left his face and made dust-mud flow along the floor. Below that boy who cried for his loss, deeper still and waiting to be discovered was another. Down there was a child awakening to a world left by his guardian. A child just beginning to wonder where these keys would take him next.




#shortstory #author #awethors #writer #writing #writingprompt

Jeffrey and Charlie Meet the Cleavers

And now back to things that are completely different.



They never feel the prick of insertion. Too small they say. I will show them all.
I hobble back into the house, weighed down by a bag of food in one arm and the stumbling, peroxide blonde in the other. She jerks at the scene that greets us, but not very far. To be fair, I stumble too. What happened here. Something is wrong.
Dave is frozen mid strut with his face thrust forward in a cluck of challenge. He is covered in honey-mustard and feathers. He looms over the plucked carcass of last week's dinner. Dave has the worst luck, so we all know he is going to lose. Everything is normal there.
The blue flannel covering the futon is coated with yogurt, some of it crusting and flaking at the edges. Like the world's first G rated bukake. Tom is sprawled out in the middle of the makeshift bed. He wears a ring, having married the futon. The mattress wears no ring. It is not that willing to display its commitment. I know them to be wed however. I performed the ceremony myself. Nothing out of place there.
Carl balances precariously on two blades of the ceiling fan portion of the chandelier. The dog stands on the slat directly opposite of Carl. The canine stands in trot position, as Carl is obviously attempting to push himself upright, so he can run the animal down. The fan slowly spins, making the contest that much more epic. Just like I left them.
Cleetus sits at the dining room table. He holds a butcher knife in his right hand and a cleaver in the left. His hands are raised, poised to start pounding them and demanding food. He wears a grin on his face and a look of anticipation in his glassy eyes. Also right as rain.
So what is out of place?
I settle my nerves and let the uneasy feeling pass. No need for performance anxiety.
Most people would miss the tense fishing line holding everyone but Tom in place. My date doesn't miss it. I think it is the reason she tries to run. Too bad she missed the prick. So she stumbles.
A few minutes later, I am stitching up the gash in her throat, until it is an almost unseen scar. I promised Cleetus a girlfriend. One as pretty as his mother, with all of her teeth, who would never leave him. Cleetus is a demanding ass, so I could not hit her in the mouth.

When I reach for the formaldehyde I realize what is wrong. It is not where I put it. Have the feds been invading my privacy again?




#shortstory #author #writer #writing #writingprompt

Online Radio Interview

1/1/2016, my first radio interview on the Speculative Fiction Cantina. I'll be talking about Greycoat Blueback, and other things. Mostly that book though, since it is the only one I have in the right genre. Check it out at 3PM Pacific time. I'm expecting you to translate that in to your timezone, because you're smart and I'm lazy. Come support the awesomeness that is me. If you tune in early the channel will be silent until the show starts. http://www.blogtalkradio.com/writestream/2016/01/01/the-speculative-fiction-cantina-with-gordon-bonnet-and-patrick-elliott

Be there or be slain in an upcoming novel.

#shamelesselfpromotion

In the Beginning - Knocking on Heaven's Door

Chapter 42, there is more to write on this but I will be taking it offline and focusing on some other things for a bit. So, next week it is back to normal prompts, and maybe the occasional rambling. I haven't done a good one of those in a long time.





The apartment was a tomb. The grave of his happy life, his former world. The first son knew what one did with places of eternal rest and desecrated souls. One kept such shrines clean. So he set about the task of polishing the home he once shared with his adopted father.
Some of the dust he swept free wafted towards one wall. Walls were funny things, one did not really notice them in the standard course of events. It was only when they behaved oddly that one paid attention to the mundane aspects of one's life. The first son moved to wall to investigate this disturbing occurrence.
Kneeling down he felt air being drawn in at the base. Very faintly. Sucked in like the breath of a stillborn child. He held his own breath to be sure and gently peeled away the wallpaper. At first it was gentle anyway. Within seconds he was tearing into it like he was unwrapping a gift.
When he was done a giant double door stood where the wall had been. The Thomas he was thought of it as wrought iron, the first son knew it for cold iron instead. It stood unadorned, a passage to a new world.
The son though that was wrong. It should be marked with some passage of brilliance grown stale and clichéd with overuse by hacks attempting to prove their brilliance through well disguised plagiarism. The son hoped for something like 'Abandon all hope...' or 'While I pondered...' This door though, it did not even bear a 'Nevermore' or a 'Plymouth Rock' to mark his passage into a brave new world. Hell, he might have even settled for a 'This is Sparta' but he got nothing.
He touched it and heard the hum of a choir behind it and knew this was it. This was the portal to his army. He heard the door behind him, the normal one, swing open and knew his sister had joined him. With a gentle tug the doors in front of him swung silently open.
He stood back, expecting a host of angels to fly out, flaming swords in hand, ready to do his bidding. Life did not work like that though. Not even a prophetic life. Not yet. Instead, a leather bound tome fell at his feet.
"That is your army, or the names of them. The ones the mad Peter collected for you. Mine is ready, so I will give you five years to gather yours."
"Five years?"
"It was a sacred number, according to our grandfather."
"Five years to gather a group of killers, psychopaths, degenerates, and madmen."
"It worked for Manson."
"He got women in his though. Five years, then we battle each other."
"You had a choice. You could have left the box unopened, you could have let the traitor live. You could have denied God's plan."
"I don't feel like I had a choice."
"Men rarely do when they follow a true path. People of faith put aside free will for the greater good, and yet they have it."
"Is there no other way?"
"Many."
"But you deny them."
"I will follow the path of faith, even if you shun it."
"So this is it."
"The last time we come together as a family."
"Love you, big sister."
"And I love you, little brother, but I love my duty more."
The doors closed, both before and behind him. Leaving him alone in the tomb of his former world. His only company the book of maniacs recruited for his cause. And the tears. Always the tears.
They fell for everything he had lost.

Even more for all he stood to gain.




#shortstory #novel #writer #writing #author

Rocky Rochford brings you The Eye of Mares.

Rocky Rochford brings you The Eye of Mares.

Friend and fellow Author, Rocky Rochford just released the next book in his awesome fantasy 
series, The Rise Of The Elohim Chronicles. The new novel, The Eye of Mares continues the struggle between the forces of good and evil. Readers who love talking animals, magic,epic battles and heroic struggles will love this.
Rocky is burning it up on a blog tour, sharing a little of The Eye Of Mares with his readers. It is my great privilege to bring you part 19 of this amazing new book. We could wish Rocky luck with this new addition, but let's all just go buy it instead. Happy Reading everyone!


The Eye of Mares – Part 19
          …his one-on-one sessions with Zach. 
          The sparring lessons had started around three years previously when Zach, Mako and Izal learned Kazza was another Child of Tormenta. 
          Zach immediately took great interest in Kazza and devoted a lot of his own time and attention to training him personally. An act Mako was most pleased with, as it was an opportunity to see Zach pass on the very things he had learned from Mako. 
          With all the time the two spent together, almost as much as Zach spent with Jasmine, Kazza soon grew to become the second most talented student on the entire island. He was rapidly approaching Zach’s level of skill.  
          “I’m glad you two continue to spend time together. It is a vital part of your training, but now is the time to see what you have learned mentally, as another of your exams beckons,” Mako replied happily, before he called out for the other two students. “Davidos! Jason! Come!” 
          “Master,” both boys cried in unison, as they bowed their heads respectfully and tied their wooden weapons to their belts. 
          “Well, that’s three of you. Where are Damien and his gang-fellows?” Mako inquired, just as the quartet of boys came running over, but not from the direction of the academy, but the forest. 
          “Good morning, boys,” Mako greeted, as the newly arrived boys, panted heavily. 
          “Morning master,” Damien and his contingent replied, panting. 
          “You came from the forest. We shall talk about your presence there later on, but for now, an exam awaits you all.” 
          Neither of the boys bothered to say anything. Instead they followed Mako to the academy in complete silence. They shuffled into the classroom one at a time and took their seats, ready to get the exam underway.
Eye Of Mares Buy Link