Patrick Elliott's Blog, page 5
December 23, 2015
In the Beginning - Arise the Faithful
Chapter 41. This should likely go after the next chapter when it is written, but we shall see.
Opening his eyes and looking out the window to spy falling snow and twinkling lights brought joy to his heart, like very little could. Christmas was always a wonderful time of year for men like him. What kind of man was he though? What was his name?
Trying to remember caused pain to shoot from the middle of his head. There was something rotten at the epicenter of that agony. What it was remained as lost as what to call himself. The last thing he remembered was it being summer, and a requested betrayal. He was pretty sure there was a hammer involved.
When he stopped thinking about it and took it on faith things were better. He thought that was how it was supposed to be. Eschewing the idea of dressing, he walked through a house he could not remember. He was sure it was not his own. He was equally sure the emptiness and silence were new. Why would his house have so much that appealed to younger women?
Upon exiting the home he felt warm, which made no sense due to the snow drifting down. Still, the world seemed right. It seemed at peace for the first time in he did not know how long. Everything was good until he bumped into a barrier that felt like glass.
He pressed his hands to the cool surface keeping him in this hell. He was about to pray for guidance when a giant hand gripped the sky above him. What could only be the hand of god lifted the home and the yard as the flakes slowly lessened. The world turned upside down and shook around him.
Still he remained rooted to the earth. He did not slide from side to side. The only difference in his world was the wind, and how the snow flew up and began to fall back down again. It landed on his skin in flurries.
The pain returned, driving Father O'Reilly to his knees. His eyes closed, and he wondered, in that moment, why he was spared. Then he opened his eyes and he knew.
If not for the hand, retreating into the clouds, he would have thought it all a dream.
Instead, he understood the truth without knowing. Not snow, but refuse was falling into the yard. O'Reilly mourned the dead; friend and foe alike.
Of course he knew Chester was dead, but the discarded crab shells reminded him. A broken stiletto fell and he knew Nicole's fate. An empty bottle of Old Crow and he understood that his friend, Jack, was gone. Newspaper flittering past told O'Reilly that Peter had gone the way of the dinosaurs. An undelivered letter and O'Reilly knew that a mailman, unknown to him but important to the prophecy somehow, had also passed from the world.
The tumor in his head throbbed and O'Reilly shut out the world with his eyelids again. Everyone was gone. Everyone that mattered to this silent war. Everyone except the children, and the women, and the prisoners. Everyone except the enemy and O'Reilly.
He knelt, a man with terminal cancer and a mission. A man saved by the enemy for reasons unknown to him. The enemy was legion and he was alone, standing against the incoming darkness. Or, rather, on his knees against it, as a man of prayer and faith should be. He uttered the only words he could think of.
"Father, why hast thou forsaken me?"
Tear slipped from his closed eyes. The rotten thing throbbed in his head, pulsing out pain and power. He wondered how he could survive alone in the night. As if in answer to both words and thoughts the streetlights came one. Nobody saw how good it was.
#shortstory #novel #author #writer #writing
Opening his eyes and looking out the window to spy falling snow and twinkling lights brought joy to his heart, like very little could. Christmas was always a wonderful time of year for men like him. What kind of man was he though? What was his name?
Trying to remember caused pain to shoot from the middle of his head. There was something rotten at the epicenter of that agony. What it was remained as lost as what to call himself. The last thing he remembered was it being summer, and a requested betrayal. He was pretty sure there was a hammer involved.
When he stopped thinking about it and took it on faith things were better. He thought that was how it was supposed to be. Eschewing the idea of dressing, he walked through a house he could not remember. He was sure it was not his own. He was equally sure the emptiness and silence were new. Why would his house have so much that appealed to younger women?
Upon exiting the home he felt warm, which made no sense due to the snow drifting down. Still, the world seemed right. It seemed at peace for the first time in he did not know how long. Everything was good until he bumped into a barrier that felt like glass.
He pressed his hands to the cool surface keeping him in this hell. He was about to pray for guidance when a giant hand gripped the sky above him. What could only be the hand of god lifted the home and the yard as the flakes slowly lessened. The world turned upside down and shook around him.
Still he remained rooted to the earth. He did not slide from side to side. The only difference in his world was the wind, and how the snow flew up and began to fall back down again. It landed on his skin in flurries.
The pain returned, driving Father O'Reilly to his knees. His eyes closed, and he wondered, in that moment, why he was spared. Then he opened his eyes and he knew.
If not for the hand, retreating into the clouds, he would have thought it all a dream.
Instead, he understood the truth without knowing. Not snow, but refuse was falling into the yard. O'Reilly mourned the dead; friend and foe alike.
Of course he knew Chester was dead, but the discarded crab shells reminded him. A broken stiletto fell and he knew Nicole's fate. An empty bottle of Old Crow and he understood that his friend, Jack, was gone. Newspaper flittering past told O'Reilly that Peter had gone the way of the dinosaurs. An undelivered letter and O'Reilly knew that a mailman, unknown to him but important to the prophecy somehow, had also passed from the world.
The tumor in his head throbbed and O'Reilly shut out the world with his eyelids again. Everyone was gone. Everyone that mattered to this silent war. Everyone except the children, and the women, and the prisoners. Everyone except the enemy and O'Reilly.
He knelt, a man with terminal cancer and a mission. A man saved by the enemy for reasons unknown to him. The enemy was legion and he was alone, standing against the incoming darkness. Or, rather, on his knees against it, as a man of prayer and faith should be. He uttered the only words he could think of.
"Father, why hast thou forsaken me?"
Tear slipped from his closed eyes. The rotten thing throbbed in his head, pulsing out pain and power. He wondered how he could survive alone in the night. As if in answer to both words and thoughts the streetlights came one. Nobody saw how good it was.
#shortstory #novel #author #writer #writing
December 17, 2015
In the Beginning - The Northern Dilemma
Chapter 40.
Jack followed the trail. The current case led him into an office building as the sun set behind it. Nothing seemed too out of the ordinary. His distraction might get some credit for that.
He was thinking about Thomas. His stolen foster son, not the priest. He did that a lot recently.
Ever since the boy ordered the box, something wasn't right. Jack knew the boy purchased items online, but he didn't understand the appeal of the container. Though, from time out of mind young men loved objects capable of holding worthless treasures and half lost memories. Despite this history repeating itself, their parents never understood the appeal.
When Jack was a boy it was cigar boxes.
As to the evolution to fancy looking containers, Jack blamed the hipsters. He did that a lot too. So why was this whole thing making him uncomfortable?
He snapped out of his dread, into the tomb silence of the building.
He was alone. The place where a receptionist should sit was, to him, ominously empty. It was a bit before five though. Maybe she just ducked out early. More likely, in this day and age, the fat cats running the businesses were saving money by cutting Martha the single mother from the payroll.
They probably still paid her just as much when they saw her on the pole, Jack thought. Realizing how uncharitable that was, he tried to shake off his dark humor. He looked to the doors behind the desk instead.
One was orange and the other green. Jack moved towards the orange one, because he was not Catholic. He thought about drawing his gun, then didn't.
The hallway was dim, but not enough to stop him seeing. Another door at the end stood ajar, faint light spilling from it. Silence continued to rule the building. Jack made his way down that hall and pushed the door the rest of the way open.
He was surprised that he was not surprised to see Thomas sitting behind the desk. The teen spun a large gun on top of the blotter, causing Jack to wonder why anyone still had such a thing. Jack would have wondered where the gun came from, but he knew it was one of his own.
Jack could have wondered at the feelings inside him. The sense of inevitability for instance. The last decade or so had eliminated most such things from his personality though. Then the boy spoke up and answered any questions he might have.
"Did you think you could take the prophecy out of the boy?"
"I hoped, for your sake. The box was from her then?"
"You'll never know. Your part of this testament is done."
"I'm sorry..."
"Save it, your apology won't save you."
"...that I failed the priest."
"Aren't you supposed to play the hero and try to redeem me?"
Jack looked sadly at his adopted son for the first time. "I think you were lost before I even found you, son."
The gun screamed once, branding Jack as the new Judas.
#shortstory #novel #author #writer #writing
Jack followed the trail. The current case led him into an office building as the sun set behind it. Nothing seemed too out of the ordinary. His distraction might get some credit for that.
He was thinking about Thomas. His stolen foster son, not the priest. He did that a lot recently.
Ever since the boy ordered the box, something wasn't right. Jack knew the boy purchased items online, but he didn't understand the appeal of the container. Though, from time out of mind young men loved objects capable of holding worthless treasures and half lost memories. Despite this history repeating itself, their parents never understood the appeal.
When Jack was a boy it was cigar boxes.
As to the evolution to fancy looking containers, Jack blamed the hipsters. He did that a lot too. So why was this whole thing making him uncomfortable?
He snapped out of his dread, into the tomb silence of the building.
He was alone. The place where a receptionist should sit was, to him, ominously empty. It was a bit before five though. Maybe she just ducked out early. More likely, in this day and age, the fat cats running the businesses were saving money by cutting Martha the single mother from the payroll.
They probably still paid her just as much when they saw her on the pole, Jack thought. Realizing how uncharitable that was, he tried to shake off his dark humor. He looked to the doors behind the desk instead.
One was orange and the other green. Jack moved towards the orange one, because he was not Catholic. He thought about drawing his gun, then didn't.
The hallway was dim, but not enough to stop him seeing. Another door at the end stood ajar, faint light spilling from it. Silence continued to rule the building. Jack made his way down that hall and pushed the door the rest of the way open.
He was surprised that he was not surprised to see Thomas sitting behind the desk. The teen spun a large gun on top of the blotter, causing Jack to wonder why anyone still had such a thing. Jack would have wondered where the gun came from, but he knew it was one of his own.
Jack could have wondered at the feelings inside him. The sense of inevitability for instance. The last decade or so had eliminated most such things from his personality though. Then the boy spoke up and answered any questions he might have.
"Did you think you could take the prophecy out of the boy?"
"I hoped, for your sake. The box was from her then?"
"You'll never know. Your part of this testament is done."
"I'm sorry..."
"Save it, your apology won't save you."
"...that I failed the priest."
"Aren't you supposed to play the hero and try to redeem me?"
Jack looked sadly at his adopted son for the first time. "I think you were lost before I even found you, son."
The gun screamed once, branding Jack as the new Judas.
#shortstory #novel #author #writer #writing
December 11, 2015
In the Beginning - Her Name Day
Chapter 39, all previous chapters are below. Remember to pick up a copy of the December Awethology - Dark, and I guess Light too. The story I am proudest of so far is in that collection. Anyway, on to this weeks installment. Three more weeks of this and then I'll be taking this offline to finish the latter two thirds of it.
Thomas felt more and more grown up. Something about Jack trusting him to stay home alone since he turned thirteen. The greatest joy the young man knew was in receiving a package. That little thrill when an stranger bearing gifts he was allowed to accept knocked on the door was the primary reason most of his allowance money was spent in online shops.
Jack didn't understand the obsession, but he enjoyed the independence the boy showed. He also liked the smile on the young man's face. Thomas was a melancholy child, who lived far too much in his own head. So Jack never considered putting a stop to the mild and non-harmful addiction.
When the two simple joys combined, there was nothing better in the world. Not even close. This one though... a trill of fear quaked up his spine as he opened the door and signed for the package. Jack's birthday was coming up. Thomas was saving for that, so he had not ordered anything in weeks. Yet, here was this package.
The door closed on the delivery man, leaving Thomas to his wonder and the unnatural silence that suddenly filled the house. Jack wouldn't order something for him. He'd buy it in the store and watch the boy's face. So there was a secret here. Mysteries are irresistible to teenage boys, and Thomas was no exception. Then there was the package itself.
The fabric containing the gift, for that it surely was, was like nothing Thomas had ever seen. The color for one thing. Thomas thought of it as a supernatural shade. A cross between midnight blue and the red of heart's blood, it shown like the black of a moonless night. Thomas instinctively thought of it as Judgment Night purple.
The feel of it was no different. Like furry sandpaper he could not help but pet. It felt like sex and violence. That touch of the beckoning divine, corruption and salvation. It felt like his first time, though that had not happened yet. Thomas knew not how he understood all these things. But he did.
When he set the shoebox sized package on the floor, it began to shake violently. It beckoned to him. A silent scream emanated from the box, for his ears alone. It called to him with the ceaseless appeal of modern siren. Thomas could not resist, no, tell the truth and shame the devil, he would not.
With all the patience inherent in the male of the species he showed the wrapping its proper respect. He tore the fabric asunder, discarding it like a prom dress. The box inside was made of an ebony wood held together with pure gold fastenings. Interesting, but nothing compared to the fabric that previously encased it, or the things inside. Also, much like a prom date.
Thomas flipped the lid open. A howl whirled past his ears. Blistering cold and numbing heat, damnation and salvation, angels and demons, all whipped past him and into the night. He saw none of these things but felt them just the same.
When he recovered and looked inside there was but one piece of velum, smaller than an index card. Everything the world needed was already out of the box. Written on that parchment in flaking, metallic ink, once the black of night now faded to the gray of forgotten sins were three words.
Treason - Love, Pandora.
#shortstory #novel #author #writing #writer #writingprompt
Thomas felt more and more grown up. Something about Jack trusting him to stay home alone since he turned thirteen. The greatest joy the young man knew was in receiving a package. That little thrill when an stranger bearing gifts he was allowed to accept knocked on the door was the primary reason most of his allowance money was spent in online shops.
Jack didn't understand the obsession, but he enjoyed the independence the boy showed. He also liked the smile on the young man's face. Thomas was a melancholy child, who lived far too much in his own head. So Jack never considered putting a stop to the mild and non-harmful addiction.
When the two simple joys combined, there was nothing better in the world. Not even close. This one though... a trill of fear quaked up his spine as he opened the door and signed for the package. Jack's birthday was coming up. Thomas was saving for that, so he had not ordered anything in weeks. Yet, here was this package.
The door closed on the delivery man, leaving Thomas to his wonder and the unnatural silence that suddenly filled the house. Jack wouldn't order something for him. He'd buy it in the store and watch the boy's face. So there was a secret here. Mysteries are irresistible to teenage boys, and Thomas was no exception. Then there was the package itself.
The fabric containing the gift, for that it surely was, was like nothing Thomas had ever seen. The color for one thing. Thomas thought of it as a supernatural shade. A cross between midnight blue and the red of heart's blood, it shown like the black of a moonless night. Thomas instinctively thought of it as Judgment Night purple.
The feel of it was no different. Like furry sandpaper he could not help but pet. It felt like sex and violence. That touch of the beckoning divine, corruption and salvation. It felt like his first time, though that had not happened yet. Thomas knew not how he understood all these things. But he did.
When he set the shoebox sized package on the floor, it began to shake violently. It beckoned to him. A silent scream emanated from the box, for his ears alone. It called to him with the ceaseless appeal of modern siren. Thomas could not resist, no, tell the truth and shame the devil, he would not.
With all the patience inherent in the male of the species he showed the wrapping its proper respect. He tore the fabric asunder, discarding it like a prom dress. The box inside was made of an ebony wood held together with pure gold fastenings. Interesting, but nothing compared to the fabric that previously encased it, or the things inside. Also, much like a prom date.
Thomas flipped the lid open. A howl whirled past his ears. Blistering cold and numbing heat, damnation and salvation, angels and demons, all whipped past him and into the night. He saw none of these things but felt them just the same.
When he recovered and looked inside there was but one piece of velum, smaller than an index card. Everything the world needed was already out of the box. Written on that parchment in flaking, metallic ink, once the black of night now faded to the gray of forgotten sins were three words.
Treason - Love, Pandora.
#shortstory #novel #author #writing #writer #writingprompt
December 6, 2015
New Release: A Brief and Literal History of the World
Have lunch with gods and prophets. See the words of the Lord in new and interesting ways. See, for the first time ever, the world through the eyes of the most complicated and enigmatic prophet to ever (maybe really) live. Narrated in his own words and voice.
Sit down with Jesus and hear him recount how his father created the worlds, including where he got the idea and sections missing from all other known holy texts, even the made up ones. Listen to a harrowing tale of addiction and redemption as he recounts the missing years of his life, on record for the first time in all time.
Walk the dark streets of the youth of the first child star. Learn of the first band of apostles and their inevitable break up. Is there a woman who drives a wedge between Jesus and his first favorite? Perhaps a greedy record executive who convinces Jesus to dump the boy band lifestyle and venture out on his own? Most likely none of that happens as this is back cover material, which never really has anything to do with what's inside the book.
So what does happen? Pick up this brilliantly faux-faux-leather clad tome and find out. Jesus will tell you in his own time and his own way. You are the priest to the Lord's confession, but only for a Brief and Literal History of the World.That's right. The newest one is out and it is a bit of a departure for me. Jumping into the realms of satire and, probably, offensive humor. A Brief and Literal History of the World has something to amuse and horrify just about everyone. If you've wondered when I'm going to write some lighter stuff, give it a try. If you're easily offended... give it a pass. As in buy it and pass it on to someone else. Someone with a broader sense of humor or that you hate but still need to buy a nondenominationwinterholiday gift for.Up on Kindle, Kobo, Googleplay (search my name not the title), and physical copy. Nook is taking its sweet time, as usual.If you're on Google or Kobo, you know how to search. For Kindle you can look here http://hyperurl.co/duudrb and Amazon will have the physical copy in a few days.Why wait though? Like all my books this makes the perfect gift for everyone on your naughty list. You can skip the wait and those horrible lines at Amazon's physical book stores and order your copy here.https://www.createspace.com/5823165 As a matter of fact, you should just go buy it directly anyway!You can also pick up a copy of the new December Awethology Dark while you're looking around as well. Just in case you can't get enough of me this year. Well, pick up light too, but Dark first.And so ends this week's #shamelessselfpromotion.
#novel
Sit down with Jesus and hear him recount how his father created the worlds, including where he got the idea and sections missing from all other known holy texts, even the made up ones. Listen to a harrowing tale of addiction and redemption as he recounts the missing years of his life, on record for the first time in all time.
Walk the dark streets of the youth of the first child star. Learn of the first band of apostles and their inevitable break up. Is there a woman who drives a wedge between Jesus and his first favorite? Perhaps a greedy record executive who convinces Jesus to dump the boy band lifestyle and venture out on his own? Most likely none of that happens as this is back cover material, which never really has anything to do with what's inside the book.
So what does happen? Pick up this brilliantly faux-faux-leather clad tome and find out. Jesus will tell you in his own time and his own way. You are the priest to the Lord's confession, but only for a Brief and Literal History of the World.That's right. The newest one is out and it is a bit of a departure for me. Jumping into the realms of satire and, probably, offensive humor. A Brief and Literal History of the World has something to amuse and horrify just about everyone. If you've wondered when I'm going to write some lighter stuff, give it a try. If you're easily offended... give it a pass. As in buy it and pass it on to someone else. Someone with a broader sense of humor or that you hate but still need to buy a nondenominationwinterholiday gift for.Up on Kindle, Kobo, Googleplay (search my name not the title), and physical copy. Nook is taking its sweet time, as usual.If you're on Google or Kobo, you know how to search. For Kindle you can look here http://hyperurl.co/duudrb and Amazon will have the physical copy in a few days.Why wait though? Like all my books this makes the perfect gift for everyone on your naughty list. You can skip the wait and those horrible lines at Amazon's physical book stores and order your copy here.https://www.createspace.com/5823165 As a matter of fact, you should just go buy it directly anyway!You can also pick up a copy of the new December Awethology Dark while you're looking around as well. Just in case you can't get enough of me this year. Well, pick up light too, but Dark first.And so ends this week's #shamelessselfpromotion.
#novel
December 5, 2015
In the Beginning - Borders
Chapter 38, as always the other parts are below.
Tim found staying with a family strange, especially one with a teenaged daughter and a nearly teen son. He worried he was going to end up as de facto father figure, but it didn't turn out that way. The children paid little attention to him, except when the daughter was bossing him around. The new son, as they insisted on calling him, simply stared at Tim most of the time.
Nicole, the woman he rented from, made one thing clear. He was not to enter the basement under any circumstances. A simple enough rule, even if it did remind Tim of too many fairy tales. He had just moved to the city though, and very few were willing to take a chance on a long haired, starving musician. It would all work out.
Nicole seemed to be an absentee parent though. A week after Tim moved in, she vanished. That was when the chanting started. It came from the basement and continued into all hours of the night. It did not keep Tim from sleeping, as he mostly did that during the day. It did make it hard to practice though.
Though Tim had never seen anyone other than the three family members there was a chorus full of female voices chanting in the dark down below. At first he thought it was just the daughter's friends, but she never really seemed to have any over. He held his curiosity in check for a few days.
Then he started wandering the downstairs while the chanting increased. After a week he was pacing in front of the door for most of the night. After several weeks he could not take it anymore. He opened the door and descended. The sight before him made him wish he was born without curiosity.
Nicole, nude and bound to a stone dais, a gag keeping her screams held back; that greeted his eyes. A gaggle of younger women in varying states of leather clad surrounded the altar and chanted in what sounded like Latin. All of that was strange enough, but the daughter in a short silk robe, holding one of those wavy daggers, standing over her mother, was beyond bizarre. The son sitting in a corner, staring at where Tim stood, was the cherry on top of the insanity Sundae.
"The time has come for the torch to pass, mother."
The daughter raised the dagger as she spoke. Nicole squirmed and screamed against her gag. Imploring eyes looking to the stranger in their midst. Her faith failing her, in her last moments, she cast about for rescue. Tim was frozen where he stood though.
The dagger plunged. A looser, but still near perfect, chest parted before the steel. Warm blood sprayed and flowed down over stone. The younger women showered in it, scooped it up in cupped hands to wash and anoint their flesh with it. The boy spoke some of the first words he had to Tim, with a sick smile on his face that Tim felt obliged to obey.
"I need a first follower and recruiter. Mom broke the one that belonged to my brother."
#shortstory #novel #author #writer #writing
Tim found staying with a family strange, especially one with a teenaged daughter and a nearly teen son. He worried he was going to end up as de facto father figure, but it didn't turn out that way. The children paid little attention to him, except when the daughter was bossing him around. The new son, as they insisted on calling him, simply stared at Tim most of the time.
Nicole, the woman he rented from, made one thing clear. He was not to enter the basement under any circumstances. A simple enough rule, even if it did remind Tim of too many fairy tales. He had just moved to the city though, and very few were willing to take a chance on a long haired, starving musician. It would all work out.
Nicole seemed to be an absentee parent though. A week after Tim moved in, she vanished. That was when the chanting started. It came from the basement and continued into all hours of the night. It did not keep Tim from sleeping, as he mostly did that during the day. It did make it hard to practice though.
Though Tim had never seen anyone other than the three family members there was a chorus full of female voices chanting in the dark down below. At first he thought it was just the daughter's friends, but she never really seemed to have any over. He held his curiosity in check for a few days.
Then he started wandering the downstairs while the chanting increased. After a week he was pacing in front of the door for most of the night. After several weeks he could not take it anymore. He opened the door and descended. The sight before him made him wish he was born without curiosity.
Nicole, nude and bound to a stone dais, a gag keeping her screams held back; that greeted his eyes. A gaggle of younger women in varying states of leather clad surrounded the altar and chanted in what sounded like Latin. All of that was strange enough, but the daughter in a short silk robe, holding one of those wavy daggers, standing over her mother, was beyond bizarre. The son sitting in a corner, staring at where Tim stood, was the cherry on top of the insanity Sundae.
"The time has come for the torch to pass, mother."
The daughter raised the dagger as she spoke. Nicole squirmed and screamed against her gag. Imploring eyes looking to the stranger in their midst. Her faith failing her, in her last moments, she cast about for rescue. Tim was frozen where he stood though.
The dagger plunged. A looser, but still near perfect, chest parted before the steel. Warm blood sprayed and flowed down over stone. The younger women showered in it, scooped it up in cupped hands to wash and anoint their flesh with it. The boy spoke some of the first words he had to Tim, with a sick smile on his face that Tim felt obliged to obey.
"I need a first follower and recruiter. Mom broke the one that belonged to my brother."
#shortstory #novel #author #writer #writing
November 25, 2015
In the Beginning - Thanksgiving Green
Chapter 37, all of the previous are below, two of them very recently.
"You bought the biggest turkey we had in the store."
"It's for my first Thanksgiving as a host," Bob mumbled, almost embarrassed. He made his way out of the store as quickly as he could. Before more conversation followed.
It was his first time as a host because he never had many friends. That might have been what drove him to the Postal Service in the first place. After losing that job he drifted further from humanity and its rituals. Floating in the darkened landscape of desperate loneliness civil servants traversed as guides and the long term unemployed often found themselves thrust into.
He traveled the road alone, his tiny social group withering to nothing.
In the suicide support group that he found friends again. They were freaks. They were pathetic, lonely losers. Having those things in common bound him more closely to them than the ties of blood and placating friendship ever had with others.
So, he was cooking dinner for thirty. Any one of whom might slip off during the gathering to use his lavatory as a convenient place to slit their wrists. The room was used to human waste and tears though. It could see worse.
The "hallucinations" never stopped. Not really. They just slowed down.
They no longer surprised him. He still had a sense of something dark on the horizon. That might be why someone offing themselves in his bathroom didn't bother him that much. So, the Dickensian looking ghost showing up in his kitchen shocked him not at all.
The creature beckoned. Bob knew cooking was done. He did not bother turning the oven off. Perhaps his guests would arrive and think to baste the bird. He followed the chain rattling ghost through the streets to a home that looked a little too Cleaverville for any modern home.
The juxtaposition of the spirit to the house was not lost on Bob. He did not waste energy on deep thoughts about it though. When the phantasm passed through the door, after a brief look over his shoulder, Bob opened said door and followed without hesitation.
He knew the young women running hands over him were not one of his "episodes" but he almost wished they were. Thos soft palms running over his chest, stomach, and thighs were too perfect. They were things he did not deserve but very much wanted. As half-clad bodies pressed in against him, Bob barely repressed a shudder.
It was not desire though.
He shivered in terror. He knew they were bringers of darkness. This was an army of the type the crazies in Waco had been rumored to be, except for real.
The beautiful woman rounded the corner. Bob had not seen her in years, and he might not have recognized her, if not for the children. They were older as well, but the little boy looked at him with the same piercing eyes and spoke words that made Bob's soul drop out of a trapdoor in his stomach, into a vat of liquid nitrogen.
"Mommy, I told you that man sees too much."
The daughter had the privilege of saying grace that year. Everyone looked at her with drool on their chins, waiting for communion to begin.
",,,and that is we all get to eat hamburgers. Amen."
#shortstory #novel #author #writer #writing
"You bought the biggest turkey we had in the store."
"It's for my first Thanksgiving as a host," Bob mumbled, almost embarrassed. He made his way out of the store as quickly as he could. Before more conversation followed.
It was his first time as a host because he never had many friends. That might have been what drove him to the Postal Service in the first place. After losing that job he drifted further from humanity and its rituals. Floating in the darkened landscape of desperate loneliness civil servants traversed as guides and the long term unemployed often found themselves thrust into.
He traveled the road alone, his tiny social group withering to nothing.
In the suicide support group that he found friends again. They were freaks. They were pathetic, lonely losers. Having those things in common bound him more closely to them than the ties of blood and placating friendship ever had with others.
So, he was cooking dinner for thirty. Any one of whom might slip off during the gathering to use his lavatory as a convenient place to slit their wrists. The room was used to human waste and tears though. It could see worse.
The "hallucinations" never stopped. Not really. They just slowed down.
They no longer surprised him. He still had a sense of something dark on the horizon. That might be why someone offing themselves in his bathroom didn't bother him that much. So, the Dickensian looking ghost showing up in his kitchen shocked him not at all.
The creature beckoned. Bob knew cooking was done. He did not bother turning the oven off. Perhaps his guests would arrive and think to baste the bird. He followed the chain rattling ghost through the streets to a home that looked a little too Cleaverville for any modern home.
The juxtaposition of the spirit to the house was not lost on Bob. He did not waste energy on deep thoughts about it though. When the phantasm passed through the door, after a brief look over his shoulder, Bob opened said door and followed without hesitation.
He knew the young women running hands over him were not one of his "episodes" but he almost wished they were. Thos soft palms running over his chest, stomach, and thighs were too perfect. They were things he did not deserve but very much wanted. As half-clad bodies pressed in against him, Bob barely repressed a shudder.
It was not desire though.
He shivered in terror. He knew they were bringers of darkness. This was an army of the type the crazies in Waco had been rumored to be, except for real.
The beautiful woman rounded the corner. Bob had not seen her in years, and he might not have recognized her, if not for the children. They were older as well, but the little boy looked at him with the same piercing eyes and spoke words that made Bob's soul drop out of a trapdoor in his stomach, into a vat of liquid nitrogen.
"Mommy, I told you that man sees too much."
The daughter had the privilege of saying grace that year. Everyone looked at her with drool on their chins, waiting for communion to begin.
",,,and that is we all get to eat hamburgers. Amen."
#shortstory #novel #author #writer #writing
November 22, 2015
In the Beginning - Dead Man's Party
Chapter 36, all others are below.
Hector passed Jack on the way out of the building. The once disgraced cop gave the mortician a gaze that made Hector feel the other man was looking into his soul.
"Where are you off to in the middle of your shift, Hector?"
That look, the growling way the detective spoke. The fact that Jack could have been a private eye straight out of one of the pulp novels Hector's father used to read, second hand, in Mexico. It all led to Hector almost admitting to the letter in his pocket. Then a shadow passed over his heart. The shiver that ran through his body kept him moving.
"Going to lunch."
He kept moving to avoid the look. He felt it but he gave it no power over him. Jack knew the mortician was lying, but it was none of his business.
"Don't get too drunk to cut up the perps I bring in," the detective joked.
Hector paid it no mind. He kept walking, his hand slipping into his pocket. He caressed the letter like a lover to ensure it was still there. Assured that the cop had not picked his pocket, the mortician sighed in relief.
The note was simple, written in a child's hand. Though, it could have been someone who never learned to write very well. It invited him to a cadaver concert and gave an address and time. A time Hector could just meet if he left now. Hector was too much the mortician to pass it up.
Arriving at the house he knocked on the door and waited. Until a little girl opened up and took his hand. Without a word she led him through the house.
He wanted to pull back. A man his age should not be drawn through a house by a child he did not know. There was a power to the girl though, it coursed off of her. He could not resist.
"Where's your mother?" He whispered.
"She's out. She does not like me showing him to strangers," the girl chittered merrily and skipped along.
"What about all of these young women?"
"Oh, they answer to mommy for now. But they are mine and they know their place."
She giggled. Hector looked over the women, dressed in leather and lace that looked more like armor than sex appeal. Yet he found them appealing. When she spoke of them knowing their place he saw one, almost surely dead and rotting from the smell coming off of her, bleeding and bruised in a corner.
Yet he still followed.
Into a room with a man in a coma. A man Hector felt he knew from somewhere. He had little time to think about it though. Instruments in the corner, children's toys, started to play as the eyes of the man moved rapidly behind his lids. A miniature piano, a drum set, and a my first guitar all sounded out. They played something by Brahms that Hector couldn't quite place.
He stood transfixed, staring down at the instruments playing on their own. He was so enthralled that when the knife pierced his back and through his heart he barely felt the pain. He had a moment to wonder where the little boy had come from. The one his blood was raining down to anoint. Then he thought no more.
#shortstory #novel #author #writing #writer
Hector passed Jack on the way out of the building. The once disgraced cop gave the mortician a gaze that made Hector feel the other man was looking into his soul.
"Where are you off to in the middle of your shift, Hector?"
That look, the growling way the detective spoke. The fact that Jack could have been a private eye straight out of one of the pulp novels Hector's father used to read, second hand, in Mexico. It all led to Hector almost admitting to the letter in his pocket. Then a shadow passed over his heart. The shiver that ran through his body kept him moving.
"Going to lunch."
He kept moving to avoid the look. He felt it but he gave it no power over him. Jack knew the mortician was lying, but it was none of his business.
"Don't get too drunk to cut up the perps I bring in," the detective joked.
Hector paid it no mind. He kept walking, his hand slipping into his pocket. He caressed the letter like a lover to ensure it was still there. Assured that the cop had not picked his pocket, the mortician sighed in relief.
The note was simple, written in a child's hand. Though, it could have been someone who never learned to write very well. It invited him to a cadaver concert and gave an address and time. A time Hector could just meet if he left now. Hector was too much the mortician to pass it up.
Arriving at the house he knocked on the door and waited. Until a little girl opened up and took his hand. Without a word she led him through the house.
He wanted to pull back. A man his age should not be drawn through a house by a child he did not know. There was a power to the girl though, it coursed off of her. He could not resist.
"Where's your mother?" He whispered.
"She's out. She does not like me showing him to strangers," the girl chittered merrily and skipped along.
"What about all of these young women?"
"Oh, they answer to mommy for now. But they are mine and they know their place."
She giggled. Hector looked over the women, dressed in leather and lace that looked more like armor than sex appeal. Yet he found them appealing. When she spoke of them knowing their place he saw one, almost surely dead and rotting from the smell coming off of her, bleeding and bruised in a corner.
Yet he still followed.
Into a room with a man in a coma. A man Hector felt he knew from somewhere. He had little time to think about it though. Instruments in the corner, children's toys, started to play as the eyes of the man moved rapidly behind his lids. A miniature piano, a drum set, and a my first guitar all sounded out. They played something by Brahms that Hector couldn't quite place.
He stood transfixed, staring down at the instruments playing on their own. He was so enthralled that when the knife pierced his back and through his heart he barely felt the pain. He had a moment to wonder where the little boy had come from. The one his blood was raining down to anoint. Then he thought no more.
#shortstory #novel #author #writing #writer
In the Beginning - Nursery Crimes
Chapter 35
The daughter looked into glassy eyes. They should scare her, she was old enough to know that now, but all she felt from them was an odd, comforting cold. They drew her in, pulling her towards another world. A better world.
Maybe that was why she liked telling her stories to the body. They weren't prophecies... yet. Not like grandpa's stories, rest his soul. Mommy promised that, if she was very good, one day her tales would be like that. For now, she did the best she could.
She liked to think she was making an impact on the body's world.
She held her very favorite book up, pointing at the pictures as she spoke. She was still young, but she was eloquent. Enough so that she knew what eloquent meant.
"This is the dish. He is the first boy and he loved his sister. Loved his mommy and daddy too. So much that he ate some of the daddy when the daddy became food. He was not Jewish or he could not have eaten any of the daddy. The Prophecy doesn't care about them or the Muslims though. Mostly he loved his sister though.
"This is the spoon, she is the daughter. She loved the spoon too. Not as much when he cried, and not as much as she loved having the mommy and daddy to herself, but she loved him. It was okay though, because in the end they have to fight. If it were just boys that would never happen, because boys are not strong enough to follow the Prophecy.
"No matter how much she loved him, the spoon knew she had to try and break the dish. Not right now, but when the time comes. She will kill her brother if that is what it takes. The world is more important than love. That is the secret grandpa knew that the other preachers get wrong."
"Then comes the twist!" She was proud to use that word right, just last week she said twisted. "The two did not run away together. Instead, the traitor stole the dish."
"Sweetheart, what are you doing?" Inquired Nicole from the doorway.
"I am reading to the dead priest, mommy."
"Why are you doing that?"
"So he can understand when he comes back to life."
"You know he's not really dead, right?"
"Yes. It was a lie."
"A good lie."
"To get uncle Jack to do what he needed to."
"That's right. Your brother needed to go and be raised somewhere else."
"Why do you keep the dead priest?"
"He's not dead. He's in a coma. We keep him like that so the tumor doesn't get any worse. We keep him because he has a part to play."
"I do not like his part."
"You don't know his part."
"Do too."
Nicole held out her hand and her daughter came to her. As they left the room the daughter looked over her shoulder. She saw the lamp turn itself off when the mother did not. She wondered who didn't know the dead priest's part after all.
#shortstory #novel #author #writer #writing
The daughter looked into glassy eyes. They should scare her, she was old enough to know that now, but all she felt from them was an odd, comforting cold. They drew her in, pulling her towards another world. A better world.
Maybe that was why she liked telling her stories to the body. They weren't prophecies... yet. Not like grandpa's stories, rest his soul. Mommy promised that, if she was very good, one day her tales would be like that. For now, she did the best she could.
She liked to think she was making an impact on the body's world.
She held her very favorite book up, pointing at the pictures as she spoke. She was still young, but she was eloquent. Enough so that she knew what eloquent meant.
"This is the dish. He is the first boy and he loved his sister. Loved his mommy and daddy too. So much that he ate some of the daddy when the daddy became food. He was not Jewish or he could not have eaten any of the daddy. The Prophecy doesn't care about them or the Muslims though. Mostly he loved his sister though.
"This is the spoon, she is the daughter. She loved the spoon too. Not as much when he cried, and not as much as she loved having the mommy and daddy to herself, but she loved him. It was okay though, because in the end they have to fight. If it were just boys that would never happen, because boys are not strong enough to follow the Prophecy.
"No matter how much she loved him, the spoon knew she had to try and break the dish. Not right now, but when the time comes. She will kill her brother if that is what it takes. The world is more important than love. That is the secret grandpa knew that the other preachers get wrong."
"Then comes the twist!" She was proud to use that word right, just last week she said twisted. "The two did not run away together. Instead, the traitor stole the dish."
"Sweetheart, what are you doing?" Inquired Nicole from the doorway.
"I am reading to the dead priest, mommy."
"Why are you doing that?"
"So he can understand when he comes back to life."
"You know he's not really dead, right?"
"Yes. It was a lie."
"A good lie."
"To get uncle Jack to do what he needed to."
"That's right. Your brother needed to go and be raised somewhere else."
"Why do you keep the dead priest?"
"He's not dead. He's in a coma. We keep him like that so the tumor doesn't get any worse. We keep him because he has a part to play."
"I do not like his part."
"You don't know his part."
"Do too."
Nicole held out her hand and her daughter came to her. As they left the room the daughter looked over her shoulder. She saw the lamp turn itself off when the mother did not. She wondered who didn't know the dead priest's part after all.
#shortstory #novel #author #writer #writing
November 14, 2015
Time for the Lost Cover Reveal
So I had this whole intricate plan for using the format this wonderful author had set up for her #coverreveal but the blog is not playing nice. Instead I will give you a link.
Go check out an amazing #Awethor and see what she is up to. This is one of the best covers I have seen. i know they say not to judge a book by its cover but... let's face it... we all do it.
https://chessdesalls.wordpress.com/2015/11/13/time-for-the-lost-cover-reveal/
If nothing else you will get to check out an author who is much prettier than me. So, go now!
Go check out an amazing #Awethor and see what she is up to. This is one of the best covers I have seen. i know they say not to judge a book by its cover but... let's face it... we all do it.
https://chessdesalls.wordpress.com/2015/11/13/time-for-the-lost-cover-reveal/
If nothing else you will get to check out an author who is much prettier than me. So, go now!
November 12, 2015
In the Beginning - The Seventh Sign
Chapter 34, all previous chapters can be found below. As per usual.
Bob wondered, why the hell did they still make him go out on days like this? Most people had their mail delivered electronically and the important packages delivered by one of the "premium carriers". Still, it was in the creed. With the storm of the century barreling down on his home town... he still had mail to deliver.
Little old ladies got their social security direct deposited these days, but still depended on the coupons in the mail to feed their gaggle of cats... and themselves from the same cans.
The wind kicked more, approaching a hundred miles an hour. One of these errant breaths of Zeus struck an old maple at just the wrong angle. The limb, torn asunder, whipped through the air to smash into the grill of the postal vehicle under Bob's care. The force of the collision crushed the front end until the engine rode shotgun. It continued its brutal and unwarranted assault by grabbing the vehicle and flipping it, wheels over tea kettle, to drop it on its roof.
Having thus had its fun, the branch danced merrily down the street to wreak vengeance on some other innocent. The engine continued to purr and sputter, unphased by such rough treatment.
Bob was not so lucky.
When the truck crashed to a rest, so did he. His head thumped brutally against the roof, causing him to gray out for a few minutes. Bob assumed the encounter was the strangest thing he would see that day.
If only he had been right.
When he regained himself, Bob took rapid inventory of his body. Finding only a goose egg sized lump on his head he considered himself fortunate. His first muddled thought was, are the circulars okay? A quick glance back confirmed they were, other than being upside down.
His second thought was to wonder why the engine would not shut up. It chose that moment to die, leaving him in, not silence but, that sound one only knows when experiencing a storm from inside a steel drum.
His third thought was to wonder... when had it started raining toads?
The critters plopped to the ground and onto the truck. Peering through the ichor covered windows, Bob saw stranger things still.
He witnessed a man straight out of a pulp detective magazine leading a young boy down the street. They hurried as if escaping something.
He saw ethereal fire consuming the buildings and the few unfortunates caught in this biblical plague.
A blood red moon rose at noon to blot out the blackened eye of the sun.
Angels soared through the sky, doing bloody battle, not with demons or humans but with each other. Was heaven as divided by politics as humans were? He stopped that thought though. If he continued he would rage to himself about possible funding cuts.
Bob saw many strange and wondrous things that afternoon. Impossible things.
The strangest of all was the sad, beautiful woman walking through it all with a young girl holding her right hand and an infant clutched to her breast with the left. She walked through the chaos like she owned it.
Then the infant turned its head and pointed at Bob. The child spake in the voice of judgment.
"Mommy, that man sees too much."
Bob passed out from fear, and maybe a little from the head trauma. He woke in the hospital to find the world back to normal. Realizing nobody else spoke of strange events he, wisely, decided to keep his mouth shut.
Even a week later, when they fired him and took away his pension for operating a government vehicle under the influence of drugs.
#shortstory #novel #author #writer #writing
Bob wondered, why the hell did they still make him go out on days like this? Most people had their mail delivered electronically and the important packages delivered by one of the "premium carriers". Still, it was in the creed. With the storm of the century barreling down on his home town... he still had mail to deliver.
Little old ladies got their social security direct deposited these days, but still depended on the coupons in the mail to feed their gaggle of cats... and themselves from the same cans.
The wind kicked more, approaching a hundred miles an hour. One of these errant breaths of Zeus struck an old maple at just the wrong angle. The limb, torn asunder, whipped through the air to smash into the grill of the postal vehicle under Bob's care. The force of the collision crushed the front end until the engine rode shotgun. It continued its brutal and unwarranted assault by grabbing the vehicle and flipping it, wheels over tea kettle, to drop it on its roof.
Having thus had its fun, the branch danced merrily down the street to wreak vengeance on some other innocent. The engine continued to purr and sputter, unphased by such rough treatment.
Bob was not so lucky.
When the truck crashed to a rest, so did he. His head thumped brutally against the roof, causing him to gray out for a few minutes. Bob assumed the encounter was the strangest thing he would see that day.
If only he had been right.
When he regained himself, Bob took rapid inventory of his body. Finding only a goose egg sized lump on his head he considered himself fortunate. His first muddled thought was, are the circulars okay? A quick glance back confirmed they were, other than being upside down.
His second thought was to wonder why the engine would not shut up. It chose that moment to die, leaving him in, not silence but, that sound one only knows when experiencing a storm from inside a steel drum.
His third thought was to wonder... when had it started raining toads?
The critters plopped to the ground and onto the truck. Peering through the ichor covered windows, Bob saw stranger things still.
He witnessed a man straight out of a pulp detective magazine leading a young boy down the street. They hurried as if escaping something.
He saw ethereal fire consuming the buildings and the few unfortunates caught in this biblical plague.
A blood red moon rose at noon to blot out the blackened eye of the sun.
Angels soared through the sky, doing bloody battle, not with demons or humans but with each other. Was heaven as divided by politics as humans were? He stopped that thought though. If he continued he would rage to himself about possible funding cuts.
Bob saw many strange and wondrous things that afternoon. Impossible things.
The strangest of all was the sad, beautiful woman walking through it all with a young girl holding her right hand and an infant clutched to her breast with the left. She walked through the chaos like she owned it.
Then the infant turned its head and pointed at Bob. The child spake in the voice of judgment.
"Mommy, that man sees too much."
Bob passed out from fear, and maybe a little from the head trauma. He woke in the hospital to find the world back to normal. Realizing nobody else spoke of strange events he, wisely, decided to keep his mouth shut.
Even a week later, when they fired him and took away his pension for operating a government vehicle under the influence of drugs.
#shortstory #novel #author #writer #writing
