Patrick Elliott's Blog, page 6
November 3, 2015
In the Beginning - Father's Chair
Chapter 33, others are below, as usual.
Harold, that was the armchair's name. He didn't know how he came by it originally, but the crazy man with the followers in prison knew it. The man started calling Harold by name before anyone else even knew the chair could think.
That was why they were friends.
That was why Harold supported Peter in this important moment.
Peter loved the daughter, and he loved Nicole. He was sure there was a flaw in the prophecy. Peter confided this to the armchair in their moments alone. He whispered the dark, near blasphemous thoughts into the faded green felt.
"There can be no prophecy without a son. The girl is nearly ten now. She has to listen, you can convince her."
Harold was starting to think Peter might be running truly mad. Peter knew that, from the way the chair stared at him. It held accusations and pity in its buttons. Still, the chair was always there.
The chair looked on with disbelief as Peter presented the philosophy to Nicole. It watched with amusement as Peter tried to convince the woman of the truth of his words. It stared in shock as Nicole admitted that there might be some truth to the idea. Harold would never forget the way she admitted partial defeat.
"There may need to be a second son, but where would I find a father for him?"
Harold laughed so loud that he covered Peter's tears with it. A mocking, hollow sound that only Peter heard. He hated the chair a little in that moment. He quickly forgave the slight though. Both because the chair was his best friend and because Peter was sure amusement was hard to come by as a chair.
Harold watched with intense interest as Peter convinced Nicole that he would be an acceptable sperm donor for the new son. Harold held back his laughter as Nicole took this seriously at first. He viewed the impending drama with baited breath as Peter worked to convince her that the old fashioned way was better.
Harold leered lasciviously when Nicole finally gave in. He watched the action like it was his own personal, live action porno. Until they ended up on top of him and he could no longer see anything. They didn't even wash him afterwards.
Peter should know better.
Harold was smarter than most people in the house. He knew it was a bad idea to argue with Nicole. He heaved an inward sigh when the fight began.
"The new boy should have a name!"
Peter insisted this to Nicole. She was not the most reasonable of women when she was not six months pregnant. She gave him a chance to take it back.
Harold knew what was coming. Now he held Peter in his arms as the man bled his life out onto the cushions. Harold knew something the woman didn't though. Peter had shared the idea with him. Her father had never mentioned it but there was a danger in a third child. It was a hidden part of the prophecy.
#shortstory #novel #author #writer #writing #writingprompt
Harold, that was the armchair's name. He didn't know how he came by it originally, but the crazy man with the followers in prison knew it. The man started calling Harold by name before anyone else even knew the chair could think.
That was why they were friends.
That was why Harold supported Peter in this important moment.
Peter loved the daughter, and he loved Nicole. He was sure there was a flaw in the prophecy. Peter confided this to the armchair in their moments alone. He whispered the dark, near blasphemous thoughts into the faded green felt.
"There can be no prophecy without a son. The girl is nearly ten now. She has to listen, you can convince her."
Harold was starting to think Peter might be running truly mad. Peter knew that, from the way the chair stared at him. It held accusations and pity in its buttons. Still, the chair was always there.
The chair looked on with disbelief as Peter presented the philosophy to Nicole. It watched with amusement as Peter tried to convince the woman of the truth of his words. It stared in shock as Nicole admitted that there might be some truth to the idea. Harold would never forget the way she admitted partial defeat.
"There may need to be a second son, but where would I find a father for him?"
Harold laughed so loud that he covered Peter's tears with it. A mocking, hollow sound that only Peter heard. He hated the chair a little in that moment. He quickly forgave the slight though. Both because the chair was his best friend and because Peter was sure amusement was hard to come by as a chair.
Harold watched with intense interest as Peter convinced Nicole that he would be an acceptable sperm donor for the new son. Harold held back his laughter as Nicole took this seriously at first. He viewed the impending drama with baited breath as Peter worked to convince her that the old fashioned way was better.
Harold leered lasciviously when Nicole finally gave in. He watched the action like it was his own personal, live action porno. Until they ended up on top of him and he could no longer see anything. They didn't even wash him afterwards.
Peter should know better.
Harold was smarter than most people in the house. He knew it was a bad idea to argue with Nicole. He heaved an inward sigh when the fight began.
"The new boy should have a name!"
Peter insisted this to Nicole. She was not the most reasonable of women when she was not six months pregnant. She gave him a chance to take it back.
Harold knew what was coming. Now he held Peter in his arms as the man bled his life out onto the cushions. Harold knew something the woman didn't though. Peter had shared the idea with him. Her father had never mentioned it but there was a danger in a third child. It was a hidden part of the prophecy.
#shortstory #novel #author #writer #writing #writingprompt
October 29, 2015
In the Beginning - Man Lessons
Chapter 32, go me! All other chapters are below.
After six years, Jack still had occasion to wonder if he was a bad parent. There were moments where he even wondered if he was a bad person. Those always brought back memories of his closeted youth. No boy should have to live in fear and shame. Thomas would learn that.
The boy returned home crying. He was surrounded by other boys. Somehow he always seemed to attract these other children. Boys flocked to him and accepted the slightly undersized young man as a leader. The caliber of Thomas's friends worried Jack. Their character was exemplified by their costume choices. There was a Manson, a couple of Nazis, and a questionable ghost amongst others. Thomas stood in the middle of them dressed as Lincoln.
Also fitting.
"What's the problem?"
Jack asked the question despite his detective nature answering half of it. The other boys look upset and nobody had any bags. They had been trick or treating, so they should have candy. The lack spoke of bullies. Jack hated bullies, but he was determined to teach his stolen son to grow up to be a man who took care of himself. To hell with modern sensitivity.
"A girl!" Thomas let it out between sobs. "Dressed as Eve. She came along and stole all our candy."
Jack looked between the boys. One girl? He wondered if she was a monster. Though, the thought of her dressed as Eve, other than sending a cold shiver down his spine for the correlation, made him think it might have been a stunned by seven year old puppy love thing. Great. He was raising a little heterosexual. Where had he gone wrong?
"Well, what have I taught you?" Jack ignored the other boys.
Thomas took calming breathes and squared his shoulders as his tears tapered off. He stood taller and met his father's eyes.
"A man stand's up for himself."
"Correct, but he also thinks things through. What do you want to do?"
"Beat her up!" One of the Nazi's chimed in.
"Is that right?" Jack asked.
"No, sir." Thomas dropped his eyes and spoke quietly.
"Good, there is never a reason to hit a girl." Jack hoped it was a lesson the boy would take with him. However, Jack himself did not know if he could follow the advice if he ever met the boy's mother again. "There are other options though. How do you think around problems and get your property back?"
The other boys looked to their leader, their president, their future dictator. Their eyes held wonder and hope. Thomas's brow furrowed and he chewed his lip for long moments. Finally he smiled and it was one of the darkest things Jack had ever seen. Then the voice was even worse.
"She has a little brother."
Jack knew the lesson had to come in its own way. He sighed as they turned towards the door as one. He had to say something though, just to be sure.
"Don't kill him."
#shortstory #novel #author #writer #writing #writingprompt
After six years, Jack still had occasion to wonder if he was a bad parent. There were moments where he even wondered if he was a bad person. Those always brought back memories of his closeted youth. No boy should have to live in fear and shame. Thomas would learn that.
The boy returned home crying. He was surrounded by other boys. Somehow he always seemed to attract these other children. Boys flocked to him and accepted the slightly undersized young man as a leader. The caliber of Thomas's friends worried Jack. Their character was exemplified by their costume choices. There was a Manson, a couple of Nazis, and a questionable ghost amongst others. Thomas stood in the middle of them dressed as Lincoln.
Also fitting.
"What's the problem?"
Jack asked the question despite his detective nature answering half of it. The other boys look upset and nobody had any bags. They had been trick or treating, so they should have candy. The lack spoke of bullies. Jack hated bullies, but he was determined to teach his stolen son to grow up to be a man who took care of himself. To hell with modern sensitivity.
"A girl!" Thomas let it out between sobs. "Dressed as Eve. She came along and stole all our candy."
Jack looked between the boys. One girl? He wondered if she was a monster. Though, the thought of her dressed as Eve, other than sending a cold shiver down his spine for the correlation, made him think it might have been a stunned by seven year old puppy love thing. Great. He was raising a little heterosexual. Where had he gone wrong?
"Well, what have I taught you?" Jack ignored the other boys.
Thomas took calming breathes and squared his shoulders as his tears tapered off. He stood taller and met his father's eyes.
"A man stand's up for himself."
"Correct, but he also thinks things through. What do you want to do?"
"Beat her up!" One of the Nazi's chimed in.
"Is that right?" Jack asked.
"No, sir." Thomas dropped his eyes and spoke quietly.
"Good, there is never a reason to hit a girl." Jack hoped it was a lesson the boy would take with him. However, Jack himself did not know if he could follow the advice if he ever met the boy's mother again. "There are other options though. How do you think around problems and get your property back?"
The other boys looked to their leader, their president, their future dictator. Their eyes held wonder and hope. Thomas's brow furrowed and he chewed his lip for long moments. Finally he smiled and it was one of the darkest things Jack had ever seen. Then the voice was even worse.
"She has a little brother."
Jack knew the lesson had to come in its own way. He sighed as they turned towards the door as one. He had to say something though, just to be sure.
"Don't kill him."
#shortstory #novel #author #writer #writing #writingprompt
Marnie Cate's Relaunch
Remember: Protectors of the Elemental Magic
To celebrate the relaunch of Marnie Cate's beloved first novel, Remember:
Protectors of the Elemental Magic, it will be available on Kindle for $0.99 / £0.99
beginning October 29, 2015 through November 4, 2015
Author: Marnie Cate
Title: Remember: Protectors of the Elemental Magic
Genre: Young Adult Fantasy
Synopsis
Hiding the truth from you is no longer protecting you. Sit and I will tell you what you
need to know.
With those words, the secrets of my great grandmother, Genevieve Silver, were
unburied and my role as a protector of the elemental magic was revealed.
My name is Marina Addisyn Stone but Mara is what my friends and family call me.
I had always felt that there was something missing and that nothing was permanent.
Why would I feel that way? I was being raised with my little sister by my
grandmother that loved and doted on me. Then, there was Cole Sands. Who could
forget the blue-eyed boy that had stolen my heart? What more could a girl need? I
always thought I was just being dramatic and that bad things do happen to people
but that is part of life. People die. People go away. Little did I know that with one
secret, my life would change forever and my new world would be surrounded by the
world of elemental magic?
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
As I felt my determination build, the mirror in front of me began to change and the
reflection filled with rippling water. The image made me think of the choppy water of
Sparrow Lake. At first, the small waves were calm but the speed and intensity of
each movement of the water grew. I found myself being splashed as the waves grew
harder and began to slap against the mirror. Standing up, I moved away just in time
to watch the mirror before me shatter and the violent water burst out towards me.
The room began to fill with rushing water. Feeling around the room, I searched for
an exit. Behind the shattered mirror, I only found solid rock. Looking to the ceiling, I
could see the same hard stone. Feeling the emotions build inside me, I began
search the floor and walls around me for any exit.
"Damn! Damn! Damn it!" I cried.
The water did not slow. Instead it continued to fill the room as I frantically
searched for my escape. The water soon reached my knees and, what seemed like
seconds later, I was wading through waist high water. As the water continued to rise,
I was soon struggling to keep my head above water. It was not enough that the water
was filling the room so rapidly but soon the water felt alive. The cold waves kept
tossing me back and forth as the water rose and I began to feel like I was in a game
of Ping-Pong where I was the ball. Soon, I found myself pulled under the icy water
and surrounded by thousands of bubbles. Frantically kicking my feet to keep my
head above water, I broke the surface.
Remembering the swimming lessons my grandfather insisted on, I thought about
the times I spent with my grandfather learning to swim. I began to feel less scared as
I recalled his calm voice and gentle words telling me that I would be safe. As I floated
in the rising water, it seemed to respond to my emotions. The thrashing became
calmer as I focused on my grandfather’s words. My brief moment of peace did not
last. Before I knew it, I had almost reached the ceiling that had no exit and I began to
panic. At this rate, I would be trapped and drowned in minutes. As if it was feeding
off my fear, the water began to toss me around again.
As the water began to rise up my neck and almost over the top of my head, I tried
to calm myself. You are the granddaughter of Mae Veracor and the great
granddaughter of Genevieve Silver. You are the descendent of strong women. You
have nothing to fear. With these words, the water once again calmed and I was able
to tilt my head back above the water. How am I going to get out of this?
Remember: Protectors of the Elemental Magic is on sale $0.99 / £0.99 Kindle
from Thursday, October 29th to Wednesday, November 4th!
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Amazon Book link: My Book
Marnie Cate Biography
Marnie Cate was born and raised in Montana before adventuring to the warmer
states of Arizona and California. Her love of Dame Judi Dench and dreams of
caticorns and rainbows inspired her to chase her dreams. One great sentence came
to mind and the world of elemental magic and the humans they lived amongst filled
her mind. With Remember, the story has begun.
Other Works by Marnie Cate
Exigency: Protectors of the Elemental Magic – Coming Soon
The story of Mara Stone continues. Her world was shaken but she is a fighter.
Facing new adversaries, Mara is learning what it truly means to protect the magic.
Awethology Light – Contribution Story
Beginnings: Protectors of the Elemental Magic (Novellette)
The story of Genevieve Silver and the origins of the protectors of the magic. With the
balance of the elemental world shaken, four elementals take on the task of protecting
the magic.
www.marniecate.com
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/MarnieCate
Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B00UJNT7J8
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/Marnie_Cate
Twitter: @Marnie_Cate
#Awethors #novel #writers #bookrelease
October 25, 2015
In the Beginning - A World Without God
Chapter 31, this follows the madness of the poem and actually inspired that.
Jack watched the sleeping boy. He fingered the gun resting under his jacket and shook his head. Jack had named the boy Thomas, after the priest. That might have been his mistake. Instead of ending this madness he spoke to a child too young and too unconscious to understand.
"I should do it. I should kill you. Know why I don't?"
A soft snore was the only response.
"I'm not doing it because of the old question. If you could save the world, but to do it you had to kill one innocent child, would you kill the kid? You're supposed to say yes. I can't though."
The child rolled over, which Jack took as an invitation to explain.
"I can't because of the priest. You know what he would say? He'd say, Jack, stop being an idiot. It's not about if you can save the world, but if you should. He'd say, what kind of world is based on the death of innocence? If I only I thought about this two days ago, or even three. When he called."****************************************
"I have cancer."
"Sorry to hear that, father. You shouldn't call me anymore. Still, your god will see you through it."
"It's past that. I'm starting to have prophetic dreams. Something big is coming."
"Something big was always coming."
"Something big for us."
"There is no us anymore."
"Shut up, you titanic ass. I called to tell you one thing."
"What's that, father?"
"Don't feel bad about what you have to do."
The line went dead before Jack could respond.******************************************
Nicole, Jack, and the ever annoying Peter entered a museum that was supposed to house some artifact of sacrificial importance for this impending prophecy. Jack was getting tired of pretending to care about the insanity. Still, he could play muscle a little longer.
It seemed O'Reilly was done playing the role of quiet bystander though.
The priest stepped from the shadows to stand before their objective. He wore a mask of mirth to please the reaper upon his lips. Peter stepped forward but Nicole stopped him with one hand and a gentle voice.
"It is time for Jack to prove his allegiance."
Jack walked around them, wondering if this was what the priest was on about the night before. He took the hammer Nicole held out as he passed. O'Reilly nodded to him, as if in answer to his thought about the meaning of their earlier discourse.
"Make it last." Peter growled and Nicole's giggle showed approval.
Jack met the priest's eyes. He saw forgiveness and understanding there. So he went to work. He made it last. O'Reilly never screamed, but he prayed for the souls of his murderers through the intense, bone obliterating torture Jack laid upon him. It lasted long enough that the sheet covering their objective absorbed enough blood to rival the shroud of Turin. He was just about to finish the job when Nicole stayed his hand.
"I think Peter deserves some reward, let him crack the skull. Come with me."
So Jack had not had to watch the priest die. The next night though, while Peter and Nicole took the artifact to a safe deposit box, Jack absented the manse with Thomas, until then known only as the boy. He left the girl behind. The girl was too far gone. Jack hoped that rescuing Thomas would end this madness. There could be no prophecy without the son.
Right?***************************************
Now, in his own apartment with the kidnapped child, Jack wondered how he managed to keep being a cop. He looked at the boy and shook his head. Sitting down heavily he touched his eyes and realized that, for the first time since his lover died in this room, he was crying.
"So, tell me Thomas. What kind of world are we saving when it is based on the death of a loving god?"
#shortstory #novel #author #writer #writing #writingprompt
Jack watched the sleeping boy. He fingered the gun resting under his jacket and shook his head. Jack had named the boy Thomas, after the priest. That might have been his mistake. Instead of ending this madness he spoke to a child too young and too unconscious to understand.
"I should do it. I should kill you. Know why I don't?"
A soft snore was the only response.
"I'm not doing it because of the old question. If you could save the world, but to do it you had to kill one innocent child, would you kill the kid? You're supposed to say yes. I can't though."
The child rolled over, which Jack took as an invitation to explain.
"I can't because of the priest. You know what he would say? He'd say, Jack, stop being an idiot. It's not about if you can save the world, but if you should. He'd say, what kind of world is based on the death of innocence? If I only I thought about this two days ago, or even three. When he called."****************************************
"I have cancer."
"Sorry to hear that, father. You shouldn't call me anymore. Still, your god will see you through it."
"It's past that. I'm starting to have prophetic dreams. Something big is coming."
"Something big was always coming."
"Something big for us."
"There is no us anymore."
"Shut up, you titanic ass. I called to tell you one thing."
"What's that, father?"
"Don't feel bad about what you have to do."
The line went dead before Jack could respond.******************************************
Nicole, Jack, and the ever annoying Peter entered a museum that was supposed to house some artifact of sacrificial importance for this impending prophecy. Jack was getting tired of pretending to care about the insanity. Still, he could play muscle a little longer.
It seemed O'Reilly was done playing the role of quiet bystander though.
The priest stepped from the shadows to stand before their objective. He wore a mask of mirth to please the reaper upon his lips. Peter stepped forward but Nicole stopped him with one hand and a gentle voice.
"It is time for Jack to prove his allegiance."
Jack walked around them, wondering if this was what the priest was on about the night before. He took the hammer Nicole held out as he passed. O'Reilly nodded to him, as if in answer to his thought about the meaning of their earlier discourse.
"Make it last." Peter growled and Nicole's giggle showed approval.
Jack met the priest's eyes. He saw forgiveness and understanding there. So he went to work. He made it last. O'Reilly never screamed, but he prayed for the souls of his murderers through the intense, bone obliterating torture Jack laid upon him. It lasted long enough that the sheet covering their objective absorbed enough blood to rival the shroud of Turin. He was just about to finish the job when Nicole stayed his hand.
"I think Peter deserves some reward, let him crack the skull. Come with me."
So Jack had not had to watch the priest die. The next night though, while Peter and Nicole took the artifact to a safe deposit box, Jack absented the manse with Thomas, until then known only as the boy. He left the girl behind. The girl was too far gone. Jack hoped that rescuing Thomas would end this madness. There could be no prophecy without the son.
Right?***************************************
Now, in his own apartment with the kidnapped child, Jack wondered how he managed to keep being a cop. He looked at the boy and shook his head. Sitting down heavily he touched his eyes and realized that, for the first time since his lover died in this room, he was crying.
"So, tell me Thomas. What kind of world are we saving when it is based on the death of a loving god?"
#shortstory #novel #author #writer #writing #writingprompt
October 22, 2015
In the Beginning - Pantomime
Part 30, stupid poem prompts.
Pain was his world nowPenance without reckoning somehowPleasure unknownPardons unsewnPatriarchy fading in a world now owned
Pizza means somethingPart understoodPurplish hazingPlethora not so goodPandemonium rising from under black hood
Plague bringing verminPassing for humanPatchwork dark sermonParceled by womanPassing time until Armageddon
Pulsing putrescence Purified by painPulling the essenceParlaying the gain
Plagiarized is the gospel of O'Reilly
#poem #shortstory #novel #experimentation #author #writingprompt #writer #writing
Pain was his world nowPenance without reckoning somehowPleasure unknownPardons unsewnPatriarchy fading in a world now owned
Pizza means somethingPart understoodPurplish hazingPlethora not so goodPandemonium rising from under black hood
Plague bringing verminPassing for humanPatchwork dark sermonParceled by womanPassing time until Armageddon
Pulsing putrescence Purified by painPulling the essenceParlaying the gain
Plagiarized is the gospel of O'Reilly
#poem #shortstory #novel #experimentation #author #writingprompt #writer #writing
October 17, 2015
Coming Soon
Coming out tomorrow. Be ready. They are free on Kindle, so you have no excuses. Other than once you're done you'll have a whole bunch of new authors you need to buy books from.
My story, The Think Drug, is on the dark side. Is anyone surprised?
Get your reader ready. There will be physical copies too. For people like me who love real books. At least that is my understanding at the moment.
Oh, here is the important link. Awethology Dark
But, if you want to get both you can do that here. Burdened by the Light
I guess you can tell what team I'm on.
#awethors #shortstories #anthologies #goteamdark
October 14, 2015
Cover Reveal for The Phoenix Project by D.M. Cain
It’s here! Dark, gritty psychological thriller The Phoenix Project undergoes a makeover in the
brand new Booktrope edition. Completely re-edited and re-designed, don’t miss this
stunning cover by the talented Amalia Chitulescu.
The book will be available to buy soon from a wide range of digital and paperback
distributors.
Author: D.M. Cain
Title: The Phoenix Project
Genre: Psychological thriller/Dark thriller/Dystopian
Book Content: Occasional adult language, graphic violence, and mild sexual content.
Original Cover Design from the first edition:
Synopsis:
How can you fight to the death, when you’ve given up on life?
A thought provoking and compelling dystopian world that will change the way you view
justice...
A man fights for life—and redemption—in D. M. Cain’s riveting re-released novel, The
Phoenix Project.
Britain has descended into chaos as violence and terrorist attacks seethe across this once-
peaceful country. Outraged by the steady stream of lawlessness, citizens demand a harsher
penal system, and the Phoenix Project is born.
In prisons across the country, inmates fight to the death in a weekly bloodbath while the
nation cheers them on.
Raven Kennedy, a prisoner who has never forgiven himself for his unspeakable crime,
struggles against his own guilt and self-loathing. But even as the real war wages on within
himself, Raven is forced to battle some of the prison’s most ruthless killing machines. Can he
survive long enough to unravel the anger and regret that shackle him—and one day find the
forgiveness he seeks?
‘The Phoenix Project by D.M. Cain is a superbly written debut, soaked in tension and
intrigue,’ Jack Croxall, author of the ‘Tethers’ trilogy.
D.M. Cain Biography
D.M. Cain is a dystopian and fantasy author working for US publisher Booktrope. She has
released two full length novels: The Phoenix Project - a psychological thriller set in a
dystopian future, and A Chronicle of Chaos – the first in a dark fantasy series. She is
currently working on the next novel in the series – 'The Shield of Soren' and a novella to
accompany it.
D.M. Cain is also a member of the International Thriller Writers and is one of the creators
and administrators of the online author group #Awethors.
Cain lives in Leicestershire, UK with her husband and young son, and spends her time
reading, writing and reviewing books, playing RPGs and listening to symphonic metal.
Links:
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/DMCainauthor
Twitter: https://twitter.com/DMCain84
Mailing List: http://eepurl.com/XevZH
Website: www.dmcain84.com
Google+: https://plus.google.com/+DMCain/posts
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/7888430.D_M_Cain
Youtube: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCzt_E8st1pyfkoTiA4E5jNg
brand new Booktrope edition. Completely re-edited and re-designed, don’t miss this
stunning cover by the talented Amalia Chitulescu.
The book will be available to buy soon from a wide range of digital and paperback
distributors.
Author: D.M. Cain
Title: The Phoenix Project
Genre: Psychological thriller/Dark thriller/Dystopian
Book Content: Occasional adult language, graphic violence, and mild sexual content.
Original Cover Design from the first edition:
Synopsis:
How can you fight to the death, when you’ve given up on life?
A thought provoking and compelling dystopian world that will change the way you view
justice...
A man fights for life—and redemption—in D. M. Cain’s riveting re-released novel, The
Phoenix Project.
Britain has descended into chaos as violence and terrorist attacks seethe across this once-
peaceful country. Outraged by the steady stream of lawlessness, citizens demand a harsher
penal system, and the Phoenix Project is born.
In prisons across the country, inmates fight to the death in a weekly bloodbath while the
nation cheers them on.
Raven Kennedy, a prisoner who has never forgiven himself for his unspeakable crime,
struggles against his own guilt and self-loathing. But even as the real war wages on within
himself, Raven is forced to battle some of the prison’s most ruthless killing machines. Can he
survive long enough to unravel the anger and regret that shackle him—and one day find the
forgiveness he seeks?
‘The Phoenix Project by D.M. Cain is a superbly written debut, soaked in tension and
intrigue,’ Jack Croxall, author of the ‘Tethers’ trilogy.
D.M. Cain Biography
D.M. Cain is a dystopian and fantasy author working for US publisher Booktrope. She has
released two full length novels: The Phoenix Project - a psychological thriller set in a
dystopian future, and A Chronicle of Chaos – the first in a dark fantasy series. She is
currently working on the next novel in the series – 'The Shield of Soren' and a novella to
accompany it.
D.M. Cain is also a member of the International Thriller Writers and is one of the creators
and administrators of the online author group #Awethors.
Cain lives in Leicestershire, UK with her husband and young son, and spends her time
reading, writing and reviewing books, playing RPGs and listening to symphonic metal.
Links:
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/DMCainauthor
Twitter: https://twitter.com/DMCain84
Mailing List: http://eepurl.com/XevZH
Website: www.dmcain84.com
Google+: https://plus.google.com/+DMCain/posts
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/7888430.D_M_Cain
Youtube: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCzt_E8st1pyfkoTiA4E5jNg
October 13, 2015
In the Beginning - Quentonian Nightmare
Chapter 29, all other bits are down below somewhere. Kind of conflicted on whether I think this is genius or crap. Comments welcomed.
Father O'Reilly knew the Saturday morning preachers weren't talking to him. Why would they be? He was a man of God. They were the faithless shepherds of a well fleeced flock. Their message was not for him.
It was for someone though.
He could see they were speaking to that one, passing along messages of death and damnation. They spoke in tongues, expelled riddles that only the most damaged of minds could mistake for the Word. One of those minds was surely hanging on every syllable.
That scared the priest more than anything.
When he looked back on it later, Father O'Reilly didn't know if it was the fourth wall breaking ministers or the tumor growing in the center of his head, but something prepared him for velvet Jesus.
His reaction to bare feet was one of the things that drove him to a vocation that denied him a family. Ever since he was a child just the thought of a bare foot was enough to get him giggling. The sight of one turned that into gales of laughter. So, when the velvet Jesus turned from offering food to the masses and told him to attend all three days of the foot fashion show, well, who was Father O'Reilly to argue? Jesus was his boss, and he could do a lot more than strip away the retirement plan.
Come to think of it, He had kind of already done that.
When the priest saw the insane book thief wandering through the fetishist demilitarized zone he understood who the talking heads were speaking for. Of course it would be that maniac. But how was he out?
O'Reilly kept his focus on the other man as much as he could. One stray glance at a toe though, and he was snorting. The enemy turned, offering the smile of a cannibal standing up to supper. The priest who spoke first.
"Peter, I am surprised to see you here."
"I have it on good authority that Jesus said much the same to another man with my name." The laugh underlying the words made the father's skin crawl.
"I have it on good authority that Jesus said a lot of dumb shit he never did." The priest nearly vomited out the words.
Peter tilted his head, to the left of course, the corners of his mouth turning down. "So where do we go from here, father? You have no authority."
"But I can save the world some trouble."
O'Reilly reached into his coat and drew, aiming at the madman. Peter flinched, then cackled wildly. O'Reilly gave him his best, what's so funny look. Peter pointed to the finger aimed at him.
O'Reilly looked down and realized he had no gun. Why should that be surprising? He was a man of peace and love. He also didn't own one. Which made him think.
He also didn't own a velvet Jesus painting. So why was he here? This fight could happen another day. As O'Reilly turned to return home, Peter called out to his retreating back.
"Oh, don't go away. We're just getting started."
#shortstory #novel #author #writer #writing
Father O'Reilly knew the Saturday morning preachers weren't talking to him. Why would they be? He was a man of God. They were the faithless shepherds of a well fleeced flock. Their message was not for him.
It was for someone though.
He could see they were speaking to that one, passing along messages of death and damnation. They spoke in tongues, expelled riddles that only the most damaged of minds could mistake for the Word. One of those minds was surely hanging on every syllable.
That scared the priest more than anything.
When he looked back on it later, Father O'Reilly didn't know if it was the fourth wall breaking ministers or the tumor growing in the center of his head, but something prepared him for velvet Jesus.
His reaction to bare feet was one of the things that drove him to a vocation that denied him a family. Ever since he was a child just the thought of a bare foot was enough to get him giggling. The sight of one turned that into gales of laughter. So, when the velvet Jesus turned from offering food to the masses and told him to attend all three days of the foot fashion show, well, who was Father O'Reilly to argue? Jesus was his boss, and he could do a lot more than strip away the retirement plan.
Come to think of it, He had kind of already done that.
When the priest saw the insane book thief wandering through the fetishist demilitarized zone he understood who the talking heads were speaking for. Of course it would be that maniac. But how was he out?
O'Reilly kept his focus on the other man as much as he could. One stray glance at a toe though, and he was snorting. The enemy turned, offering the smile of a cannibal standing up to supper. The priest who spoke first.
"Peter, I am surprised to see you here."
"I have it on good authority that Jesus said much the same to another man with my name." The laugh underlying the words made the father's skin crawl.
"I have it on good authority that Jesus said a lot of dumb shit he never did." The priest nearly vomited out the words.
Peter tilted his head, to the left of course, the corners of his mouth turning down. "So where do we go from here, father? You have no authority."
"But I can save the world some trouble."
O'Reilly reached into his coat and drew, aiming at the madman. Peter flinched, then cackled wildly. O'Reilly gave him his best, what's so funny look. Peter pointed to the finger aimed at him.
O'Reilly looked down and realized he had no gun. Why should that be surprising? He was a man of peace and love. He also didn't own one. Which made him think.
He also didn't own a velvet Jesus painting. So why was he here? This fight could happen another day. As O'Reilly turned to return home, Peter called out to his retreating back.
"Oh, don't go away. We're just getting started."
#shortstory #novel #author #writer #writing
October 6, 2015
In the Beginning - Parole
Chapter 28
One of Peter's few joys was the television in his single bed "apartment". Only the most politically correct of terms in this not prison for those deemed mentally unfit by the beautiful people of normal society. Peter thought the term crazy as a shit-house rat needed to come back into style. He had never been politically correct, by any stretch of the imagination. Probably why he was going to survive while most of the planet burned.
That was not something Nicole or her now defunct husband told him. No, this information came from a different source. Saturday mornings he sat down to the different religious programming on his television, which sat unused for most of the week. Saturday's were reserved for getting right with God though. The rest of the week, Peter spread His word. Even a dutiful servant needed his faith replenished on occasion though.
It was a Saturday, much like this one, when one of the televised prophets first spoke to Peter. Telling him that he would survive this coming storm if only his faith was strong enough. Since then the preachers looked directly at him and imparted personal messages more and more often. Even that couldn't keep him tuned in though.
The Word was too big for one man to spread. Unless that man was Peter. He did not know if it was the medication they insisted he take, the power of the message, or just the onset of adult ADD, but the talking heads would speak, in cryptic messages, of the prophecy for a moment and then move on to the boring pleas for money. When that happened, Peter changed the channel.
He sat, waiting for his pizza. On Saturdays the orderlies (guards, his mind insisted) allowed him to eat in his room. He always asked for pizza, and they always brought him the shoe shaped instant variety that chewed like leather and tasted like old shoes.
He reached down and took a sip of the soda on the table in front of him, as he changed the channel again. His didn't remember obtaining it, normally cans were forbidden. He also wasn't a fan of cherry-lemon-lime. It wasn't in a box though, and beggars couldn't be choosers. He was setting the can back down when the knock came at the door.
Peter kept himself from singing, "Pizza, pizza, pizza" as he rushed to the door. He flung it open with a smile. Then he croaked instead of speaking.
Nicole stood on the other side, smiling and holding his street clothes. He was sure she must be a delusion. Then the smell of her perfume hit him, and her voice a moment later. She held the clothes out to him.
"Special dispensation to let you live with the daughter of a holy man. I need your help, so it's time to go home. Your ministry work will continue when you attend group sessions."
Peter croaked again. He wanted to dance but a little, happy hop was all he could manage. A few minutes, a change of clothes, and an electronic ankle-bracelet later and he was on his way back into the war.
#shortstory #novel #author #writer #writing #writingprompt
One of Peter's few joys was the television in his single bed "apartment". Only the most politically correct of terms in this not prison for those deemed mentally unfit by the beautiful people of normal society. Peter thought the term crazy as a shit-house rat needed to come back into style. He had never been politically correct, by any stretch of the imagination. Probably why he was going to survive while most of the planet burned.
That was not something Nicole or her now defunct husband told him. No, this information came from a different source. Saturday mornings he sat down to the different religious programming on his television, which sat unused for most of the week. Saturday's were reserved for getting right with God though. The rest of the week, Peter spread His word. Even a dutiful servant needed his faith replenished on occasion though.
It was a Saturday, much like this one, when one of the televised prophets first spoke to Peter. Telling him that he would survive this coming storm if only his faith was strong enough. Since then the preachers looked directly at him and imparted personal messages more and more often. Even that couldn't keep him tuned in though.
The Word was too big for one man to spread. Unless that man was Peter. He did not know if it was the medication they insisted he take, the power of the message, or just the onset of adult ADD, but the talking heads would speak, in cryptic messages, of the prophecy for a moment and then move on to the boring pleas for money. When that happened, Peter changed the channel.
He sat, waiting for his pizza. On Saturdays the orderlies (guards, his mind insisted) allowed him to eat in his room. He always asked for pizza, and they always brought him the shoe shaped instant variety that chewed like leather and tasted like old shoes.
He reached down and took a sip of the soda on the table in front of him, as he changed the channel again. His didn't remember obtaining it, normally cans were forbidden. He also wasn't a fan of cherry-lemon-lime. It wasn't in a box though, and beggars couldn't be choosers. He was setting the can back down when the knock came at the door.
Peter kept himself from singing, "Pizza, pizza, pizza" as he rushed to the door. He flung it open with a smile. Then he croaked instead of speaking.
Nicole stood on the other side, smiling and holding his street clothes. He was sure she must be a delusion. Then the smell of her perfume hit him, and her voice a moment later. She held the clothes out to him.
"Special dispensation to let you live with the daughter of a holy man. I need your help, so it's time to go home. Your ministry work will continue when you attend group sessions."
Peter croaked again. He wanted to dance but a little, happy hop was all he could manage. A few minutes, a change of clothes, and an electronic ankle-bracelet later and he was on his way back into the war.
#shortstory #novel #author #writer #writing #writingprompt
September 29, 2015
In the Beginning - The Trust Brain
Chapter 27
Inoperable, Nobody liked the word, but father O'Reilly might like it less than any of them. It was a drawback of being a priest. When the doctor in the Catholic hospital told him there was no hope, what was he to do? It wasn't like he had real insurance, he just didn't have to pay. So long as he went to that clinic. What was he doing in the bank anyway? Nobody in their right mind would give him a loan.
What did he have for collateral? What was he going to put down as the reason for requesting it? Fighting a war against shadowy evil that may or may not have corrupted my only ally? That would go over like, well, a fart in church, he thought. Who knew a brain tumor would give him an appreciation for toilet humor?
He stood in a line filled with the shambling living and the nearly dead. In the middle of the day in a bank downtown, what else would he expect? Geriatric ladies bent over from canes just inches two short. Their male counterparts, twisted at every joint by advance stage arthritis. Mixed in were the working homeless and unwashed unemployed standing one government check from the streets themselves. In the middle of this flock of the faceless lost? One lone priest, marching towards his reward.
Those vacant faces did not stare. They were not too polite, but rather, just the type of skittish sheep, not his kind but the insulting one, who could not meet a man's eyes. They did not want to be seen noticing anyone for too long. They looked though, every one of them probably thinking the father's thin coat was almost warm enough to steal. First Cancer, now this. Father O'Reilly wondered if this was a punishment.
When he reached the front of the line a big chested teenager smiled and popped her gum at him. She was probably fourteen, but if they made fourteen year olds like that when he was young he might have skipped the seminary. Why was he thinking things like this? She asked him to wait while she got a trainee to deal with his application.
Then a clown appeared. Not one of the fun ones from the circus. No, this was a wicked looking clown like only Stephen King or Jay Wilson could come up with. The devil in disguise spoke to the priest.
"Hello," it whispered in tones for conspiracy and corruption, "I'm Captain Jiggles, the new loan officer, and I would be happy to help you."
"I need a loan."
"Not much profit in loaning to priests. What do you need the money for?"
"I... I have cancer and work to do before I die."
"Cancer? Probably a punishment from God for being friends with sodomites. A priest should know that."
O'Reilly blinked, "You're behind the times. Not even the pope believes that anymore. I just got there a few days before him."
The clown laughed from the belly, without increasing his volume. "The pope? We don't care what beaners think. Not around these parts. Now, what do you have for collateral?"
"Nothing." The priest stepped back. "Never mind the loan. I'll figure out something else."
O'Reilly turned and shuffled away from the counter, looking at the forlorn faces around him. Wondering as he did if the clown was really here. Wondering if he was really here. He dropped his jacket at the feet of one particularly homeless looking teen on the way out. As he reached the door the clown called out to him.
"You come back any time you're ready to see the truth!"
#shortstory #novel #author #writer #writers #writing
Inoperable, Nobody liked the word, but father O'Reilly might like it less than any of them. It was a drawback of being a priest. When the doctor in the Catholic hospital told him there was no hope, what was he to do? It wasn't like he had real insurance, he just didn't have to pay. So long as he went to that clinic. What was he doing in the bank anyway? Nobody in their right mind would give him a loan.
What did he have for collateral? What was he going to put down as the reason for requesting it? Fighting a war against shadowy evil that may or may not have corrupted my only ally? That would go over like, well, a fart in church, he thought. Who knew a brain tumor would give him an appreciation for toilet humor?
He stood in a line filled with the shambling living and the nearly dead. In the middle of the day in a bank downtown, what else would he expect? Geriatric ladies bent over from canes just inches two short. Their male counterparts, twisted at every joint by advance stage arthritis. Mixed in were the working homeless and unwashed unemployed standing one government check from the streets themselves. In the middle of this flock of the faceless lost? One lone priest, marching towards his reward.
Those vacant faces did not stare. They were not too polite, but rather, just the type of skittish sheep, not his kind but the insulting one, who could not meet a man's eyes. They did not want to be seen noticing anyone for too long. They looked though, every one of them probably thinking the father's thin coat was almost warm enough to steal. First Cancer, now this. Father O'Reilly wondered if this was a punishment.
When he reached the front of the line a big chested teenager smiled and popped her gum at him. She was probably fourteen, but if they made fourteen year olds like that when he was young he might have skipped the seminary. Why was he thinking things like this? She asked him to wait while she got a trainee to deal with his application.
Then a clown appeared. Not one of the fun ones from the circus. No, this was a wicked looking clown like only Stephen King or Jay Wilson could come up with. The devil in disguise spoke to the priest.
"Hello," it whispered in tones for conspiracy and corruption, "I'm Captain Jiggles, the new loan officer, and I would be happy to help you."
"I need a loan."
"Not much profit in loaning to priests. What do you need the money for?"
"I... I have cancer and work to do before I die."
"Cancer? Probably a punishment from God for being friends with sodomites. A priest should know that."
O'Reilly blinked, "You're behind the times. Not even the pope believes that anymore. I just got there a few days before him."
The clown laughed from the belly, without increasing his volume. "The pope? We don't care what beaners think. Not around these parts. Now, what do you have for collateral?"
"Nothing." The priest stepped back. "Never mind the loan. I'll figure out something else."
O'Reilly turned and shuffled away from the counter, looking at the forlorn faces around him. Wondering as he did if the clown was really here. Wondering if he was really here. He dropped his jacket at the feet of one particularly homeless looking teen on the way out. As he reached the door the clown called out to him.
"You come back any time you're ready to see the truth!"
#shortstory #novel #author #writer #writers #writing
