Al Boudreau's Blog, page 5

"Fantasy in the Cage" ~the prompt~

Lisa, and Joe…an adrenaline-filled welcome to "Fantasy in the Cage." As you know, this is a no-holds-barred competition, so dig deep and show us what you've  got. You will be allowed a maximum of 2,ooo words, and will have 24 hrs. to complete this challenge. The deadline is 12 pm EDT on Sunday. Good luck to both of you.

~The Prompt~

The year is 2013…conditions in the U.S. have gone from bad to worse, when the big one hits the San Francisco. A 9.5 magnitude earthquake fractures the coast from Eureka to San Luis Obispo, completely obliterating the bay area. An unprecidented global event, San Francisco vanishes beneath the ocean within minutes. The falling away parallels the coastline, running NW/SE. The Rodgers Creek and Calaveras fault lines become the new edge of Northern California—Napa and Vallejo instantly transformed to oceanfront real estate. 

 Three miles off the coast, personnel on routine watch aboard an incoming naval vessel report a staggering occurrence just moments before a tidal wave sends their ship straight to the ocean floor.

Confirmed by satellite imagery, the White House receives word that 19 unidentifiable machines/organisms have emerged from within the crumbling strata of 3,849′ Mount Diablo, which was bisected by the cataclysm. Upon being exposed, these mysterious entities immediately dispersed, vanishing below the surface of the Pacific Ocean. 

Joe…Lisa…it's all you. Take this scenario, and give our readers a pair of fantasy shorts to rival any, and all works you've ever created prior to this epic battle. The trash talk has raged on for weeks; one of you will emerge victorious…the other is going down.

Again, best of luck to both combatants. This much-anticipated pair of stories will post Sunday, May 29th, by 1 PM EDT. The stories be shown without author attribution, to make the voting as unbiased as possible. Readers will be able to vote until 6 PM on Wednesday, June 1st.

Let this ~Fantasy Cage Match~ begin.

All the best,  AB

BK-37 Apocalypso

Her crusty eyelids popped opened like a a pair of mouse traps, tripped in unison. The stench of sulfur and decay immediately filled her nostrils. Confusion commandeered every available synapse that hadn't been fried by the onslaught of gamma rays and heat. A low-pitched combination of sound and vibration intermingled with the echoing din of calypso music. The recording failed to maintain a constant speed, it's pitch varying from normal to ultra-slow. Memories of being sea-sick as a child inexplicably filled her head.

"B.K.," a raspy, garbled voice called out, sounding as if it had originated from inside of a steel drum.

Am I dreaming this? B.K. Alvar wondered, unable to adequately process the sensory overload. Her brain throbbed, as if the swollen grey matter and her heart had swapped duties. Prostrate, she turned her head to locate the origin of the voice. She immediately began to choke as the highly salinated water upon which she floated breached her trachea.  Her body convulsed, struggling to expel the liquid brine.

Her fit of coughing passed. Once again, she faced skyward, uncertain where she was, or what to do next. The broad expanse before her offered no clue as to the time of day. A severe mind-fog diminished her capacity to reason. As a result, she could declare no clear victor in the present battle between light and dark. A faintly glowing orb was barely visible through the murky haze. It reminded her of an early evening eclipse, sans moonshadow.  

Again, the voice called out.

B.K. tenatively forced her legs downward against the buoyancy of the Dead Sea. Paydirt was found—a bottom of salt and mud. Every sinew and muscle burned as she attempted to stand. Yet, as her pain continued to climb toward its threshold, so increased her resolve. Tenacity had always been a strong suit.

The small battle won, she now faced a new enemy…panic.

She stood frozen, as her eyes brought a horrific scene into focus. Countless bodies lay motionless atop the still water, save an elderly man, who stood waist-deep in and amongst the floating dead. He looked vaguely familiar.

The old man's voice once again traveled through the poisoned air."B.K….what the hell happened? Wha—"

"Stop!" Her hand shook as she slowly raised her pointer finger to parted lips. She helplessly looked on as the old man's eyes grew wide.

An undefined form wavered directly behind the bald septugenarian. Transparent, it acted much like super-heated air behaved while undulating, mid-day, above the pavement of a desert highway.

"Oh cripes—n-no." Before her, the old man's skin began to crisp like human fried chicken.

B.K. unconsciously slid her feet backwards along the sticky seabed, her back bumping into bobbing corpses as she moved. Instinct demanded distance from the horrific scene unfolding before her. She felt the temperature of the seawater rise an appreciable amount within seconds, reaching a visual boil inside a five foot radius surrounding the old man. An overwhelming stench wafted toward her. Jaw agape, she wanted to look away, but her gaze was transfixed. 

As he cooked, the old man's eyes grew wide like saucerplates then burst forth from his now-smoking countenance. Both of his eyeballs plopped forth into the water like marbles, while his body fell backwards with a splash, causing steam to rise from the surface.

In that instant, mild shock set in. A burst of adrenaline triggering B.K.'s flight reflex. Presently at a depth where the water  just barely covered her breasts, she began paddling, seeking a more shallow depth in order to gain traction. Once able to defeat the ultra-buoyant nature of the salt water, abject fear helped propel her body toward the Jordanian shore; one of the few remaining places on earth where man-made structures still stood erect. At nearly 1,400 feet below sea level, the cosmic cataclysm that comprised the apocalypse had delivered somewhat of a diminished effect on this lowest-laying area of the globe. And though the surrounding architecture remained intact, death had come to call on nearly every soul around her. Yet, she had inexplicably been left unscathed by the earth-scorching occurrence.

B.K. Alvar deeply wished otherwise, in light of what she had just witnessed. The newly perished now created an obstacle course that she was forced to navigate. She spun her head around to see if the unknown entity that had cooked the codger was evident. As she scanned the body-laden surface, her eyes betrayed her intuition.

There was nothing there to see, but she knew—whatever had taken the old man's life now had a lock on her.   

Now just knee deep in the water, she spun her head forward, only to find the beach rushing toward her face. Her lack of focus had allowed her feet to become entangled with the legs of a corpse. With no opportunity to break the fall, her face and chest plowed into the rough granular beach, full force. It felt as if someone had fashioned a boxing glove wrapped in sandpaper and delivered a prize-fighter's blow. She briefly saw stars, until a combination of intense heat and needle-prick sensations covered every square inch of her skin. She then felt her 120 lb frame being lifted from the earth's surface and thrust backwards through the air with impossible speed.

B.K. attempted to negotiate some form of understanding between her senses and her mind. This can NOT be happening. I'm flying through the friggin' air. The sound of breaking glass rushed past as her airborne torso breached the third story window of a deluxe, low-rise, hotel suite, slamming against the far interior wall with brute force. Whatever it was that had taken hold of her now released it's grip, dropping her like a stone. She writhed with pain in a crumpled heap atop the hotel's berber floor covering.

Her nervous system now stressed to the max, a blackout was seemingly imminent. In her peripheral vision, she saw the yellow shoulder strap of her bikini top beginning to turn crimson, absorbing her blood.

B.K. felt herself losing consciousness, when a magnificent flash of white light, coupled with a sound comparable to 1,000 crash cymbals, filled the room. A rush of air was pulled aloft; the vacuum was created by the building's flat roof being torn away. The four walls suddenly had a full, open air skylite. The murky brown of the atmosphere was now strangely revealed to the former interior space. 

As if some form of energy had entered her system, her fading consciousness was mysteriously displaced by lucidity. The low pitched vibration, heard prior, diminished then stopped, as BK regained her composure. She fought desperately to catch her breath and get her bearings. The odd echo of steel drums could still be heard in the distance.

I'm having a nightmare. This is the middle east. Steel drums belong in the Carribean. No sooner had her logic come to this conclusion, when the varying drum tempo also ceased. There was nothing left but a roaring silence. Dead calm, save her labored breathing, and rapidly beating heart. 

Several moments passed with nary a sound. B.K. gathered enough strength to crawl toward the king-sized bed before her. Exhausted, her mind and body craved respite. She reached the foot of the bed, raised her torso to a kneeling position, and rested her arms and head upon the mattresses surface.

After a brief pause, she struggled to climb atop the plush accomodation. BK lifted her head, when a strange sensation sent her beleaguered mind reeling once again. It felt as if there was something holding her down. Fear trumped the pain her nervous system delivered as she reached up over her shoulder. There was nothing physically restraining her, yet a second attempt to rise brought the same result. She was pinned down.

To be continued…

Milestones along the Writer's Road

Hello, my wonderful friends. I've missed you the past couple of weeks. The exciting Horror Cage Match, Rich Evans's fabulous interview, and my Book Blurb Contest, displaced my usual weekly posts to you.

This week, I'd like to take the opportunity to give you a few updates about my action-packed journey as a debut author. I woke this Sunday morning to find "In Memory of Greed" sitting at Amazon's #1 ranking by readers in the political fiction category. Guess what…I owe it all to you, dear friends. It just shows the importance of leaving reviews for fellow authors after reading their works. I'm both humbled, and endlessly appreciative of this milestone. You did this. And I thank you, from the bottom of my heart.

I realize how much an author's success hinges on the support of those who are kind enough to take a chance on new books. My novel would still be lost in a virtual sea of stories, were it not for all of you. As a result of this gradual, yet consistent, appreciation of "In Memory of Greed," I have decided to use my production arm, Query Publishing, to do a run of paperback, and hardcover books. Many people have expressed a desire to own a tangible copy of my novel. Also, the local Barnes and Noble in my community has offered to hold a book-signing event in their store. It's an amazing dream-come-true to being living this reality.

In light of my decision to publish hard copies of my work, I am in the process of having my wonderful friend, Steve Umstead, run another edit of my work, to insure the fine-tuning of the pages before going to press. I find his offer to do so both humbling and uplifting. He is among the finest of friends I have made while on this exciting writer's road.

Thank you, dear friend. (Check out his wonderful scifi novel, Gabriel's Redemption  http://tiny.cc/22o0s )

In addition, going to press makes my Book Blurb Contest more important than ever. If you can put aside a block of time to do so, I strongly urge you to take part in this competition. See details here: http://alboudreau.wordpress.com/2011/05/07/book-blurb-contest/  The winner will receive a $100 Amazon gift card.

Thorough editing and writing a great book description are two of the most difficult and critical aspects of writing/marketing your work. My advice—take the time to do them both right, and don't try to do them alone. It's nearly impossible to do either effectively without the assistance of others.

Please believe me when I tell you…the rise of my novel seems to have taken place incredibly slowly. Therefore, do not get discouraged by slow days, less than perfect reviews, or self-doubt. These things happen to all of us, and are perfectly normal. Simply visualize your goals then go after them with passion. Don't take no for an answer—especially from your self.

I've had the joy of getting to know all of you pretty well, and you are a wildly talented bunch. I believe in you, and will continue to do my best to support you all personally, as well as support your fantastic works. Keep plugging away, and success will be yours.

Lastly, I want to thank you all for helping me reach my personal goal of $1,000 in sales profits to send to Japan. I will make a final decision this week on which organization to send your money to, based on your recommendations.

At the risk of redundancy, thank you all again for your warm friendship, support, and love. I know for a fact, none of this would have been possible without all of you behind me. You are truly an amazing bunch. Know that I cherish each and every one of you.

Oh, and don't forget to utilize #BookLook on Twitter to help promote your books, and come visit me, and my excellent friends, in #pubwrite, if you haven't already done so. Make it a great week, and don't forget to say hello in the comments section of this post. You know I love that sort of thing.

All the best,  AB

~ Rich Evans ~ the interview ~

Rich Evans, author of "Asylum Lake," was kind enough to reveal some facts about his haunted soul on my blog this week. Check out my interview with this amazing author of the horror genre then give his fabulous novel a read. You'll be glad you did.   

                                                                            

 

AB: When and why did you decide to start writing?

I can vividly recall participating in the Young Author contests while in grade school.  I had always been an avid reader and remember wanting to try my hand at it. Seeems like I never outgrew it, either. I didn't formally decide to write a novel until 2007, however.  

AB: What have been your best and worst experiences as a writer?

I remember typing "The End' at the completion of the first draft of Asylum Lake. That was quite a rush. There were plenty of times when I had considered giving up. Of course, the positive reviews and sales milestones have been great, too. As for the worst, I have 137 rejection letters. Each of those took a small bite out of my soul.

AB: How have those experiences prepared you for being an author?

I'm not sure anything can really prepare you for being an author. It's one of those learn as you go type of undertakings.  I'm a much better writer today than I was when I embarked on Asylum Lake and I owe much of that those rejection letters. They gave me reason to see the project through and really hone my craft.

AB: Please tell us about your latest work.

After the sudden death of his wife, Brady Tanner moves to the small Michigan town where he spent summers as a youth. But he soon learns that small towns can be stained by memories…and secrets too. As Brady is drawn into unearthing the secrets of the town and of the abandoned psychiatric hospital on the shores of Asylum Lake, he discovers a new love in an old friend. But there is an evil presence lurking beneath the waters of the lake. What is the source of this evil–and what does it want with Brady Tanner?

Asylum Lake hit the shelves in 2010 and has received some great recognition. It's a dark tale about the power of memories and how they can attach themselves to places and things…waiting for you to return.   There's an abandoned asylum, a nefarious doctor, and plenty of paranormal activity. I grew up on Stephen King and wanted to create that same kind of Castle Rock small town horror story. People laugh when I tell them it's a love story.

AB: What were your inspirations for writing it?

I spent 10 years working for the public mental health system here in Michigan and found myself on occassion touring some of the more notorious psychiatric instituions in the state.  I couldn't help but wonder what memories clung to the crumbling brick and mortar.  It was also during this time that I lost my father to cancer and upon returning to my own small hometown I "bumped" into many memories that had been lieing in wait for me.

AB: Are you a "blank-pager," or do you utilize an outline?

I use notecards. For Asylum Lake I had 53 notecards with catchy chapter titles. I pasted them to the wall in my home office and would take one down and work on that chapter. The finaly version was reduced to 35 chapters and I can;t evenb begin to tell you how many times I rearranged the order. I like to think of it as organized chaos.

AB: To what degree are your fictional characters based in reality?

There's a lot of me in the main character of Asylum Lake, Brady Tanner. But its me from 10 years ago. Names are important for me. I use names of real people in my life so I can attach emotion to them. My friends and family get a kick out of trying to fogure out who is who. It's like an Easter Egg hunt for them.

AB: Briefly share your thoughts on traditional publishing vs. indie.

I'm self-published and love it! It's a great deal of work but I feel like my success or failure is totally in my own hands – and I kinda like that. I've been offered two contracts from small publishers and have turned them both down.  The world of publishing is evolving and there are so many options now that allow any author to get their work out there. Persoanally, I believe there's never been a better time to be an author.

AB: Is there a different genre you would like to try writing?

I'm working on a children's book right now. It's a collection of campfire stories and my son is doing the illustrations. I'm also toying with a fantasy project.  I don;t think I'll stray to far from horror, however.

 AB: Can you tell us a bit about your next project?

Grave Undertakings, the sequel to Asylum Lake will be released in the next several weeks.  I've spent so much time in Bedlam Falls and with those characters that it's bittersweet to turn the page onto something new. That being said, I've  completed the first draft of a project I've tentatively titled FLIGHT.  Here's my teaser: 

U.S. Air Marshal Liz Downie thought she had lucked out with her assignment – a half-empty red eye from London to the states. The passengers – an odd assortment of State Department staffers freshly plucked from the embattled U.S. Embassy in Iraq. These arent your usual friendly skies, however. Tucked into the passenger jet's shadowy cargo hold hides a secret the U.S. Military will do anything to protect – and Liz Downie everything to stop.

Where do you run when you are 33,000 feet up?

AB: Describe your ideal surroundings/conditions for writing.

I can write anywhere anytime. I've jotted down some of my best stuff while waiting in line at the grocery store. Typically, however, I write from 3-6am six days a week. That schedule came about when my eldest daughter was a newborn. i would take the late night feeing and then stay up to work on Asylum Lake. I'm a bit supersticious so I've stuck with it.

AB: Do your dreams influence your writing?

Sometimes. There have been times when I have found myself "stuck" and then I'll have a dream that sorts everything out. I keep a notepad beside my bed for just that reason. Trust me – there have been mornings when I've looked at those scribbled notes and wondered "WTF was I thinking!" 

AB: Have you ever co-authored a piece?

 Yes and no. Steve Umstead, author of the fabulous scifi thriller Gabriel's Redemption, and I are toying with the idea of doing a BLOVEL together. Truth be told, he sent me his intro and it intimidated the hell out of me. He's a very talented writer and I worry that I'd be the weak link in the  writing team. 

AB: What advice can you share with writers who are just starting out?

Have a thick skin. Rejection is just part of the business – don't let it derail you.  It's also important to understand that much like any other activity, practice makes perfect. Fortunately, there's a wealth of support and information out there.

AB: What are a few of your quirks, and do they influence your writing?

Music is an important part of my writing process. I try to plan out my playlists to go along with what I'm working on.  The wrong song can completely give me fits. Likewise, a good playlist can fuel my creativity.

AB: Please share with us, a little-known fact about you which others might find interesting/entertaining.

I am a wicked-good Wii bowler. So much so that my 4-year-old daughter refers to me as "The Turkey". Wait, now that I think of it maybe she refers to me as that for some other reason…

BIO

R. A. Evans writes.  By day he pours his creative energy into meeting the varied needs of his clients. By night, he writes for pleasure. It's what he does. It's who he is.  If you like your humor dark, your blood-letting messy, and the creepiness factor cranked to eleven, he's the author for you. His debut novel, Asylum Lake, hit the shelves to rave reviews and its sequel Grave Undertakings will be unearthed in May 2011.

A graduate of Grand Valley State University, Evans started his career at a small town newspaper, and has spent the past fifteen years working in marketing and public relations.

Please check out Rich's blog too. http://raevanswrites.wordpress.com

~Book Blurb Contest~

Like contests? How about $100 Amazon gift cards?

I knew you did…

Many of you are familiar with my mystery/thriller novel, "In Memory of Greed," and some have already been kind enough to give it a read. I wrote the book blurb for it that appears on Amazon, B & N, and Goodreads. This description, or"teaser," is the primary reason a potential reader makes the decision to buy the book…or not.

I think my blurb is OK…I want it to be fantabulous. That is where you come in, Dear Reader. So here is how this little contest of mine is going to work:

A) Participants must have a verified purchase of "In Memory of Greed" on Amazon, or Barnes and Noble.

B) You'll want to read the book then post a review on Amazon, B & N, and Goodreads. (anyone who has already purchased/posted a review is qualified)

C) Once you've read/reviewed "In Memory of Greed," give me your best shot at writing a killer book blurb for me. The existing blurb will be put out to pasture, and the winning entry will take its place. 

D) Deadline for submittal is June 1, 2011. The writer of the winning entry will receive a shiny Amazon $100 gift card. Keep in mind, this is a mystery thriller, so a prize winning blurb must explain enough about the book to entice the reader, without giving too much away. Please do not post your entry on the blog. When your entry is ready for submission, hit me on Twitter (@threecifer) and I'll DM you my email address.

I'm very excited to see what all of my talented friends come up with. Good luck. I'm quite certain I'll be blown away with your fabulous entries.

"Horror in the Cage" ~the results~

Well folks…you've voted, and the first of many "In the Cage" battles has been fought, and won.

"Lift Off," by Rich Evans, is the "Horror in the Cage" winner. Congratulations to both combatants…Belinda Frisch put up a stellar fight with her piece, "The Airman."

Rich walks away from "The Cage" with bragging rights, and an interview on my blog, which will post this coming Sunday morning.

Rich, and Belinda…thank you so much for participating in this epic bout. You are both champions, and fabulous horror writers, in my book.

"Horror in the Cage" ~the battle begins~

The moment of truth has arrived, everyone. Please cast your votes for your favorite horror piece. Belinda, and Rich…fantastic job, and congrats to both of you. May the best writer win.

The Airman

The warm spring breeze carried the smell of fresh cut grass from the bordering field which softened the otherwise barren hardscape of the airfield that housed Gracie Hunt's family's private hangar.

Gracie stepped back from the silver and blue Pilatus PC-12 and smiled with the satisfaction of a job well done. She wiped her grease-covered hands on the bib of her baggy coveralls and took in the peace of the darkness; the stillness of a night alone to collect her thoughts before running. These were bittersweet times and her ability to make the tough decisions was the measure of a woman and not a girl. She smoothed her close-cropped, blonde hair away from her face with the heel of her hand and the hard-earned sweat on her brow held it in place.

She'd grown up in this hangar with her father, leisure pilot Bill Hunt, where her brothers Michael, Larry, and Christopher all learned to fly beside him. Not her, though, never a girl. She constantly had to prove herself, learning how to work on planes from other men at the airfield instead of her own father and never getting the recognition heaped on her brothers. Given how far that delivered her from the virginal, awkward teen she had been, she wondered how she could have been so naïve.

Cindy Lauper played in the background, singing the chorus of Girls Just Wanna Have Fun and Gracie chuckled at its apropos. Fun, she thought, came with consequence.

Gracie turned and emptied her heavy tool belt on the workbench next to the radio, reorganizing the tool box she considered hers if you based ownership on frequency of use. Having just turned eighteen, she could out-wrench most of the men at the airfield and certainly those in her family. It was her dream to get a job as an airline mechanic when she got to New York. JFK was her first choice, but LaGuardia wasn't a bad option either.

There wasn't time to daydream. She set to cleaning up the last of her mess, wiping the wrenches down with her characteristic intensity. She had a tendency to get lost in her work and she gasped when she caught sight of a shadowy figure darting across the hangar's open doorway. The wrench fell to the cement floor with a clang.

"Hello?" she called. "Michael, is that you?"

Her heartbeat quickened and she walked towards where she saw the figure, holding her breath.

"Michael, come on. Stop screwing around. We need to get going."

The floodlight on over the hangar's door went out and a hand grabbed Gracie's jumpsuit sleeve in the darkness. She screamed for help, clawing at what she thought was an attacker.

"Hey, shit! Easy! It's just me."

Gracie hurried into the safety of the hangar's well-lit interior, her oldest brother, Michael, coming in after her. He held his cheek where her nails had broken his skin.

"What the hell, Michael?"

"It was a joke," he yelled. "Jeez."

Gracie pushed him hard and punched him in his chest. "You almost gave me a friggin' heart attack."

"And you almost clawed my eyes out. I'd say we're even." Michael climbed into the cockpit, dabbing at his face with his sleeve. "Are we doing this or what?" 

* * * * *

Forty-five minutes in to an almost two hour flight and Michael's amateur skills had him losing control. They flew too low and the turbulence tossed the plane from side to side.

Gracie instinctively clutched her stomach and fought back the urge to puke. Michael was frantically trying to right them.

"I thought you've flown this path a hundred times," Gracie shouted.

"It's a goddamned storm, Gracie."

There was no point in arguing. She knew that and instead asked him, "What can I do?"

"Nothing."

"Right, I forgot, girls don't fly."

He ignored her, intent on a new course. "We have to land," he said. "There's an abandoned airfield in Pittsford. We're about there now."

"No, Michael. You can make it. I don't want to…"

He cut her off. "There's no other choice."

The plane's landing gear caught in the sodden ground of the Brizee-Harmon airport, one of hundreds of abandoned airports that served as emergency landing sites for the airmen that knew they existed. The impact tossed Gracie hard into the instrument panel and punched the yoke firmly into her stomach. The vomit she'd been fighting back spewed forth and she hit her head hard enough to knock her unconscious. 

When she came to, Michael was nowhere to be found.

* * * * *

Gracie pulled herself up to a sitting position, crossing her arms over her cramping and contracting stomach. Her head throbbed and something poured from between her legs, something gelatinous, like clotting. She reached down with one hand and felt the unmistakable stickiness of blood.

"Oh, God," she cried. "Oh, God. Please, no."

She was miscarrying the newly forming life that she hadn't admitted existed even to its father, John, who was so much more to her than a mentor. She had convinced herself there would be time to explain when she and the baby were safe, established, away from John's wife's prying eyes. The baby was the reason she was running.  

"Michael!"

A flash of lightning lit up an old white house and a barn-like hangar that was collapsing in on itself from years of disuse.

"Michael!"

The storm raged and as she tried to stand, her ankle gave out under her weight. She tried to walk, feeling around in the darkness for anything that might be her brother.

She knew this airport's history; the stories of the Vietnam pilot who had taken his own life, had put a grenade in his teeth and pulled the pin after the war left him a right arm amputee. Flying was his life and any plane that had landed there since the airport closed in 1965 had met a tragic end. All, that was, except for her father. He was the reason Michael knew to land there.

Another flash of lighting and Gracie saw the grisly visage of the airman. He was wearing a Vietnam-era Air Force uniform with the right sleeve pinned up and lumbered along, dragging his right leg. He was wringing his badly charred hands and there were gaps where fingers had once been. His head was misshapen. There were elevated skull fragments and knotty, bony disfigurements like thick roots jutting up from his brain.

Gracie got to her knees and then to her feet, careful to keep her weight on her left ankle rather than the right one, which was swelling up to the point that the top of her black, leather boot was cutting into her leg.

"Michael," she cried, igniting the pain in every nerve and synapse like a match to wet gas.

"Gracie."

The rain had slowed enough that she'd heard his weak reply. He was calling her from outside. She looked at the cockpit and realized that even if the plane could fly, she couldn't fly it. He was her only hope and the only living thing for almost 80 acres. The airman would never let her get that far.

"Michael, I'm coming." Gracie lowered herself down from the plane, the impact sending another debilitating wave of pain through her. "Michael, where are you?"

The lights went on in the cockpit and the door slammed closed. A fit of wet coughing erupted from in front of the plane and another wave of cramping dropped her to her knees. She crawled through the mud, dragging herself along into the next round of the storm. The sky looked like the Fourth of July, lightning coming in almost strobe-light flashes. Her hand caught on something sharp and she looked down to see the boggy landing strip littered with human bones. Beneath the thin, muddy airstrip's surface, the airman had made a mass grave of pilots that had dared land there.

"Michael!"

Ahead of the plane, illuminated by the remaining working lights, Gracie saw what the airman had done to Michael. He was strung up to the propellers, a noose tight enough around his throat and high enough that he was lapsing in and out of consciousness.

"No!" Gracie's cry went unheard and unanswered as the flash-bang of thunder and lightning emulated the incinerating burn of a grenade.

The airman smiled, a crooked, toothless grin from a shapeless maw of a mouth, and threw his head back in laughter.

The plane roared to life, a reluctant accomplice whose propellers ripped through Michael, showering Gracie in what was left.

Lift Off

"You finally decide to lend me a hand with this carburetor?"

Gracie glanced briefly in the direction of the open hangar door, expecting to see her father's smiling face silhouetted in the moonlight.  Instead, her question was greeted by the dark silence of the Iowa night. Drawing a grease-covered hand across her brow, she stepped back from the Cessna and stared cautiously at the open door.

"Dad? Dad, is that you?"

The continued silence boiled Gracie's blood. She had long before tired of her brothers' childish pranks.   "Dammit, you assholes, you know this shit isn't funny! "  Four quick strides brought her to the open doorway; her fifth into the darkness beyond.  "I swear I'll…"

Gracie's terse words lodged in her throat as she stepped from the hanger. A murky fog hung low over the field that separated the hanger from the house beyond. She swept her gaze from the house to the paved runway which cut through the cornfield to the south. The full moon overhead hung heavy over the recently planted fields, its light dancing through the ethereal mist.  The serpentine tendrils twisted and writhed. It was unlike anything she had ever seen.

The clumsy touch of something about her ankles brought a scream to Gracie's lips.  She released it with a nervous giggle as a calico cat scurried across her feet and into the hanger.  "Poe, you almost gave me a heart attack."  Gracie turned from watching the gathering mist and watched as the cat jumped onto the workbench, where it settled into licking its furry paws.  Her relief, which had just started to spread across her face with a smile, fell away as the music wafting from the radio was interrupted.

"The National Weather Service has issued a fog advisory for the counties of, Cherokee, Ida, Plymouth and Woodbury. Visibility is down to one-tenth of a mile.  Law enforcement agencies strongly discourage travel in these affected areas. We now return you to your normally scheduled programming."

Gracie listened as the announcer's voice was replaced by the sound of Whitesnake's ear-splitting Still of The Night.  Turning once again to the open doorway, she extended her arm and pressed a button on the wall, watching as the giant hanger door sliced through the thickening fog as it lowered to the cement floor.

Gracie turned from the door and walked back to the Cessna. She paused briefly at the workbench ton run a quick hand down the cat's silky back. "Alright, Poe, looks like it's just you, me, and this carburetor. Now grab a wrench 'cuz this thing isn't gonna rebuild itself."

The cat responded with a revving purr, arching his back beneath Gracie's touch. 

Gracie had just resumed her work on the Cessna when a special weather announcement once again cut into the music; an additional dozen counties had been added to the fog advisory.  Gracie's fingers danced over the carburetor as she listened. "National Guard reserves from Camp Dodge are now enforcing travel restrictions in the affected areas."

Once again, the music resumed. This time with A-HA's infectious Take On me.  Gracie wrenched on the Cessna, her mind racing with worried thoughts.  Doesn't the army have better things to do than keep the locals off the roads? Camp Dodge – isn't that where they do all that weather-related research?  I heard a rumor about the military trying to figure out how to create and control tornados and…

The familiar ring of a cell phone pierced Gracie's nervous musings.  She moved from the plane and fumbled across the work bench for her phone. Glancing at the screen, Gracie smiled in relief at the number displayed and raised the cell to her ear.

"Daddy, please tell me you made it home safely."

Although the voice that answered was definitely that of her father, Gracie's fears returned at the sound of his frenzied tone.  Her father had piloted the F-4 Phantom in Vietnam – where he had been shot down over the village of Trang Bang and held for nearly two years.  He had never spoken of the ordeal, but Gracie had discovered his military chest in the attic when she was only twelve. Two purple hearts and numerous medals and accommodations merely hinted at what her father had been through.  Carl Jeffries had never cried nor raised his hand on anger. Now, on the other end of the line, he vacillated between both.

"Gracie, honey, where are you?"

"Um, I'm home daddy – out back working on the Cessna." She paused, suddenly aware that her father sounded very far away. "Why, daddy  – where are you?"

A long time passed before Jeffries replied. Gracie thought for sure the call had been lost. "They did it, Gracie. The fools at Dodge actually did it. They…" Static cut through the call, and then "and tapped into something that…" More static. "It came through…in the fog…stay…love you…"

The line went dead.

The phone fell from Gracie's trembling hand to the cold floor.  Closing her eyes, she tried unsuccessfully to find reason in what was happening. Surely this was a nightmare. When I wake up we'll all laugh about this over breakfast. I'll make pancakes and…

The music stopped and the radio gave way to static. It echoed throughout the hanger. Gracie opened her tear-filled eyes and reached for the radio, running her finger across the dial – nothing.

Outside, somewhere within the mysterious fog, the earth shook, splintering the poured concrete floor beneath Gracie's feet.  Gracie lunged, scooping Poe into her arms and ducking beneath the Cessna's wing. Overhead, the fluorescent lights crackled and popped, immersing the entire hangar in darkness.

Gracie waited, collecting her racing thoughts.  As much as she wanted nothing to do with whatever waited for her out in the fog, the relative safety of the hanger was no real option. Another tremor would surely topple the structure.

Her father's last desperate words echoed in her mind – the fools at Dodge…they did it…came through…in the fog. On her hands and knees, and with Poe firmly tucked like a football, Gracie searched for her phone. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, her fingers brushed against the plastic. With a single touch she activated her flashlight app.

I can make it to the house. It's only two hundred yards or so. Be much safer to wait there.

It roared. Whatever waited in the fog, was close…and angry. 

The pale light from Gracie's phone sliced through the inky blackness of the hanger. It passed over the Cessna, landing on the Piper Saratoga.  Decision made, Gracie sprinted for the Piper and climbed aboard, depositing Poe onto a nearby seat.

No time for pre-flight checks, she mused, quickly bringing the single-engine plane to life. Breathing slowly and deeply she buckled in, planning her next moves. Fortunately, each of her family's planes had been equipped with glorified garage door openers for the hanger. A simple push of a button would let her taxi out onto the runway. Unfortunately, it would also let whatever waited in the fog inside.

The tears, which had welled within Gracie's hazel eyes, now spilled down her cheeks.  With a trembling hand, Gracie pressed the button and watched the hanger door slowly rise. The mysterious fog spilled through the open doorway, snaking its way around the aircraft. Instantly, the instrument panel went haywire. The compass began to spin uncontrollably and the gauges all began to sway like mini pendulums.

Reaching forward on the controls, Gracie accelerated, steering the piper into the vaporous wall. Blinded, she guessed at her path and turned hard left as she cleared the hanger door.  Nervously guessing at her speed and direction, Gracie pulled back on the stick and felt the earth give way beneath the Piper.  High she climbed, hoping at some point to break free from the fog. Finally, just when she thought her engine would stall, the murky gray gave way to the black swathe of starlit sky.  

Gracie leveled out, guiding the Piper north toward the full Moon.  Looking below, into the swirling mass of fog that stretched as far as she could see, she finally exhaled.  Vibrant lightning arced through the rolling fog, and in those momentary flashes large shadows slithered.  The fog was alive, and it was waiting for her to return.

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"Horror in the Cage" ~the prompt~

Airfields…many towns across America have them. Busy places full of camaraderie during the day, they often become eerily quiet, desolate spots at night.

Gracie Hunt knows this all too well. A tomboy, with a dad, and three brothers, who all fly private aircraft for fun, Gracie spends many nights alone in her family's aircraft hangar, wrenching on their several different planes. On this particular evening, the warm, Spring night is silent and still, save a workbench radio playing songs from the eighties.

Gracie's immersed in her work, when, in her peripheral vision, she sees a figure dart across the hangar's open doorway…

Belinda, and Rich…you've got 20 hours and 1,500 words to blow us all away with your own particular brand of horror stylings. Send me your submissions by 8 AM, Sunday morning. Your stories will be posted by 9 AM. Fans will have until the following Wednesday, at 6 PM, to cast their votes for the winner of "Horror in the Cage." Best of luck to both of you.

"Horror in the Cage"

My wonderful friends, Belinda Frisch, and R.A. Evans, were talking a bit of friendly smack in #pubwrite, on Twitter, this past Tuesday night. While immersed in chatter about who the better horror writer was, I said, "Hey…why not have a throw-down?"

Hence, the birth of "Horror in the Cage." This writing challenge pits these two fantastic horror novelists against eachother, in a 1,500 word fiction challenge. I will post their prompt on Twitter at 12:00 noon this Saturday, April 30th. Belinda, and Rich, will have until 8 A.M. the next morning to come up with their killer story, at which point, you, the reader, will have the opportunity to vote for which tale you find to be the finest horror piece.

The two stories will be posted without the authors names attached, to keep the voting as fair, and unbiased, as possible. Both Belinda, and Rich, have graciously offered three downloads each, of their respective novels, "Dead Spell," and "Asylum Lake," for me to give to six, randomly selected, readers who vote, and leave a comment on my blog.

Please visit Belinda Frisch's blog   http://belindaf.blogspot.com/2011/04/word-fight.html and R.A. Evans's blog http://raevanswrites.wordpress.com/2011/04/26/horror-in-the-cage-two-horror-writers-go-in-only-one-comes-out/  to read about this historic throw-down in their own words. Voting will be opened until 6 P.M. Wednesday, May 5th. The winner will receive eternal bragging rights, and will be interviewed on my blog the following Sunday.

May the best writer win!

Friends for Life

     I'm stunned—people never cease to amaze me. You're probably thinking, oh oh, something has got Al riled this week. And you would be correct, as I am quite irritated.

     Why?

     Three months worth of pages have been torn from the calendar since initiating my leap into the social media scene. In that period of time, I've met more gifted, giving, and interesting souls than I did during the entire forty-seven years prior.

     My exasperation comes from not having started sooner.

     "But Al," you say. "Things happen the way they do for a reason."

    True enough, and in the area of my brain responsible for core logic, I realize this. Therefore, I'm going to be thankful that you are all here now—thankful that my fellow author and reader friends posess a veritable treasure-trove of attributes, and characteristics I consider invaluable.

     The past ninety days have provided me a shower of daily wit, laughter, and inspiration. Writers, and readers alike, are predominantly intelligent, deep thinkers with wonderful imaginations. My soul craves this type of interaction, and camaraderie, much like a bird interacts with the sky.

     Writing is a solitary activity that requires intense focus. The time I devote to social networking is a wonderful counterpoint to the hours I spend with my words. Those who I'm in contact with throughout the week understand what this writer's life entails, as they're immersed in the same scenario.

     Yes, I may tend to spend a bit longer than I should on Facebook and Twitter, chatting, laughing, and commiserating with my new friends, but here's the thing; it's all about the journey, right? My goal is to transition from my current day job, to that of a working author. Yet, lives are made up of days, hours, and minutes. So what, if I trade an extra hour a day to be involved with fellowship, as opposed to spending that hour writing?

     The bottom line is this—writing is my love, and it's what I long to do. The friendships I share are the fuel, the joy, the inspiration behind that love. I refuse to beat myself up a moment longer about the time I spend with these wonderful people, or fret that I didn't start years ago.

     You are all here now, and I'm thankful for that. I'm thankful for the opportunity to spend time getting to know each and every one of you. I consider it the greatest gift. Consider this week's post a tribute to you.

     Please feel free to comment about your feelings, and experiences with reading, writing, and the time you spend socializing and networking.

All the best,  AB