George R. Shirer's Blog, page 68

Fiction: Anathemass

ANATHEMASS

"Hey, sweety!"

Melvin Waskill bounded through the front door of his home, cradling a bag of groceries in one arm, and waving his new machete with his free hand.

His wife, Marilyn, glanced up from the latest issue of Better Hatchets & Garrotes. She was a severe-looking woman, her dishwater blond hair pinned into a tight bun, her flesh as white as chalk.

"You’re going to be late," said Marilyn.

"Nah." Grinning, Melvin dropped the groceries on the kitchen counter and hefted his new blade. "I’ve got plenty of time to get ready, sweety! What do you think of the new machete?"

"Very nice," said Marilyn. "How much did it cost?"

"I got it on sale down at Loathes," said Melvin. "That place was super-crazy!"

"You went shopping today? I’m surprised you got out of there alive."

Melvin grinned. "The fun doesn’t start until sundown, sweety. You know that."

His wife sniffed, flipped a glossy page in her magazine. "No, I don’t."

"Aw! You’re not sore that I’m going out, are you, sweety?" Melvin put the machete on the counter and sat on the edge of the couch. "You know, you could come with me."

"Please." Marilyn’s tone was scathing. "What sort of woman goes out tonight?"

"June Locke’s going out," said Melvin. "I saw her in line at the DMV, while I was renewing my license."

"Of course, June Locke’s going to go out," sniffed Marilyn. "She’s a lesbian, Melvin. Of course she wants to stab things."

"So what are you doing tonight?"

"May Charleston invited me over to play cards."

"Oh. That’s nice, honey."

Marilyn glanced pointedly at the living room clock. "You’re going to be late if you don’t hurry."

Grinning, Melvin bent and planted a chaste kiss on his wife’s cheek. "Worrywart. I’ll see you tomorrow."

"Hopefully," said Marilyn. A grim smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

"Gee, honey! Don’t jinx me!"

She chuckled and flipped the page in her magazine. Melvin left her on the couch, reading about the latest fashion in garrotes.

It didn’t take him long to get ready. It never did. Preparing for the night’s adventures amounted to putting on the approved uniform, making sure you had your license, and then hightailing it to your designated territory before sundown. If you weren’t there when the inspectors came around, your license would be revoked.

The last bit was the tricky part. Melvin’s territory was Albright Park, on the other side of town. It would have been more convenient to hunt locally, but that could cause bad feelings among your neighbors. So he, and all the others taking part in the night’s festivities, had to crawl into their cars and drive like hell to distant locations. Still, fatalities from traffic accidents were all but nil on Anathemass.

Melvin made it to Albright Park with fifteen minutes to spare. By the time the inspector arrived, the sun was setting and he was suited up. The inspector gave Melvin a quick once-over, confirming his boilersuit, boots and gloves were all regulation. He admired Melvin’s new machete.

"Nice. Carson & Carson?"

"Yep. Got it this afternoon."

The inspector tested the blade’s edge. "Really nice."

He handed the blade back to Melvin and fetched a plain brown box. He passed it to Melvin.

"Your accoutrement."

Solemnly, Melvin opened the box. Inside, wrapped in wax paper, was the Face of Anathemass. It was a stiff white, fullface mask. Except for the eyes, it was as featureless as a sheet of paper. A sturdy leather band secured it to Melvin’s head.

He stared at his reflection in his car window. Normally a weedy-looking guy, in the uniform and accoutrement, Melvin thought he cut a rather sinister figure. Grinning beneath the mask, he struck a pose with his machete.

"Very impressive." The inspector held out a clipboard and a pen. "If you would sign for it, please."

Melvin scrawled his signature on the paperwork.

"Thank you." The paperwork vanished into a folder and the inspector gave him the usual spiel. "Your territory is Albright Park. DMV is going to bus in the juvies in about an hour. Please bear in mind that this is the last Anathemass of the year, sir, so there may be more targets than you expect. Justice wants to get rid of as many of these little punks as they can."

Melvin said nothing, but beneath the white mask he was grinning from ear to ear. This was going to be so awesome!

"That said, do not kill anyone outside the park. Do not leave the park. If you do, your license is immediately canceled and you may face heavy fines or worse. We have CCTV inside and outside the park, so we’ll be watching."

As he said the last, he gave Melvin a stern look.

"The juvies are collared and the invisible fence is active. They try to leave the park and they get fried. Expect resistance. Pace yourself. They’ll probably try to gang up on you. The clock starts when the bus arrives and runs out at three-o-clock in the morning. After that, we’ll be back to pick up whoever’s left alive."

The inspector stuck out his hand. Melvin shook it. He hoped the man didn’t notice how his own was trembling.

"Good hunting," said the inspector.

He climbed into his car and drove away.

Melvin took a deep breath. His breathing echoed weirdly in his ears. He glanced at his watch. An hour. Good. That gave him time to prepare.

Swinging his new machete, humming a jaunty tune, the masked man vanished into the growing darkness of the park thinking how much he loved Friday the 13th.

* * * * *
Ah, gentle readers.  Welcome! It's Friday the 13th, and, caught up in the spirit of the day, I wrote the above piece.  I'll admit that it isn't spun entirely from my own imagination, but partially inspired by an interesting book, Slaughterhouse High by Robert Deveroux.The world that Anathemass is set in is a bit different from our own. Darker and grislier, it's a world where there are designated 'holidays' for wannabe killers.  Friday the 13th or Anathemass as it's known in-story, is one of the biggies, but certainly not the only one.On these holidays, wannabes purchase licenses to kill from the DMV, the Department of Mayhem and Violence.  Potential victims are bussed in from prisons and other such institutions. Potential victims who survive their 'holiday' get pardoned.  These people would consider our versions of Survivor and The Weakest Link incredibly boring. Anyway, hope you've all had a safe F13 so far and make it through the night alive. ^_^

Why do we write?

Gentle readers, I believe this gentleman's answer is one of the best I've ever read: http://www.williammeikle.com/

Hoc vincam

Gentle readers, I wrote this yesterday to a friend during a low point and thought I would share it with all of you today. I have learned something very important when doing promotions on Amazon. During the promotion period, NEVER look at your number of downloads. Especially if it's your second promotion.I broke that rule today and am regretting it. When I released Dawnwind last month, with all the free publicity I got at sites like Books on the Knob, Flurries of Words, etc. I had over 400 downloads and cracked the Top 100 Free Sci-Fi Books.This weekend I've had a total of 18 downloads.Eighteen.Knowing this and seeing it in black-and-white are two very different things, and now I find my sails have lost all their wind. I'm drifting, not so much lost at sea as just lacking the will to tack into the wind.This is just a momentary case of the doldrums, I am aware of that. I am aware that second promotions of books without addition promo sources tend to be flat. I am aware that not everyone lives on Twitter and Facebook, so people who might be interested in the free copy won't find out about it until after the promo ends. All of these things, I know.I still want to shut off my computer, say "To hell with it!" and go see a movie.But I will not. I will persevere. I will tweet the free promo every two hours. And the next time I have a free promo going, I'll remember the bloody goddamn rule and NOT go looking at my downloads! Being an indie author isn't easy.  It isn't for the fainthearted.I try to stay positive, to concentrate on the good things: I've made sales, I've had good reviews, the community of indie authors has been helpful and informative, my friends and family have been supportive.But everyone has their off days.  Yesterday was one of mine.I checked my figures at Amazon this morning and was pleased to see that Dawnwind did get downloaded more than eighteen times.  I didn't quite crack a hundred, but considering the bare bones promotions I did, I'm satisfied with the number of downloads that did happen.Gentle reader, I hit a bump in the road. Not the first, certainly not the last.  If you decide to set out on the path of an indie author, you'll hit 'em too.  Sometimes the road will seem to be nothing but potholes.When that happens, when you're at the end of your tether, take a break, shut your eyes, breathe and try to remember: hoc vincam.This too, I shall overcome.

Giving it away for free

Hell, gentle readers!
I almost forgot to inform everyone that this weekend, July 7th - 8th, my book, Dawnwind: Last Man Standing will be avaialble for free via Amazon. 
With 4.7 stars at Amazon, one reviewer described it "as if E.E. "Doc" Smith wrote Stranger in a Strange Land." Another compared it to the works of A.E. van Vogt and Robert Heinlein.
But don't take my word for it.  I am, quite naturally, biased.
Just click on the book link to read the reviews in full, to preview the story or download it for free to your Kindle.
Thank you in advance and I hope you all have a wonderful weekend!

http://www.amazon.com/Dawnwind-Last-Man-Standing-ebook/dp/B00887FGQK/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1338647512&sr=8-1

The Devil in the Details

Good morning, gentle readers!  Have a good weekend? Back at the old grind? Buck up! I'm sure you're all going to have a wonderful day!  And if not, I'm sure there's a cheap liquor store on your way home. ^_^
The other night I finished D.M. Cornish's Foundling, the first book in his Monster Blood Tattoo trilogy.  Foundling was an entertaining read with engaging characters, but the thing that really made this book shine for me, was Mr. Cornish's worldbuilding.  The story is set in a fantastic world of caustic oceans, threatening monsters and surgically altered warriors.  There is a tone to this book, anchored in the Germanic-sounding words Mr. Cornish uses as place names and descriptors.  It is a wonderful book.
At the end of Foundling, is a glossary of terms used, apparently, throughout the entire series. This glossary is over 100 pages which suggests to me that Mr. Cornish may have got a little lost in the process of building his world.
I'm afraid, gentle readers, that this is a problem for a lot of writers.  We get so drawn into the act of creating a believable world that we get lost in the details.  Sometimes, we sacrifice time to deliver ten pages of background on the history of a town or a prominant historical figure that doesn't really have anything to do with the story.
It's like 'color commentary' during a football game.  A little goes a long way, but too much distracts from the enjoyment of the game.
As writers, we have to find the happy medium.  Describing a fantasy world you've spent untold hours developing may be personally enjoyable, but most people won't care that the River Volstag is named after an ancient general who explored the region.  Not unless it's germain to your story.
Even if General Volstag's ghost rises from the water every full moon to terrorize the river, we don't need to know his entire biography.
Think of it like this: there's a devil in the details, just waiting to lure you in and overload your story with unnecessary description. 
Resist him.

The Moral of the Story

Gentle reader, when I was very small, I remember being given a book of fairy tales.  I loved that book.  I can remember reading it over and over.  Puss in Boots was my favorite, and Jack the Giant Killer.  The more familiar tales, Little Red Riding Hood and Sleeping Beauty, didn't do much for me. Mainly because, at the time, they were 'girl' stories.
Later, though, when I read the original versions of those stories, I found them a lot more interesting. In the earliest version of Little Red Riding Hood there is no woodsman to rescue Red and Granny.  There's just the wolf, who gobbles up the little girl and goes on his way.
The prince in the original version of Sleeping Beauty does considerably more than kiss the sleeping princess when he stumbles upon her bower.  She still doesn't wake until, months later, she gives birth to twins who draw the cursed spindle out of their mother while nursing at her breasts. 
Those stories, I think, are a lot more interesting than the saccharine sweet pap spoon fed to little children.  They're also a lot more ambiguous, morally, from the versions we know today.
So what am I getting at with this post? I'm getting at 'morality.' 
As writers, should our stories have morals?
I think it depends, entirely, upon the writer.  There are a lot of writers out there who write 'moral stories.'  Their characters lead lives of exemplary goodness or wickedness to illustrate a moral viewpoint.  Some of these stories are very well written, but most come across, in my opinion, as heavy handed and simplistic.
I don't set out to write 'moral' stories, but I think it's very important for your characters to have morals.  Characters need ideals and beliefs to make them three dimensional.  They may embrace the Golden Rule and do unto others as they would want done unto them, or their credo could be more along the lines of 'there's a sucker born every minute.' Their morality doesn't have to be nice or conventional, but I think it does needs to exist.

Poem: Not a Poet

I am not a poet.
Words fail me.
As I sit here, my thoughts scatter.
Blown to the four winds.
The page remains blank.
White.
Empty.
A void, waiting to be filled.
The act of creation is elusive.
Until, suddenly, like that, it isn’t.
Words flow. 
The white page fills with black letters.
I read what I have written.
I am still not a poet.

Beginnings

Hello, gentle readers!  I hope you've all had a wonderful weekend and found yourselves refreshed and ready for the work week when you climbed out of your beds today.
Since it's the beginning of the week, today I want to talk about beginnings.
Where do stories begin? How do they begin? 
A friend recently admitted that she would like to write, but she was hesitant to take the plunge.
"Why?" I asked.
"Because I wouldn't know where to begin the story," she complained.
To me, the answer seemed obvious.  You start the story where it wants you to start it, with a scene or a word or a line of dialogue.
Call me Ishmael.
It was a bright, cold day in April and the clocks were striking thirteen.
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times....
I am an invisible man.
It was a pleasure to burn.
He - for there could be no doubt of his sex, though the fashion of the time did something to disguise it- was in the act of slicing at the head of a Moor which hung from the rafters.
Once upon a time....
To me, beginnings are easy.  Beginnings are the trollops of the writing process, hitching their skirts up around their hips and flashing the goods at you. They invite you in, promising a good time, and I always accept their invitations.
They found John Epcott on the beach, sprawled in the sand.
Faith Morgan pushed her fingers through her lank, brown hair and stared at her reflection, in the mirror.
Tobias thought the girl must have been dead about twelve hours.
At night, the firekeeper's tower could be seen for miles.
"Dorothy Gale was a fucking cunt."
The old woman made her way through the growing darkness, a bunch of faded flowers in one hand, a stout walking stick gripped in the other.
If you want to write, just start at the beginning even if it's the end of your story.  Write that first line, see what will hang from it. Even better, take that first step on a trip and see where the path leads you.  Even if you hit a rough patch, the act of getting there will probably be improving.  It will help you establish your own voice, your own style, your own sense of self as a writer.
Just start at the beginning and see where the story takes you.

Fiction: Wicked?

            The old woman made her way through the growing darkness, a bunch of faded flowers in one hand, a stout walking stick gripped in the other.  At her back, the village was alive with flickering lanterns.  A good-sized crowd of men had gathered outside the pub, to lift mugs of free beer to the new king’s health.
“Drunkards and hypocrites, the lot of them,” muttered the old woman.She stepped off the road, onto a footpath so overgrown with weeds that it was practically invisible.  It was certainly forgotten by almost everyone else in the village.  Besides herself, the old woman reckoned that only the village priest knew the path still existed, and what lay at its end.The sun had set by the time the old woman arrived at the graveyard.  Stone markers shimmered in the gloom.  Here and there, an iron cross could be seen, aged and rusting, rising from the long grass like islands in a sea.Carefully, the old woman made her way among the graves.  The footing here could be treacherous; the last thing she wanted was to fall and break a bone.  If that happened, she would be just another corpse, lying among the unhallowed dead. By the time she had crept to the intended grave, the moon had started her long climb across the sky.  The old woman settled herself on a log and sighed.“Hello, poppet.”In front of her, a stone slab was barely visible beneath long, twisting creepers.  At its head, an iron cross was hammered into the ground.  The grave was unnamed and unmarked.“It’s been a long time since my last visit, I know.”Sighing, the old woman wiped a rheumy eye.“I’m not as young as I used to be and times have been hard.”She remembered the flowers and tossed them atop the grave.“They’re not much, but they’re the best I could do, poppet. You always liked the last flowers of the season. Do you remember? We would go gathering the last blossoms when you were just a girl, from the valleys behind your father’s house.”The old woman leaned on her stick, peering through the gloom at the stone slab.“The least they could have done was carve your name into the stone.  You were still a queen, poppet.  They could have shown you that much respect.”For a while, the old woman sat there in silence.  A cool breeze began to blow.  Dark clouds skittered across the moon’s face.“Do you know what’s happened, poppet?  Do you know how your enemies have been brought low? All those sanctimonious do-gooders, the ones who spoke so poisonously against you, are all gone now.  Wherever you are, my dove, I hope you know.  I hope you know and you rejoiced when they were knocked off their pedestals.”She grinned; it was a grin of savage glee.The girl had been the first to be brought low.  They could have explained away the pregnancy, could have said the child was just early.  If the child had been normal that would have happened, but the child hadn’t been normal.  It had been a twisted runt.  Its mother had lived long enough to know her shame, before dying in the birthing bed.Despite priestly objections, the king had ordered the child abandoned in the forest.  If dwarves had fathered the creature, then dwarves could raise it.  The fate of that twisted infant remained unknown.The charming prince’s love for his bride hadn’t lasted long after the birth.  It was hard to love someone who had made a fool of you.  Rumors spun that the princess had cuckolded her princely husband, that she was known to every stable lad and baker’s boy in the castle.First, love went away and then, quietly, insidiously, the prince lost his charming luster.  Embittered, he grew twisted and violent.  No more the charmer, the servants whispered, but a dark prince with dark appetites.He marched off on a crusade and returned ten years later, drenched in blood, lacking any fine sentiments.  Upon the old king’s death, the prince assumed the throne and ruled with an iron fist.In the graveyard, the old woman cackled.  “And they thought you were wicked, my dove!”The Dark King had shown them true wickedness.  Blood ran like water in the gutters of the castle.  Everyone suffered in equal measure, the highborn and the low, beneath their Dark King’s rule.“Was it any wonder then, my poppet, that they rose against him? Priests and lords and commoners alike! All united!”Lowering her voice, the old woman leaned forward, spoke softly for there could have been unfriendly ears, even in this place.“They poisoned him, my dove.  A bit at a time, little by little. It took a long time for him to die, but he did.  That fine prince died like a mad dog, foaming at the mouth, wild with pain.  I’m sure it was glorious!”She drew back, sighing.  “They’re all gone now, the ones who wronged you.  All the ones that matter, at any rate.  The dwarves are probably still out there, lurking in the deep woods.  But who cares about dwarves?”In the dark woods, an owl hooted.  Overhead, the clouds parted, revealing the full face of the moon.“I don’t think I’ll be back, my poppet,” said the old woman.  “It’s a miracle your old nurse has lived this long.  The reaper will come for me soon, I think, and I’ll be glad when he does. I’m tired of life, of outliving all the ones I love.”Standing, she drew her tattered cloak close and leaned heavily on her stick.  The moonlight washed over her weathered face.“Maybe the next time we speak, you’ll be able to answer me, my poppet.”She turned and walked away, back along the path.  Clouds slid across the moon, concealing its face, and the old woman vanished into the darkness.# # #The inspiration for this story came from that old expression, "History is written by the victors."  That's probably a universal truth, so, with that being the case, how many of those happily ever after fairy tales would really have ended so happily? How many of those stories could be trusted? And, most importantly of all, how many of those dastardly villains would be as thoroughly evil as they were portrayed?

A much-needed break

Good afternoon, gentle readers.  How is everyone doing this fine Monday? 
Have a rough day?
Poor thing.
I can commiserate.
This past weekend, I did a two-day free promotional giveaway of my first novel, Dawnwind: Last Man Standing.  Every hour on the hour I was promoting the heck out of it. By the time the promotional giveaway ended, Dawnwind had clawed its way to the #25 position on Kindle's Top 100 Free Sci-Fi Books.
Today, I am mentally exhausted. I'm taking a Twitter sabbatical for the day.  I'm trying my hardest not to log into my KDP account and see if I've had any additional purchases.  Most difficult of all, I am resisting the urge to check my book's page every fifteen minutes to see if anyone has left a review.
Writers, gentle readers, pray for reviews the way a farmer prays for rain.
No, today, I am taking a break from promotion and writing.  I am going to rest and, hopefully, rejuvenate some brain cells.  Perhaps, by tomorrow, my eyes won't feel like fried eggs any longer.
Maybe I'll even manage to read a bit and refill the word-tanks.
So, that's the plan.
If your Monday has got you down, I really hope you can do something similar.