Lex Chase's Blog, page 16

Chasing Sunrise: Celebrating The Light

Hello Internet! Today is Chasing Sunrise’s official book birthday. Sevon and the crew have been out among the world for one year. As I mentioned in Wednesday’s post of Chasing Sunrise One Year Later, this series means a lot to me. Not only that, it’s a series that has polarized audiences, from an effeminate hero, to the level of violence, to the emotional toll.

It’s a story of a man trapped at absolute rock bottom, and his climb to find the light. He may not like what he finds, but he has to be brave enough to risk it. It is a story of courage, however frail, that it’s worth taking a stand. It’s a story that I wanted those suffering they way I had to know I see you. I understand you. And there is a way out. There is hope. You just have to grab onto it with both hands and never ever let go. But this series has touched a number of people. I’ve had the honor of readers coming up to me at GRL and express their own experiences and how Sevon’s story helped them confront their monsters.

This series has also touched one particular person in my life, my best friend/adopted baby sister/secret assassin, Mae Wynn Talley. Once she got past all the starstruck flailing and realized I am the biggest dork (it took all of five minutes really) somehow one of us somewhere decided she wanted to cosplay for me. And I decided HELLZ YES.

Let me tell you, Mae cosplaying Sevon is amazing for both of us. It’s insane to see this girl completely transformed into an effeminate man. And for her to be empowered that she can be whoever she wants to be.

Short version is: I have a cosplayer. And that’s fucking rad.

[Flash Fiction Friday] Ki Brightly with Skipping Stars

 

Hello Internet! Please welcome back Ki Brightly for Flash Fiction Friday. In her short, Skipping Stars, we meet Zane and Jerome two men on a journey through space and trying to confront the space between them. Save one small issue of their newest passenger, Iggy, the loudmouth African Gray.

Skipping Stars
by Ki Brightly

“That is the biggest bird I have ever seen, Captain. What are you going to do with it?” Jerome side eyes me and I find myself glaring at him out of habit, but finally, I shrug and he snorts out a small stuttering snicker. The nav room in my passenger shuttle is small, and he takes up most of the space, his head brushing the ceiling. He ducks to run a hand through his buzzed short blond hair and we both stare down the gray bird perched on the back of the pilot’s chair. It’s an old terra African Gray. I’ve never been to old Earth to see the ruins, but I’m told it was one of the species saved during the mass evac. He’s pretty, in a wild way, with his shiny black eyes and smoky feathers that look like maybe some of the softest stuff I’ve ever seen. I run a finger down the recycled fabric of my black, long-sleeved shirt. I’ve never been able to afford natural fibers. The bird’s sleek feathers are downright luxurious. I don’t know anyone who streaks a passenger shuttle between the worlds who can afford naturals…well, maybe the smugglers are able, but I’ve never had the nerves for that sort of work.

“Fucking Finders. Bunch of vultures!” shrieks the bird as he bobs his head. Jerome and I both jump then Jerome’s brilliant laughter infuses the small space with the easy joy he takes in life.

“Charming,” I mutter. The hard planes of Jerome’s face crack with his wide smile. My breath stops for a moment.

“It won’t do well on our rig. Next time the grav-puller goes on the fritz you’re going to have bird shit bouncin’ all around.” I grunt out an affirmative and he shakes his head.

“I hadn’t considered that,” I say, wrinkling my nose. “They weren’t allowing old terra animals onto E-TF-3 yet because they weren’t sure the terraforming could support even the recently settled inhabitants, and Mr. Jensen was …well, have you ever seen a grown man cry? Coming up on the end of his own life, and all he could worry about was this…” I shrug and wave my hand at hand in the direction of the bird. He blinks at me then a sound that I can only describe as metal grating on metal comes from the irritating animal. Jerome cackles. When I narrow my eyes on my engineer he attempts to swallow his laughter. He stands there with his lips pressed in a tight line, shoulders shaking. “Anyway…they were going to slaughter Iggy here, and…well…” My face heats as the snickering from my engineer fills the small cabin again.

“So you took ‘im?”

I nod.

“I’ll see what I can do by way of a cage. We probably have something in the hold.” There’s a softness around Jerome’s eyes as he studies me that makes me squirmy inside. Because I want to see it or because it embarrasses me I’m not sure. A man can’t afford to want those sorts of things when he’s constantly hustling to pay bills and keep his rust heap ship space ready.

“Fucking Finders!” Iggy growls. The whistle that follows is shrill and I shrink away from the parrot.

“Jensen must have hated smugglers. Wonder why? He was just an old man from the Sirius system,” I say more to myself than Jerome, then sip at my fizzy caf-water. The jolt of energy that powers through my body from my drink has my entire body tingling. I’m addicted, but I’ve never met a space worker who wasn’t.

“Probably had something worth stealing,” Jerome drags out his words, making them a slow, almost sensual drawl. I fidget and he grins at me. He isn’t trying to crowd me as he tilts his head and leans toward me, he just takes up a lot of space. I catch my reflection in the dark, fortified glass of the starflecked windscreen. I’ve always looked ridiculously dainty next to Jerome, and today is no different. I’m short and slim, and he’s a hulking wide man. My short hair is dark and his is light. We’re opposite in almost every way possible, and I’d do well to remember that while opposites attract, they usually don’t stay stuck together. I clear my throat and meet his twinkling blue eyes. “S-TF-2 abandoned?” he asks as he tilts his head.

“Yeah. The transplants called it Artema. Word is the terraforming wasn’t taking off on its own. The government wanted to reseed and boom it again,” I mumble. Iggy whistles and flaps his wings. I frown at the bird. If it’s always this loud maybe I should have let it become fricassee.

“I might have picked up some ground exploration suits when we docked at Explorer Station last month.” Jerome wiggles his eyebrows and my gut sinks like we’re taking a re-entry too fast.

“No.”

He shuffles half a step closer and cranes his neck toward me. His breath brushes my ear in a warm gush. “Aren’t you sick of rattling around this falling apart ship, Zane? If we made one good haul somewhere you could trade this in for something I don’t have to hold together with spit and electrical tape.” His breath is warm on my cheek. I huff out a sigh and turn away to admire the star studded darkness of space while I chug the last of my caf-water from a chipped ceramic mug I can’t quite bring myself to throw away. I am tired of the life I’ve been living. We’re always hustling. There’s never much time for anything else. I’ve been so lonely. Maybe if I had a bigger ship, could make more money…haul some cargo for the government…maybe I could get a fucking life.

“It’s illegal.” That’s the only argument I can muster. Jerome groans.

“Who cares?”

“Well, Compliance agents, for one,” I mutter.

“I can’t stay on this rig forever at what you can afford to pay me.” My heart starts to race in a way that has nothing to do with my caf-water. I almost fall on my ass as I spin around toward a shame faced Jerome. There’s a quiet apology in his eyes, and his shoulders are slouched. “I don’t want to go, but I have debts, Z. Please? Can we…I mean, it could be nothing, but…”

I force myself to work around the panic that the thought of Jerome leaving inspires. It’s worse than air lock failure. My entire brain seems to crush in on itself and refuse to work. This is dumb. I can’t feel this way about a crewman, but…but I do. There have been too many long days he’s made bearable for me. “I have Jensen’s estate address in the passenger records. We could go take a look, but don’t you think he would have unloaded whatever it is before he went space side?” My hands are steady on my mug, but everything down to my guts seems to be shaking around inside me.

“No one worries about Finders who is dealing legally.”

Going to a Compliance brigg for the next twenty years for smuggling doesn’t sound like a fun time, but losing Jerome, whom I’ve started to count on seeing rattling around my ship every day, seems worse. “What if they’ve boomed and reseeded the planet already?” There’s a helplessness in my words that causes Jerome’s eyes to tighten. He frowns and drops one of his large, oil stained hands onto my shoulder.

“Can we at least check?” he asks as his thumb digs into a knot in my shoulder I didn’t even realize was there. I find myself almost ready to melt from his small, friendly touch and the heat of embarrassment blazes through me, but I don’t ask him to stop.

“I always—” the words come out as a croak. I clear my throat and try again. “I always run clean. I don’t even pick up undocumented passengers.”

“Turn,” he orders. I shuffle until my back is facing him. I watch both of our reflections in the glass. His large body brackets mine. He digs his work strong fingers into both of my shoulders and it hurts in that way that’s actually good as he forces my muscles to unclench. The heat of his fingers, touch, is something I’ve been missing while we’ve been planet hopping. I haven’t had a touch I haven’t paid for, though, in a good long while, so this is…this is special. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to unclench so to enjoy it. “Which,” he says casually, resuming our conversation as if he’s not doing the most amazing things with his hands, “is why we’ll be fine. You have the squeakiest reputation of any captain I’ve ever worked for.” His impromptu massage lasts for another few minutes while I calculate the risks and pros.

Pro: If we find any terraforming equipment, even a haul of seed pods, we could sell them and be set for a long while. We have five core crew, and even splitting the take would be a good amount of money.

Risk: If we get caught I might find myself in a brigg or worse. If we run into real Finders we could be killed or captured and funneled into the outer world slave trade markets. My stomach clenches and I must tense because Jerome grunts then grips my shoulders hard. He smooths his hands along my back before he steps away and drops down into the seat that Iggy isn’t standing guard over. The bird whistles at me and I sigh.

“All right. We’ll go after we drop this run of passengers.”

Jerome smiles at me and it’s brighter than skipping too close to a star. Anything I can do to keep him here, a bright pop of possibility, suddenly seems worth it. Even if I never work up the nerve to pursue anything with him, it make me happy to be able to think about it. Besides, it’s a single run to an abandoned planet. What could go wrong?

 

If you liked this story, please check out Ki’s book Threefold Love.

Chasing Sunrise One Year Later

Hello, Internet! I want to thank you guys for joining me, especially this week. July 25th marks the one year anniversary Chasing Sunrise was released into the wilds. I thought I’d share some fun stuff with you guys to commemorate.

This series is special to me as a tale of one man’s survival from domestic violence. Set in a high fantasy horror context, at its core it mirrors many of my own experiences as a domestic violence survivor. Every author has “that” book. The book where they work through their issues through a safe fictional filter. The Darkmore Saga is mine, and I wouldn’t change it for anything.

The Darkmore Saga has since been picked up for re-release from DSP Publications and finally readers can get their hands on the sequels Glass Moon and Star Fall. They’re coming! Promise!

It’s been great in the course of this series to watch Sevon go from a complete mess and strive to be the person everyone expects him to be and finally become the person he’s supposed to be. Hint: They’re not mutually exclusive. He’s going to go through hell to get there, and it won’t be easy, for him, for me to write, and for readers to enjoy.

I once called this series a paranormal romance, because that’s what I thought it was. Turns out it isn’t at all, but instead a high fantasy horror series. I called them vampires and shifters because I felt readers needed a shorthand reference how to get the jist. I couldn’t have been so wrong. The vampires aren’t vampires at all and the shifters aren’t what readers come to expect what shifters should be.

My dearest friend, Charlie Cochet once told me about a little series she was getting off the ground called THIRDS. You might have heard of it. ;D One of her things she mentioned about her shifter characters was only use the term they’re referred to in the book: Therians. Using the term therians instantly removed readers from the preconceived notions of what people expect in shifters.

I didn’t do that. And there was my fatal flaw. Sevon’s people are the aisa, a vast race of cannibalistic beings. Jack lives among the windigo a race of canine and lupine shifters. He himself is an ungati, a race of feline shifters. I should have said that from the start. And hell yeah “cannibals” sounds way different from “vampires” doesn’t it? Definitely establishes that they don’t freaking sparkle.

Instead, we have a king of the cannibals that wears lovely dresses…

Photo: Lex Chase | Model: Mae Wynn Talley

But that’s not all! In closing, I wanted to share a trip down memory lane. One year ago, I did a YouTube reading for the then Sinfully Sexy Book Reviews now called Sinfully Addicted to All Male Romance. Lovely people! Definitely check them out!

Enjoy the reading! And wince as I sell the book the entirely wrong way.

Some Assembly Required Sneak Peek!

Hello Internet! I want to apologize for the lack of updates last week, Bru Baker and I finished our first co-written novel Some Assembly Required and I was so zonked I decided to give myself a week off blogging. I think that might become the norm from now on.

Anyway! It’s game on! Since Monday’s posts seem to be a mix of Monday Spark flash fiction and Sneak Peeks, I hope you guys are cool with it. Today’s offering is another sneak at Some Assembly Required. It’s the afterlife meet-cute in IKEA purgatory you never knew you needed.

Don’t forget to check out other Some Assembly Required peeks over at Bru’s Blog here! and I have another sneak peek at this previous post!

Some Assembly Required by Bru Baker and Lex Chase
Coming from Dreamspinner Press February 2016

There was something peculiar about Benji. He definitely was a cute one. Sandy mop of hair, fresh faced, and dark eyes like he waltzed out of a Disney movie. His shirt was a bit loose on him, but the way that his skinny jeans were one size too small might have contributed just a sliver of a percentage to the cute.

But it wasn’t that. And Patrick wouldn’t admit it under penalty of death as if that mattered anyway. Benji made his time in IKEA seem easy and more tolerable. Maybe Agnes had been right. All Patrick had to do was to try on being a Guide for a new visitor for a while and see how that fit him.

That curious sensation of camaraderie was fascinating. Now the literal sparks between them when Patrick made the slightest touch, that was the intriguing stuff. One could get high, horny, or both on that business if they abused it. The temptation was there, but when Patrick acknowledged it, the self-disappointment kicked in. He’d have to wait it out for Benji’s energy to taper off before Patrick decided to give it up and go for it.

“Hey,” Benji said as they meandered through the herd of shoppers. “Hey!”

Patrick blinked, his throat clenching. He covered for it by stretching out his hands and cracking his knuckles. “Yo, whattap?”

Benji smiled. “I asked about you.”

“Yeah?”

The shoppers sidestepped around them, permitting them to pass like fish through water.

“How did you get here?” Benji asked.

“Same as you,” Patrick said as he scanned the crowd. The howler monkey of a spirit was nearby. Sooner he got him out of the damned store he could think without his head pounding. Even Tommy refused to go into the entertainment showroom. Poor weird friendless kid.

“Which we’ve already covered is something I don’t remember, so why not tell me and answer two questions in one?” Benji prodded.

Patrick shrugged. “I was popped out of my mother’s womb, I grew up, drew the short straw, and whack here I am? What more are you looking for, sweetheart?”

Benji coughed into his fist and then cleared his throat.

“You should really get that checked out.”

“By you, good doctor? Open my mouth and say ah?”

It was Patrick’s turn to flush as he sharply turned away and faked a sneeze. Dammit. Benji was definitely stepping up to the plate. He came to a halt and shut out the noise of customers chatting amongst themselves. The howler seemed to be coming from the entertainment showroom, but his voice carried over the expanse of the floor. Benji didn’t seem to notice, but his mind wasn’t fully wrapped around not being on a different plane as everything else.

“Am I going to move on?” Benji asked as he stood at Patrick’s side.

The customers slipped around them, unconsciously shifting just out of the way as they wandered the aisles. A woman stopped next to Benji as she checked the price on a SPÖKA nightlight. She turned over the rubbery turquoise cat-shaped light and flicked the switch. She gasped with the changing colors and then dropped two boxes in her cart.

Patrick arched a brow at Benji’s question and then sighed. “Couldn’t tell you, cupcake. IKEA is a harsh mistress. She decides who leaves and who stays.”

“But you said you help people leave.”

Patrick pointed a finger. “Ah! Now you’re catching on.”

“But you just said IKEA decides. And…that IKEA is a she?” Benji knitted his brows. The brow knitting thing was quickly becoming Patrick’s kryptonite.

“You just said it.” Patrick said and then headed off again toward entertainment.

“Do you know how unhelpful you are?”

“Unhelpful?” Patrick asked over his shoulder. “I’ll have you know I’m employee of the decade.” He patted his hip and snapped his fingers. “C’mon, pup. Let’s go.”

Benji frowned and kept in step. “Unfortunately, I liked cupcake better.” He jogged to keep the pace. “Why don’t you move on?”

It was an innocent question that crashed Patrick’s mood as easily as his interest in Benji had risen.

“I don’t.” Patrick didn’t need to elaborate.

“But you said everyone does.”

Benji’s innocence was very quickly becoming Patrick’s least favorite quality. They had to find the howler and fast. Patrick’s good night sleep depended on it.

“Some people are different.” Patrick clenched his fists at his sides, and he stepped up the pace.

“What’s so different about you?” Benji asked, hurrying behind.

And now Benji was rapidly becoming less attractive.

“This way.” Patrick commanded him and snatched Benji by his shirt.

Benji yipped as they took a sharp right through the office furniture. Patrick crouched low behind a diving wall, and peered through the network of table legs. Benji stood over him, and not getting with the program as quickly as Patrick had hoped.

The howler had claimed the HASSELVIKA TV stand and shambled around it drunkenly. He was a disheveled mess of an older guy with a pot belly and broken glasses. At least he hadn’t shown up covered in dog shit.

“Have you seen my wife?” he asked a customer who passed him by. “Have you seen her? Gray hair? Flowery dress? Her name’s Mary. Have you seen Mary?” Another customer pushed along with her cart. Her beeper sounded that she was needed in Småland. “Mary! Mary!” he screamed as he burst into tears.

Benji’s lip trembled as he stood out in plain view. “He’s so sa—”

“Get down.” Patrick yanked him by the waistband of his jeans.

Benji flopped like a marionette to the floor next to him.

“Welcome to your crash course in showing someone the exit,” Patrick whispered out of the corner of his mouth.

“Did you have to nearly rip off my pants?” Benji said as he awkwardly readjusted.

Patrick didn’t pay him any mind. “You need a smaller size. I’ll get Karin on it.” He pointed toward the sobbing old man. “Here’s how it’s gonna go. You’re my trainee so it’s your job to observe on this one. Got it?”

“I’m not a kindergartener. I teach them, you know.” Benji whispered.

“Well, this isn’t painting pine cones time.” Patrick snapped his fingers. “Stick with me.”

 

Copyright © 2015 Bru Baker and Lex Chase. All Rights Reserved.

[Flash Fiction Friday] Bru Baker presents “Web Cam”

Hello Internet! Here we are for Flash Fiction Friday. Please welcome back my co-writer for Some Assembly Required and good friend Bru Baker. Bru brings us Web Cam, the story between Harper and Ty and what happens when video conference meetings have a shot at becoming more than just business.

Web Cam by Bru Baker

The management books called it a “distributed team,” but Harper personally thought a better phrase would be “giant pain in the ass.” Working on a team that was spread across two continents and four time zones was an exercise in patience and frustration most of the time.

The web cams had been Erin’s idea. The rest of them had been happy to exist with IRC and the occasional conference call, but that had all changed when she’d joined the team. On the whole it had been a good move, because having a project manager with a background in marketing brought a new perspective that a group of developers just didn’t have. They knew what to do to make the programs work, but Erin knew what to do to make them sell. The features and upgrades she suggested made Harper’s life more complicated, but they seemed to be a big hit with the sales team.

Until she did things like suggest they have daily staff meetings over web cam of all things. Harper had expected their boss Martin to laugh it off, both the idea of staff meetings and the cameras, but he’d surprised Harper by agreeing.

“It’ll be good for us,” Martin had told him. “Help us stay grounded, keep in touch.”

Harper hated to admit it, but Erin’s web cams actually did make it easier to have long-distance meetings. Being able to see expressions helped him get a feel for how confident his co-workers were when they were promising they’d be able to deliver a feature on time. The cameras ended up being invaluable for that—how else would he have been able to see the tic of Prevet’s eyebrow that gave away the fact that he wasn’t entirely certain his latest front-end widget would work, let alone be done on time?

They were close to their goal date for the latest production cycle, which meant the group had been having several web cam meetings a day. The time differences were still a hassle.  Erin was in Paris, Prevet in New Zealand, and Ty was God only knew where as he moved around to conferences around the world selling their product, but they managed to make it work. They’d been so busy that Harper had stopped closing the conferencing software they used, a secure program Prevet had designed, leaving it running all the time on the chance that someone needed him.

So when he heard Ty talking on his kitchen counter late Thursday night, Harper assumed there had been a problem with the latest software specs he’d sent over earlier that day. Ty often surprised him by asking insightful questions about the material, and he’d taken to sending him detailed notes about the inner workings of the programs that the clients didn’t really need—or want—to see, but that would help Ty get a deeper understanding.

Harper was elbow-deep in sudsy water when he heard Ty’s unmistakable voice, with its butter-soft Southern accent and teasing tone. Unwilling to leave his task half done, he finished up washing the pan he’d roasted a chicken in for dinner before drying it and setting the spotless dish on the sideboard. Only then, after draining the water and rinsing the sink, did he walk around the breakfast bar and settle himself onto the barstool he used for web conferences.

Harper had been expecting to see Ty—after all, he’d plainly heard his voice. He just hadn’t been expecting to see so much of him. Ty stood in front of the camera, his head cut off from view, his chest filling Harper’s laptop screen. A myriad of tattoos danced over his skin as the muscles underneath rippled, and it took Harper a full minute of open-mouthed ogling to realize what he was seeing: Ty was lifting weights.

He was halfway into a diatribe about wasting his time when he realized his own web cam wasn’t recording. He had it set up to automatically come on when a meeting request came through, but none had popped up on the screen. It looked like Ty had never turned his own camera off after their last conference, and Harper’s software hadn’t closed out the meeting, even though he’d manually shut off his own camera.

Which meant that Ty didn’t know he was watching. Harper’s cheeks flushed, his heart racing as he watched Ty go through his workout routine. Muscles flexed and bunched, beads of sweat rolling down over tanned skin. Harper had shared a room with Ty the last time all the company had brought everyone in for a meeting in Sacramento, so he was familiar with Ty’s hotel room work-out routine. He knew from experience that  Ty must be looking in the mirror, watching himself as he methodically went about each of the exercises. He hadn’t been shirtless when Harper had seen him do it before, but it had still been captivating.

Now he felt like some sort of voyeur, watching what he quite plainly knew he shouldn’t be. When they’d been in the hotel, he’d looked away, pretending to focus on the report in his lap but actually watching through the reflection in the full-length mirror on the closet door, which caught every motion that Ty went through in front of the bureau’s smaller mirror.

That had felt a bit dirty, like spying on something private, but this—this was spying on something private. Ty had known he was there then; this time, it was totally different. The secret thrill of it sent adrenaline coursing through Harper’s veins.

Harper snapped the laptop shut with a thunk the moment he felt his interest deepen into arousal. It had been inappropriate to watch, but letting himself get off to something like that would be unforgivable. Not without Ty’s consent, and he certainly didn’t have that.

He slid off the bar stool, ignoring the twitches of interest below his belt, and went back to the kitchen. He filled the sink with cold water and methodically pulled each dish out of the drainer and washed it again, repeating the process until his fingertips were wrinkled and his erection was long gone.

When he finally had control of himself, he dried his hands and opened the laptop. He’d email Ty and explain. Tell him that he’d left his webcam active and apologize for intruding, suggesting that maybe he check in the future to make sure he was disconnected.

Harper felt a tinge that had to be jealousy when he realized that they’d been on an open channel. Anyone on the team who still had the video chat client up would have seen Ty’s little show. Not that anyone else would have cared. Maybe Erin, but he didn’t think Ty was her type.

He was exactly Harper’s, though. Bulging muscles, tanned, tattooed flesh and a proclivity for New York Times Sunday crosswords.

Which was why Harper would apologize, profusely. He’d never make a move on a co-worker, and spying on one he found attractive was repugnant.

He picked up his phone to look for the time-sensitive numerical code his laptop had just texted him, since the company insisted on two-factor identification. He blinked in confusion when he saw he had one from Ty, sent more than fifteen minutes ago.

Either you were offended or worried about offending me. Do I owe you an apology?

Did that mean Ty knew he’d been watching? Shit.

His fingers trembled as he typed out a response.

I’m the one who should apologize. I should have turned it off the second I realized.

He really should have. Could Ty tell how long he’d been watching? Should he try to play it off like he’d turned it off earlier?

I was hoping it would turn you on, not that you’d turn it off.

Harper’s mouth fell open at the blatant innuendo. He’d never been one for flirting and certainly not for sexting, but even he could recognize it when it was this obvious.

Feeling bold, he sent his response.

And if it did?

One second went by, then another. Heaviness built in the pit of Harper’s stomach as he waited for Ty to text him. Was this okay? He wasn’t Ty’s boss. Technically they weren’t really even on the same team, since Ty was his project’s liaison to the sales team. But just because there weren’t any workplace rules against the two of them doing whatever it was they were doing didn’t make it a good idea. Maybe he should—

If it did you should turn your chat back on. We can start a side channel that’s just us.

Harper swallowed hard. He was a professional. This was risky. Even in a side channel, someone could hack in. It would be a piece of cake for any of the programmers on their team.

He scrolled through his texts, cursing when he saw the login code he’d gotten had expired. He’d need to restart the login protocol to get another. It was probably a sign that he shouldn’t be doing this.

Two minutes, he texted.

Signs were a crock of shit, anyway.

[Flash Fiction Friday] Keelan Ellis presents “Mix Tape”

Hello Internet! Welcome Keelan Ellis to this week’s edition of Flash Fiction Friday! In her piece, we face a mystery of what happens when two students uncover a curious mix tape. Who is Matchstick?

Mix Tape
by Keelan Ellis

“I can’t believe you roped me into this. Like you need another extra-curricular. Are you ever satisfied?”

Marley stared into the open door of the storage room. Utility shelves crammed full of a motley assortment of junk lined half of the walls, and the other half were covered with floor to ceiling stacks of cardboard boxes. There were tables in the middle, covered with crates full of ancient electronic equipment, random cords and plugs, dusty boxes of lighting gels and many other unnameable junk. Under the table there were more crates which held brittle manila folders containing yellowed mimeograph paper. Anyone who looked in this room would recognize it immediately as the school’s junk drawer. Here were the things that no one was willing to take responsibility for throwing away.

Milo stood behind her, peering over her shoulder. “Mr. Fisher did say it would take all day. He said he’d be back to help us later.”

As co-editors of their high school newspaper, The Sentinel, Marley and Milo were the only people who’d volunteered for the task of clearing out this room for the staff to use. When their teacher had told them it was being used for storage, neither of them had pictured anything like this.

“Are we even supposed to be here by ourselves?” Marley asked. Milo only shrugged and rolled one of the large garbage cans, lined with an industrial sized bag, into the room.

“I’ll start with all this broken shit from the nineties,” he said. “Why don’t you see what’s in those boxes over there.”

Marley heaved a sad sigh but picked up a box cutter anyway. The boxes, as it turned out, were old student files, each one marked with the words ENTERED IN SYSTEM. “Why would they keep hard copies of files from the…” She looked into one of the folders. “Jesus. The nineteen-seventies. I’m taking these out to the dumpster.”

“Fine by me,” Milo said.

She loaded up a hand truck and wheeled them out, then made ten more similar trips. As she removed the stacks, the walls began to be revealed. To her surprise, they were covered in graffiti. Mainly permanent marker, but also spray paint, oil paint and even White Out. There were poems, movie quotes and song lyrics. Names of students long graduated sat alongside Emily Dickinson, Bob Dylan, Morrissey and the Dread Pirate Roberts. She and Milo moved the rest of the boxes out of the way and stared at the wall. Marley took some pictures of it.

Marley started on the shelves next. There were a lot of old mostly empty paint cans, all of which had long since dried out. Everything was coated in an inch of dust, and they were both sneezing constantly. Milo was clearing out a huge old wooden desk that had been pushed into a corner. He pulled one of the drawers out completely and dumped it on the surface. “Oh cool! A real mix tape!” Marley dropped the paint can she was holding and walked over. Milo had taken the tape out of the case and was looking at the sleeve. “There’s music from a lot of different decades, but the latest seems to be from the eighties.”

“Excellent sleuthing, Sherlock. Isn’t that pretty much the last time people made mix tapes?”

Milo ignored her and started reading off what was on the tape. “The Smiths, ‘Reel Around the Fountain.’ Sam Cooke, ‘Bring It On Home to Me.’ Janis Joplin, ‘Me and Bobby McGee.’ Sinead O’Connor, ‘Troy.’”

“I don’t know any of those songs,” Marley said.

“That’s because you’re a philistine,” Milo said. “I wonder if there’s a tape player in here somewhere.” He started hunting around.

“It’ll probably be warped,” said a voice from the doorway. Mr. Fisher had arrived. “They don’t run the AC when students aren’t here and it gets pretty hot.”

“Oh,” Milo said, disappointed.

Marley rolled her eyes and held her hand out. “Let me see it,” she said. She pulled up Spotify on her tablet and had a twenty song playlist ready in about two minutes. She started it playing and said, “I don’t see why old people think mix tapes were so great. Big deal.”

“Whoever made this tape probably spent hours on it,” Mr. Fisher said. “Plus, there could be other things on it that aren’t listed, like snippets of old comedy records and stuff like that.” He smiled, and the word ‘inscrutable’ popped into Marley’s head. It was definitely a secret kind of smile. Then again, she did have kind of a huge crush on Mr. Fisher, so it was possible she was reading things into it. “A friend of mine–well, I guy I knew, anyway, in high school, he used to do stuff like that. He put all kinds of cool stuff on his tapes.”

“Well, this one was definitely made for a specific person,” Milo said. He was looking at the sleeve again. “There’s a note inside. It says, ‘Dear Matchstick–Alright, I’ll jump first.’”

Mr. Fisher’s mouth literally dropped open, like they say in books. Marley had never seen that happen before. He quickly snapped it shut when he saw her looking at him, but it was too late. “What?”

He shook his head. “Nothing,” he said. “Let me see that.” He frowned as he looked at it. “No way,” he breathed. He snapped his head up. “We need a boom box or something. There must be one.” He started looking all over the shelves and in crates, finally coming up with an actual tape player–the kind you see in old movies where cop says they’re going to record the interview. Mr. Fisher slid the tape in and pressed play. He’d been right. The very first thing on it wasn’t a song, it was dialogue from a movie. It started with the line that had been written on the tape jacket: Alright, I’ll jump first.

No.

Then you jump first.

No, I said.

What’s the matter with you?

I can’t swim.

Are you crazy? The fall will probably kill you.

And then it went straight into what even Marley knew was a Beatles song. Here I stand, head in hands, turn my face to the wall…

Mr. Fisher had a very weird look on his face, like this wavery smile. “You went to school here, right? Do you know who this Matchstick person is?” Marley asked.

He nodded. “They called him that because he blushed really easily. He was on the newspaper, as a matter of fact, back in ‘89.”

“Oh! Was this the newspaper room back then?” Milo asked.

“Yep,” Fisher said. “Then some kids started using this room to smoke in during school hours, and got the club kicked out. After that they just started putting everything they didn’t know what to do with in here. I guess they figured twenty-five years was long enough to punish us.”

“Us?” Marley asked.

“I meant the paper,” he said.

“You’re blushing,” Marley said.

“Okay, time to get back to work, you guys. I don’t want to be here all day. You can certainly put your own music on if you don’t want to listen to this.”

“Wait! If you know who Matchstick is, do you know who the tape is from?”

Mr. Fisher smiled. “I might have an idea,” he said, and then walked out of the room.

Adaptive Editing And Why It Works

I am a hardcore believer in a writer can write anytime, anywhere, on anything. When you want to make words, you find a way to make them. From the morning commute, to the fifteen minute breaks at call centers, to the generous lunch hour, to the twenty minutes before bed, and beyond. You can write on anything. From a notebook, to notecard, to post-it, to cocktail napkin, or even a voice recording on your phone, or a note to yourself in a smartphone app.

It all boils down to if your writing is important to you, you will find a way to do it.

As Ian Malcolm says in Jurassic Park:

I’ve been writing for nine years, I’ve only been getting paid for it for the last three of them. I saw it as honing my skills for when the time came to roll with the big dogs. Putting in the time, making deadlines, working every day as my own personal deadlines to say hey I can do it.

Back in 2012, in the throes of my last hurrah to escape academic prison, I discovered I had become a big ol’ hypocrite. The new college semester started begun, and I had classes on campus every Tuesday and Thursday. I had five days a week where I had been left to my own devices. I had said to myself when I registered: Think of all the time I’ll have to edit Glass Moon!

It didn’t turn out the way I had hoped back then. Due to my homework load, at best I could sit in my office from dawn until dusk and only work on Glass Moon one day a week. That’s not cool because I felt like when I had made progress, then went back to it a week later, I had forgotten where I was going, or I wasn’t in the same zone.

So, I was a hypocrite. I couldn’t write anytime, anywhere, on anything. I was failing at living the example!

It had hit me in the tiniest spark of an idea. It had been an unconscious reaction. My first class of Tuesdays and Thursdays back then was German I at 11 AM. I had to get up at 7:30, out the door by 8:30, to get there at 9 AM just to get a parking spot. I had a two whole hours where I was sitting in the hallway in front of my class with nothing to do.

So, one day, without really even thinking about it, I had taken a printed, marked-up copy of only the current chapter I had worked on. I had my Moleskine that I only used (and still use!) for writing along with the required stuff for school such as textbooks and notebooks. I made it to my class, I sat down, and pulled out that chapter of Glass Moon.

I had balanced it on one leg, with my Moleskine on the other, and my iPod blaring the Tron: Legacy remix album by Daft Punk. And the best part?

I got to freaking work. For two hours. And it was bliss.

I had decided to call my new-to-me method “Adaptive Editing” because in this day and age people feel lost without a laptop, iPad, or some kind of device they think was required to “get work done.” I admit, back then I had felt a bit lost sometimes without my laptop in front of me.

But when you absolutely can’t have it, and you’re facing adversity:

You adapt.

 

Loving and Loathing Vegas Sneak Peek!

Hello Internet! How about more peeks of stuff I have in the works? Yeah?

Sharing here is the start of my entry into the Dreamspinner Press Advent Calendar. Will I make the cut of the Advent? Who knows, but I gotta give it a shot!

For my little Christmas story, we meet Jackson and Vegas, co-owners of a quaint diner in a one-stoplight town. As incubi and long-time roommates, Vegas is more interested in serving up damned good pie instead of carnal delights. Jackson will need all the divine intervention he can get to make Vegas finally notice him, provided he can get over his own deadly sin of pride.

Even demons need a little holiday cheer! Merry Incumas!

Loving and Loathing Vegas
by Lex Chase

Jackson wiped down the counter for the thousandth time. He counted. Of course, he counted. Like he counted the notches on his bedpost.

He sighed. Why couldn’t they close the diner for Thanksgiving? It’s not like there were any patrons in a sixty mile radius. Tezcatlipoca, New Mexico was a sleepy one-stoplight town that not even Google Maps could find with both hands feeling for assholes.

Did anyone even cook turkeys here? Jackson had considered the same deep philosophical question every year. The nearest supermarket was in Santa Fé, ninety miles to the north.

One thousand and one, he counted as he made another pass across the counter. The aluminum edging gleamed bright enough to be a lighthouse’s fresnel lens.

Maybe it would light the way for wayward customers?

Come, he prayed. Come try the pie!

Jesus, fuck. Someone show up.

One thousand and two.

“I don’t see any tickets on my cook line,” Vegas called from the kitchen.

Jackson gave a dirty look into the pass-through from the counter to the kitchen. “I’m sorry. All the imaginary customers can’t decide.” He threw the rag down in a huff. “Why do you insist on keeping the damned diner open on Thanksgiving? The whole town is shut down for the holiday but us. There’s much better things we can do with our time than wiping down spotless counters and washing unused pots.”

“It’s Sisyphus,” Vegas said with a pleased grin.

Jackson groaned and tossed up his hands. “Again with the Sisyphus bullshit.”

Vegas nodded. “Once a year we must remind ourselves that humanity is torture and hopeless.”

Jackson fell back on the counter like a spoiled child. “And who’s bright idea was it to decide to move out of the Seventh Circle? The condo was nice and out of the way of all of that nightmarish Well of Souls traffic.” He rubbed his temples as he slumped off the counter. “My god I can still hear the shrieking when we had to make a grocery run.”

Vegas shrugged. “The rent’s cheaper here. And I didn’t have to make a Faustian Deal to get a business license. Can you imagine what would have happened to us when it came time to collect?” He snorted. “No thanks.”

“And now you get to freely serve your sinfully delicious pies to silly humans that take a wrong turn.”

Vegas furrowed his thin blond brows. “Is that sarcasm? I’ll have you know my pies are damned good.”

“Fuck yeah they are.” Jackson agreed with a nod.

“I didn’t earn that Trip Advisor Award of Excellence on my megawatt smile alone, you know.” He pointed to the aged and peeling window cling on the scratched up glass door. “How’s the counter coming?”

Jackson wilted. He could feel his spiritual energy leave his body in sickly coils.

“I am Sisyphus,” he muttered and picked up the rag. “Doomed to this hell.”

“Don’t insult home like that,” Vegas warned him.

Jackson wiped down the counter again.

One thousand and three.

Vegas chuckled behind him. “You have any better ideas of what to do for the holidays?”

Jackson snorted. “Yeah, genius. Fucking. Fucking. And—” he turned, giving Vegas a lecherous grin. “—More fucking.”

Vegas scowled. “You know the rules. While we’re among mortals our powers are sealed.”

Dammit. If he wasn’t so adorable, Jackson would have gladly pushed Vegas off that damned cliff epochs ago.

“We’re incubi,” Jackson spat. “You know what that means.” He slapped a hand to his chest. “We fuck. A lot. We do it to live. We do it to give our partners a good time. A real good time. We’re damned healers!”

Vegas pursed his lips as he peered at him. “You got that last bit from that Channing Tatum movie.”

“Vegas! Work with me,” Jackson snapped. “Do you even feel what it’s like walking around as living Viagra?”

“Of course I do.” He fixed Jackson with a dour look. “Because. Duh.”

Jackson slowly rocked his hips in the customary motion. “Don’t you want your own holiday feast? We could eat our way through Santa Fe in singles looking for a good time for the holidays.”

Vegas crossed his arms. “Grindr is not a damned menu. They’re humans. You need to respect them.”

Jackson threw up his hands. “Why are you so impossible?”

“How’s the counter looking?”

Jackson made an overdramatic sigh and made another pass on the immaculate counter.

One thousand and four.

Pots and pans clattered, and the stream of water hissed from the kitchen. Vegas started yet another round of washing already clean pans.

One thousand and five, Jackson counted. He looked over his shoulder, watching Vegas in the pass-through. His face heating at how his shoulders flexed under his tight shirt. His jeans low on his hips and frayed at the pockets, the denim dappled with stains from an array of grease, ingredients, or whatever else missed the target with his chef’s apron. It baffled how Vegas could get so damned dirty, get look flawless as if he meant to do that.

The human world had softened Vegas. He adapted better to the human world than Jackson had. He fell in love with the quaint, quiet charm of Tezcatlipoca, and Jackson didn’t argue. Their super in the Seventh Circle was a bit of a prick.

Jackson had picked up on Vegas had a thing for the bubbly redhead guy that ran the new age crystals shop.

Over a 4th of July bar-b-que, the guy revealed he was truly an alien from an ancient galaxy, that was their cue to pass on the wine coolers and fireworks and make the quickest exit. For Jackson, the guy was a big bucket of nope. But he knew Vegas was still sweet on him.

They stayed friends. Awkwardly and pretending they never heard about his xenomorph heritage. But friendly all the same.

But Vegas absolutely spent more time in the shop longer than he should have. Always special ordering stuff shit that was nowhere near authentic. Like wine coolers made with the tears of angels.

Fuck if humans knew where to get genuine seraphic anguish. It was probably fucking tap water from Wisconsin.

Jackson polished the aluminum edging on the counter.

One thousand and six.

He really was Sisyphus.

Doomed to a worthless cause. He watched Vegas happily clean the pots, rinse them, and then clean them again.

Dammit. Why did he have to be so gorgeous?

Tall, blonde, piercing green eyes in that Top 10 Sexiest Chefs in the World way. And that megawatt smile that could light up the Vegas Strip.

It’s why he chose the name for himself when they arrived. Vegas looked the part of a high-roller and dripped with himbos when he took the casino for all it was worth in games of poker. He showed everyone a good time.

A real good time.

But Jackson wasn’t prepared for when Vegas made a vow of celibacy.

An incubus.

Made a vow.

Of celibacy.

And he decided to move them out to the middle of nowhere to make goddamn pie.

Jackson went along with it, hoping that one day, just one day, Vegas would finally notice that his incubi roomie wanted to be way more than just a roomie. Jackson had no idea what sex between two incubi would even be like. Would the world explode? Would he explode?

But he’s seen what Vegas was capable of in the sack.

And what a way to go.

One thousand and seven.

Copyright © 2015 Lex Chase. All rights reserved.

Happy 4th of July!

Happy Birthday ‘MURICA! Home of the Free! Land of the Brave!

Let’s celebrate with a 35% off sale at Dreamspinner Press! And I have a special someone to help celebrate with me!

Let’s give a salute to the Nation’s Colors alongside Darkmore Saga’s All-American Gender-Fluid Boy, Aisa King Sevon Maraté!

Sevon loves celebrating our differences with a good book about dude princesses and snarky huntsmen! Guys that are princesses! What will the human world think of next! Sevon would delight in meeting such gentlemen. Do they wear dresses too?

And after Sevon conducts his very serious research on boy princesses, he compares notes in his own memoir on being a cross-dressing king. But he wasn’t prepared for stumbling upon that tawdry bit in public! What would the humans think! So unseemly!

Sevon could get used to these human American customs! A fascinating one for the holidays is not having to get up early! Because fuck it all if Sevon could care about doing his hair and makeup when all he wants to do is lay about with some Ben & Jerry’s Americone Dream and Food Network. Human culture is so fascinating! They put anything on that strange picture box!

Sevon may be still learning the ropes of human culture, but you can learn all about his journey and struggle to survive at all costs in Chasing Sunrise from Dreamspinner Press! Get it 35% off at DSP until July 6th!

 

Blurb: 

On the Coastal Bend of Texas, a hidden kingdom called Darkmore lies in ruins, and King Sevon Maraté is trapped. Using Sevon as a mouthpiece and a scapegoat, Lord Dominic rules from the shadows. Sevon copes with the unrelenting abuse by dressing in women’s finery and casting an image of graceful nobility. Born of royal verkolai blood and as beautiful as he is lethal, he possesses the ability to part the Veil separating his world from hundreds of others. His gift is his chance to escape, but Dominic refuses to relinquish his tool for power. Dominic forges an ambitious plan to invade the prosperous land of Priagust. Only a select few know the mythic kingdom of shifters exists. Sevon is out of options for his people’s survival, and cooperating with Dominic is his only chance.

On their foray into Priagust, Dominic’s men kidnap and interrogate a shifter named Jack. Even under torture, Jack’s loyalty to his kind never wavers. But as Jack’s knowledge about Darkmore’s king and its history unsettles Sevon, a curious bond begins to form. Despite Sevon’s mistrust, Jack is determined to tame Sevon’s wild heart and perhaps earn his freedom. As invasion looms, Sevon wonders if trusting Jack will lead him into another trap or if he should forget about chasing the sunrise and remain Dominic’s compliant prisoner.

Buy here at DSP!

Hurry! This deal won’t last!

[Flash Fiction Friday] Anne Barwell with “Phoenix”

Hello Internet! It’s time for Flash Fiction Friday. Please give a warm welcome to my sweet friend and future DSP Publications alumn, Anne Barwell. Guys. Just a heads up. You’ll need tissues for this Winter Duet short. I am just a mess of sniffles. Damn you Anne! My heart! *shakes fist!*

WARNING: Major spoiler for Winter Duet ahead! Enter at your own risk!

Phoenix: A Winter Duet Short
by Anne Barwell

Leo Dawson locked the trapdoor behind his friends. Friends.  When had they crossed that line from comrades in arms to friendship?  He grunted as he struggled to his feet, leaning heavily on the kitchen table to catch his breath.  Silently, he wished them well, and hoped they had more of a future ahead of them than he did.

He’d known what he was doing by staying behind. While Leo wasn’t privy to the information Kristopher—Dr. Lehrer—carried, he’d seen the grim expression on Liang’s face.  Then there was the fact that a high ranking SS officer was hunting them.  Leo had heard enough about how they worked to know they wouldn’t waste their time with the team he’d found himself a part of unless it was very important.

Leo had done all he could for the war. His fight was almost over.  He shivered, although the stove still gave out a decent heat. Pain ran through his leg.  If he didn’t do what he had to soon, he’d be out of time.

A sad smile curved his lips. “I’m sorry, Mary,” he whispered. She’d understand, wouldn’t she? It wasn’t fair to burden her with a cripple. She had her life ahead of her. “I can make a difference this way. Can’t you see?”

He mentally shook himself. Now wasn’t the time for melancholy. He had work to do, his own mission to complete.  Using his makeshift crutch, he stumbled out to the living room where he’d hidden the dynamite he’d found in Ken’s coat pocket.  Hopefully Ken wouldn’t find the letter Leo had left in its place until it was too late.

Soldiers shouted to each other outside. One voice sounded very familiar. Reiniger.  Leo clenched one fist. He’d seen a glimpse of Liang’s back when Matt had changed the dressing.  That bastard needed to pay for what he’d done. Liang wasn’t military. He hadn’t asked for this.

None of them had.

Fight the good fight.  Win the war for king and country.  Even knowing about the reality of what that meant, Leo still wouldn’t have changed anything.

Well, mostly anything.

I wish I’d had more time with you, Mary. I wish I’d found the nerve to ask you to be my girl sooner.

He needed to play for time, to convince Reiniger and his men that their prey hadn’t already escaped.  Gritting his teeth against the pain, Leo ducked down under a window.  He took aim.  Let off a couple of shots.  Crawled over to another window and did the same.  He’d always been a lousy shot, but he wasn’t trying to hit anyone.

No.  He needed to lure Reiniger in closer. Give him an easy target he couldn’t resist. Paint a picture of someone the Obersturmführer wouldn’t see as a threat until it was too late.

~*******~

Reiniger allowed himself a slow smile. He was so close to finishing this, to taking the traitor Lehrer, and his associates, into custody.  Hopefully, Holm would let him help with the interrogations of both Lehrer and the man who had helped him escape from the Institute—Schmidt.   Schmidt had played him for a fool for months, posing as a soldier loyal to the Third Reich.  Not only that but Reiniger would never forget the amusement of his men when they’d found their superior tied to a tree.

Lehrer was a scientist, not a trained soldier.  Reiniger twitched, remembering the reprimand he’d received after that incident.

Both men needed to pay for what they’d done.

Reiniger was merely doing his duty. Following orders to bring in a man who carried information vital to the war effort.  Holm had said he’d wanted their prey alive. He hadn’t said unharmed.  If prisoners resisted arrest, they needed to be taught to obey orders and the consequences if they did not.

Another shot rang out. Reiniger ducked, just in time.  If the information he’d received was correct, the men inside were outnumbered.

“Surrender!  You are surrounded and outnumbered.”

The lack of reply wasn’t unexpected. The fools might be determined to make this difficult, but their resistance wouldn’t change the outcome.

“Kick down the door,” he ordered his men.  “Take into custody anyone inside.  Remember, take them alive but use whatever force you need to stop them escaping.”

“Yes, sir.”

Reiniger stood back to let his men go first.  He heard shouting, and sighed. Did he have to do everything himself? He strode into the house. “What is the problem, Gefreiter?”

A young man stood defiantly in front of him, his arms raised in surrender, although he swayed on his feet. Reiniger peered at him more closely, frowning.  The prisoner was barely upright, and couldn’t have been much more than twenty years old, if that.

“The rest of the house is clear, Herr Obersturmführer.  I have confiscated the prisoner’s weapon.”  The Gefreiter stood to attention.

“The prisoner is injured.  Leave him with me while you search again,” Reiniger told him. The young man’s complexion was quite pale.  Reiniger smiled, noticing the bandaged leg. It wouldn’t be hard to get him to talk. “They have to be here somewhere.”

“Very good, sir.”  The Gefreiter saluted and left the room.

“My name is Obersturmführer Reiniger. You will tell me the whereabouts of Dr. Lehrer and the other traitors.”  Reiniger took a step closer and sniffed. “You’ve been drinking.” He shook his head in disgust.

“I know who you are, Mr. Reiniger.” The man spoke in English, and had an accent Reiniger hadn’t heard before.

He recovered his composure quickly, certain he’d misheard.  The man couldn’t know his grandmother’s pet name for him.  He’d hated that name, especially when one of the children at school had overheard it, and teased him about the way his hair had stuck at angles.

My little reindeer.

Reiniger grimaced. He had definitely misheard.  Accents had a way of mangling words, especially when one didn’t know how to pronounce them properly in the first place.  Never-the-less he felt his anger rise at the memory of something he’d put behind him long ago. “Sprechen Sie deutsch?” he asked. “Do you speak German?” He repeated it in English when there was no answer.

The man shook his head. He smiled, his eyes were bright.  Too much so. If he’d drunk the amount he reeked of, he wouldn’t still be standing.  The Allied pilot—it had to be him, given his description and lack of German—reached for the bookcase to the side of him to steady himself when his leg gave way.

Suspicious, Reiniger took another step closer, raised his hand, ready to force some respect into the man.  He’d get answers out of him, one way or another.

One of his men burst into the room.  “Obersturmführer! He’s…”

“See you in hell,” the young man muttered. He slid down the wall, and closed his eyes.

A loud explosion rocked the building.

“Verdammt!”  Realisation struck.  No wonder his prisoner had been so calm. He’d been playing for time, waiting for the dynamite fuse to burn down.  Reiniger sprinted for the door, but it was already too late. Another explosion followed the first, knocking him to the ground.

His world dissolved into fire and pain, and then he knew no more.