Lex Chase's Blog, page 19

The Evil I in Insecurity

Hello Internet! Today, on a Very Special Lex Chase.com, we’re taking a topic that everyone faces by the horns. You know what I mean. That word that sneaks up on us in the moment of our biggest victories. That evil I-word that steals our greatness and sends us ducking for cover.

Today, let’s talk about Insecurity. Yeah, it deserves that great big I.

As they say, there’s no I in Team, but absolutely a me, me, me, MEEEE in Insecurity.

Right now, I have some pretty fan-freaking-tastic things going on in my life right now. I’m co-writing an awesome meet-cute book with Bru Baker about a haunted IKEA, and I am psyched. I’m getting edits any day now on Miracle in Axis City, the fourth Checkmate book for the Checkmate Ever After paperback. And thanks to the ladies at the Dreamspinner social crew, I’m doing a once a month blog post over at the Dreamspinner Press Blog.

Right? This stuff is amazing right? Holy crap productivity! Holy crap amazeballs! WOOT! LEX SHOOTS, SHE SCORES!

And there I was, being a good deadline meeting monkey, and getting to the revisions on the first two Darkmore Saga books. Chasing Sunrise is set for re-release under the DSP Publications line in April 2016, and Glass Moon October 2016, and Star Fall is coming 2017.

I open the notes for Glass Moon…

…And want to crawl under the nearest rock.

I had seen the notes before, I knew what I needed to do. And I knew I had a lot of rewriting ahead of me. But nothing takes the wind out of your sails faster when the Insecurity Monster comes to crunch on your brain.

I ran through all the usual panicked questions.

“DSP gave me a contract for this?”

“I got paid money for this?”

“What was I thinking?”

“What is this garbage?”

I was paralyzed with doubt. All of the positive things going my way didn’t just go flying out the window, they were shoved through a plate glass window of a New York City penthouse.

I ate my feelings. I buried myself in Investigation Discovery marathons of Blood Relatives and Evil Kin. I ate my feelings some more. I put on flannel jammies and a fuzzy hoodie despite it being 82F outside. I kept on eating my feelings.

I was having a catastrophic failure to adult.

But I realized, I wasn’t alone. There’s a lot of doubt floating around lately. On Facebook, Twitter, even in our meat space lives. From jobs, to parenthood, to love lives, everyone is having a rash of doubt. Writers are the kings of doubt.

But here’s what I also realized. It’s all okay. It’s all okay to have that momentary dalliance with doubt. It’s all okay to sit through six hours of Wives with Knives with a tub of ice cream. (Wait. You don’t? Um.)

Sometimes these moments of doubt last more than a moment. Sometimes they last several. Sometimes they last so damned much you piss off everyone around you for being so whiny.

But you know what? You get back up, you dust yourself off, and you’re back in the fray.

You know what, we’re all awesome. And it’s okay to not feel so awesome. I’m working my way back to it to remind myself I’ve got tons of cool stuff happening. And I’ve got to remind myself I can do this. I got this.

Take that I out of Insecurity, and tell yourself, “I am not insecure. I am not afraid. I am freaking awesome.”

I am not insecure.

I am not afraid.

Haters to the left, because I am freaking awesome.

[Monday Spark] “Moving On” by Lex Chase

Hello Internet! Welcome back to Monday Spark, always starting your week off on the right foot with a spark of flash fic! Today’s prompt gave me a bit of a fit. What to do with it? Where to take it? It wasn’t until I was sitting there watching the series finale of Revenge did it all click. Also that finale! Am I right! But I digress!

Today, we meet Alice and Michael, parents that can’t let go.

Please enjoy!

Moving On
by Lex Chase

Genre: Contemporary

Prompt: A young woman dies in a car accident, her grief-stricken parents make a shocking discovery while cleaning out her apartment.

“Thank you,” Alice said, trying to smile through her heartache. “For being here.”

Michael nodded. He was always a man of few words, and his failure to communicate was what ultimately drove them apart.

But it was Jessica that brought them back together in the end.

Michael perused the mountains of boxes. “It seems you finished before I got here.”

Alice shook her head. “These aren’t Jessica’s.” She reached out, feeling over the cardboard. Warm to the touch, and scrawled with unknown handwriting designating where each box went. Living room, bedroom, kitchen.

He clenched his fist, and knitted his brows. Michael never raised his voice, but Alice knew the fire within him. “Where did her stuff go? The accident was only a week ago! Who the fuck would do this to our daughter?”

She flinched at the language. But the boxes paralyzed her. Alice couldn’t move them, and if she convinced herself there was a mix-up in the apartments, Jessica was still alive.

“Maybe we have the wrong place?” she asked, hopeful. “We could have the wrong place. I haven’t been here in a couple of years.”

“Couple years?” Michael asked, his tone wasn’t a kind one. “I came every weekend. This is the place. I know that crack in the ceiling tiles. This is the place.” He traced the path through the boxes. “Someone just moved in. Yesterday.”

Every weekend? Alice’s hope drained from her face. She had been such a good mother. Her relationship with her daughter was one of love and laughter. But Michael had been closer to her than she could have hoped to have been. Even with all of her care and advice, it was all for nothing. She still got in the car with that boy.

Michael pulled one of the boxes from the stack designated for the den, and then tore off the tape.

“What on earth are you doing,” Alice gasped and made a dive for the box.

Michael sidestepped and she caught herself on a collection marked for the living room.

“What are you doing!” she yelped nervously, “You can’t do that to someone else’s things!”

“I need to know who took our daughter’s memory away,” Michael growled. Alice trembled with the anger in his voice. After all this time, Jessica was the one to bring out the long withheld emotions in spite of the tragedy.

Michael shoved his hand in the box, and ripped out the first thing his fingers settled on. A picture frame. He froze, and his lip trembled.

Hesitantly, Alice took the picture from him. She pressed her fingers to her lips to keep from outright sobbing.

Jessica smiled at them from the picture from the day of her college graduation. They had argued furiously about Yale or Harvard. But Jessica didn’t want either. She chose Ringling instead. Michael let her have Ringling, Alice refused. But they all came to the ceremony as she accepted her BFA in Illustration. Alice even tried to smile, trying to make peace with she’ll never have the honor of saying she raised a doctor.

“These are… her things?” Michael asked. He shook his head. “But I was here last weekend.”

The sound of keys clanking on the kitchen countertop startled them out of their confusion. They huddled together, terrified of what was coming.

A tall, rugged man turned the corner and stopped when Alice glared at him in challenge.

“Who are you?” Alice demanded. “Why are you in my daughter’s apartment?”

He arched a brow. “Now, now. Grandma, Grandpa. We explained it to you, we’re all moving to Key West.” He looked over his shoulder and called out. “Jessica! Grandma and Grandpa are up in arms again.”

“Mom! Dad!” Jessica’s voice carried from an adjoining room. “Jesus Christ, no one’s died!”

Alice burst into tears, and fell against the young man. “She’s alive. She’s alive!”

Michael held back tears. “You’ve saved our daughter’s life, son. I’ll never forget your name.”

The young man smiled crookedly. “I’m Alex, Grandpa. Jessica’s husband.”

 

Copyright © 2015 Lex Chase. All rights reserved.

[Flash Fiction Friday] Kelly Jensen presents Love and Other Constructs

Hello Internet! Please welcome a new guest to my blog for Flash Fiction Friday, Kelly Jensen! She’s bringing us an awesome sci-fi piece Love and Other Constructs. We meet Anton, a simple farmer with a past that hounds him even in his fields.

Love and Other Constructs
by Kelly Jensen

Death rode in with the dawn breeze. The air on Zemlya always smelled like decay, but this was stronger than the omnipresent tang of methane that curled nostril hairs and curdled stomachs. Something had died out there.

Anton stopped sniffing the air and gazed instead at the land rolling away from the porch. To the east, furrows stretched toward the lip of sun blazing along the horizon. To the north, the regular rows of tilled earth cast deeper shadows. The smell came from the south. Anton pointed himself in that direction. He had yet to plough the south. Hadn’t, in fact, been sure if he would. What he ploughed, he’d have to seed. What he grew, he’d have to harvest. And he was only one man.

But he needed sleep and that particular solace only came during the daylight hours, in the seat of the tractor.

Fingers of sunlight stroked the porch by the time he stepped back out, clad head to toe in Toxy-Weave. Having been born and raised on Zemlya, he could work without protection. He’d been inoculated by generations of genetic manipulation. He’d never even noticed the smell until he returned from the war. He knew about it. Zemlya had long been the butt of galactic jokes. But the chemical compounds that produced the famous stench were worth more than tourism credits.

It was more than the smell, though. Anton stepped down onto the soft soil and made a trail toward the shed, his left boot leaving a deeper impression than his right. Wearing the suit would prevent him from being seduced by the life that had suited his father, his grandfather, and his great-grandfather. Anton didn’t want to be a farmer, not like this. Not on the land that should be his. But he was a broken toy. A soldier who’d been sent back to the factory, not to be repaired, but to be refurbished. The IGF didn’t want him back on the front lines. They had newer toys. Better soldiers. They wanted him to work this land, grow crops to support the machine.

The world retreated as he stepped inside the shed. He’d noticed the effect as a kid, when all the outbuildings were exotic destinations. Places he only got to visit now and again. Corners he’d discovered, hidey holes he’d carved out behind loose panels and piles of junk. Now, the inside of the main shed echoed with nothingness. Made him feel lonely, like he was the last man on Zemlya. He wasn’t, of course, though the IGF had strip-mined his generation. It was more that he was alone. Family gone, friends gone. Lover so long dead his memory felt like dust.

The electric motor of the tractor whined as it drew charge from the solar cells. While he waited for a green light, Anton scrolled through his options, gloved finger flicking up and down over the holographic interface. Drive mode, then till. Satnav coordinates pulled down and locked in. He selected the ridging plough for the southern fields. They’d lain fallow for nine seasons, but shouldn’t be compacted. The potatoes he wanted to plant were as genetically modified as he was. They’d thrive, regardless.

Funny how he remembered small details like that. Must be in his blood.

Green lights rippled across the bottom of the display, indicating battery readiness. Anton activated his program.

Insulated by his suit, he forgot the smell of death. The satnav hadn’t indicated any ‘roadblocks’ on his route. Just acres and acres of dirt that stank like rotten eggs. He didn’t need to be here. The tractor would follow its route without his help. But he had nothing better to do.

The gentle rock of his ride quickly lulled him to sleep.

The dream always began the same way. Bodies moving together, his and Luka’s. The smell of sex, the odd taste of his lover’s sweat. The feeling he’d climbed a mountain and launched from the peak. That he could fly, would remain aloft until an air current guided him gently down. Making love to Luka had always felt like that and the sensation of it, the desire and euphoria, was his most treasured possession. The memory of them had sustained him throughout the war, even though Luka was gone. Dead and disassembled.

The dream always changed at exactly the same point. Luka’s features would blur and fade, and then he would be ripped away. Anton sometimes woke to the sound of his own screams. More often he rolled deeper into the nightmare, reliving the cost of his deviancy: the kaleidoscope of horror following his trial. His entire family being drafted. Reprogramming and basic training. His first experience of zero-g. Battle. Coming face to face with an enemy other than his own kind. Blood, red and blue, the latter blistering his body armor. The stink of death. Losing his leg, rejecting limb after limb until the model he wore now. The one not rated for soldiering. The price of his retirement.

Rocked awake by a sudden stop, Anton blinked away his memories. His cheeks felt stiff beneath dried tears and his throat hurt. But it hadn’t been the worst version of his dream. The motion of the tractor helped. That was why he slept out here, during the day.

The engine quit and silence fell across the field. Anton clambered out of the cab and walked around to the rear of the vehicle, expecting to find a shelf of stone. Something that had tripped the blades. Instead, he saw a faded tatter of cloth. Dropping to his knees, his robotic one bending more smoothly than his flesh and blood joint, Anton pushed aside mounds of dirt until he had uncovered the obstruction. It was a body. Was this the source of the smell? He pushed aside his rebreather and tasted the air. Rot gagged him and Anton rolled back on his haunches.

One would think he’d be used to the smell of death.

Beneath the outline of a human female—identified by the pin-striping on her decrepit tunic—a skeletal hand protruded from the dirt. A strip of flesh that looked like jerky banded the wrist. A boot was tucked beneath that. Anton glanced away from the mass grave, intending to rest his gaze. A hedgerow edged the lower end of the southern field. Beyond, a road followed the contour of the property all the way to town. Soldiers had marched down that road, he’d heard, and had met resistance. Was this his family? Had they been returned to the land just to fight and die? He’d assumed they’d been farmed out to fleet, just as he had been.

It took him two hours to unearth all the bodies but one. He couldn’t identify any of them, they were too far gone. The final body was oddly intact, though, the limbs waxen and pale, just like his leg. A construct? Here on Zemlya? Anton heaved at the corpse, arms straining under the dead weight. Then he rigged a tow line to the back of the tractor and hauled the body out of the bottom of the pit.

The construct lay supine, the nanotube fiber looped under the arms its only garment. It was perfectly formed, right down to the pale and limp genitalia. Kneeling down again, he studied the face more closely. A prickle of warning crept across his skin—or maybe it was just sweat. His exertions had probably taxed the suit’s scrubbers. That face, though. Anton blinked and it seemed as if he fell back into his dream. Back twenty years, the sound of his screams freshly loud in his ears.

He opened his eyes and stared at the construct. Its eyes opened and stared back at him. Fear should have rocked him back on his ass, had him scrabbling through the dirt until he could find his feet and run. But something stronger kept him bowed forward, staring down into a face that had suddenly come alive.

Those eyes—soft and gray like storm clouds. He knew those eyes.

“Luka?”

The Princess Obsession

 

Once Upon A Time…

I could give a crap about princesses.

And then I wrote a series about them.

And then my life was a non-stop vomit of glitter.

And it’s awesome.

I’ve repeated the story a number of times about how Americana Fairy Tale and Fairy Tales of the Open Road came to be. I love the crap out of fractured fairy tales. Into the Woods was my crack as a kid. Take a bunch of fairy tale characters, shove them in a room and see who would be left alive in the end.

Americana Fairy Tale was actually the first truly “happy book” I had ever written at the time. I had actually written a version of Chasing Sunrise before I wrote Americana. It was light-hearted. It was fun! And it required a lot of just go with it.

I’ve learned in my time with DSP, my readers have learned to trust me and let themselves just go with it. I still have a few newer readers that try to logic it all out, and that’s where the trouble starts. Some things have a perfectly logical explanation and some things are just PFM, Pretty Fucking Magic.

You know how much Pretty Fucking Magic is in Harry Potter? The mind boggles.

As Elsa says, just let it go.

And much to my surprise, Americana Fairy Tale is the little book that could. I expected this book to be an absolute failure. Not just fail but make a trip straight to the garbage bin upon printing. I didn’t expect people to buy in to the story of Dude Princesses and Dirty Huntsmen and Pretty Fucking Magic. But readers got smacked by Fairy Tale Fever. And in return they smacked me with it. Dude Princesses are pretty damned cool. Am I right?

Kim Fielding, Charlie Cochet, and I did a series of blog posts called Disney Dreamer a couple of months ago. We recapped our trip to Disney World in March and talked about various things we loved. You can check out my post here, Kim’s here, and Charlie’s here! I took a crapton of pictures. A crapton.

Lex indulging in the Disney Magic. Oooh Ahh~

And holy crap. So many princesses. Much glitter. Wow. That little five-year old me that wanted to grow up to be a werewolf took a backseat her five-year old twin that was totally buying into the Disney Magic.

Now there cannot be enough glitter in my life. I need all the glitter! I actually can’t decide which is better. Meeting Disney Princesses as a child without the wherewithal to appreciate the experience. Or as an adult and just having that moment that you’re having the “Pink or Blue” conversation with Princess Aurora.  Seriously. Kind of made my trip. (She said purple would be best. OMG. *little girl squeal!*)

I gave up trying to smile because I looked too terrified. So instead I went with quirky. Because we all know how quirky I am. Big shock!

Lex and Princess Aurora

For those that don’t know the story. Yes. That’s a pink princess kitty from Build-A-Bear with an Aurora dress.

His name is Taylor. Oh yes, FTotOR fans. He exists.

But it didn’t stop there!

Lex and Snow White

Lex and Cinderella

Lex and Ariel

Lex and Belle

And then my personal cherished memento that you’ll have to pry out of my cold dead hands, or perhaps auction off for a billion dollars as part of my estate when I die… (Could happen!)

Americana Fairy Tale signed by the Disney Princesses

Now that is glorious. I look at it and smile all the time.

But! Something special for you FTotOR readers that would definitely appreciate the reference. Look who I found hidden by Star Tours!

Lex and Atticus “At-At” Hatfield

C’mon y’all. You make a thing out of honeybuns and remember Taylor’s flip-flops were pink. You can definitely get this one! May the Force and all the glitter be with you!

[Guest Post] Welcome Christopher Hawthorne Moss

Hello Internet! Please give a warm welcome to a newcomer here on my blog, Christopher Hawthorne Moss! Chris, or Kit as we know him, has been through a lot in the last year and around this time last year, we nearly lost him.

Today, Kit is joined by Mr. Hata, his feline companion as Mr. Hata tells the story of his epic adventures through his nine lives.

Duckie: The Hero of Historical Novels Galore
As told by “Mr. Hata” to Christopher Hawthorne Moss

Mr. Hata joins us today.

Oh hello.  You’re here.  Got any of those Friskies Party Mix treats?  No?  Well, I can give you some of my time.  Maybe next time if you bring treats I can give you more.

Books?  Oh our house is full of them.  Many of them have some fascinating smells.  I think someone else used to own them.  In fact, I have heard some of the bookstores even have their own cats.  Oh, you mean the books I am in?  Why yes, actually I and my brother, or so they claim he is, whose name is MacDhui the Duck.   It’s kind of a long story.  My name is Mr. Hata, but the two of us got combined to create a sort of matched soul, named Duckie or in some cases the name “Duckie” in another language.  It’s all very exciting.

My human writes historical novels, but I have been in one contemporary novel written for teens and young adults.  It just got sent to the publisher, so it will be a few weeks before the publisher makes up their mind about it, but I think my human is an amazing writer and almost certain to have it selected.  Actually his last book got turned down, but he just self-published it… but I am getting quite far ahead of myself.  Let’s start earlier, in the eighth century to be exact.

It’s kind  of strange but almost all the books I am character in are about war.  I heard my human tell my other human it just turned out that way.  I started out in a book called AN INVOLUNTARY KING about some Anglo Saxons, all made up you understand, that he made up with a friend a long, long time ago.  They started writing down these stories, and my human, Kit, decided to get all historical and chose a fictitious kingdom in England, Crislicland, and the eighth century as a pretty safe time for it to take place.  You can see all the stories from the 1960s all the way up to now that went into this story at http://aninvoluntaryking.blogspot.com.  They are kind of fun.  There is even one really old story there about a Siamese cat!  I show up at the end of the book, though.  It’s a long one, so you have to wait and wait.  I am the atheling’s cat… that’s sort of like a prince… and the King picks me up and hugs me in the book because he is sad and lonely for his family.  I know what that’s like because my human had to be in the hospital for an entire month last year.  The King says my name is Duckie, but he doesn’t explain why.  The reason is that the cat is orange, like me, but named after a duck, like MacDhui sort of is.

The next book my human wrote he decided to put me in too.  It’s called WHERE MY LOVE LIES DREAMING and is about this charming Creole gambler and his boyfriend who works for the government.  There is a very exiting scene where the men save the lives of all the people on a sinking riverboat, and they recue me too.  Frankie, who is the gambler, names me Duckie.  Frankie says it’s because he likes ducks.    Frankie is like that, kind of funny and sweet.  Later in the book he is miserably unhappy because his boyfriend left him and he had to join the Confederate army and because someone burned up his boat.  He is kneeling on the levee crying when he feels a furry head pressed into his palm.  Guess who that was!  You’re right, it was me!  I wanted him to feel better.

In the second book I must have been on like my fifth life or something, because it is one thousand years later, from the late 700s to 1860s!  I actually go back a good deal to be in one of my human’s other books which happens during one of the first crusades.  In that story my human is a woman who is really down deep a man and decides to be a knight.  He meets this nice lady in Constantinople and they fall in love.  But here comes the best part!  This lady has a little boy named Tacetin and he has a kitten he calls Papaki.  Get it?  That’s “little duck” in Greek, which is what they spoke in Constantinople.  That’s sort of like my being called Patito in ANGEL EYES which  just came out. In that book my human is a man who dresses like a woman and works for a place where men come to be petted and treated real nice mostly by ladies.  But the man in this book likes other men more, so when he comes to be petted by my character’s human he sees me.  Patito is Spanish for little duck and the story takes place in Mexico a little before the story with Frankie.  It’s in 1847.  It is exciting too, but I am glad to say that Patito isn’t in any war scenes.  He just hangs out all the time in the bordello, which some people call a “cat house”.  Maybe that’s because this one had a cat, namely  me.

My human says he will always have a kitty named something like Duck in all his books.  I told you I am also in his one contemporary novel too, which right now is called A FINE BROMANCE.  It’s about two high school boys who fall in love with each other, but the part of the story I am in is about one boy’s great aunt Ivy who likes to collect all sorts of memorabilia.  Someone keeps misplacing some of it.  I was relieved when Ivy never thought it was me stealing any of it.  I mean, why would I?  I might play with it, but all she would have to do is look under the couch or the rug or something.  Or in my bowl.  I sometimes put the cool things I find there, like bugs and mice and things that have stopped moving.

MacDhui can be kind of a dick.  He asked me why our human puts orange cats named Duck in his novels.  I mean, isn’t it obvious?!  He loves us and wants us always to be with him.   It doesn’t take a rocket scientist, whatever that is, to figure this out.

I don’t know if I will be in any novels that are even older than the one with the King, or in any novels where people go into space.  I think someday I will be in one where I get to go live in the White House and hunt Presidential rats.  That will be very fun.

Make sure you read all my human’s books so you can see if you can find me.  There is another kind of mystery in most of those books too, a woman named Juliana or  Giuliana or Julienne or even a man named Julio.  I asked my human why he does that.  He just shrugged and said, “Hell if I know.”

 

Author Bio

Christopher Hawthorne Moss wrote his first short story when he was seven and has spent some of the happiest hours of his life fully involved with his colorful, passionate and often humorous characters.  Moss spent some time away from fiction writing content for web sites before his first book came out under the name Nan Hawthorne in 1991.  He has since become a novelist and is a prolific and popular blogger, an editor for Wilde Oats and the GLBT Bookshelf where you can find his short stories and thoughtful and expert book reviews.  He lives in the Pacific Northwest with his partner of over 30 years and four doted upon cats.  He owns Shield-wall Productions at http://www.shield-wall.com .  He welcomes comment from readers sent to christopherhmoss@gmail.com and on Facebook and Twitter.

Characters in Le Beau Soleil will appear in FRANKIE AND JOHNNY which will be released by Dreamspinner Press in late summer 2013.

[Monday Spark] “The Dance” by Lex Chase

Hello Internet! Here we are again at Monday Spark. A little bit of flash fiction to get your week off on the right foot. Have you been digging the Monday Sparks? Share with your buddies on social media. Tweet, Tag, Click, and Share away! Today’s prompt features that love comes with responsibility, but is it worth it?

The Dance
by Lex Chase

Genre: Dieselpunk

Prompt: After a tragic accident, a friend swears you to secrecy he wished everyone didn’t make it.

They danced.

Slow and labored, as if each step they took was an insurmountable chore upon the last.  Painful to watch, an outsider like myself peeking into this tiny private window he had offered me. They twirled and spun as if on physical eggshells as their verbal banter was dealt just as timidly over metaphorical ones.

It was a fragile, but not delicate thing. Not delicate in the way of needing to be handled with care, but in the way of it needed to be cut away quickly before the illness spread to the rest of the body.  The frailty of her body as her eyes strained to focus on him, to focus on her love for him. The steady nigh mechanical precision of his body, his eyes focused to pinpricks, not a soul to be seen.

He didn’t love her.

He reviled her, the very idea of touching her bare skin, the sating of baser instincts, it made his stomach twist with revulsion to the point that merely thinking about her calling his name in a moment of passion sent him dashing to the toilet to expel her taste from his mouth.

He had revealed this to me, the late nights of sitting up because the demons that lurked just behind his eyelids were waiting.  He’d tell me stories of how he blamed himself for the accident. The moment that he was at his lowest he had wished with all his heart she wouldn’t survive to see the next pale dawn.

The tragic accident robbed her of one arm, and made him an unwilling father. In those late nights, I could see the glassy wetness in his eyes as he blamed himself for not choking the very breath out of her. For hesitating. For not destroying the one thing that would forever bind him to her.

The one thing that would keep him from becoming a god.

And here, this would-be god and this mortal crippled woman dance.  Damaged in their own way.  Hearts breaking and bleeding with each pivot and turn. Her eyes moist with adoration, and his like steel and never waver in the breeze of loving warmth.

They knew the dance was over before it began.  Their lives were at an impasse before the journey got underway.

He knew of the destiny he must fulfill and wore it around his neck like a well hidden hangman’s noose that only the most well discerned eyes could see.  She was so blind to anything but her grief, want, need, and mortality that she will never see he had transcended all of that.  That he, in his own mind, had become her unwilling savior.

Copyright © 2015 Lex Chase. All rights reserved.

[Flash Fiction Friday] Tali Spencer presents Short-Changed

Hello Internet! Welcome back to Flash Fiction Friday! Forgive the lateness of this post, I went to Avengers: Age of Ultron last night, and it was pretty much everything. Mmmm, James Spader makes me think all the wrong things.

But today, my dear friend Tali Spencer drops by with her flash fic, Short-Changed. What happens when a football hopeful wakes up one morning and finds himself not the same man he used to be.

Short-Changed
by Tali Spencer

Travis Hamm jumped out of bed ready to meet the day. He felt light and nimble, as if he could run up and down the field all day, scoring touchdowns on every reception. Every football team in the NFL was scouting him—with reason. He was tall, fast… well fuck…

His face wasn’t where it should be.

Travis Hamm, wide receiver, looked into his bathroom mirror and saw the funky drawing in the picture frame on the wall behind him. The picture crowned the top of his head with some crazy ass dancing man nanoart thing his boyfriend had told him would be worth something someday. But today all the squiggles and colors were doing was telling him there was something wrong.

Either his face had fallen to the level where his chest should be or the mirror was too high.

It was too early in the morning for that kind of shit.

He rubbed his eyes and took a leak.

When he looked in the mirror a second time, his face was still a good foot lower than it should be. Fuck Jerome. His asshole roommate was messing with him. Jerome had remounted the mirror… yeah, that was what was going on. Things hadn’t been good between them since Travis had started getting visits from pro teams and Jerome hadn’t gotten a single one. Because Jerome sucked.

Any other kid would have faced the music years ago and dropped out of college to start up his own company, but Jerome had hung around and stayed on the team, creating algorithms and messing with tech to stay competitive. Coach G liked him. Called him hard-working.

Travis pulled on his track pants. He pulled again. There was too much damn fabric around his feet. Like the pants were too long. But he’d worn the same damn pants the day before. They were tight. Aerodynamic. Fit him like a scuba suit.

“What the—”

Oh. Fuck.

* * * *

“What the hell happened?” Travis stood on tiptoes while being measured and still didn’t make it to five and a half feet. “I’ve been six five since I was in the ninth grade!”

Dr. Bao tsked and shook his head. He looked balefully over his clipboard. “You’ve lost a foot in height.”

“Overnight? Where the fuck did it go? Wait—better question—how the fuck do I get it back?”

“I’m not sure you can. These kinds of cases—”

“Hold on. You’ve seen this sort of shit before?” Travis was ready to grab onto any straw.

Bao shook his head. “No. No. I’ve… read about it. It doesn’t happen often. The technology”—he laid down his clipboard—“I believe your body may have been hacked.”

What the hell? Travis looked down his now shorter form. “I think you better explain that to me. Because it sounds illegal.”

“Someone found a way to mirror your body and theirs and… they took a bit of your height. Height hacking is becoming a bit insidious. Far less risky than surgery, though we don’t yet know the long term success rate—”

“Some asshole stole my inches?” Travis wouldn’t have believed it. Except that his damn pants didn’t fit anymore. Except the long sleeves on his shirt were too long. And his shoes now looked like water skis because whoever the asshole was hadn’t taken down his shoe size.

“Be thankful he didn’t take them off your dick. There’s a lot of that going on—”

“Fuck this.” Travis started to pace. “I need my body back, man. No team is going to draft a five foot nothing wide receiver! How do I find out who did this?”

Bao spread his hands. “I don’t really know. It would be someone who knows the cutting edge of mobile apps and physiotechnology. And also someone with access to you when you sleep.”

Travis ground his teeth. Oh yeah. He knew who.

Jerome.

* * * *

“What you did was illegal. I want it back. How much did you get, Jerome? Eh?”

It hadn’t taken a tech genius to track Jerome down. The scrawny cornerback wannabe had plenty of friends but they weren’t especially loyal. Big Johnny the offensive tackle had given him up for a meal at Dunkin Donuts. The big surprise was that Jerome was still just as scrawny as ever.

“I didn’t do it! I wasn’t there! I told you I was going out for the night. Me and Big Johnny.”

A connection lighted up in Travis’ head. “You fucking Big Johnny?” Knowing that hurt almost as much as waking up a foot shorter. Before things had gotten strained between them, Travis and Jerome had enjoyed some pretty hot times. Quite a few hot times.

“No. I mean… yeah, we tried it but… hell, Travis. He’s not you.”

“There ain’t no other me.”

“That’s right.” Jerome’s big brown eyes were so wide he looked like one of those kids in a horror flick who was staring death in the face. “What happened to you, Travis? You used to be… you know.”

“Taller? Yeah. Some greedy bastard took a whole foot off me.” He no longer believed it was Jerome who’d done it. “Asshole. I’d have given someone an inch, you know.”

“No way.”

“Probably not. But I’m really pissed. Whoever it was robbed me, man!”

Jerome rocked up to a sitting position. He looked pale and pasty and scared… and determined. “I have an app on my phone. It tracks player vitals for the coach. You know, weight, bench, squat.”

“Not height, though.”

“Well, no. That usually doesn’t change. But if someone got taller, he’d weigh more, wouldn’t he? Like overnight.”

“Yeah. Power up that sucker!” Travis hunkered beside his roommate. His friend. If anyone could figure this out, it would be nerdy, hard-working Jerome.

A half hour later they’d nailed them. Two offensive linemen and a defensive tackle. Jerome remotely accessed surveillance cameras he’d installed in his and Travis’ room and there the three perpetrators were doing something funky. Gadgets and shadows. But Travis recognized the team’s center, Polansky, was calling the shots. Pretty soon Jerome nailed their shady asses even further by tagging how much their stats had suddenly gone up. All three men were a bit bigger, a bit stronger—and just in time for the combines.

“They damn divvied me up! Like a pie!”

“Damn, that’s cold.” Jerome gave him a hug.

“But why me?”

“Everybody thinks you are way too big for your own jocks. You’ve been a real ass ever since getting wooed by the Patriots.”

Really? Well, yeah… maybe he deserved that. But he didn’t deserve getting a foot taken off his damn body. It was time for payback.

“You can do this shit, right? This body hacking thing?” he asked.

Jerome’s eyes widened again. “Yes. I mean, I think so. I have the app. But it’s illegal.”

“Fuck that. The other two can keep their inches. I’m going to take it all out of the ass of the ringleader, Polansky. With interest.” He grinned. He was going to get his body back, and he would also give Jerome a nice reward.

Oh yeah. Polansky was about to give up twelve inches… and a few more inches off his dick.

Checkmate: Spinning On Its Axis

Did you know April 28th was National Superhero Day?

And over at Krispy Kreme Donuts you could have gotten a free dozen of tasty sugary, buttery, calorie bombs. (But they taste oh so tasty don’t they?) Now you regret missing it don’t you? This Weight Watchers girl does especially on my morning weigh-in today!

I might know a thing or two about superheroes when on March 13, 2013, the world met my boys Rook and Garth of the Checkmate series. Quirky and proved it’s not “Less is More” it’s “More is More.” From the dizzying highs, the terrifying lows, and the creamy middle, Rook and Garth kept the mean streets of Axis City safe while fumbling their way through a thing called a relationship. And this December you get to see them again from DSP Publications with Checkmate Ever After, the paperback anthology collecting books 1 through 3 and the addition of a brand new adventure!

But what’s saving the day without a kicking soundtrack? Go and kick some ass today with the Checkmate instrumental score, Spinning on its Axis: The Sounds of Axis City. All for your streaming pleasure as you get through that long day at the office, or be a super parent to your young sidekicks.

We all know your other ride in the Batmobile.

Spinning on its Axis: The Sounds of Axis City by Lex Chase on Grooveshark

[Monday Spark] “Put Hope Away” by Lex Chase

Hello Internet! And once again I present to you another Monday Spark, where I pick a prompt from a hat and run like a kid with scissors at it. My previous Monday Spark, Between the Stacks was Darkmore Saga short featuring Jack and Sevon. Today, we have a new Darkmore Saga short featuring everyone’s favorite Armiger, Captain Bianca. What happens when she meets an old flame over drinks and a chance to come clean?

Put Hope Away
by Lex Chase

Genre: Suspense

Prompt: Two friends reunite after twenty years, over drinks one of them makes a terrifying confession.

Violet admired the tattered photograph. Creased in the middle, and the paper separating from the backing, she always carried the photo in her checkbook. She tapped the bar, and the bartender refilled her glass of ice water. Violet checked the time, and masked her disappointment. It was almost midnight, and Bianca was never late.

Soft, icy fingers brushed over her hand, and Violet flinched with a gasp. She shot her attention to her would-be molester, and found Bianca sitting next to her, as if she had always been there.

Bianca ran her index finger over Violet’s thumb, and Violet slipped her hand away as her face heated.

“I didn’t th-think you were coming,” Violet said, her voice a nervous chirp.

“I wouldn’t miss it.” Bianca nodded and tapped the bar top. The barrel-chested bartender glanced to her and smiled. “Vodka, straight.”

“I didn’t think you liked vodka.” Violet smiled, and spun a sandy blonde ringlet around her finger. Would Bianca notice her new color?

“I don’t.”

Bianca’s abrupt tone made Violet’s stomach clench.

“But I like it when I’m here with you.” Bianca smiled and her green eyes narrowed and more intense by her dramatic swooshes of eyeliner.

Violet sat up straighter and put her shoulders back. The bar was too dark and chilly to be walking around with a strapless mini-dress on, but perhaps this time it would get Bianca’s attention.

The bartender set Bianca’s drink in front of her without a word, and she handed over the cash. But she let the glass sit in front of her, and made no move to touch it.

“I see you changed your fashion sense,” Violet said as she stroked her water glass. The droplets of water slipping through her fingers. “Leather jacket? Piercings? A mohawk? That’s a different turn for you.”

Bianca arched a pierced brow and quirked her lip. Violet pressed her lips together and folded her hands into her lap.

“Do you remember that day?” Violet asked. She tried to keep calm and play coy, but was thankful the darkness of the bar hid her flushed face. “When we went to Monaco?”

Bianca chuckled. “And you wore that dress.” She looked Violet up and down in appraisal. “That dress. You changed your hair.”

Violet ran her fingers though her hair and nodded. “The color of wheat. Remember? You said it was your favorite.”

Bianca ran a hand over her face and took a deep sigh. “What are you doing?”

“Doing?” Violet smiled crookedly.

“I come here, excited to see my old friend, and you’re making passes at me?” Bianca asked. “We ended things and it was mutual. We agreed.”

Violet swallowed and looked down to her lap. “I’m sorry. Just sometimes I wonder.” She sniffed.

“Vi…” Bianca sighed.

“Sometimes I wonder what it’s like to be her.”

“Vi…please,” Bianca urged her. “It’s over. Our lives took us in different directions.”

Violet snorted a laugh. “Oh. Right. You being a bodyguard of a king that I never heard of—and to be fair—I’m sure doesn’t exist.”

Bianca growled. “You need to trust me.”

“Trust you?” Violet asked. “Trust you? After that night in Monaco and I find you with her?”

“That’s different,” Bianca said. “I owe Chaney everything.”

“Don’t say her name!” Violet snapped. “I don’t care how supposedly complicated your relationship with her is, or whatever epic love story spanning all time you two have. It’s all bullshit, Bianca. All bullshit to make me feel better about you breaking my heart!”

The bartender hesitated, and Bianca gave a slight shake of the head.

Violet shrugged. “Of course.” She scoffed. “That’s always how it works. You always hold all the cards. You always have everything under control. You always charm them with grace into doing whatever you please.” She laughed. “They follow you everywhere. Even into hell without question.” She slapped a hand to her chest. “I followed you. And what did I get for it? Nothing.”

Bianca slipped off her stool and tossed two twenties on the bar. “We’re done here. I need to get back.” She nodded to Violet. “It’s been nice seeing you again, Vi.”

Violet reached into her purse and ripped out the photograph. “Here. You need to remember. I know you forgot. But you need to remember what you meant to me.”

Bianca furrowed her brows and hesitantly took the tattered picture. Her eyes widened as she shook her head. “This is from Cameroon…” She gritted her teeth. “You didn’t. The children too?”

Violet grinned, her lip curled in a jackal smile. “I ate their hearts. So I could replace the one you stole.”

Copyright © 2015 Lex Chase. All Rights Reserved.

 

[Flash Fiction Friday] Andrea Speed presents Judgment

Hello Internet! Welcome back a repeat offender I mean visitor Andrea Speed for Flash Fiction Friday. Today, Andy presents her thoughtful sci-fi piece Judgment. What does it truly mean to be judged? And what are the consequences?

Judgment
by Andrea Speed

A man in a business suit, briefcase handcuffed to his wrist, stood on a quiet beach watching the sunrise. There was no way he could deny this was a beautiful planet at times. It was a real shame about the people.

He’d been sent here five years ago, Earth standard time, to evaluate the planet for the Universal Council. Earthlings were nowhere near interstellar space travel, but they’d sent out enough satellites and radio signals to make sure they’d be noticed. Considering how primitive they were, he wasn’t expecting much. He specialized in evaluating species who were a century or two behind joining them in the stars. But even he was shocked.

To say this species was not ready was an understatement. They were still fighting themselves, violently and vociferously. Every species had a dark patch, a time when they were scared and primitive and did horrible things, but humanity took the cake, to borrow an Earther expression. Their dark patch was still going, only in a slightly different permutation.

Five years by Earthling estimation was probably short, but it was an amount of time judged to be the best. You had to know about a civilizations aptitude by then, and could extrapolate their future with some accuracy. And never, in all his time with the Council, had there been an extrapolation so bleak. It was more than likely this species would destroy itself before reaching the stars, and even if it somehow survived that and made it to true outer space, they’d be a warlike, voracious species. There was no good end for them.

The briefcase, chained to his wrist, held samples of DNA from all the races of the Human species on Earth, cataloged meticulously, the clear result of his five years here. He was waiting for extraction, but he was also waiting for the end.

In all his years of existence, he’d never been around when a “category seven” was implemented. Not that there’d be anything to see, because there wouldn’t be. But he would know, and he’d be the only one on this planet who knew.

They used artificial prions coded to specific DNA sequences, and seeded both the clouds and the oceans with it. The estimated extinction of the human race would take ninety two of their hours, tops. By the time any of them figured out a prion was causing people to drop dead, they’d be unable to do anything about it. They hadn’t even worked up defenses against harmful prions native to their ecosystem yet.

It would only harm humans. Even primates, who shared much of the same DNA, would not be affected. And since it was artificial, they could hit the self-destruct on it as soon as the last human was dead. It would leave a clean planet for the flora and fauna, and the Council could then decide what, if anything, they were going to do with it.

He was the keeper of the human race now. If it was decided to try again with the species, the DNA samples could be used to recreate them somewhere else, or even here, again, once their environmental damage healed over. But at a certain point, you had to stop doing things that never worked the way they should.

So the man in the business suit with a briefcase handcuffed to his wrist stood looking out at the ocean, waiting for the world to end.