Vivika Widow's Blog, page 73

The Mind Map of a Maniac Maestro

The mind of an author can be strange place, escpecially when building a story from the mind of a crazed killer.

Here’s a little look at the early thinking behind thriller Maestro!

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Published on April 10, 2017 11:00

Conflict Chronicles; Episode 1: Smile for the Camera

The boy was screaming again. His parents had insisted on a photograph of him on his own to commemorate young Adrien’s Bar Mitzvah. He was a man now in the eyes of his faith but being high on the autism spectrum meant that the fuss and the pomp and ceremony of the day had left him feeling over stimulated. The attack of sensations on his senses caused him to act out wildly.

Julianna Beltane, proud citizen of New York City and freelance photographer of three years was used to dealing with difficult clients. Most people she met were nervous in some way. They were nervous at having their picture taken, they were in the midst of an event they had been planning for the best part of the year or they were just anxious to be done with the photo. Julianna’s full cheeks and round face she got from her mother and the caring, almond eyes she got from her father were soothing. Most people responded warmly to her. She had a natural ability for drawing people from their nerves.

Adrien dropped into a chair. He gave a heavy sigh. The red tie with black leaf print had been pulled off. His crisp white shirt was torn open at the collar.

“Your mom would like to get a photo of you,” Julianna said softly as she took the chair beside him. “How are you feeling?”

Adrien didn’t answer. A frown tightened the skin between his thick, black eyebrows.

“You should enjoy your day. It only comes once,” Julianna added.

Adrien liked her. She had the scent of honey around her. Her pale skin was scattered with freckles, mostly concentrated across the bridge of her nose.

“What if we do it whist everyone else is busy?” Julianna suggested, knowing that the boy would feel better with the other’s being distracted.

The storm in Adrien’s face dissipated. He formed a smile but kept his gaze below Julianna’s eye line. She angled her camera. Click. Her instict told her that the unposed and spontaneous photographs would look much better than anything that could be staged. There would be some eye catching images for Mrs Adams of her son as he danced on the cusp of manhood.

The photographer was no stranger to Autism. Her younger brother was also afflicted. When he had a meltdown only his Jules could calm him.

Adrien settled into his party after that leaving Julianna to capture special moments. It was the reason she started her photography business. Cementing memories in an image to enjoy in future years was a special kind of magic.

“Thanks for your help,” Mrs Adams said to her at the end of the day.

Julianna didn’t doubt the appreciation of the mother. Mrs Adams had especially noticed Julianna’s patience in dealing with Adrien, even when the boy was determined to be difficult. However, she was far too distracted by the hoard of thirteen year old kids in her care to show it.

“It was a beautiful day to be a part of,” replied the photographer. She wasn’t lying. It was a highly emotional day that marked the beginning of a shift in the parent/child relationship.

Julianna beamed a wide smile. “I’ll give you a call in a couple of days. I’ll bring some prints by and you can choose the ones you like best.”

“Yes, yes,” said Mrs Adams.

Adrien waved to Julianna from amongst a collection of his friends before the door was closed on the photographer and the party could continue on with invited guests only.

***

A small, one bed apartment in Queen’s close to where her last job had been was where Julianna called home. She decided to walk that day. The weather was mild and she felt she needed the exercise. She had been stuck indoors a lot lately. Work was her excuse. The truth was she met new people so often she never made a real connection any more.

She pushed open the door, dropped her bag and habit drew her finger over to press the button on the answering machine.

‘No Messages’ said the emotionless voice.

The house was eerily quiet. Even the upstairs neighbours weren’t making any noise. Normally they were in the midst of a drunken brawl by three, breaking up by five, packed up by six and back together by eight. It was a pattern they had gotten themselves into that showed no signs of changing.

Although Julianna told herself she was fine with the solitude she most definitely didn’t like the silence. She switched on the television to create the illusion of having someone else in the house.

A muscular man and woman danced onto the screen. He wore a t-shirt so tight it could have fit a child. She wore pink Lycra. Her shiny, golden hair was tied in a ponytail that danced around her shoulders. They enthusiastically invited those at home to join them at a local gym chain.

Julianna caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror that hung above her fireplace. She looked so dull and pale. Not like the warm, healthy glow of the gym girl.

“We interrupt this commercial for an important news broadcast from Torrance Global.”

Julianna’s attention was seized by a news reporter wearing a black mourning tie.

“This morning, Prince Mohammar Ahmbad of Saudi Arabia was found dead in his home in Abu Dahbi. Although there has been no official statement from the palace it is assumed that this is the latest in the chaos killings. Authorities are warning to be vigilant. If you see anything suspicious, report it immediately.”

Julianna sighed. An image of the Saudi prince was shown. He was hanging by his feet. His head had been removed. Attendants were throwing themselves in front of the decapitated remains to prevent the press photographers for catching them.

Julianna worried that it was far too early to be showing such gore. Little children who couldn’t understand what was happening would be frightened. Adrien and his friends could be watching.

It hit her hard that such brutality could happen to Prince Mohammar. She had watched broadcasts of him speaking out for women’s rights. When the chaos killings began he worked tirelessly, urging those of every nation to come together in solidarity when it would be easy to run in fear.

For months now the ‘Chaos Killer’ had been targeting world leaders across the globe, killing indiscriminately. Wherever he lurked, chaos followed, giving him his apt media tag.

Even with the combined might of the world’s security agencies they were no closer to finding the culprit, establishing opportunity or even motive. Prince Mohammar would not be the last.

The horrific pictures of the prince were replaced by those of Belgian Minister, Jacques Marlode. The screen was filled with the Minister with his two daughters. Holding his two young daughters, he was grinning wide with genuine pride that suited him better than his usual political astuteness. He had been the first victim of the ‘Chaos Killer’. His decapitated remains were found in a bathroom of the Hague.

A bleep sounded from Julianna’s phone. Feeling morose at the state of global affairs she drew herself away.

HOPE YOU’RE HAVING A GR8 DAY

Julianna smiled. She had been having an online relationship with Todd for months. Although they hadn’t met in person he had become a large part of her life. Not a night had went by since their first chat when they didn’t swap messages. She knew what he looked like from the photos of his skiing trip he had sent her. He was handsome, coal haired and had an endearing smile.

She hoped to meet him in person. Perhaps someday soon. It was all she could think of to distract her from the dismal state of the world.

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Follow Julianna’s story as the tense Conflict begins to brew around her.

Part 2 GETTING TO KNOW HIM will be available exclusively on vivikawidow.com 6pm (UK time) 15th April 2017.

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Published on April 08, 2017 10:00

Groups of the Conflict: Kukri

Death Comes to Us All

As the Ojibwi Pioneer travelled the world seeking knowledge, the First Nations of Canada began to come together under one leader. Tamoda Faenan (Fa’nan).

Tamoda was a fierce warrior who bore a black feather. The black feather is one of the rarest of feathers and is given only to warriors who have faced death and returned.

For Tamoda, strength was prized above all, death was to be respected but never feared and the women who followed his lead were to revered as Goddesses for only they produced life.

The groups formed the Kukri tribe. The Kukri tribe was divided into eight houses which spread across Canada. The Raerra, the Faenan, the Laerra and the Haebra were the most dominant.

When Tamoda took his final walk into darkness the House of Faenan of which he was father fell into chaos. They fought amongst themselves as to who should lead. With a strong but loving paternal hand the House of Haebra took control of the Kukri and so it was through the generations.

It is said that each house of the Kukri holds a piece of the personality. The House of Haebra is regarded as the nobility of the Kurki. The house of Faenan its darker thoughts. It is written that both will come together in a mighty clash and the Kukri houses will split until a great light beckons them back together.

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Published on April 07, 2017 10:17

Abandoned Places

Into the world of imagination you delve.

The glow of the computer screen drawing you nearer.

Picking out the words letter by letter.

Each click released into the air like a virus.

At the entrance to imagination lies a warning etched in stone.

Do not venture too far or you may not return.

The world looks different watching from within the mind.

All the same sights but with a hazy yellow glow.

The streets you walked once familiar, now strange.

The same objects you spied many times before, now odd.

Those faces you have known, every wrinkle, every scar.

Now their eyes glare with suspicion.

Take a chance, walk those silent alleys once more.

Your imagination will never fully clear.

Fill the empty windows with images of your own.

Let the birds sing with a song of your own composition.

Fill the lonely streets with whatever you please.

The laughter of children. The cries of pain perhaps?

There are no rules in the land of imagination.

No morals to govern the comings and goings.

Be free to express your deepest desires.

Don’t be shy to shed a tear.

Grit your teeth, relieve your frustration.

For when the computer screen blinks into darkness, the streets are abandoned once more.

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Published on April 05, 2017 11:00

Say Farewell to Daylight Young Prince

The bells had been filling the night air for hours with their tormenting knell. The castle wept for the death of the much beloved King Roman.

“There’s going to be quite a few changes around here,” General Drenisov commented as a young boy was dragged down the dungeon corridor, a guard on each arm. Drenisov followed them.

“Let me go!” screamed the teenager as he pulled himself away from his captors. His thick black hair was in disarray. His bright blue eyes sparked under the low lighting.

The general closed in on his captive, several years his junior. The boy had been badly beaten. His lips and teeth were stained with blood.

“Let me go and I will forget any of this happened,” said the younger.

This drew a wide grin from the general. The guards gripped the prisoner tighter. “You don’t make those decisions. You murdered the king. Any chances you had of ever seeing daylight again died with him.”

The prisoner shook his head. “You can’t do this!”

Drenisov crossed his arms over his chest. “I think you will find I can. You are a murderer and you will suffer the same fate as all murderers in this Kingdom do.”

The prisoner snarled. “The king did not die at my hand.”

Drenisov was unrelenting. “He was a defenceless, sick, old man. You have stolen our beloved king and for what? Your own selfish ambition?”

The prisoner pursed his lips and spat on the general, spoiling his red and gold uniform.

“Take him away!” Drenisov ordered.

The guards dragged the prisoner away. “I didn’t do it!” he was screaming. “The king was already dead when I got there!”

The prisoner was cast into the dungeons. The door was locked tightly. The only window he had was from a small window. He would have to wait. Someone would help. One day the truth of what happened that night would be discovered.

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Red Snow will be coming soon as a graphic novel series

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Published on April 04, 2017 11:00

Myths N Tales Webseries S01E02: This Place

Run child as fast as your feet will carry you.

Don’t pause for a breath or stop to tie your shoe.

You can look around, cry for help if you like

But this is one time the monster will strike.

You can run deep into the forest, you can hide in the dark,

But we will always find you, for you have the mark.

You will never survive; you’ve already begun to rot,

You can gather wood, set camp just like daddy taught.

It all seems so fruitless now, so close to the end,

When a monster lurks behind every bend.

Our paths are made from the bones of the others,

Somewhere waiting for them are weeping mothers

You will discover as they did, there is now way out,

Burst your little lungs trying to scream and shout.

Just listen please

To the noise of the trees.

They will warn you of what lurks in every inch of this place.

Creatures waiting to snatch you, all eager for a taste.

They won’t wait long, for they are hungry indeed.

Only the blood of a child will fulfil their greed,

All roads lead to the same place in the end.

We all go without a coin, a care or a friend,

So look up child and see what lies in wait.

Thank you little child, for taking the bait.

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Did you know that there is an inspirational message behind THIS PLACE?

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Published on April 03, 2017 11:00

Myths N Tales Webseries S01E01: The Walk

I was once told a tale of two sisters in despair, the made quite an odd and opposing pair.

The first was named Jane, who had a small child.

The second was named Sally, who walked for miles.

Through the dark forest, to the furtherest end,

Sally took comfort in the quiet round every bend.

Sally listened to the rustling in the leaves.

She had memorised the songs of the birds in the trees.

There in the woods, lay a special place.

For it was there that their mother had fallen from Grace.

Deep in the forest, past the first gate,

is where their mother had met a grisly fate.

Sally would return day after day,

even though Jane had warned her to stay away.

For Jane life went on as much as it had,

protecting her child from all that was bad.

Online she had met man she really did like,

So she arranged to meet the stranger who called himself Mike.

Talking and talking, they had done for days,

not really knowing each other’s ways.

With her sister distracted, Sally continued her walk,

with no one to disturb her, no one to talk.

Jane was warned not to meet a stranger,

unknowns on the internet had led to such danger.

Jane took no notice she was sensible after all,

Mike was a good guy, he had it all.

Jane carried on, straightening the house as she went.

Her last thoughts being, what Sally had meant.

She tried to contact her sister a lot,

but Sally was drawn back the murder spot.

Sally found the tree, where it had all went awry,

where her mother had given her final cry.

There had been a lot of blood, or so they said,

when they found the mother, torn, cold, dead.

The river had run red in the pale blue dawn,

for the two sisters, the mother was gone.

While Sally was drawn closer to the horror,

Jane couldn’t wait to meet her new lover.

‘Get some rest before the meet,’ she said.

Her child was content so she slipped off to bed.

Sally could still smell her mother’s perfume,

It had followed her mother into every room.

But alas there was nothing that could bring her back,

just the memories of that fading dirt track.

Had she been cold when she fell into the water?

Did she realise what she had done to her daughter?

Sally could only hope that wherever lay their mum,

she could see what both her daughters had become.

The time drew nearer for Jane to meet her new friend,

closer still was her inevitable end.

With a draw of a blade, the two sisters became one.

Jane now lying comfortably with their mum.

For a very long time Sally had waited,

to be alone in the house, she claimed to have hated.

But wait … another body stirs.

The life of the little child will soon be hers.

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Published on March 31, 2017 11:00

Knock, Knock (Episode 3): Sleep Tight Sam

After finding our home ransacked, Theresa decided to stay with her mother. She begged me to join her but I remained behind alone. In desperate times, my new job at the newspaper was important. It was a restless night. I watched the quiet streets from my window until my eyes burned. After falling asleep on the sofa for a few hours I left to meet Madeline for breakfast at the local diner. She was waiting for me at a table at the furtherest end, a coffee in hand a poor excuse for a plate of eggs and bacon in front of her.

“Are you okay?” she asked as I sat at the booth bench across from her. She hadn’t seen me since the house breaking. She was filled with genuine concern. She had actually spent an hour on the telephone with Theresa the night before, calling from her mother’s.

The décor of the diner was a mix of bright red and clinical white. It was harsh on my tired eyes.

“I’m fine,” I said, probably unconvincingly. “I don’t think they will be back.”

Madeline shook her head sympathetically. A large middle aged, grey haired waitress with thick rimmed spectacles approached. “Just some coffee please,” I told her. She grunted and disappeared back to the kitchen.

“She’s a charmer,” I commented.

“Are you sure you are okay?” Madeline asked again.

“I told you I’m fine,” I insisted. “These kind of things happen all the time these days.”

“Nothing was stolen though. If it was a robbery surely they would have taken something. Theresa told me about your visit to the ‘Knock, Knock’ club. You were threatened!”

“It was just a bunch of crazies. The girl I spoke to seemed to think she knew who my grandfather was.”

“You should be careful Sam,” Madeline warned.

“Do you know the club?”

“I’ve been there once or twice,” she stated. “Its a strange place I was trying to get a story on it but the manager would give me nothing.”

“Well my mother left my father when I was small so I have no idea what he could have gotten involved in but now that I know Theresa is safe I’m going to have a talk with the performer, Tabitha. Maybe I will get you your story after all.”

“Don’t do anything stupid Sam.”

As if I would…

***

That evening I returned to the ‘Knock, Knock’ club. Perhaps my journalistic instinct was getting the better of me or perhaps I wanted to avoid the confinement of my empty home. Either way, there I was knocking on the door as suggested. The man who had greeted Theresa and I on our first visit was at the door again.

“Table for one?” he asked with an ironic smile. “Sometimes it is more hassle than its worth to bring the missus isn’t it?”

“I’m not staying,” I explained to him. “I just want to speak to Tabitha.”

“I shouldn’t let you in at all after the stunt you pulled the other night. Didn’t your mother teach you that it is rude to barge your way into a ladies dressing room? Luckily for you I hate to lose a customer and T isn’t here tonight.” I made to walk away but the man pulled me back. His long fingers wrapped around my forearm. “I’m Dennis. I manage the club. Perhaps I can help.”

I pulled my arm free. “No you can’t.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure. You are Samuel Crusow, right?”

I blurted, “Why does everyone keep saying that like it is something sinister? What is all this nonsense about? You people – whoever you are – have been the bane of my life for the past few days. My wife won’t come home because she is so terrified. Is this about the mayor?”

Dennis raised his dark eyebrows. “The mayor? This is nothing to do with him. It is all about you. Let’s not stand here in the cold discussing it. Come inside.”

I followed Dennis across the club. His lean frame was much taller than mine. He strode confidently with long legs. A girl stopped him. She was dressed in a sequinned leotard. She had a large black bow in her blonde hair. Her face was so thick with make up it almost looked like a mud mask.

“Why can’t I have the headline spot? I am so much better than Meldra is,” she whined.

Dennis shook her off. “Not now Bette. Can’t you see I’m busy?”

Bette was relentless. She continued to follow him, pleading her case. “You are showing clear favouritism to that no talent whore!”

Finally, Dennis stopped. He gripped both of her shoulders. He was clearly frustrated but he still spoke with a calm tone. “Listen kid, why don’t you and Meldra fight it out back stage. I will even throw in some knives and you can tear at each other’s throats. Whoever wins can replace T until she returns. It will give me one less whining woman to worry about.”

The girl huffed and pursed her lips severely before marching backstage. Dennis showed me to an office where he gestured for me to take a seat.

“It would be dangerous to tell you everything now. Besides, T knows more than I do,” Dennis began, pouring himself a glass of whiskey from the bottle that had been left on the table. “Your grandfather, Samuel Crusow Sr, was the founder of a group of elite members of society. It began just after the last great depression. It was a way of preserving certain statuses so that the members wouldn’t have to suffer the indignity of poverty.”

“I never really knew my grandfather why should I care about any of this?” I asked.

Dennis swallowed the whiskey. “Because, Samuel is no longer with us which makes you the next to take his spot in the club.”

“So I get a birthday card, the odd invitation to a game of golf, that sort of thing?”

Dennis laughed. “Not quite.”

“Well if that’s the case then I’m really not interested,” I stated quite conclusively.

“Don’t let the ‘Knock, Knock’ club fool you. I mean I love the old girl like my own but she is an ugly old hag. Our base may not be much to look at but the power of this group stretches far and wide.”

“So what is this group about then?”

“We do whatever it takes to survive,” said Dennis matter of factly. “What we need is granted to us. We have the right to survive, even in such troubled times as these.”

“And what exactly do you want from me?”

“It would be good to have a namesake to take over from where Samuel left off but I will leave that decision up to you. Don’t let the desperation outside take hold of you. There is something here much greater than any of us and it can be yours if only you were to take it.”

“So you are a cult?”

Dennis shrugged his shoulders, unmoved by the term. “Call it what you want but don’t dismiss it until you have seen what we are capable of, what we are willing to do …”

In my head the voices were screaming ‘nutbag!’ but my hands were shaking. My arms were trembling.

The ‘Knock, Knock’ club was a front for the mysterious group. They held meetings at the club and I was invited to the next one. This was going to make one hell of a story.

***

That night I climbed into bed. My head was conjuring thousands of different ideas of what could possibly be involved at the ‘Knock, Knock’ club. I drifted off to sleep just after midnight because I heard the town clock chime faintly in the distance and before the twelfth stroke I had fallen into a deep sleep.

The next morning I awoke refreshed. Slowly I came back from the land of nod into the land of reality. The questions that plaque us every morning queued up like always. ‘Where am I? What has happened?’ I realised quickly that I was at home. The sun was streaming through the window. It was later than I would have liked to rise. As I turned I felt a heavy object beside me. The haze in my eyes cleared. I saw the wisps of my wife’s hair streaming out from underneath the wine coloured duvet. My initial thought was that she must have arrived home late and didn’t wish to disturb me. I peeled the sheets back. The bed was heavily stained with blood. Theresa stared up at me with vacant eyes. Her pretty and pleasant face that never had a sneer for anyone had been completely mutilated. Her throat had been cut and her mouth gaped open as though she was still trying to hold on to her last breath.

The police were alerted. I was arrested on suspicion of my wife’s murder. My visits to the ‘Knock, Knock’ club were not to be taken lightly. It was only going to get worse…

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Episode 4: MURDER 1 will be available exclusively on vivikawidow.com 6pm (UK time) 16th April.

Read the story from the beginning!

EPISODE 1: WELCOME TO THE CLUB

EPISODE 2: DON’T COME A KNOCKIN’

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Published on March 26, 2017 11:00

Knock, Knock (Episode 3)