Vivika Widow's Blog, page 85

Conflict of the Throne video game ‘Death on Liberty’ set for spring 2016 release

The video game ‘Death on LIberty’ takes place aboard the Allied Kingdom vessel. A murder occurred and it is up to you to find the culprit before the ship reaches its destination.

Visit http://www.vivikawidow.uk for more …

‘Knock, Knock.’ by Vivika Widow – the short novella series; episode 1

Times have been desperate for the people of Coldford. Once upon a time executives now reduced to rummaging through their neighbours trash to find a meal. Hunting for shelter wherever they can find it – like stray cats. Their once well tailored suits now hanging in rags. Its surreal to see proud captains of industry reduced to the indignity of soup kitchens. No where to go, no means of rising back up to their ivory towers.

My name is Samuel Crusow. When the depression hit, two industries were saved. Entertainment and news. People always need to know what’s happening in the world and people always need an escape from their reality. Luckily for me I’m with the latter. I have been a freelance writer ever since finishing college. I realised quickly that no newspaper was willing to hire on a full time basis. They were however, willing to buy any story I had written for them so It basically amounted to the same thing. I thought I had managed to successfully navigate through the choppy waters of recession until the day I made the discovery that beneath the harsh surface lay a more terrifying truth.

But I get ahead of myself. I write these notes so that no other has to suffer as I did. Chances are, I will be gone by the time you read this. I will have taken my own life with the pistol I have perched at the edge of my desk. It will be my only way out.

It began just as winter was beginning to break. Autumn had held champion over the city long enough. It was time for the winter to bring its snow and hail.

The Mayor of the town – Gilford Feltz – had disappeared without a trace. That morning he had kissed his wife – a voluptuous and formidable woman named Silvia and his sixteen year old daughter, Olivia goodbye. He straightened his red power tie in the mirror and made his way to the office to wade through the city’s financial which if you were to believe the tabloids was largely his fault. Normally he would have been escorted to the office by some security of some kind. The citizens of Coldford were riled and the very sight of the Mayor only made matters worse. However, that morning he had braved it on his own. He never arrived at his office. Making his way down his street in his luxury silver car was the last anyone saw of him. Some of the neighbours remembered hearing loud music blaring from his open windows as he passed which was most unlike the buttoned down, conservative man that he was.

I had been covering the story as it developed. This meant that I had been spending more time at the offices of ‘The Coldford Chronicle’ which I had been selling my articles to. The Coldford Chronicle was the premier source for news and the areas largest newspaper. It was also the provider of food on my table. I guess hiring freelancers had been their way of protecting themselves. It meant that they were only paying for the material they could use when the needed it without any full time mouths to feed.

I never liked Mayor Feltz. I certainly didn’t vote for him. As I pursued the story I uncovered gambling debts and a mistress at the far end of town. He must have been quite the charmer. When I interviewed his mistress she told me that he was planning on leaving his wife (which is probably what the all say). It seems that on the morning he disappeared he had scheduled a visit with her which is why he had wanted to be discreet. The mistress, Cindy, had waited for him in her lavish apartment which the city had paid for. She flipped between anger and worry as time drew on. By two in the afternoon the police swamped her, acting quicker for such a public figure than they would have for any other person.

Not his wife, his mistress or his gambling associates could offer the police any idea as to where he went. On that frost morning I made my way to the stretch of tower blocks that housed the newsroom. My mind was occupied by ways in which I could spin the same story or offer a new angle.

Close to the office the clang of metal bins falling over drew my attention. From behind the cans crawled a man. He was middle aged with a chin covered in heavy stubble. Like many of the others forced to live on the streets he still wore a suit. It was long past its better days. His eyes were dulled by the effects of alcohol. He reached out with a gloved hand and snatched the core of an apple and made breakfast of it. Sights like these were shocking when the recession first hit but it became more and more common. The mighty had fallen and the rest became desensitised to their plight. With very little I could do to help him I stepped aside and entered the tall grey building with the large towering sign on top that read ‘Coldford Chronicle’.

The newsroom was hot and thick with the smell of coffee. Full time reporters had become scarce but those of them who did remain in work dashed back and forth trying to perfect their articles. The brown leather satchel that I always carry my writing in was dropped on an unoccupied table. I rested at the desk, drew out my notes and began to review them. I had to ignore the hum and chatter around me to focus on the words.

“Hey Sam,” came the voice of Madeline Lower. I looked up and briefly acknowledged my long term friend. Madeline and I had been friends since college. She too was a freelance writer although she would admit her stories weren’t selling as well. I don’t think my writing was any better than hers, its just that the editor, Eric Waddle, was a bit of a chauvinist and what articles of hers he did accept were probably grudged. Madeline was an athletic woman in her late twenties. Her long black hair was piled on top of her head In a messy bun. Her skin was a warm caramel colour like she had come from a sun kissed land. Her pale blue eyes were sharp and feline like. That morning she wore a black turtle neck with a pin striped grey skirt. She sat herself on the edge of my desk with the leap of a soccer player and no feminine grace. “Waddle was looking for you,” she informed me. “He told me to kick you into his office as soon as you got here.”

“Thanks,” was my reply, still absorbed in my reviewing. I brushed my auburn hair away from my face. I was always pale but I trust in those days of hard work I seemed even paler. I gathered my strength. Discussions with Waddle took a lot of energy. He was the kind of man who didn’t talk to you but talked at you.

“You look like Hell,” Madeline commented – ever the crusader for honesty. “Go see what he wants and I’ll get us some coffee.

Madeline slipped off the desk and made her way to the further end of the newsroom where the fresh coffee was being brewed.

I knocked on the door of the editor’s office. I could hear Eric’s voice inside having a one sided conversation which suggested that he was either conducting a telephone call or some journalist was on the listening side of a hostage situation. I pushed the door ajar slightly. I caught a glimpse of Waddle standing behind his desk. His back was to me. He had a black telephone receiver placed at his ear. He heard me as I stepped inside because he swivelled round, smiled and waved at me, gesturing me to sit down.

“I gotta go, sweetheart,” said Eric. “If I hear anything I will let you know.”

I took the seat across the desk from Eric, laying my papers on top. True to his name, Eric Waddle was a colossal man. He was a giant at six foot three and a barge at two hundred and fifty pounds.

“That was Silvia Feltz,” he informed me even though I hadn’t asked. “Poor thing is still in shock. Trying to piece together what happened. Gilford and I go way back and even I had no idea what he was up to.”

“I have nothing new really,” I ventured.

Eric reached his heavy hand across and slid my papers towards him. “It doesn‘t matter. People can’t get enough of the story. They’re swallowing it down like buzzards and coming back for more.

“I think I’ve spoken to everyone he ever met. That is everyone but you…” Eric had been quite adamant that he not be included in any of the articles but I didn’t become the reporter I was by not chancing my luck.

“I have nothing to say,” Eric snatched up a glass bottle filled with whiskey and poured himself a generous share into a square shaped glass by his hand. “I asked you to come here because there is something that I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Go on…”

“As you know, times are tough. We can only handle the best which is why they want you Sam.”

“Want me for what?” Normally I hate my name being shortened by people who didn’t know me well enough but in Eric’s case I made the exception.

“I’m talking about full time,” Eric said. His face beamed with excitement.

“I don’t know what to say,” I stammered.

“Say yes!” he bawled before emitting roars of laughter. “These kind of opportunities aren’t easy to come by these days.”

I stood. My actions became subconscious. “That is a great offer. I am very grateful. Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me, just do what you do best,” Eric dismissed, downing his glass of whiskey in one single gulp. The bottle was probably less expensive than he was used to but decent alcohol was becoming increasingly difficult to come by. “You don’t have to be hanging around here all day. Go home and tell your wife the good news.”

My wife, Theresa, had studied journalism too. In fact that’s where we met. When Theresa and I married she gave up a career. Her mother blamed me for this but the truth was I had been the one trying to discourage her from doing so. Theresa didn’t want to take any chance on a writing career when housewife was the most stable job to be had. I never corrected my mother – in – law as to who’s decision it had been to give up. She already hated me anyway. She thought me too self absorbed to be a suitable husband for her daughter. Her concerns weren’t completely without merit. I was caught in my own world. Theresa was a large part of that world though. I couldn’t wait to tell her the news.

***

I was out of breath by the time I reached home. My heart beat forcefully with exertion and excitement. The drums of anticipation crescendoed in my ears. In fumbled for my keys in the pocket of my oversized grey coat. The coat had been a kindly donation from a colleague when they saw I had nothing warm to wear through the winter. I leant against the door as I reached deeper into my pockets. As I did so the door fell aside. It was very unlike Theresa to leave the door unlocked even when she was at home. She was a cautious little thing and home invasion robberies had become an concern.

Our humble home was on the outskirts of town. It was a small, one bedroom terrace amidst an array of similar granite buildings. What separated ours from the rest was the addition of an emerald green front door. Green was my favourite colour and it matched the shade of Theresa’s eyes. I called for my wife but there was no response. Heaps of blankets lay across the worn brown sofa which kept us warm without any extra cost. The scent of apples danced from the kitchen. Theresa had been baking apple pie which she always did when she had had a rough day. The kitchen was a direct off set from the living room. I found Theresa in there lurched over the cooker. She was weeping heavily. Her mousey brown hair was uncombed. When I pushed the swinging door open she gripped a knife that was close at hand. She stumbled backwards emitting a frightful shriek.

When she saw it was me she dropped the knife, ran at me and threw her arms around my neck. She didn’t ask why I had come home so early. It was I who had asked the questions.

“What happened?” My heart was now beating to a completely different rhythm.

“I’m so glad you’re here. That woman was looking for you. She was horrible. Just horrible!”

“Calm down,” I urged, more as a mantra to myself as I had tried to decipher what happened to get her so upset.

Theresa gathered her wits. She took a deep breath and a tear began to roll down her cheek. “A woman came asking for you…”

“And who was she? What was her name?” I enquired, assuming it to be someone I had been questioning on the Feltz story.

Theresa shook her head. “She didn’t say. She had a Westcliff accent, same as yours.”

Westcliff was the small island a short distance from the mainland where I had been born. My mother had brought me to Coldford as a young boy but I never lost the harsh but musical tone from my voice that the accent carried.

“What could she possibly have said that would have gotten you so upset?”

Theresa wandered into the living room and dropped herself amongst the blankets sobbing. “She told me that you were in danger. She told me that you would return to me one day in pieces.”

I sat beside her and put my arm around her shoulder. “That’s all nonsense, I promise.”

Theresa shuddered. “She gave me this.”

From the pocket of her skirt she gave me a card. It was a black business card. On the front read ‘Knock, Knock.’ across an ominous grey door. It was a cabaret club. One which I would visit that night and my life would be changed forever.

PART 2 AVAILABLE 4.11.2015

Do not adjust your screens. This is not a test…

Vivika Widow’s ‘This Place’

Written by Vivika Widow

Directed by Leo St Paul

Starring Connor Geoghegan

Featured in ‘Myths and Tales’ Volume 1. For more visit www.vivikawidow.uk 

The Walk – Myths and Tales Season 1 Episode 1 – Written by Vivika Widow, Directed by Leo ST Paul

The ‘Myths and Tales’ from Vivika Widow. Season 1 Episode 1 – The Walk

Written by Vivika Widow

Directedby Leo St Paul

Starring: Simone Connelly, Sophie Scott and Kirsten Connelly

Vivika Widow’s ‘Knock, Knock.’ EPISODE 1 COMING SOON

Coldford is in a desperate state of depression. Famine and poverty have struck even the most elite. As the struggle for the basic necessities continues, one thing remains – entertainment. In a dark alley cabaret club, Journalist, Samuel Crusow, discovers a new method of survival.

Drawn into the world of the clubs patrons and staff, Samuel finds their hold on him tightening. Now he must find a means of escape before he is pulled in too far.

Princess and the Beetle. Featured in ‘Myths and Tales Volume 1’

There once was a Princess, who lived far away,

She was in love with a prince, so they eloped one day.

On the way to the church they received terrible news,

A dragon was terrorising, the prince had to choose.

“I’ll return my love,” to the princess he said,

“But first I must assure the menace is dead,”

The princess was huffed, her face so sour.

Couldn’t look at anyone, locked herself in a tower.

“I’ll wait right here till he returns to me,

We will be married, happy and free,”

The crow told her “It’s likely he’ll die,”

The princess grunted, stared into the distance with a sigh.

“You pesky bird, my prince is big and strong.

He’ll return with that dragon head before too long,”

The prince faced the dragon in a deadly fight.

He had torn out its tongue by the third night.

“Ah ha!” he cried “No enemy is too great for me!

I can return to my bride and let her see!”

“Wait you fool!” cried the evil witch.

“You killed my dragon, you son of a bitch!”

The prince drew his sword, the witch was too fast.

A spell was cast that was sure to last.

He was now a little beetle, 6 legs and all black.

Small and insignificant, he almost fell down a crack.

He got his wish and found his lonely bride.

She was sat at a desk, so he climbed up her side.

“My princess! It’s me! Will you love me all the same?”

The princess couldn’t hear a single word he was saying.

She noticed the little bug, she smiled and she said

“What a horrid little creature!” and smashed the book over his head.

She often wondered what happened to her lover.

Had he forsaken her for another?

The guts of the man she took home to her mother

Were splattered across the front of her book cover.

HMS Liberty prepares to set sail!

Step aboard the safest ship in the Conflict. HMS Liberty boldly traverses the waters of all combatants. Amongst its beautiful décor and quality cabins you will find fine dining, comfort and above all … safety. Grab your ticket now.

Extract from Dust and Devotion by Vivika Widow

The whole house was bathed in darkness. The heavy, dusty curtains had barely been drawn and the fire place in the main parlour was lit even though a latent heat hung in the air. Furniture was sparse.

“It wasn’t me who wanted you,” Julien announced. “It was my twin.” He gestured to a girl seated on the floor by the fire. Her royal blue dress fanned out around her. Her thick coal black hair almost reached the bottom of her back. Like Julien, she had the most piercing shade of blue eyes.

An older man sat in a bottle green sofa chair, staring blankly into the nothingness in front of him. His grey hair still clung onto the youth of its black roots. His beard was full but neatly trimmed.

Annabelle turned her attention to the girl. “Why did you send for me?” she asked. Her attitude at the door with Julien having simmered down to a cold vehemence.

“I’m Francesca,” said the girl. “That there in the chair was my father. We are the première family and we have returned home. Come, I want to show you something.” Francesca took Annabelle’s hand and led her into another room. It led directly from the main parlour but it was brighter and airier than the rest of the house. A mongrel dog lay cowering underneath a large dining table.

“Come, Savo!” Francesca called to the animal. It drew itself slowly from its hiding place. Its ears dropped, eyes lowered and its tail quivering between its legs. Francesca held her hand out. The dog tipped her fingers with its nose. She smiled and drew her hand softly across the light brown fur. The canine responded with affection. Francesca flashed a smile to Annabelle., filled with radiance and malice in equal measure, before she tapped the dog between the eyes and it fell to the ground in a fit, its leg twitching. White drool gathered at the corner of its mouth.

Annabelle asked, “Why did you do that?”

Francesa shrugged her shoulders. “It amuses me. It also highlights my point.”

Annabelle raised her. “So what is your point?”

Francesca smiled still watching the mongrel convulse on the floor in front of her. “Well, no matter how many times I do this to him he still comes to me whenever I beckon him. I open the door so he can flee but he chooses not to.”

“He’s just a dumb dog,” said Annabelle.

“Perhaps, but people are not so different,” Francesca explained. “People have an inexplicable need to be shown the way by someone or something else. If only they opened their eyes they could see for themselves. As powerful as they think they are the people of Vorelia are no exception. With the magic we possess it is imperative that a guiding hand is laid over their eyes. The première has returned. I will do what I must.”

“So your going to make us all sick for your amusement?” Annabelle groaned, pursing her lips.

Francesca laughed, “Not everyone. All I have heard since I came home was that you are quite strong, you are the one they have turned to whilst your première was gone. I brought you here because I thought we might be friends.”

It was Annabelle’s turn to smile. “Perhaps.”

Francesca dropped her gaze back onto the dog whose fit was beginning to fade. “Why don’t you start by deciding a path for Savo here, before fate decides for him.”

Annabelle tensed her broad shoulders. She reached her hand out, laying it on the dog’s fading heart. Instantly life fell away from him.

“You decided death?” Francesca snickered.

Annabelle replied, “Anything that takes such punishment and return for more isn’t really worthy of life.”

Francesca ran her hand over the canine and it faded into ashes. “Then you should meet Basilio, my father.”

Available October 31st. Pre order now!

The short story prequel to Vivika’s best selling novel ‘Red Snow’

Extract from Conflict of the Throne: Rogue Battalion by Vivika Widow and Paul Connelly

Ivan Borkov had always aimed for greatness. He knew, even from an early age, that one day he would become head of the Borkov family. The Borkov’s were extensive throughout Russia. As native Moscovites, the capital city had quickly become one of their strongholds without their enemies even knowing it. In fact, it had been a stronghold for years. The Borkov name had been present in circles of importance dating back to the revolution. Although Ivan wasn’t the eldest, he had been chosen to lead them in a shift in the balance of power in Russia.

Ivan had met President Munterov on many occasions. He was an amiable man for the most part, but his geniality bordered on naivety. Ivan was sure the United States were taking advantage of this. He was regretful that such kind man as President Munterov would have to suffer but sometimes in wars, especially wars with such beasts as the United States; there were causalities. President Munterov was collateral damage.

As kind as President Munterov was, he was also a very stubborn one. Already the Borkov’s had their support both at home and abroad which rivalled his own and yet he still refused to hand the government over to the Yugasov regime. The people in most cities in Russia herself were crying out for Ivan to become their première.

Ivan reflected on this as he sipped a glass of vodka he enjoyed best in the late afternoon. His large home in Moscow offered excellent views of Red Square. The dark red curtains trailed the ground although the window didn’t begin until further up. The snow was falling heavily again, and it wouldn’t be long before a heavy winter was upon them. He felt the people could sense this foreboding.

The door opened, and a man in handcuffs scuffled before him. Ivan’s young cousin, Viktor Borkov, had gripped the man by the neck and threw him onto his knees before the Yugasov Première.

“This man has committed treason against you!” announced Viktor. “He claims to be loyal to our cause but we find he has been passing information to our enemies.”

Ivan still held the small glass of vodka in his hands. His cousin was only a young man but Viktor’s black hair had streaks of grey. The stress of his job as ‘The Enforcer’ Ivan presumed. The man on the ground at his feet looked pleadingly into his cold grey eyes. “It’s not true!” he claimed.

The man was Lev Ranovic. He had been a keen supporter of Ivan’s rise to power in the beginning but as the time drew nearer for the final struggle he had sensed Lev’s loyalties weakening. Viktor had been watching him closely for the past month or so.

“We are not animals!” called Rudislaw Borkov from the desk where he was reading correspondence from China. “This man has long been our friend,” Rudislaw; also Ivan’s cousin was the most level headed of the Borkov’s. He had been by Ivan’s side throughout the campaign, and his democratic approach had won favour of people more often than violence was necessary. He filled another glass of vodka and brought it to Lev. He placed the glass to Lev’s lips and allowed him to take a small sip. “Is any of this true Lev?” asked Rudislaw. Lev shook his head. A tear began to form in the corner of his left eye. His skin had paled to a shade of grey usually only seen on the deceased. Rudislaw raised his eyebrows. “You do know the penalties if we find out you are lying?”

“I swear I’m telling the truth!” Lev cried. Viktor grunted and kicked his back causing the prisoner to fall face first on the floor.

Ivan looked down on him. “What information has he shared?” he asked Viktor.

“One of our contacts in the United States tells me that a team is being dispatched to Minsk.”

“They know about Minsk?” Ivan pressed.

Viktor kicked Lev again. “Thanks to this rat.”

Ivan gestured for Viktor to lift Lev onto his feet again which Viktor did by gripping his thinning chestnut brown hair. Rudislaw shook his head. “I’m sorry Lev, but you have condemned innocent Minskovites to die, the American soldiers dispatched there will die and now you will have to die too. It is a breach of trust that we cannot ignore.”

Viktor dragged Lev back out of the room. They could still hear his screaming as he disappeared down the hall. Ivan returned to the window, and Rudislaw returned to his reading.

Two more Yugasovs met Viktor and Lev outside. Lev fell against the wall with a painted Yugasov symbol. Its bright red background almost glowed through the haze of the snow, and the central yellow star shone brightly. A bullet fired into Lev’s forehead. He died instantly. Viktor had awoken that morning feeling merciful. The police had ceased dealing with Yugasov executions, a policy installed by Police Commander, Nikolai Borkov so they left Lev’s body in the cold of the Moscow street to be devoured by the stray dogs.