Chad A. Clark's Blog, page 27

Baked Scribe Flashback : Test Run

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“Are you sure you really want to do this?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Sarah asked again. “The math is sound, the equipment is working, what reason what I have to turn back now?”

“I know, I just wish we could be more confident about this.”

“We’re as sure as we’re going to be. If we give it another week what do you think you’re going to figure out? There’s no way to prevent at least a tiny rift from forming when we make the jump.”

They had taken to referring to the rift so nonchalantly, as if it were something that really existed, and not just the term they had come up with to describe a phenomenon that was purely theoretical. The dark void which time passed through was something that most serious scientific minds had rejected as fantasy.

“I just don’t think we’re ready.” Jeremiah wasn’t ready to concede the point.

Sarah took in a slow breath. This argument has been ongoing since she had announced her intention to take the first jump, five minutes into the past. The argument had been civil at times, heated at others. She stepped forward and took hold of his arm, but he avoided eye contact.

“I understand why you’re reluctant, I get your hesitation. I’m scared too. But there is never going to be a time when we aren’t scared. Everyone who has ever taken the first step of something has had to square up against that fear.”

“I know.”

“All of our tests with organic material have gone perfectly.”

“Yes, but it isn’t like the rabbits can tell you if you just scrambled their brain or made them blind.”

“You’re being dramatic, would you lay off the histrionics for five minutes?”

“I’m worried about—”

“I know. You have to trust my judgment.”

He shut his mouth at her sudden icy tone. If anything had been established in the relationship, it was the point where she would engage in no further conversation on the given topic. He would have a better chance of convincing her that red was actually green. As much as his reason was screaming at him to talk her out of it, he dropped his gaze and nodded defeat.

It took only a few minutes. He closed the door, sealing her in and went to the control panel. Part of him wished they had installed a window on the door but would he really want to watch the thing destroy her from the inside?

The lights in the room dimmed to almost complete dark as he powered up and switched to the external generator. He felt a vibration under his feet as the mechanism warmed up. They had already entered the destination data for the jump so all was required was to execute. His hand hovered over the button intermittently, Moving up and down as his internal debate raged on.

In the end, he pushed the button, saying a silent prayer, apologizing to Sarah for anything that might go wrong.

The door to the lab was immediately thrown open and Sarah rushed in.

“Christ Jesus, I thought you were going never going to push that.”

Jeremiah gaped at her, glancing back at the machine before looking at her. She looked panicked, sweat beading on her forehand and as she stepped forward, the manic look her eyes actually made him take an involuntary step back.

“We have to destroy it,” she said verging on tears

“What the hell are you talking about? It worked, didn’t it?”

“Something followed me in through the rift.”

Jeremiah looked around the room, stupidly, as if a third-party was going to be standing there. She shook her head.

“It isn’t here but it’s close. It must have been displaced somewhere else.”

“But why would—”

“That machine is the anchor that is pulling the thing in from the timestream. If we destroy it, I think it will be pulled back.”

“But why do we have to send it back?”

“Jeremiah, I was there on the other side with that thing. I saw its thoughts, I felt its rage. We have to send it back before he tries to bring others across.”

“How could it—”

“Jeremiah!”

He nodded and turned towards the panel, only vaguely thinking about how rare it was for her to use his name like this. They had designed the unit with a self-destruct mechanism that would fry the internal processor and set off explosive bolts in the floor underneath , sending the pod plummeting to the river, four hundred feet below.

His hand wavered again.

“What is the problem? What are you waiting for?”

Something was wrong. He couldn’t say what it was or why, but something was not right about any of this. She wasn’t right. He had never known her to panic for any reason.

“Destroy the pod! Do it, you idiot!”

She wouldn’t be so casual about it. This had been her life’s work as much as his. She had gone through the same professional suicide and had sacrificed just as much.

“I’ll do it, God damn you.”

She stepped forward to throw the switch. Coming to a sudden decision, he put his shoulder into her and shoved, knocking her back several feet. He pulled the protective cage back down over the switch and snapped the key off in the lock.

Before she could say or do anything, he rushed forward to the pod, throwing open bolts and pulling open the door.

Sarah was still strapped to the chair.

He staggered back, staring at her as her head lolled up, vacant eyes staring out at him as a line of spit started to fall from her lifeless lower lip.

“Oh God,” he whispered it to himself as he heard the sound of the thing behind him as it stood in what now had to be its true form, the thing that had used her to jump in through the rift.

Jeremiah felt his knees start to go weak as he drew in what would almost certainly be his last breath.

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The ABC’s Of Stephen King : Ted Brautigen

Ted Brautigen is one of King’s characters who bear the distinction of appearing in multiple books and he has deep ties with the mythos of the Dark Tower series. He originally appeared as one of the central characters in one of King’s less talked about books, Hearts In Atlantis. It’s interesting because I recently was looking over a bibliography for King and realized that Hearts is classified as a short story collection and I think that it is a tribute to King and his abilities that I have never really thought of the book in this way. It’s true that the multiple stories in the books aren’t necessarily connected in the traditional sense and most of them could stand on their own. Still, at the same time I felt like it was all a part of the same tapestry, and they were more powerful when presented as a whole.

Ted is one of those characters that I think I would enjoy spending time with, if he were a real person. King does a great job making his dialogue sound warm and engaging. Whenever I read Hearts In Atlantis, I always come out of it excited about books and in particular, I want to immediately go out and find a copy of Lord Of The Flies. I think that regardless of how you feel about Stephen King, he is clearly a lover of literature and I think that this aspect of his personality comes through clearly in Ted Brautigen.

In the final book of the Dark Tower series, Ted returns for an appearance, along with several other King characters, to come to the aid of the fabled heroes of the Tet of nineteen. I don’t think that I’m necessarily spoiling anything here, simply by acknowledging his presence in the story, but one aspect of it that I did really appreciate is that in the process of relating his story to the gunslingers, he succeeds in filling in some holes regarding his background, as well as his perspective on events detailed in Hearts In Atlantis. There are a huge number of books in King’s catalogue that people argue have connections to the Dark Tower but Hearts In Atlantis is one of the few books with clear, overt references to the universe. I highly recommend Hearts In Atlantis as a nice supplement to the Dark Tower series.

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Baked Scribe Flashback : Left For

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“Bruno, I can’t believe you dragged me down there with you, I’ve never been that embarrassed.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean, why? You entered a writing contest for children!”

“The entry form said nothing about an age limit, it isn’t my fault that the facilitators of the contest created loopholes.”

“Don’t give me that shit. How could you, in any good conscience enter that contest? How could you possibly think it was okay?”

“Serves the little bastards right. Enough coddling! Let’s be honest, we are talking about children whose only claim to a accomplishment is in barely emerging from their whore mother’s womb, barely ahead of the afterbirth that probably—”

“Bruno!”

“Would the both of you please shut the fuck up?” Eugene swiveled around in his chair to snap at them. He felt somewhat sympathetic for the girl, who seemed like she was trying to shut up her companion, but he had run out of patience. He watched the tubby one’s face go bright red and was surprised that it wasn’t accompanied by the sound of a teakettle whistling. The guy was starting to sputter a reply, but Eugene turned his back before he could say anything. The restaurant broke out into a brief round of as he did so.

He didn’t understand what the world was coming to anymore, it was like drowning in assholes and psychopaths. Just a few months ago he had read about some guy who had been found in front of an abandoned house with his one of his hands chopped off. He was actually laughing and ranting about some kind of demon that had trapped him inside the house.

Fucking crazies.

He needed to get away from it all, off on his own somewhere. A few months out in the middle of nowhere would be perfect. He could conveniently forget the phone, throw his books into his bag, hop on the bike and the rest of world could just fuck off

The cabin was perfect. Sitting right in the middle of dense, upstate forest, right next to a huge lake. He had looked it up on GPS and couldn’t even find a town within 100 miles. And the rental price was lower than some of the shittiest motels he had ever stayed in.

It was going to be perfect.

He turned the motorcycle around another curve and glanced up into the trees as they clustered overhead. It already felt like a secret escape tunnel as the thick canopy of branches and leaves obscured him from the world. The sunlight in the clearing was blinding as he emerged from the woods and his eyes watered, even behind the tinted visor of his helmet.

There was someone standing on the porch.

He only seen a person for moment. It stood up from what looked like a wicket rocking chair, so tall that that the wide brimmed hat it wore looked like he was about to brush against the ceiling. There wasn’t time to react or try and signal the person before they walked back into the cabin.

Eugene gunned the bike and pulled up to the house. He had been expecting someone to just leave the key for him, but maybe they had decided to meet him anyway.

“Hello?” he yelled out as he stepped off the bike, arching his back and stretching the cramps out of his upper legs. He didn’t feel like just walking in, even though he had paid to rent the place. He was about to call out again when he saw the shadow of someone in the house, moving past the screen door. He walked up onto the porch and tapped lightly on the screen door before letting himself in.

The room he walked into was empty. It looked like it had been originally furnished about hundred years ago. There was a couch and easy chair that were competing to see which could contain the most dirt, grime and possibly bugs. He was clearly getting what he paid for.

“Hello?” he called out again but heard no response, nor movement from within the house.

There was a doorway to his left which led into a large, but spartan looking kitchen. He moved to the stairs and took a tentative step up, looking up towards the second floor as he reached the first landing and turned to face a long hallway with rooms on each side.

The entire second floor was empty, four bedrooms and a bathroom at the end of the hall, all equally vacant. It couldn’t be empty though, he had seen someone walk inside.

It left only one option. He returned to the kitchen and opened the tiny, hobbit sized door that lead down to the basement. As he peered down the darkened stairs, an icy breeze, like breath, washed over him. The draft was so sudden and loud that it actually sounded like a great, discordant scream.

“Fuck this.” He turned and exited about as quickly as his dignity would allow.

He came out onto the porch to see his motorcycle racing off, back towards the road he had come from. As he watched it diminish off into the distance, he shook his head and blinked to verify what he couldn’t be really seeing.

There was no rider.

Eugene reached for his phone and took it from the inside jacket pocket. No signal. Of course that would be the price he would pay for this isolation.

As the phone went back into sleep mode, he lowered it but not before seeing a reflection in the glass of the person again on the porch.

“Thank Christ,” he said as he turned. The guy had been in the basement. The bike must have malfunctioned and they would probably find it wrapped around a tree somewhere.

The porch was empty.

“Son of a fucking…” Whoever it was, the guy was clearly having a great time screwing around with Eugene like this. Just one long, epic comedy reel for the locals.

There would have to be a phone inside. In the back of his mind, he was noticing the lack of wires going to the cabin, but maybe they were buried. Maybe there was a giant wireless hub somewhere, sending out a signal.

The pitched screams that erupted as he entered the house sounded barely human. It was a cacophony of many voices, cries of people in the worst kind of physical agony. And underneath all of that, he heard the sound of laughter.

On the floor in front of him was a battered straw hat. As the the volume of the screaming increased, and the pain in his head brought him to his knees, his hand was drawn towards it, inching forward until he was crushing it to his chest like some kind of talisman.

The screaming stopped and immediately the pressure on his head ceased, causing him to cry out and collapse against the nearby couch.

As he let out a slow breath, he closed his eyes and bore witness to the death that this house had seen. He saw children, killed by a faceless monster. He saw a woman, about his age, driven to madness about by what ever resided in this place. These images joined so many others with a new pain that ripped through him like a knife.

Someone was breathing heavily, leaning over him from behind. Eugene rolled around onto his back and began trying to crawl away.

A tall figure towered over him. He looked up into the things face, which had no features, was just a visage of scarred flesh. It reached down and snatched the hat from his hands, placing it gently atop its own head. Eugene scrambled to get away, but was lifted up off the floor and hurled against the wall. He heard the sound of wood cracking and splintering as he struck it and bounced off onto the floor.

He didn’t see where the cutting stroke came from, but he was suddenly clutching at his own throat, trying to take a breath that would never come. As his head began to spin, he struggled to stand and again saw all the people from his vision, all who had died here were lined up against the wall, staring at him and waiting.

It was only after feeling the blade cut across him again, and in his waning moments of consciousness that he realized that they were all waiting for him to join their ranks.

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The April Blogging Challenge : The ABC’s Of Stephen King

The April blogging challenge starts here. For those who are unaware, the idea behind the challenge is to blog every day of the month, excluding Sundays. For each day, the post must be inspired by a different letter of the alphabet. The theme I have chosen for the month is to write briefly about some of my favorite Stephen King characters.

I thought I would start off the challenge for this month with an easy one, probably one of my favorite Stephen King characters to make their way to the big screen. Andy Dufresne is an unlikely King character, just as the Shawshank Redemption is an unlikely King story. Still, he possesses all of the qualities necessary for gripping reading or movie viewing. He is a character that you can immediately feel sorry for and really just enjoy being around, even if it’s the proximity attachment from behind the barrier of the pages of the books or the screen on your television.

Everyone loves a story where the people who commit the worst kind of acts end up getting what is owed to them. We love seeing the person who is wronged getting to come out on top at the end and against all odds. It’s hard to watch the last twenty minutes of the Shawshank Redemption and not have a smile on your face, for the justice that you get to see delivered.

There are so many instances throughout King’s work in which the darker aspects of the story rules supreme so I made a conscious decision to focus on a story and a character that had a more uplifting arc. The story of The Shawshank Redemption, in book or film is a heavy meal of tragedy, followed by a quick but potent course of triumphalism. Do yourself a favor. If you haven’t read Rita Hayworth & The Shawshank Redempton, get yourself a copy of Different Seasons and give it a read. And if you haven’t seen the movie, definitely make the time for (in my opinion), one of the most successful adaptations of Stephen King’s works to the cinematic realm.

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Issue #146 : Blocked

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I don’t have any control over the things that I do.

I mean, I know what’s really going on, even though I can’t prove anything. It’s as if there was someone else out there, controlling everything I say and feel. I don’t know why, but I have this clear image in my head of some guy, maybe with stupid, black glasses, hunched over a computer and writing out every last moment that I experience. And of course, whoever this guy is that’s pulling my strings, he’s got a fucked sense of humor.

Like last week for example.

If I didn’t have someone controlling everything, do you think I really would have gone to my boss’ private party and pissed all over his wife’s lime trees? You think that’s a decision I would have made on my own?

I like my job.

I need my job.

Do you think I’d really blow up my life for no reason at all? Does that even make sense to you? Because it doesn’t to me.

The week before like tree-gate, I went over to my sister’s house for dinner. Simple enough, right? What could possibly go wrong?

Maybe setting her Christmas tree on fire?

Yeah. Maybe that was it.

And it wasn’t me. I mean, it was me, but it wasn’t me, if that makes any sense. I was just going along for the ride. One of those little moments where someone yanks the strings and up I go, like a little fucking puppet.

I’ve been calling in sick for the past few days because frankly, I don’t know what’s going on, just that it’s clearly getting worse.

This morning I was sitting at the table, just staring down at my hands and I couldn’t move. It was like I couldn’t make up my mind or maybe the asshole pulling my strings couldn’t make up their mind.

So I just sat there, like another piece of furniture. What that, writers block or something?

It’s like something snapped in the grand scheme of things, and now I’m not the only one behind the wheel steering the ship. So far, nothing has happened to get me hurt or too embarrassed, but who’s to say that won’t happen eventually? Isn’t it pretty much a matter of time before my invisible puppeteer who has been jerking me around by the nose gets bored? What happens then? I think he’s going to be brainstorming ways to make me more entertaining. Who the hell knows what that will involve?

How much longer is this going to go on? How much more of it am I going to be able to take? It isn’t like I can go to anyone for help. Who would believe me? I’ll just end up a hopeless puppet and locked up in a padded room with jello and non-toxic crayons.

I thought about going to a priest but honestly, even if I believed in all of that, what could God do for me? For all I know, God is the one who set my controls for the heart of the whatever. Sure, there might only be one set of footprints in the sand at the moment but that’s because the prick is going for a free monkey-ride, throat punching me the whole time.

I don’t remember anything about my life before this started happening. I know that I existed, I just can’t remember it. It’s almost as if my brain is trying to trick me into thinking that I just popped into being, fully loaded with a life history that I can’t really remember. That this entire universe was created just for me.

What a bunch of bullshit.

Yesterday, I was talking to my mother on the phone, trying to convince her that I was okay, of all things. I was talking when, out of the blue, I just started repeating the same sentence, over and over. I’d finish saying it, pause, and go back to say it again. I did it like six times but each time, it was a little different. The order would be different or I’d add a different word, like someone couldn’t decide what I should say, and just kept rewriting it.

Sorry. You have a question?

“What’s the point of all this?” asked the reader.

I’m sure you decided a while ago that I was tin-shit nutso. Don’t worry, I’m not going to try and change your mind on that score. I’m just trying to make a point. That if any of you out there are the creative type, a writer for example, just think about the things you’re doing when you create. Maybe that isn’t just some pretend, make-believe person you’re making up in your mind. Maybe in some universe out there that you can’t see or understand, there’s someone who’s having their strings being maneuvered by some invisible asshole who doesn’t know what they’re really doing.

I blacked out this morning. No idea for how long. When I woke up, I was sitting on the walkway attached to this billboard, looking out over the freeway. Someone must have spotted me up here during the morning rush hour traffic because a couple of cop cars just pulled up, pointing up at me and running around like crazy bugs.

As if I even have any control over what’s going to happen.

So I thought I would say a few words. That’s the custom right? That’s what a prisoner on death row gets, right?

A few words.

Just some words of caution to anyone out there who might be hearing it.

It must be time to stand up now. They’re all running up here,as if they think they’re going to save me. As if they’re going to catch me or something.

Anyway, looks like we’re done screwing around. 

I guess we’re doing this.

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Counting Down To 150….

Moving on in my countdown of my five favorite stories from the first 150 issues of the Baked Scribe.
Having worked in food service for most of my life, this was definitely a fun one to write. I think that I was also imagining some classic episodes of Tales From The Crypt as well. I love the tone of the characters throughout and the wonderfully gruesome finale which we end on.
I hope you enjoy this, number four on my countdown. Tune in next week!

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The health inspector walked alongside the counter, running his finger over the surface and frowning at the thick layer of grime and dust that he pushed through. Dale watched him go through his routine, wondering how long this particular dance would have to go on.

“So…What happened to our regular guy?” he asked.

“Food poisoning, I’m afraid.” The twerp removed his gloves long enough to scratch his nose and adjust the glasses that were perched on the end of his nose. Once done, he removed a fresh pair of gloves from his pocket. “Though I can’t say that his absence has been a bad thing, especially considering his obvious inattention to certain details.”

“Uh-huh.” Dale watched as the inspector looked over the menu scrawled onto an old chalkboard. He pointed at the listing for the house special, which was currently marked as unavailable.

“What exactly is a…luck of the…” He frowned and leaned in to get a closer look at the menu. “luck of the day-wich?”

“Just a sandwich. We use whatever’s on hand, you know? You get what we give you. But it has a real special kind of meat. Sort of need it, you know? It’s hard to get, real regular.”

The inspector smiled, a thin expression that did nothing to convey any kind of mirth or good will. “Charming.” He turned his back on Dale and began his seventh tour around the diner, an establishment that was barely larger than a one bedroom apartment. This was going on way too long.

“So what’s the verdict?”

The inspector ignored the question as he did another soul-sucking lap. When he finally returned to his starting point, he took his gloves off and put the pen back into his breast pocket.

“Perhaps we should go somewhere more discreet to discuss this?”

Dale stuck out a lip and shook his head. “Just get out with it, I don’t care.”

“Well, then where do I begin?” He lifted his clipboard and began tracing down it with his finger even though Dale suspected that he knew the whole thing by heart. “You have no hand-washing stations. I have observed your cook returning from the lavatory twice without washing his hands and when I asked him, he was unable to tell me what your procedures are for properly holding perishable food.”

“Well come on now, the sink in the bathroom’s just fine for—”

“You have unlabeled bins of meat in your reach-in, cooked meat sharing containers with uncooked meat, and vegetables that are mostly rotten. You have inadequate holding temperatures in all of your coolers, blood on the floors, no properly maintained dish-washing station and your waitress has been sneezing and coughing on the food the entire time I have been here.”

He looked up from his clipboard with a smug look of satisfaction as if Dale was supposed to just figure out the answer to his original question on his own. He tried repeating it, but slower and enunciating the words more effectively.

“So, what’s the verdict?”

“Sir, I cannot in good conscience allow you to continue serving food to the public in these conditions. You will need to shut down your kitchen immediately, confiscate any food from your patrons and you are not to charge anyone for what they have ordered or partially consumed. I will also need to see the documentation from your last inspection.”

“Yeah…” Dale looked around in the mess under the register, stealing glances at his customers who were all rolling their eyes at the show that this officious prick was putting on for everyone. “Tell you what. That green binder over there, next to the phone? Down by your knees? Pretty sure it’s in there.”

The inspector leaned down to reach for the binder. As he did so, Dale grabbed the meat cleaver that the cook was passing through to him from the kitchen. He raised it, and brought it down into the center of the prick’s back. The man shrieked as he fell forward and Dale brought the blade up for a second blow, this time to the back of the head. After a third, fourth and fifth time, the screams stopped. He tossed the cleaver into the sink and stood up with a grin lighting up his face.

“Special’s back on boys!”

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Top Picks : The Last Plague Series, by Rich Hawkins

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Technically, this doesn’t fall within the category of books I have read within the last year, but as the third installment in this trilogy was just released, I thought it made more sense to write about them as a whole body of work.

I have had the pleasure of knowing Rich on the Facebook for a few years now and I’m glad to have met him because otherwise I likely would have never had the chance to read these books. Many of you are familiar enough with my sensibilities in terms of what I like to write and read and this series was some of the most awesomely dark and gritty stuff I have read in some time. The feeling I got from them was very similar to the visceral experiences of all the classic eighties horror and sci-fi movies I loved, growing up. It was everything I look for in books.

When I initially read the first installment in the series, The Last Plague, I will be completely honest and admit that I wasn’t sure what to expect. I bought the book because I wanted to support a fellow author but there was also a part of me droning on about how the zombie phenomenon was starting to ebb towards the end of its life span and that our culture was starting to get over-saturated with all the un-dead related content.

I was quickly and pleasantly surprised by the book. While it certainly has elements of zombie lore, there is so much more depth and scope to the narrative and it also incorporates a fantastic dose of supremely dark science fiction in addition to the more traditional horror elements. If I had simply rejected this as being “just another zombie book”, I would have made a terrible mistake, one which I am grateful for not having made.

One aspect of the series that I admire is the fact that, while the overarching story is connected between the three volumes, the books themselves have a very stand-alone feel to them. I think it is ideal to read the books in the order in which they were published but realistically, I think you could almost read them in any order, and get just as much out of them. There are a few references here and there, but I think they function more as Easter eggs for those who have read all the other books. There won’t be anything missed in the overall plot if you happen to miss a reference. You could even read one book in the series and feel like you got a complete experience although, I have a hard time imagining why anyone would be able to stop at just one book.

One of my favorite parts of any zombie film is the beginning, the setup for the world that is being created. I love the foreshadowing of watching several random, disparate events spiral rapidly downward into a decimated society, overrun and burning. The Last Plague does this very nicely, starting off with four friends, sharing one weekend together prior to one of them getting married (a bachelor party, or a stag party, depending on which side of the pond you happen to be on). At some point, some event takes place, one which they don’t fully understand and in the course of trying to get home to their families, they discover that a plague has fallen on the country, spreading at an alarming rate and soon the world around them is a wasteland of survivors, scrambling to get anywhere safe and protected.

The Last Plague was a little bit on the slower side to get started for me, but that’s pretty much the only complaint I would have because once I was hooked, I was in for good. The characters are great and you feel for each of them. He crafted a great sequence of the story through the English countryside as these friends try to make their way through a wasteland, back to their families and loved ones.

In the follow-up, The Last Outpost takes the series up to an even higher level as the writing and the narrative manage to get even better. The scope of the story narrows down and has a much stronger focus to it. There are tragic scenes in this that just rend at the soul but you can’t stop reading it. It’s hard to introduce new characters into the second book of a trilogy and keep the readers on board but Hawkins manages to pull it off and it doesn’t take long for me to be caring about these people as well. He does a good job making the book stand on its own while at the same time crafting it as a part of a shared narrative universe. It went without saying after this that I would need to get my hands on the third book as soon as it came out.

I was fortunate enough to be able to get a peek at an early draft of The Last Soldier and again, I was blown away by what he did with it. Each book has its own unique atmosphere and feel to it. Hawkins manages to take the world he has created and places it into a larger universal scale, showing glimpses at larger intentions of the shadowy figures in the sky who have caused this plague of death and destruction to fall on to the land. Literally every book in this series had at least one moment that had me gaping at the page, not believing what had just happened.

This entire series has been a treat for me and I am happy to place it among some of the best books I have read over the past two years. I would strongly encourage you to seek out your own copies and enjoy the experience for yourself. In the meantime, I will continue to look forward to new releases as Rich moves on to even bigger and better things.

No pressure there, right?

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Click on the images below to purchase your own copies:

Baked Scribe Flashback : New In Town

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“Give us one good reason why we shouldn’t burn the place down.” Brianna was practically frothing at the mouth as she pointed at the newly painted window of the store.

The sheriff took a step forward and put a hand out to stop her advance. “Folks, you’ve got to get a grip here. Listen to yourselves for—“

“I don’t care how it sounds. In the past month there have been seven fires. The mayor and his family are missing and twenty seven people have died. All since these fruit loops opened this here gallery.”

“Brianna, what you’re suggesting. It sounds—”

“Sounds what? Sounds completely logical? What else would you call it?”

“What else then? How could the owners here be responsible for all of it?”

“That’s your problem to work out Walter. You’re the sheriff after all.”

“Sheriff or no, it ain’t my responsibility to chase down every crazy notion that you might have coming down the pipes of that nut cracked skull of yours.”

“It ain’t crazy sheriff. It ain’t crazy when we’ve had more deaths in a month than the last three years! I don’t know how they’re doing it but I’m tired of watching you sit around on your fat ass watching the crows fly by. We’re going to do something about it.”

She walked forward, jabbing towards the store with the can of gasoline and with the other, flipped open the metal Zippo. Walter dropped his hand down to the revolver and the crowd paused.

“Folks, I don’t want to take you all in but I will. Every last one of you. We’ll get a city bus down here to haul all of your asses down to the jail. Now get on out of here before this escalates beyond our control here.”

They all grumbled, looked like they wanted to challenge him but in the end, they all turned away and dispersed, like a puddle of water slowly oozing off into various ditches and drains.

Inside, Damion was peeking out from behind the closed shutters of the display window and let out a sigh of contentment as he flipped on the lamp, pausing to run his finger along the shade that had once belonged to the late mayor.

There was a sign over the stairs stating “private” that he walked underneath to go down to the workshop. He stepped over a pool of blood and several stray body parts, into the main room where Gloria was sewing something together at one of the stainless steel tables. Damion walked up to her and placed an arm on her shoulder.

“They’re leaving for now, I think we’ll be—”

He looked up at the sound of footfalls on the stairs. The sheriff had apparently walked in unannounced and had followed him downstairs. Damion watched as the man looked around at the carnage on the floor and walls, looked at what was left of several of the citizens of the town and looked up at them, ice in his eyes.

“I told you idiots that you needed to take things slower. Now look what you’ve gone and done.”

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Baked Scribe Flashback : Shipbound

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Louis dropped another log on to the fire and looked out over the raging surf of the ocean, for the return of the ship that thus far had only returned to him in his dreams. There was no reason for him to believe that if it would come, that he would see it but staying here and getting nothing was still preferable to leaving and wondering what could have happened.

She had been gone for two years now. Two years on this night, the accident had happened. He had been left behind to face the unspoken accusation in the eyes of her friends that he had been drinking. The reality was that she was the one who is drunk, otherwise she would’ve been driving.

Was he alive because she had been drunk? It made no difference now.

You need to move on, let go of her. It had been the advice everyone had given last year, when he came out to this place, to watch out past Nelson’s point to see if he could catch sight of the ship.

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“Slow down!”

He could barely understand what she was saying beyond hysterical giggling and shrieking. She wasn’t even looking at the road to know how fast they were driving. In fact, her eyes weren’t open at all.

Louis looked over at her as she swayed from side to side in her seat, her hand reaching down to fumble with the belt.

“Wait!” He said, reaching for her hand.

He trailed off at what he saw out on the water, rounding the corner from the adjacent bay and turning towards him.

It was a ship.

Sitting tall in the water, the vessel was making its way towards land. The color all around it saturated as if in a black-and-white photograph set into motion. It looked like one of the massive sailing vessels from ages long since extinct. There were no lights or people visible on the deck but it plowed through the waves as if controlled by some unseen force.

His moment of confusion was shattered by the air-horn of the truck. The last thing he saw was the headlights before the shattering of glass and then darkness.

As soon as he had woken in the hospital, he had known that she was dead. He had felt his newborn isolation in the world. She was gone and he had been left behind with no longer any idea what to do with himself.

But he did remember the ship. He remembered the sight of it as it’s massive girth gliding across the water, as if part of a dream. In the weeks following the accident, he tried talking to people about it but got pretty much the same response. He could see the disbelief in their eyes and realize down deep that he was only further contributing to the conclusion that he had been drinking.

He resigned himself to silent torture as the memory punished him more than any of them ever could have. He kept the secret to himself and told no one else about the ship. There would be an answer out there and he would find it, but in the meantime it was important to put on a front of composed sorrow and regret. The spiteful anger that drove him onward was what he kept to himself.

On the first anniversary, he sat there, up on the cliff, looking out over the water, half drunk and more than half contemplating jumping to a painless death blow. The ship never showed itself and he woke up in the morning with nothing but a sore back along with what was left of his resolve. He was still alone.

It was the absence of her that he felt more keenly than anything else. The feeling was like what he imagined it would be to wake up missing a limb. Like in Kafka, experiencing a moment of such sudden, trans-formative change that nothing would ever feel the same again.

He didn’t know if his problem could ever be fixed but, like someone who had been wronged, he sought recourse as the only salve left available to him. The ship was the key to everything, the core of all that had caused the bottom to drop out of his life.

The local history books at the library offered no clues or explanation of what the ship could be. He thought about questioning some of the locals or the fisherman, but he was already getting a reputation of being a bit of a nut.

All he could do was wait.

He had no reason to think that the ship would ever appear again or that it only showed itself on that date, but something told him that it made sense. A tiny voice in the back of his head seemed to both encourage him while at the same time warning him off.

Month ago, he had been let go from his job. The manager had given him as many chances as he could to fix the problem, but in the end he was just too preoccupied to focus on his day-to-day responsibilities. He even caught himself handing in paperwork with little sketches of ships in the margins.

The second anniversary came along like Christmas morning. He set up his shrine at the cliff-top, eagerly waiting the possibilities of what could be. His night had started with such hope and optimism and now at this late hour, it seemed on the brink of bitter disappointment.

As his head began to dip and drift off toward sleep, he began to hear the vague sound of bells. His head snapped up now, fully awake.

The ship was gliding in from the distant horizon.

Even with two years between, he still recognized it as if he had been carrying a photograph with him. It cut through the water with the sails dancing crazily about, even though there was little wind that night. All the detail seemed exactly the same. All save for one.

There was now a lone figure standing atop the deck.

He was too far away to make out many details, but it was clearly a woman, the simple white dress fluttering all around her. He can also tell that she was barefoot, his eyes tracing back up over the somehow familiar body, to the shoulder length hair.

It was her.

He couldn’t explain how he knew that, but it was the undeniable truth whispered to him in his head with the voice he heard for the first time in two years. She had been waiting.

A sudden pain intruded into his head and he had just a moment to reach up for his forehead. Everything went dark and he felt himself lolling forward, weightlessness overcoming him as the sea grew louder. The last thing he saw before darkness was rocks and water rushing up at him.

He was standing on the deck of the ship. She no longer stood there but he still sensed her presence as the boat drifted through darkness. All he could see on all sides was water, roiling away into every horizon, and from all around, he could hear the murmurs of the dead.

Louis turned his back on the world, pulled his coat tighter around himself and headed below deck to join the rest of the crew.

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Issue #145 : The Surge

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Julian pressed down on the pedal and felt the power running up his leg from the engine. It still got him off to feel the power, whenever he was behind the wheel. The sky above seemed to go streaky as he sped up, the sound from the steel beast actually competing with that of the howling wind. He could sense Laurie squirming in the seat next to him, either from fear of her life, or just because she never could relax or enjoy anything that she didn’t think was absolutely essential. It made no difference. He was the one in control. The girl and her attitude would just have to get over it. He sensed her turning to yell at him again, so he accelerated even more, letting the force drive him back into the seat.

“…the hell out of here!” He couldn’t know for sure, but that was what he thought she had said. She reached out to turn down the radio and yelled at him again. “Just pull over if you’re going to act like a dick. Let me off and I’ll walk home.”

“I’ll let you off, all right,” he said. He turned to look into the confused look on her face as she had failed to hear him over the deafening sounds of the car. The whole time since he met this chick had been one stupid fight after another, this or that. He had no idea what had happened to the girl he had met that night in the bar, three weeks ago. All he knew was that this car was the only thing that made him feel good, and if she couldn’t handle that, she knew where the curb was.

“You’re driving like an idiot, you need to stop!” This time he heard her clearly over the howl of the engine and he pressed down on the accelerator. Maybe it was time to let her take a hike. Maybe a good, hard drive in this sweet ride was the reminder he needed to figure out what was supposed to matter. She sure as shit didn’t make that list.

He realized that his eyes had wandered from the road and he started slightly as he saw the trash can, fallen off the curb and into the street. The girl shrieked as he jerked the wheel to avoid the collision, tumbling into him as he did so. As the seat belt took hold and jerked her back, her scream was cut off with a shrill york sound, and even in the stress from almost scratching up his ride, it made him laugh hysterically.

From the corner of his eye, he could see her trying to get composed, feeling around at her chest as if she was having a God dammed heart attack or something. He could sense her, readying herself for another verbal attack, but just as it seemed like she was drawing in a breath to speak, he let the car drift slightly to the right before turning hard to the left, taking one of the side streets. She slammed against her door and he heard what sounded like the side of her head striking the window.

She was pissed as hell now and he loved every second of it. The grin on his own face creeped higher and higher, stretching the skin as it did so, but he didn’t care. This was perfect.

“I am giving you one last chance to let me the fuck out of here.” Her voice was soft and cool. For the first time, he glanced over and into her lifeless eyes. Grinning, he lifted up his middle finger in salute to her and revved his real girl up another notch. He turned back to the road and watched the darkened houses flying past them on each side.

“Julien.”

He turned at the sound of her voice and nearly lost his grip on the wheel. She was sitting back, leaning against the door and somehow she had made time to unbutton her shirt. She lifted one foot, now barefoot and gracefully extended it over the gear lever until it came to rest on his thigh, sliding slowly upwards toward the promised land. At the same time, he felt his jaw dropping at the sight of the swell of one breast as she ran a finger along the clasp of the front-loaders that he had never seen her wear before.

The brakes squealed and the car fishtailed as he pulled into the parking lot for the community center, triple parking as he roughly threw the car into neutral and lunged for her. He could be convinced to take her out for one more spin before ditching her. Her hands came up behind to caress his neck, and then pulled him down into her breasts, holding him there as he heard her breath speeding up. Moaning himself, he began fumbling at his own pants, sure that if this bitch didn’t start moving things along, he was likely going to finish without her.

“Julien,” she said again. “Wait.”

He barely heard that last when suddenly she was bracing a hand against his chest and shoving him back. He flew up against his own door, letting out a heavy breath from the impact and looked up in shock at the sight of the tire iron, gripped in her hand, now coming down in a wide arc towards him. In his waning moments, he had time for one, absurd thought before darkness rushed in.

Christ, where the fuck did she get that?

Laurie opened the driver’s door and shoved the idiot into the lot. Sliding over behind the wheel, she took in the console and the guages of the one good thing that she had ever gotten out of this worthless relationship. She began to pull out of the lot, glancing at the crumpled heap of moron she had left behind and shook her head. A car like this required skill, finesse and a careful touch. That douchebag couldn’t touch anything without fumbling at it like a drunk prom date. She laughed as she accelerated and lost herself within the sound of its roar. Shaking her head, she finally spoke.

“Don’t she purr, though?”

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